Har, the Merchant, studied the tall, beautiful blonde girl that sat opposite the immaculately-polished oak table, and belched. Smiling greasily, his piggy eyes lingering over her refined, immaculate features, he proffered a goblet of his finest vintage.
"Thank you" replied Kimberley, her soft delicate mouth breaking into a smile that nearly reached those lustrous hazel-blue eyes. Cautiously she took a sip; he was correct, it was a very good vintage. Har usually knew what he was talking about when it came to the finer points of life. She replaced the goblet on the table. "But presumably you did not ask me here for some wine-tasting session..."
Har nodded in assent, the fine glitter that covered his royal purple robes sparkling in the lantern-light. He belched again, resettled his napkin, and took another mouthful of truffle. "Yes, my dear girl, you are one of the best, resourceful and dextrous thieves that I have ever had the good fortune to do business with, as well as one of the most beautiful women ever to cross my path," he chuckled to himself at how lucky she was to have met him, "and once again I have need of your services. My spice, silk and wine-trades are not doing as well as I might hope, there is the problem of......competition. Profit-margins are not as good as one expects".
Maybe you ought not to keep feeding your face with your `profit-margins', sneered Kimberley to herself. "What would you like me to do about that? `Eliminate' the `competition'?" She folded her fingers on her lap, her face completely impassive behind which the truculence was brewing. "There are others more experienced in Assassination than I, unless you require something else..."
"Yes......" muttered Har slowly. The girl had brains to match her beauty, both of which were considerable. "I think you've guessed part of my problem already. There is an interest headed by the Parthe Lungin, who has obtained a supplier and now wishes to undercut me. Do you know of Lungin?"
"Shit-head, slime-ball, degenerate slug, blatant pansy", replied Kimberley levelly, tickingoff some of Lungins' finer attributes. `But just devious and intelligent enough to succeed at anything,' she added as an after thought.
"Ahhh......" mused Har, "you do know of him. He will be signing a trading alliance with Borren Ducan in a few days time. Under normal circumstances Borren is my main supplier, he owns fleets far and wide; but if he were to sign an alliance with Lungin I'd be washed out, finished. It would take several months of hard negotiations and bargaining to establish new sources and by that time my existing customers would have turned to Lungin. I have suspected for some time that he means to force me out of business: now I know it."
Kimberley perused her lips. "So, you would like this alliance not to take place. Yes, I can believe that. But what of this cunt Borren? You speak of him as though you enjoyed a good trading relationship." A cold glint came into her eyes. "Or does Lungin exert some kind of lever over him? Are they both cocksuckers?"
Har shook his head, greasy saliva bubbling out over his rubbery lips. "Not like that. Lungin is holding Borren's only son, Derrir, in his castle somewhere, to ensure his continuing co-operation and compliance. I believe that before the year is out, he will have taken over Borren's operation entirely."
"So, if Derrir was back with his father, none of this would be taking place. You would rather have the houses of Lungin and Ducan kicking the shit out of each other, not as allies no matter how unwilling one partner is?"
"Lungin has found Borren's weak spot, and he knows it" smiled Har weakly. "Borren may be indecisive and ineffectual, but he is also an excellent business partner."
"You mean, under normal circumstances, you can make him dance without any interference from Lungin?" asked Kimberley, slowly.
"He cares for his only son. He'll do anything for him, no matter how irrational."
Kimberley's lovely sun-kissed face wrinkled into a grimace of disgust. "Pathetic!" she spat. "I've never understood why one should become irrational in order to prove that one cares. In fact, I've also never understood why one has to prove that they care at all."
"Then you'll do it?" smiled Har, the off-white worms of his teeth flashing at her.
"Keep Borren and Lungin apart? No problem". She yawned and stretched slightly, this velvet armchair was very comfortable. The soft hazel-blue pools of knowing innocence flickered across Har's beady, sweating face. "But it'll cost you two things; first of all, a refill for this," she held up her empty goblet, "then money of course, half in advance."
Har's gooey mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Ahhh, there you go again, my dear girl...... spoiling our business relationship with such petulant little details."
Kimberley stood up and leaned forward across the Merchants desk, his beady eyes flickering like magnets straight to her generous cleavage scarcely concealed beneath the lacing of her leather tunic. "In this world, my dear Har," she sarcastically mimicked "you pay heavily for the best service. I think you're getting a good deal."
She yawned and stretched again, moving the tiny delicate muscles in her back beneath the wondrous honey-brown flesh as Har refilled her goblet. Aware that the Merchant was ogling at her body, she chose to ignore the drooling fool. In the past her beauty, youth and talents had served her well, and so she had never bothered to disguise either; if her own comeliness, natural pulchritude and appearance served to put others at a disadvantage, so much the better. This land of Comapia was in many ways an improvement upon her own. Six months ago when she had first arrived, dumped unceremoniously alongside a decaying roadway by that demon Snelgronfv's amulet she had cursed her misfortune. Lost and alone in a totally strange country, surrounded by brainless country-yokels and in the middle of a Dark Elf Invasion Force, she had in the intervening period of time come to accept her lot, and to improve it. The Dark Elves had been driven back, and she had journeyed to the capital and eventually become known to the Merchant Har. Even in such a becalmed back-water of Comapia, there was a market for some of her less extreme talents and skills. Admittedly most of her magical possessions and artefacts had been lost or malfunctioned, but there could be worse fates; during her nineteen or so years surviving upon the surface of Urpe, she had had personal and agonising experience of most of them. For her, life was just one long struggle for survival; avoiding the poisoned chalice, or the unsuspecting knife-thrust in the dark, for as long as she could. Kimberley, mistrusting and suspicious to the point of skittish paranoia at the best of times, naturally suspected the worst in people and was determined to put off. her own demise for as long as possible, usually by doing to others what she imagined they were about to do unto her. And in her chosen profession, death, torture, or hideous mutilation and suffering were never far away. In her lighter moments, Kimberley almost accepted her situation, even welcomed it; there were far too many senile old fools around, and she had no desire to become one of them. Back in her own lands of Ravensback & Olphoron, many leagues to the North - that was several months and virtually a life-time ago - there was very few prospects even for living, which was why she had no real desire to return. All the Elves had been exterminated or fled, and the `dead wood' of the occupied populace of Smarthinion had been weeded out and the survivors kept under proper subjugation, so there was no real place or need for her in any of the Cul-Tinka "Death's Head" squads. Whilst she still wore the tiny white skull earring as a sign of achievement and honour, she had the good sense to realise that although times had been satisfying, even enjoyable, as a Cul-Tinka lieutenant, for now, her particular talent of `liquidating undesirables' was no longer needed, and she had concentrated all her energies into her other major skill - that of thievery. The last vestiges of the old Subrile Empire had been swept away with the deaths of The Tiger - her lord and master - and his scribe Neruus; so all that was left was that slut, Sella, the former concubine-turned-self proclaimed goddess, who now seemed intent on killing everyone and doubtless had plans for sadistically disposing of her. No, life in Comapia was not as dangerous, but there was still a constant demand for her dextrous abilities and expertise. She and Har made a good team, she could just about stomach his obesity but his sense of humour bordered on the moronic.
That evening, Kimberley silently flitted along the base of Lungin's castle, which was more of a stately home than anything else and lay just beyond the rich quarter of Aldrad, literally upon its' own islet in the main river. Rather than trying to slip past the guards on the causeway, she had paddled across the calm waters of the silting estuary in an acquired raft. This had been hidden under a convenient bush by the waters edge, and now she flattened herself against a buttress as the rifty silver vapours of the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud, and bathed the whole area in a faint ghostly hue. Moonfire flickered upon the rippled, tranquil water, seeming to dance upon the tiny waves in beads of pure silver, and cascaded off her golden tresses, giving them the appearance of spun silk, finer and more delicate than any spider's web. It also bathed the naked flesh of her arms, shoulders and back. As usual, she wore only a skimpy sleeveless halter-necked black tunic of very soft leather, that bordered on the suggestive and barely concealed her flawless immaculately-formed breasts. Around her slim waist was a broad leather belt with a large silver buckle, and below that was a tight black leather skirt, decent by barely an inch. Her legs were long and slender like some dancers, and enhanced by black leather boots folded back just above the knees, so that only her thighs were bare. Finally, on her wrists she wore thick silver bracelets, that seemed dull and clumsy by comparison. Kimberley had long ago decided to dress this way, in order to enhance rather than disguise her beauty and more physical attributes; it put nearly everyone at a disadvantage and helped her to gain the initiative. Her costume, or lack of it, enabled complete freedom of movement in her chosen career, and now she appeared as the perfect vision of enhanced beauty, with a flawless honeyed skin, searching deep hazel-blue eyes sparkling like twin sapphires, and delicate intelligent features. She moved with the lithe and sinuous menace of some great cat after its' helpless prey. She was the kind of women that poets would write about, that men would lust after and kill for. That was fine by her, none of the bastards would ever get the chance.
She gracefully sidled round the final bastion then froze into complete stillness, mouthing a curse. There was a guard there on the path, where there should have been none. Automatically her hand stole to the hilt of her short sword, fortunately he had his back to her and appeared to be relieving himself in the estuary. Across the faint breeze came the aroma of strong ale, he had probably been drinking heavily before coming on duty. But... .. something was up, she hadn't expected to find a guard here. However, he wasn't expecting to see her, that was obvious. She unravelled her preferred weapon, the garrotte, and slipped the noose of fine mithril wire over his head and around his neck before he had finished urinating. The guard had time for one choked gurgle before Kimberley was able to transfer her grip with the garrotte to one hand so that she could clamp the other over his mouth. The guard was strong and burley, a good few inches taller than Kimberley who was by nature a slender and svelte person, but with the killing wire around his neck he stood no chance. Eyes bulging, the body threshed furiously for a few seconds; a few drops of urine spattered over the toes of Kimberley's boots, and then it fell limp. Calmly she removed her wire and rolled the body into the water, then paused, listening. There were no cries or shouts of alarm. Good.
Soon she found what she was looking for - an old sally-port protected by a rusting iron grate, hidden behind a bush. That old fool in the Tamorus Inn had known what he was talking about. She selected a lockpick from beneath the overfolds of her boot and went to work on the lock, but it was no use because the mechanism had solidified with rust and age a long time ago.
In the end she had to use the little saw blade she kept concealed down the inside of her scabbard, its' jagged teeth cutting through the corroded iron with a minimum of noise. Soon she had the grill open and eased her slender body inside. She slid along the tiny, claustrophobic shaft on her belly, feeling her way by touch and trying to ignore the cobwebs that brushed past her hair. Eventually she came to the far end of the tunnel, the grill there was in a far better condition and she was able to pick its lock, a task made more difficult only by the problem of having to work from the reverse side and in total darkness.
Having got that open, she produced a small piece of parchment and lit it with the tinderbox from her pouch, its' flickering glows revealing that the floor was only some two feet below and that she was in a large stone room, possibly a disused storehouse. In the wall opposite was a bracketed unlit torch, which she made her way over to and fired immediately, then ran a hand through her rippling ash-blonde tresses to ensure they were free of cobwebs or anything similar. Up a flight of cold stone steps was another door, locked and rusty-smelling from disuse. She listened intently but could not hear anything upon its far side, so cautiously picked the lock. The door creaked open with an agonised squeal that was painful to her sensitive ears, but no-one came to investigate. It was another store-room, full of casks and barrels, some of which were open. The whole place stank of a variety of alcoholic beverages, but at least it was lit by about half a dozen torch-braziers. Propped up against one wall was a huge old mirror, presumably just dumped there and left.
Kimberley's acute senses detected a foot-fall and she dived for cover behind an old barrel, just as the door in the far wall opened. In entered some kind of slave or serving girl, judging by her looks, a year or two younger than Kimberley, and nearly as beautiful. Her hair was jet-black, seeming to develop its own sheen in the flickering torch-light, and her skin was as white and as smooth as polished ivory. She was naked but for a necklace of black pearls, and a low-slung girdle around her waist from which hung a fine gossamer veil to the ground. Her breasts were large and full, but not too heavy, and her hair was tied up behind her head in some kind of elaborate bun from which a few wisps and strands hung down her slender neck. She turned with her back k partly to Kimberley, who could now make out the faint twinkle of small earrings and the glint of gold from some kind of arm-band. On her feet she wore high-heeled delicate slippers, and little gold chains around each ankle.
The serving girl, oblivious to her presence, began to ladle wine from a barrel into one of the pitchers she had been carrying. Kimberley paused; here was the perfect opportunity, fate could not have been kinder. As silent as death she tip-toed up behind the poor unfortunate girl, and when she bent down to ladle more wine, Kimberley struck like some great cat. The ladle clattered to the floor as Kimberley deftly shoved the girls head into the wine barrel, forcing her face below the surface. She was lucky in that it was fairly full and therefore easy to keep the girls' head under, her screams muted by the wine's effects into a high-pitched burble of bubbles and froth. With her left knee pinning one of the girls arms against the side of the barrel and her right hand taking care of the other, it left Kimberley free to wrap her left hand in the doomed girl's hair and keep her face immersed. The effervescence of bubbles died away as the girls attempts to struggle became even more frantic, before slowly too becoming fainter and weaker. When the serving girls' long legs finally made one or two last desperate kicks and twitches before finally falling still, Kimberley moved her right hand to feel for the heart over the left breast, coldly waiting for that too to stop beating. Only then did she lift the body out of the barrel and let it fall lifelessly to the stone floor, making sure that no wine accidentally slopped upon the virgin-white gossamer skirt - she need that for her own purposes if she was to move around the castle undetected. She then stripped the body of the dead girl before shoving it in an empty barrel, then peeled off her own garments and boots, which she hid.
Less than five minutes later and she was admiring her new appearance in the old mirror, fortunately she and the serving girl were of similar size and build, and the gossamer skirt and girdle more or less fitted. The only real problem was in trying to get her hair in some semblance of the bun the girl's had been arranged in, but she eventually succeeded in something that looked approximately right. On went the slippers and she prayed that she could pass herself off as one of the castle's minions. Her appearance did very little for modesty - the skirt had a slit in it up one side to her waist revealing a full length of leg, and the smooth orbs of her perfect breasts stood out proudly for all to see and admire. With a small tut of annoyance, she produced a wicked needle-like spike about as long as her middle finger from her left boot, and tucked it into the girdle where hopefully nobody would see. She then filled the pitcher of wine, and stepped out into the corridor trying to exude the confidence that she knew where she was, and where she was going.
The castle was far bigger than she expected and she had no idea where to begin searching for the boy, but fortunately everyone seemed to be in a frantic hurry and paid her scarce attention. Several guards bustling past gave her a second glance, their eyes full of salacious lust as they savoured the delights of her slender ripe body, before the booming cry of "You lot, move!" from down the corridor sent them scurrying off at a run.
Vaus Sherpal, one of Lungin's lieutenants and about the only one who had never been his lover, was worried. Concern etched itself deep across the lines of his forehead, and he absently fingered his moustache as he often did when thinking. Something wasn't quite right somewhere, he couldn't quite escape the nagging feeling that there was something he'd forgotten, something he'd overlooked. Even the ever-faithful Vorlop, scurrying up and down like a mouse and with just about as much intelligence as one, constantly shouting at guards and running up every-so-often to announce "Nothing to report, Sir!" had failed to allay his fears. He wouldn't be happy until this wretched feast planned for the main hall to accompany the trade pact was safely over. It was idiotic enough, why Lungin had insisted upon this facade of ceremony and pomp when everyone knew Borren just wanted to sign his name on the scroll and dip his seal in the wax to effectively relinquish his shipping fleet and then go home, was beyond him, but the idea that that... goat, Sollacress, be allowed to make the majority of speeches was simply ludicrous - that old fool could rabbit on for hours about any given subject without once becoming relevant, or even giving the slightest indication that he himself knew what he was talking about. Ah well, perhaps Lungin was preparing some new coup whilst everyone was sound asleep.
At that moment, that fat over-bearing oaf Vorlop suddenly heaved into view, sweating profusely as he jumped to attention in front of Sherpal. Out of decorum rather than a sense of Vorlop's unbridled enthusiasm, Sherpal rather disdainfully returned the salute. "Well," he sighed.
Vorlop saluted again, beating his mailed fist against his podgy, ring-covered chest. "Nothing to report, Sir! Oh yes, Captain Revere reports that one of his men on outer wall guard duty has gone missing. Idiot probably got so drunk he fell in the river, Sir!" He saluted for the third time.
Sherpal sucked in a sharp breath. "You're probably quite right, but find out where that guard was detailed to and do a double check. Borren Ducan's delegation is arriving right now, I don't want any trouble until the Treaty is signed and they're safely off the premises." Vorlop saluted again and turned to go.
"Oh, and Vorlop," added Sherpal, "find that missing guard. I don't care where he is or what state he's in, just find him. If you want me, I'll be down in the main dining hall with Lord Lungin, Borren Ducan and all the others. Our Lord is laying on a full course meal and entertainment before the seals are placed on the Treaty."
Vorlop saluted one final time and scampered off back the way he had come. Sherpal shook his head slightly, and, setting his wide-brimmed hat back upon his cranium, descended down the stairs towards the dining hall. He failed to realise that the object of all his concern had been standing about fifteen feet behind him and listening intently to his every word.
"Girl! Come here!" Someone was shouting and snapping their fingers behind Kimberley, who whirled immediately. Up bustled a gross fat woman of some fifty years of age, with greying greasy hair and an enormous double-chin. She was obviously some kind of chef, for she smelt of various cooking fats and onions, and wore an apron that could once have been white. "Where's that wine been, girl? We've awaited it for ages!" She paused, slightly suspicious. "Where's Tuara? I thought I sent her to fetch it?"
Kimberley smiled sweetly, her eyes wide pools of innocence. "I'm so sorry Matron. Tuara was...dispatched elsewhere, so I brought it instead."
The Matron spat on the floor, unhygienically "You're new here girl, aren't you?"
"Yes Ma'am," Kimberley gave a shy half curtsey, `just arrived."
The Matron ambled over and squeezed each breast with a lesbian interest, Kimberley couldn't help but recoil at the loathsome touch. It was like being caressed by crawling maggots. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?" The Matron's voice as softer, more appealing. She was looking forward to seducing this beauty. "Such lovely blue eyes, and blonde hair." Her voice lowered and she looked round knowingly. "The innocence of our younger generation, never can cover themselves up. You should be more careful, my dear, Lungin may be more interested in pretty young boys, but there are still several hungry characters within this castles' walls.... if you catch my meaning. After tonight's' meal is done, you can come to my room. You're obviously too sweet and innocent to be alone."
Kimberley forced herself to smile, but in reality she was fighting a great desire to retch. "Of course, Matron." She couldn't help but notice the older woman's' toes poking through those rotting sandals like little grey slimy slugs.
"Bring that wine, for now." The Matron led her to a small side-room off the main kitchen area. Surprisingly, it was on the whole deserted, although several servants seemed to be perpetually running in and out. But the side-room was obviously some kind of bread baking place, very hot and dry, and apart from the two of them completely deserted. The Matron closed the door behind Kimberley; she couldn't wait till later this evening, she would have this little beauty now.
Eye's glittering with mischief, the Matron led her towards the main flour-drenched table, giggling like a little girl. She reached towards a pile of buttered scones. "Would you like some? I made them all myself."
The giggle became a gasp as Kimberley drove the bread knife through her hand with as much force as she could muster, transfixing it to the table beneath; her other hand she clasped over the mouth to prevent her from crying out. The Matron's eyes bulged, incredulous with shock and pain. Kimberley withdrew the bread knife and pressed the point against her fat, sagging belly. "Now," said Kimberley softly, "I want to know precisely where that boy Derrir Ducan is being held, and I want to know now.
The Matron wet herself with fear and then blurted out where the boy was being held - in the top of the west tower, just above the old armoury, and how to get there. Kimberley shoved the blade up under the rib-cage, through the rolls of fat and into the heart, killing her instantly. After disposing of the body in one of the bread ovens, Kimberley went on her way, taking the scones together with a pitcher of water on a small tray.
The west tower was comparatively easy to get to from the kitchens - up two flights of steps, left at the curtain wall, and finally up the short spiral staircase. At the far end of the corridor stood a thick-set guard, clad in a bulky set of scale-mail and with a halberd in his strong, sturdy fists. He relaxed when he saw it was only some scantily clad serving girl, his eyes glistening lasciviously as they ran over the body, drinking in every perfect detail.
"Food for the prisoner." Kimberley motioned her hand slightly towards the door he was standing by.
The guard appeared not to hear her for a second, and gave her a disgustingly filthy grin to reveal broken, rotten teeth. His mind seemed to be torn between naked lust for her, and anger at being on duty.
Setting down the tray, Kimberley's eyes grew even innocenter. "Is there something the matter?" she inquired shyly, slipping her leg inside his to rub innocuously up and down his thigh. "Can I help you?"
The guard let go of his weapon and placed both hands on her shoulders, then grunted with pain as Kimberley jerked her knee up into his unprotected crotch as her as she could. Giving a silent gasp of agony the guard lurched forward, Kimberley deftly removing the curved dagger from his belt and using it to open up the main artery in his neck. The guard fell to his knees and died there, staring stupidly at the floor, wondering where all the blood was coming from.
There was also a great ring of six heavy keys dangling from his belt which she retrieved, all looking approximately the same. Having no success with the first, she had just proceeded to the second when her luck ran out; around the end of the corridor strode two more guards, their leisurely and casual gait thrown into total shock by the sight of a beautiful blonde girl fumbling with the main key-ring over the body of their dying comrade. One gave a great cry and started forward, unholstering and swinging his battle axe in a huge, scything arc that would have cut Kimberley in two had she not nimbly ducked beneath its' flight so that it smashed into the door, splintering the wood as it embedded itself deep. As the guard was trying to free his weapon, Kimberley shoved the dagger straight into his neck, just below the ear, and with a great clatter and horrific scream of agony the guard collapsed onto the other one.
Of the guard that had accompanied the second, there was no sign, he had turned and ran back the way he had come. Faintly Kimberley could hear his receding cries of "Prisoner being freed! Turn out the Guard!", freezing the blood in her veins. Fighting the panic that was welling within her, Kimberley soon found the right key and opened the door. There, on the bed opposite, sat an eight year old boy with red-brown hair and masses of freckles, his eyes bright with interest and fear at the commotion of sounds that had taken place plus the scarlet that had begun to seep under the door.
"Are you Derrir Ducan?" snarled Kimberley, aware that the dagger dripping with ichor still hung from her hand and was scaring the boy still further.
The boy nodded dumbly and sucked his thumb. "And who are..."
Kimberley crossed the room in two swift strides and clamped her hand over his mouth. Her keen ears had picked up the sounds of several pairs of pounding boots coming closer by the second. Spying that the door was a thick stout wooden one opening inwards, she knew it was their only real chance. Correction: her only chance. She pulled it as wide open as possible and practically threw herself and the boy behind it, her had still over his mouth in case he should inadvertently cry out. "Make one sound and I'll gut you!" she hissed into his ear.
The pounding footsteps grew closer, punctuated only by the thudding of her own heart. They stopped right outside the door, then someone shuffled in. How many? Kimberley risked a peep through the narrowest of cracks between the thick planks of the door. At least three; one with a bright purple plume to his helm, the second with a big pus-filled spot on the side of his nose, and the third with a livid scare across his face, permanently raising one eyebrow. The last looked a right vicious sod.
"He's gone!" exclaimed Purple-Plume.
"I can see that!" snarled Scarface. She had been right; he was a vicious sod.
"Did they get out of the window?" asked Pus-Nose.
There was a pause, whilst Purple-Plume crossed the room and flinging open the window, stuck his head out. "Can't see no-one down or sideways," came his voice at length.
"What about up?" urged Pus-Nose. "The roof is directly above."
"Where's Vorlop?" squeaked a new and forth voice, presumably outside the room.
"He's been informed!" snapped Purple-Plume. "Let's find that boy, and whoever's taken him, before anyone else does. That way we might come out of it with our hides still intact!"
"You find that boy, I want the bitch that did all this!" That was Scarface again. "She's killed both Gullait and Verrous, cut their necks open! Bloody monster!"
"You can't mistake her," squeaked the forth, "blonde and very pretty. I got a good look at her."
Scarface rounded on him, his face purple with rage and the scar almost glowing bright red. "Get that bitch and bring her back!" he ordered. "Don't pass her on to Vorlop! Oh no, I want her, back here, with me!" He squeezed his mailed gauntlet with anticipation. "I want to hear her scream until I'm deaf with pleasure!"
The voices receded, still arguing. Kimberley checked that no-one had been left outside, then cast a swift glance out of the window. Down below, beetle-like guards were scurrying to and fro, obviously in a state of great agitation. The whole scene reminded her vaguely of an ants-nest someone had inadvertently kicked over. In the middle of the courtyard, a white-haired old guard was running up and down, yelling at people not to panic. Some were combing the base of the castle, and the guard was clearly being reinforced on the causeway and by the maingate. From somewhere else in the castle came the snatch of command. "Comb this place from top to bottom! Look everywhere and keep looking until we find them! It's a blonde girl and that Ducan child! They'll be together!"
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Kimberley pounded the wall with exasperation. She suddenly felt tired, alone and scared. By herself, she could possibly bluff her way at least to a more secure hiding place...... but not with this boy. They'd be recaptured and she'd wind up dead, if she was lucky. Faced with Scarface's `administrations', death had an almost certain appeal. She doubted if she could even use the same way to escape, they'd probably already have discovered how she got in, as far as she knew there was no other way out of this place other than the main gate. She wouldn't be able to bluff her way even by herself indefinitely. She couldn't fly and there was also her original brief for the task - prevent the houses of Lungin and Ducan joining forces. Maybe... maybe if she surrendered the boy and offered to side with Lungin... Except she'd accepted the job and given Har her word. She was an ex-Cul Tinka and pride of the Subrile Empire, not some local shit-shoveler who turned coat at the first sign of trouble...
She felt a tug on the hem of her skirt and looked down. It was Derrir, tears streaming down his grubby little face. "Please... " he sobbed, "I'm tired and I want to go home. I want my father, where is he?" A pawn. A useless pawn caught between the power-play of rival houses. She looked from him across to the tray of food that had been set on the floor. A leg of chicken, now presumably cold and untouched. By the side lay the large hemispherical bowl that had been used to keep it warm. She looked back at Derrir, and suddenly all her troubles seemed to fade like dawn mist at the onset of a sunbeam.
Down below in the Dining Hall, the banquet was in full swing. Only Borren Ducan and the twelve or so retainers he had brought with him seemed unable to get into the festivities. Borren sat morose in his chair, staring glumly at his plate, large dark circles of worry and nervous exhaustion written deep into his emancipated, skull-like features. He and his retainers ignored the ribaldry that was going on about them, several looked nervous and agitated, even though they had not been required to surrender their personal weapons to a vastly confident Lungin. Borren sat opposite to Lungin, who was grinning like a cat as he prized the insides out of each winkle on his plate with a long pin. The only sentences he'd been able to get out of Borren all evening were `You have my son - please, I love him and I want him back. For that I'll do anything you require.'
Next to him sat Sherpal, who hated shell-fish, but on the Castle Rising, nobody seemed to eat much else. At that moment Vorlop appeared in a doorway, waving his hands in order to attract his attention.
Sherpal excused himself and came over. "Now what?" he hissed.
"The boy Derrir has been set free by someone disguised as a serving girl," he squealed, hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. "He or she killed two of the guards and possibly a third outside, my men are searching the castle and grounds. Don't worry, they won't get far."
"Worry......" mused Sherpal. He'd done nothing but worry all day. "Well provided that Ducan or Lungin don't discover what's happened, at least until after the Treaty is signed. That boy Derrir should be fairly easy to find, and if we recover him and get him safely back under lock and key, so much the better. I'll just have you flogged for incompetence" he muttered, enjoying for a change the way Vorlop's face drained of all colour.
"B-B-But we will find them" spluttered Vorlop, trying desperately to believe himself. "I've given our guards orders to find this boy Derrir and whoever freed him and arrest them both, and bring them to me. Alive, if possible."
"I thought you said whoever freed the boy was in disguise," suggested Sherpal, stepping aside to allow a gorgeous blonde serving girl into the hall, carrying a large food-tray.
"Don't worry" replied Vorlop, rubbing his hands together with glee that he'd finally thought ahead of Sherpal. "I've also given orders for the guards to arrest anyone disguised as anyone."
"Oh marvellous," retorted Sherpal, "that will be a great help."
Kimberley made her way through the hovering crowd of servants that buzzed about the banqueting table like wasps around a honey jar. She soon singled out Borren, who looked as though he was suffering from diarrhoea, and politely put down the large food tray, its' contents covered by the large hemispherical bowl, in between him and Lungin.
Over by the doorway, Sherpal saw what she'd done and felt his insides turn to water. Time seemed to be slowing to a complete standstill. He knew precisely what was going to happen, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
"What's this, girl?" sneered Lungin arrogantly, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
"Complements of the House, my Lord" replied Kimberley gently, straightening and moving back slightly. She gestured towards Borren. "For our honoured guest, of course.
Sherpal was beginning to move towards the table, just as Lungin lifted the covering bowl with a grand gesture. Behind him Kimberley was smiling innocently: bland innocence laced with triumph.
Lungins' grin seemed to freeze upon his features. Borrens' eyes widened and his mouth fell open with horror.
There before him on the plate, sat his sons' head. The eyeballs were transfixed in terror; the mouth open and a bloody tongue protruding out as if in one last cry for mercy that was never granted. The neck was one mass of tattered fleshy shreds and smashed trachea - Kimberley hadn't been strong enough to decapitate him with one blow and had used the battle axe embedded in the door like a saw in the finish.
All round the banqueting hall, conversation abruptly died, as if someone had turned it off with a tap. Realising that silence reigned, Sollacress decided that it was the right moment to make his speech, got to his feet, and began to search through his garments for his scroll.
With the grin still meaninglessly painted on his lips, Lungin gently shook his head to and fro, as if he was trying to disbelieve what he was seeing.
Borren gave one awful shriek that sounded as though it never could have originated from any human throat, a cry of horror, sorrow and disbelief. In a split second, he leapt to his feet, snatched out his own weapon and hit out at Lungin with unbelievable ferocity. The blade cleaved his head in two like some melon down to his chin, the brains beginning to ooze out and drip down into his lap.
To his right, Lungins' favourite and current lover, Tulloe, jumped up and attempted to draw his own ceremonial jewel-encrusted dagger, just as Kimberley stabbed him in the back of the neck using her little needle-spike and as much force as she could muster. Tulloe collapsed writhing to the floor, screaming.
Chaos broke out. Several `quests' spontaneously drew their weapons and began to set about their opposites, whilst others more endowed with a sense of self preservation made for the doorways. Sollacress was still searching for his speech; he had just about found it when somebody drove a carving knife into his liver, and he fell across the table, gasping.
Sherpal tried to fight his way through the milling pack of bodies. Someone's fist shot out like a piston, crashing into the side of his head and knocking him over. Concussed, he shook his head, as if suffering from a bad dream. In the distance and rather detachedly, someone was screaming fit to burst as their guts were torn out and thrown on the fire.
In the confusion Kimberley dived for cover under the intricately carved mahogany table. Here was the best place to ride out the storm of death, let the others slash and cut each other to bits. She tore off the gossamer skirt, naked now but for a scanty white pair of briefs. At the moment she wished to notify nobody of her presence and was content to crouch there. From under the table cloth she could observe a confused medley of legs, a load of kicking and shoving, and blood or mutilated bodies being splattered across the floor.
A badly-wounded warrior, one of Lungins' guards, rolled under the table, both hands pressed against the huge scarlet gash across his stomach, through which his insides were slowly leaking out. The eyes looked up at Kimberley's beautiful features and the fires of recognition seemed to burn in them. Before he could cry out or attempt to defend himself, Kimberley's lovely face twisted into a snarl of contempt, and viciously she hacked and slashed at the defenceless guard with Tulloe's dagger, quickly transforming his own face into a bloody ruin of red rags, and the light faded from what was left of his eyes.
Vorlop was shouting to try and restore some semblance of order, but nobody took much notice as they were too busy either fighting or fleeing. Seeing his attempts were unfruitful, Vorlop drew his own long sword and plunged into the fray. One of Borren's associates, a spotty freckled-faced youth, clad in a scarlet leather tunic heaved into sight before him, and was trying to surrender as Vorlop swung his sword and cleaved his arm off neatly at the shoulder. Something bumped into him from behind and he whirled, swinging his blade in a wide arc. He had just enough time to see that it was an innocent serving girl before he took her head clean off; the body collapsing as if poleaxed, whilst the head went bouncing off down the room, eventually ending up in the main fire-place. "Whoops, sorry..." mumbled Vorlop, genuinely quite apologetic.
An armless and legless body was crawling around on the floor like some kind of demented caterpillar, leaving behind it a great vivid smear of crimson. By now the dining floor was littered with the dead, the dying, and those still engaged in the brutal death struggle. Perimeter guards by the doorways still occasionally sniped with their crossbows at Borren's men that could be clearly identified, but word spread like lightning that Lungin had been slain, and many now deserted their posts in search of plunder, loot, or simply to escape the chaotic carnage. Kimberley crawled out from her hiding place and with a faggot from the great fire, torched the tapestries and silken curtains that festooned the walls and pillars, adding to the growing confusion. It was then that she noticed Borren, an island of Pathos in the sea of scarlet. He was on his knees, had drawn his sons' head to his chest and was blubbering like a baby, the tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks.
Kimberley shook her head in contempt and disgust, then ducked instinctively as a crossbow bolt whizzed past her right ear. She spun, a flash of ash-blonde tresses and honeyed skin, before diving for cover behind all that was available - an overturned chair. Through the stinging smoke that was starting to pervade she saw her attacker. A guard who's face showed pure hatred, with a livid purply-red scar across it; ignoring the melee around him, his eyes were set only upon her immaculate body. It was the same one who had promised to `make her scream until he was deaf with pleasure.' He had already reloaded, and was stalking towards her as a wolf stalks a flock of sheep. Kimberley suddenly became aware of the fact that she was naked but for a ridiculously small pair of white briefs, and had no weapon by which to defend herself properly.
Tulreideyr Galgaros, former brigand, pirate, mercenary, and generally all-round vindictive sadist, smiled lasciviously. Pain was his mistress. He'd cut this bloody bitch open, not too fast, for he had no desire to make her die promptly, after enjoying the pleasures of her plush young body. His face, which normally looked to have been clumsily whittled by a knife, split into a mask of lust born of hate, and he closed to within a few feet of the cowering slut.
Suddenly without warning Kimberley threw Tulloe's dagger at him, he instinctively raised his crossbow to defend himself and the blade struck the underside of the stock, involuntarily sending the loaded quarrel high into the blazing ceiling. Kimberley jumped to her feet and attempted to run, but slipped on a pool of blood and then Galgaros was upon her, dragging her to her feet and hitting her half way across the room.
He grinned evilly, both hands round her throat as he repeatedly slammed her head back against the wall. Fortunately her hair and the thick festoons adorning the walls saved her from the worst, and then Kimberley, feinting for his groin, got both legs up as far as his chest and kicked out with all her remaining strength, breaking his strangle hold. He was about to close and hit her again, but then beside her some tattered burning fragments of raiment drifted down, like brittling leaves at the first touch of an autumn wind. The silken curtains were well alight now, great roaring tongues of orange flame licking all over them, and like lightning before Galgaros had a chance to react, she snatched at the nearest one and in one fluid motion, had thrown the fiery burning mass over his head and shoulders. Kimberley felt no pain in her hands other than a noticeable tingle - her ruby ring of fire resistance she had `acquired' some time back from a magician served her in good stead. Galgaros had time for one scream before collapsing, the whole of the upper part of his body enveloped by the hungry flames. His ring mail and leather armour afforded him good protection, but the exposed parts of his neck and face began to char and melt away, sizzling. He screeched in horrific agony, aware of the sweet stench of his own burning flesh, and clawed frantically at the burning mass, ignoring the new pains that shot through his ungloved left hand. He shrieked and writhed on the ground at the waves of bale that threatened to engulf him.
Kimberley was already gone, running out of the dining hall like some silken golden vision and nearly colliding with a panicking Vorlop. The acrid smoke from the burning curtains stung his eyes and made them water, and by now the hungry fires had begun to take hold on several of the wooden supporting beams. Vorlop began to search amongst the fallen bodies with great excitement, but quickly finding whom he set out to look for. Gasping and coughing, he pulled a semiconscious Sherpal to his feet.
"Sir," he reported quickly, "the blonde girl disguised as one of the servants and who killed a couple of guards is probably the same one who served up the head of the Ducan child to his father. "I've just been to his room and discovered under the bed the body of a decapitated child which I believe could be the body of the Ducan boy. What would you like me to do about it, Sir?"
Groggily, Sherpal spat out a broken tooth and turned with incredulous eyes towards him. "Vorlop," he muttered. "I must congratulate you. If I cut off your own head, you'd still have no less intelligence than you do right now..."
Amidst the sea of roaring, flickering orange flames, the smoking body of Galgaros lay bunched up by its' horrendous wounds. His face, which had never been particularly good-looking before, was now just a mass of raw, blistering, exposed red meat. His left hand was a withered stump, the bones of the fingers curled in upon themselves and the flesh burnt away.
"Girl," he hissed through barely remaining lips, his voice thick with shock and suffering, "I shall get you for this...... I shall remember your face, one as beautiful as that is not easily forgotten. You can run, but you can't hide... .. I shall find you no matter how long it takes, wherever you've come from... .. I promise you, girl, you shall pay for this!"
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