Knight of Lust Ch. 12

Caderyn was no stranger to death. At the age of seventeen he'd killed his first man: an assassin seeking to claim the life of an allied noble. Within a few years of that first bloodletting, he'd hunted bandits along the borders with Jadewall, and then later claimed the life of his mother's would-be assassin. In Ravenmark he'd faced a band of raiders who had been paid by Thandor to kill him. Down in Tsannor, he'd cut down rebel soldiers when he'd haphazardly joined the assault on Everard's keep. Not long after that, he'd slain brigands who had once fought at his side against Everard.

Death had ruled the world around him when Baron Aelred had betrayed his father, cutting down Lucan and many of his loyal soldiers.

And yet none of that death and carnage compared to what unfolded before him on that bright, sunny, day.

Blood and gore stained the valley between the two low hills. Hundreds of dead men and horses littered the ground. Many more wounded cried out for help or mercy, some dragging themselves away, only to be trampled by fleeing comrades. The tattered green banners of Jadewall hung limply above the slaughter.

Upon the eastern hill stood the battered but proud remnants of Girjar Bear-Bleeder's force of northern mercenaries. They had been the bait, arrayed in a loose and haphazard shield-wall intended to draw forth Jadewall's cavalry. A small token force of Fellhaven pikemen had held the western hill. As expected, Jadewall's forces had longed to repeat their prior victory over the barbarians and had surged forth to break the northern mercenaries, bypassing the bristling formations of pikemen.

When the great tide of cavalry had exposed their flanks, longbowmen and crossbowmen had rushed up from their hiding places on the far side of the western hill. The high ground and clear air created perfect conditions for several storm-like volleys. The vaunted knights of Jadewall had died in droves, their momentum crumbling as barons and captains were cut down. As they'd reeled, Girjar Bear-Bleeder led a charge down the hill.

Jadewall's infantry had been deployed in reserve, waiting to mop up once the lancers had shattered the northlanders. And while they'd waited, watching in horror as the knights died in droves, the true killing blow had fallen.

Baron Florian, despite his diminutive build and his earlier suggestions of appeasement, had executed the masterstroke. Once Pelagia's outriders had killed off the scouts on the enemy's far flanks, Florian was able to guide most of Caderyn's mounted forces on a wide flanking maneuver. After striking and burning the enemy baggage train, they fell upon the enemy archers, scattering them and sparking a general panic. The infantry perhaps could have held on, but they broke within minutes, no doubt demoralized by the sight of the butchery between those two hills.

The pitched battle became a hunt as Florian's men ran down the fleeing soldiers.

And Caderyn himself had not lifted a finger. Despite his guilt, Caderyn had heeded his mother's tearful pleas to stay out of direct combat unless as a last resort. Thus he had remained upon the forested hill along with his pikemen, observing and directing the slaughter as best he could. Truth be told, however, there was little need for his involvement. The brutal planning of Girjar, Rathgar and Florian had ensured the victory.

"By the fangs of the gods," Gwion said from his position beside the duke. Like many in the army, he'd adopted northern curses after the influx of so many barbarian mercenaries. "What a lovely, bloody day."

Caderyn's cold gaze drifted over the field of corpses. While he did feel pangs of guilt for the peasant conscripts, he placed the true blame for their fate upon Thandor, who had forced those poor men to march to their deaths. The blood was on Thandor's hands, not his own. The distant screams and wails, however, still assailed his heart.

His heart turned to ice when he heard the pikemen chant out his father's name, dedicating the victory to the beloved duke who had been betrayed and killed by Thandor's puppet Aelred.

The chants were a reminder of what Thandor had taken from him. His hand curled into a tight fist.

"I don't expect you to join in the cheers, milord," Gwion said, removing his helmet and wiping sweat from his brow. "But at least grin a little. Gods, what a victory."

"I'll save my smiles for when Thandor lies dead at my feet," Caderyn said crisply, his eyes narrowing at the southern horizon, watchful for any sudden reinforcements. "This was but perhaps a mere third of his forces."

As callous as Thandor was, Caderyn doubted he'd decided to just sacrifice all those men as a delaying action. No doubt overconfidence had led Thandor to send the smaller force northward, perhaps thinking that the untested Caderyn would be easily bested, or that his men would have broken easily, their hearts still reeling after Lucan's fall.

The rest of his forces still awaited further to the south, besieging the great crossing at Stonecurrent.

Against all odds, the loyal Sir Tedrun had held onto the imposing fortress. Doing so had strained Thandor's supply lines and had limited Jadewall to the use of smaller crossings and more precarious fords. If Thandor managed to take Stonecurrent, however, he'd gain easy passage to the entire southern half of Fellhaven. Slaughtering that blocking force was not enough; Caderyn needed to march south, relieve Tedrun, and throw Thandor's back from the river.

And even after such a victory, the war would be far from over. They would still need to push into Jadewall and dethrone Thandor.

Thus he could not take part in the cheers and elated howls.

With a wave of his hand, he sent the pikemen forward to help secure the field; they marched forth in tight, disciplined rows. Girjar's northmen stalked among the corpses, claiming loot and grisly trophies from the fallen. Caderyn had given strict orders to take prisoners when possible, but he doubted the wild mercenaries would heed his words.

As the last of the fleeing infantry vanished over the horizon, Baron Florian guided his blood-spattered destrier up the hill. The little baron was clad in fine chainmail, a battered breastplate, and a torn blue-and-gold cloak. The removal of his helm revealed a bright, almost boyish smile.

"The day is yours, my duke."

The smile faded at the stern look in Caderyn's eyes.

"And yet we must win far more than this victory, I understand," said Florian. "But... I do still have something that might put a smile upon your face."

He motioned for his men to approach. A few of Florian's knights staggered up the hill, dragging a cart. Judging by the ash staining the wheels, the cart had been looted from the ransacked supply camp. Limp and unconscious beneath a tattered blanket on the cart was none other than Sir Jehan. Blood stained his long, elegant blonde curls and a bloody bandage covered his forehead. His chest rose in short, shallow breaths.

Caderyn had been hoping the traitor Aelred would have commanded the force sent to intercept him, but this was still quite the prize. No doubt Jehan had seen it as a chance for an easy victory, perhaps a means to redeem himself for the cowardice he'd displayed back during the war against the barbarians.

"I did not see his banners on the field," Gwion said with a wild grin.

"Because he was noton the field," Florian said, dismounting to inspect the prisoner more closely. "Our knights caught him in the camp. He was half-armored and vomiting into the latrine."

Caderyn wondered if he'd enjoyed a bit too much wine the night before, or instead had been afflicted with one of the many common ailments that could ravage an army at war. His own forces had been weakened by an outbreak of flux that had put many of the longbowmen out of commission for the battle. Only the alchemical skill of Ketrik and a few other mercenary shamans had prevented it from worsening.

Whatever the cause, he smiled for the first time that day, not quite able to believe that the hated Sir Jehan was in his clutches. Over two decades ago, Jehan had ridden to war at his parents' side, only to be revealed as a craven coward during the great battle. He'd served his cousin Thandor faithfully over the years since, taking charge of the offensive across the border.

And now there he was, covered in his own blood and vomit, helpless and at Caderyn's mercy.

"Fetch Ketrik," Caderyn ordered, and Gwion took off running.

After a few moments of staring down at the nearly-dead knight did Caderyn glance back up at Florian.

"And Sir Pelagia?"

"Alive and well, my lord. I cannot say the same for her foes, however. I saw her cut down three of Jehan's knights, and that nasty wound to his head was her work."

As much as he longed to find and embrace his lover, the aftermath of a battle was hardly appropriate for such affections, and there was no time at all for any such distractions during the march south. It had been two weeks since that wicked night with Melisent and Avicia; not once had he dared to dally with another lover since.

The shaman Ketrik trotted up to Jehan. Blood stained his hands and tattooed face; he'd clearly been hard at work tending to other wounds when he'd been summoned.

"I need him alive," Caderyn said. "For information and as a potential bargaining tool."

Sighing, the shaman knelt, gently pressing his fingers near the nasty wound to his forehead.

"I will do what I can, my duke." He raised a graying eyebrow. "And your wound?"

The wound in fact still stung, especially after sitting high in the saddle for most of the morning. The soreness had spread to most of his lower body, but his focus on the battle had kept the dull ache from his mind.

"I shall manage. Focus on that wretched man's life."

**

As his riders fanned out to secure the flanks and hunt down stragglers, the captives were put to work burying the dead. Girjar's mercenaries erected a great bonfire made from the lances and spears of fallen foes; their howls and chants echoed across the plain. The wails and moans of wounded men rose from the makeshift field hospital between the two hills. Over the course of the day, those horrific sounds faded into a dull murmur.

The end of Jehan's army did not mean the end of Caderyn's duties. He had to decide which prisoners to ransom and which ones to send back for questioning, and what to do with the hundreds of lowborn captives. Girjar had demanded they be flayed alive as part of a grisly ritual, while Florian had advised a mass execution to avoid a waste of supplies. Rathgar had suggested splitting them up among smaller prison camps near the capital.

As his mind sifted through the options, a messenger arrived at his tent with a summons from Ketrik. Setting aside the matter of the lowborn prisoners, Caderyn trotted across the darkening camp towards Ketrik's tent of elk-hide.

Within, the captured knight was chained to a cot, herbal bandages wrapped over his wounds. His glossy, misty eyes darted back and forth. Drool leaked from his lips and he let out a low, almost animalistic moan at the sight of Caderyn.

A dozen Fellhaven knights stood guard, hands upon their weapons in an entirely unnecessary display given Jehan's wounds.

"All but two of you can go," Caderyn said. "Spend your time protecting more capable prisoners."

They bowed and filed out past their duke while Caderyn crouched down beside Jehan.

"Lucan?" Jehan murmured.

"The potion I gave him for the pain has addled his wits considerably," said Ketrik. "Though the blow to the head may have done that already. I am not certain how useful he'll be."

"If he can feel pain, he'll have his uses," Caderyn murmured, causing Ketrik's eyes to narrow.

Caderyn winced and banished those darker thoughts. As much as he loathed Jehan, there was little sense in torturing him.

"Lucan?" Jehan repeated, his misty eyes staring at Caderyn's chest. "You're dead. Shouldn't... shouldn't be here."

"Aelred," Caderyn said coldly. "Tell me about Aelred. How did your cousin turn him?"

"Tired," said the prisoner. "He was so, so tired. So many kin dead in the border clashes. So much work holding the frontier. Tired. Tired. Tired. And ambitious."

Jehan smiled and licked a bit of drool from his lips.

"We promised him the duchy if he helped us get rid of your family. The duchy and Lady Yvonne's hand. Simple. Easy."

It all made sense, of course. Aelred's family had been tasked with protecting the southern borders for the entirety of Fellhaven's existence, which meant his barony was always on the front lines of any conflict with their southern neighbors. Perhaps, in a sense, Aelred had hoped to spare his son the trying task of managing the border. Through betrayal, he'd seen a path to peace for his family.

Just because Caderyn understood his motivations didn't mean he'd spare the wretched oathbreaker when he found him, though.

"Are there other traitors?" Caderyn asked.

"Yes," Jehan blubbered.

Caderyn clenched his jaw, a hand instinctively settling on his sword-hilt. Even after victory on that day, another betrayal on the scale of Aelred's could shatter the duchy once and for all.

"Your whore," Jehan continued. "Melisent. Traitor to us. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor."

His blood ran cold.

"What do you mean?"

"My cousin's daughter. Now his foe. She damns him. Curses him. All he wanted was to help. He wanted to be her father. And this is how she repays it."

"Explain yourself," Caderyn said through gritted teeth.

"He made mistakes, yes. He wanted to make it right. Instead she tossed us to the wolves. She'll toss you to the wolves, too. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor."

Caderyn's tense hand fell from his horse. The mad ramblings of a wounded man, that was all, deliriously raving against Caderyn's betrothed. Yes, she was a traitor as far as Thandor was concerned, but that was one of the many reasons Caderyn adored her. Despite being a pawn in Thandor's plot to kill Duchess Sarya, she'd turned on Thandor and unraveled the whole conspiracy. If Melisent had not stepped up to assist his family, Thandor perhaps could have made other attempts to remove Sarya, easing the way for Aelred to take control.

"What lies ahead, Sir Jehan?" Caderyn asked. "What will Aelred and Thandor do now?"

"Hold," Jehan murmured, eyes fluttering. "Hold the river. Have to hold."

His left eye closed. A trickle of crimson ran from his nose.

"I think that is enough for now, my duke," said Ketrik. "I am still not confident he'll make it until dawn."

"Do what you can to keep him alive. While Thandor will not stand down just to spare his cousin's life, he could still have his uses."

As Caderyn rose to his feet, shouts erupted from outside. Cursing, he once more reached for his blade before darting from the tent, fearful that another wave of enemy troops had perhaps found the victors' camp. Instead he came across an altogether more baffling scene: a half-dozen shirtless northlanders, their bodies adorned with bloody runes. Foremost among them was Girjar Bear-Bleeder, the colossal tattooed warrior who had led the mercenaries to glory on that day. Yet rather than a grin of well-earned triumph, his face instead bore a deep, foul scowl. A band of Caderyn's knights kept the warriors at bay, blocking their path with the hafts of their spears.

"What is the meaning of this?" Caderyn asked, too baffled to be angry quite yet.

"Jehan draws breath within that tent, yes?" Girjar said, waving a massive hand past the duke.

"Aye. But his life is not yours to take. Are the mountains of gold you were promised not enough? Are the greater shares of loot from the enemy camp not sufficient?"

"We seek not to satisfy our greed, Duke Caderyn, but the hunger of our gods," Girjar said.

The warriors all lifted their gazes and hands towards the darkening sky. Several murmured prayers under their breath.

"He is not to be sacrificed," Caderyn hissed.

The duke was, of course, quite tempted to give the wretched knight over to the northlanders so he could meet a grisly end. But he had far greater value as a captive to be ransomed or traded away as part of a surrender agreement. Thandor would certainly not submit just to save his cousin, but the prospect of Jehan's freedom might be one part of a larger offer to others within Thandor's realm.

"He slew northlanders during the last war. He helpedkill Lucan One-Eye. It was his knights who raided the camp, yes?"

"I require no reminders of Jehan's misdeeds," Caderyn said through clenched teeth. "But I have other uses in mind for him."

Rumbles rippled through the painted warriors. There were other potential prisoners, however, whom he would have less need of.

"But I swear to you if we capture Baron Aelred alive, then his soul can be given to your gods."

Wide, bestial grins danced across the faces of Girjar and his champions. After growling their approval, they marched back off to their section of the camp.

"They will be trouble," said the shaman once the warriors were out of earshot.

"You of all people should have no reason to fear northlanders," Caderyn said with a snort.

"It is not a matter of fear. It is a fact, my duke. Only a handful of those warriors were old enough to have fought during the last invasion. Most of the others are young, brash men who grew up ashamed of the invasion's failure. Their whole lives they have dreamed of bringing wrath and ruin upon the south. They have spent years preparing and training for a chance to send southern souls into the maws of our hungry gods. And today, they got a taste of that blood-soaked honor. They'll want more."

"And I shall give them more," Caderyn said with a snort. "We still have more battles to fight."

"With every victory, more and more warriors will flow south to join you. And what happens when the victories stop? What happens when there is no more honor, gold, or glory? What happens when all these warriors return home with tales of the gleaming, gilded south?"

Caderyn crossed his arms over his chest, frowning despite the fact that he saw Ketrik's point.

"I have little choice. Without the aid of those mercenaries, we could not have carried the day." His eyes narrowed. "And what would you have me do? Cast these men aside because they are too useful?"

"I simply ask that you be wary. The whims of our gods and the hunger of Kovgaard can easily shift. Just as Kovgaard was once Fellhaven's foe and is now its ally... they could become foes once again."

It was galling to hear Ketrik speak about his own people in such a way. While Caderyn knew he'd had his differences with King Ulrik in particular, the shaman spoke of Kovgaard as if it were a completely foreign and hostile entity, rather than the land of his birth. Decades in the south had changed the man, further chaining his fate to Fellhaven.

He also wondered how much of that was due to Lucan's death. The men had been close friends, standing alongside one another in the fight against Ulrik. The shaman had then served Caderyn's parents faithfully ever since. Not once had he allowed the pain to truly show, and Caderyn doubted he ever would.

"I need to winthis war before I can worry about the next one," Caderyn said darkly, then turned and marched away, flanked by a large band of knights.

**

He spent an hour alone in his tent, going over the latest reports from other fronts. His raiding parties continued to assail the other fords and crossings, bleeding Thandor's supply lines and reinforcements. Jadewall's forces were adapting, however, and had employed lighter cavalry to screen the crossings and fend off his raiders. Before long, Caderyn's forces would have to adopt new tactics to keep up the pressure, and the enemy would adapt in turn.

War was a constant dance. One step forward, another step back, always shifting and evolving.

The tent rustled as Pelagia slipped inside; she was one of the few who could even approach his tent without being challenged by his personal guards. Sweat and dried blood clung to her freckled face. Nasty dents marred her breastplate. Her legs trembled as she managed the last few steps before collapsing wordlessly onto his cot.

Caderyn's heart warmed and ached in equal measure. By the gods and their saints, he was glad to see her, but he hated the sorrow gripping her dark eyes. Knowing she'd have little strength left to do it herself, Caderyn knelt beside her to help her out of her armor.

"Baron Florian said you fought well today," he said, wincing at the sight of nasty bruises left by the greaves that had protected her legs.

"I can barely remember most of it," Pelagia murmured. "It was a fiery blur. Like a dream. An echo of a dream, even."

"I am sorry I was not out there with you," he said, unstrapping her breastplate, then slipping the coat of chainmail over her head.

A layer of sweaty padded cloth clung to her athletic form. She absolutely reeked, but that was a winnable battle. Once he stripped her out of the cloth, boots, and her padded trousers, he dunked a rag in a bucket of water. Gentle, caring strokes worked over her sweaty, muscular body. Firmer touches assailed the sore spots, taking care not to aggravate the bruises and abrasions. She groaned with relief and slumped against him, her eyes fluttering.

"You are a duke now," she muttered. "You can't be out there leading charges or holding ranks with the pikemen."

"My father did. He was in the vanguard during the attack on the Kovgaardian siege camp during the last war."

"Your father had much more experience than you do," Pelagia reminded him, before lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "Besides... Tessandra and Melisent would never forgive me if I let you onto the front lines."

"Do you really think you could stop me?" he said with a crooked grin, the tension slowly fading from his body.

She let out a soft and weak little laugh. He continued the tender, careful bath, turning her onto her back to wipe away the sweat and grime. The process used up the entire bucket of water but he managed to defeat the worst of the mess. Next he rubbed some scented oil onto his hands and massaged it into her skin.

Had they not just fought a grisly battle, he'd have used the opportunity to slip a hand between her thighs. Both of them, however, were too exhausted and war-addled for such a distraction. Pelagia in particular looked as if she were about to drift off.

When he used a fresh rag to wipe away the excess oil, Pelagia let out an odd sound, halfway between a sob and a yawn. His tender fingers brushed over her cheek, tilting her gaze to his. Tears flashed in her dark brown eyes. The sight of those tears sent icy shards into his chest.

"I miss her," she murmured. "Tessandra. The one solace I take in combat is that I'm so focused on not dying that I forget about her. But then when the fighting is done and the adrenaline fades... I hate myself for forgetting."

She let out a weak sigh.

"And I miss Melisent, too. Perhaps in a different way. A few months ago I'd have never imagined myself saying that."

"I miss them, too," Caderyn said, his voice wavering as his hand cupped her cheek.

While he and Pelagia were off fighting, Tessandra was back in court, serving as a spy for Berent and keeping an eye on the nobles and merchant guilds, while Melisent helped tend to the wounded. His heart ached for both of them.

And though he dared not speak of her aloud, his heart also still longed for Solveig. Even after months and months, even after so much carnage and war... his mind still drifted to that blue-eyed witch. It had been almost eight months since he'd seen her, thus her body would be swollen with their unborn child by now. Any day she could go into labor.

And then she would fight a war of her own, birthing a child he would never meet.

Perhaps sensing his own inner turmoil, Pelagia tilted her head to kiss his palm, then rested a hand upon his scarred cheek.

"Let us win this war quickly, then, so we can return to them."

**

As Pelagia slumbered on the cot behind him, Caderyn dressed himself and sat at the little table within his tent to finish poring over the latest reports. A servant entered to provide him with a cup of tea and the young man did not even glance over at the sleeping redhead.

It had been an open secret within the army that he and Pelagia were lovers. Now that he was a duke and betrothed to Melisent, he had little concern for gossip among the rough and battle-tested soldiers.

"My duke," the servant said. "Baron Florian also asked me to convey a polite request for an order regarding the status of the prisoners."

Caderyn sighed, staring down into his tea, his mind conjuring reflections of bloodshed and mayhem within the steaming liquid.

"We'll ransom the wounded barons and knights: with their injuries they won't be back in the field anytime soon, and that's less of a burden on us. We cannot risk letting able-bodied men go free, so have Florian follow Rathgar's plan and disperse the other prisoners among the keeps closer to the capital. And..."

He cocked his head, his frown deepening.

"And before the prisoners are sent away, have our men find devotees of Saint Acwald among the captives. I will need to speak to them."

The squire raised a quizzical eyebrow at that command, but bowed and scurried off.

"Acwald?" Pelagia murmured from behind him. "Please do not tell me that your pilgrimage actually made you pious."

Caderyn allowed himself a small chuckle and glanced back at the sleepy knight. Short red curls dangled over her forehead. Her dark brown eyes were still hazy with exhaustion, but most of the color had returned to her face.

"I have a plan in mind," Caderyn said. "During my pilgrimage, we learned Duke Thandor was confiscating almost all of the harvest from the sacred farms of Saint Acwald. It was clearly a matter of tension for the monks but they could do nothing about it. I'm going to see about releasing some of those prisoners, sending them back to the monks with an offer of support. If Acwald's monastery supports an uprising or withholds supplies from Thandor's army, I'll promise to end the confiscations."

Even if such a scheme did not completely turn the tide, it could be one blade of many that he could sink into Thandor's back.

"Clever," she said with a yawn.

After wrapping the blanket around herself, she crossed the room and bent down, nuzzling the back of his neck.

"You should get some more rest," Caderyn said firmly. "Others can command the scouts while you recover."

And yet the faint brush of her lips and the warmth of her body caused him to stir. It had been weeks since he'd had anything more than a passing affectionate touch. The fierce longing caused his lust to ripple and his manhood to stiffen beneath his robe.

Her breath puffed against the back of his ear.

"You're insufferable," Pelagia murmured, a hint of warmth in her soft voice.

"I cannot help it," he said with a snort. "But it matters not. Get your rest."

"What if I don't want rest? What if I want toforget?"

The question clung to the air like a storm cloud. Gods, how he wanted to forget as well. It would be such a simple and easy thing to descend into a haze of desire, shoving all thoughts of the war from his mind.

One little dalliance couldn't hurt, could it? Florian and Rathgar could look after the army for a few more minutes, and the scouts had reported no further enemy deployments during the night.

He tilted his head back so he could meet her eyes, which rippled with sorrow and warmth in equal measure. She was hurting, reeling from the battle and the sorrow of leaving their other lovers behind. Seeing such darkness in her eyes unleashed more grief within him, along with a burning need to comfort her.

And yet did he not require comfort as well? Did he not need something to assuage his heart due to Melisent's absence? Did he not require a distraction from the fact that Tessandra had not warmed his bed in weeks?

Clearly Pelagia saw the torment in his gaze, for she let the blanket fall from her body, exposing her lean, athletic figure. Dread and sorrow fled to the back of his mind as the fires of lust burned brighter. His heart raced and he turned around in his chair, his fingers softly brushing over her hips.

Leaning closer, he pressed a gentle kiss between her breasts, his tongue flicking over the patches of freckles. Her hands rose, entwining with his short blonde curls. Caderyn's lips descended, passing over the firm muscles of her torso. Slipping from the chair and falling to his knees, he placed more kisses along her taut thighs. A gentle push guided her back towards the cot.

With a sigh she sat down and Caderyn undid his robe. Having not had time to fully dress, he was completely nude beneath the fabric, a sight that sent a spark through Pelagia's gaze.

For a few moments they simply stared at one another, reveling in the nude strength of one another's bodies. His eyes roamed from her feet, along her bruised shins, her toned thighs, her powerful core, ample breasts, and the taut lines of her arms. In return, she looked him up and down as well, her dark brown eyes particularly appreciative of his hardening cock.

"Make me forget," Pelagia murmured, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone.

Caderyn himself had much to forget as well. The bloodshed, the pain of being so far from Melisent and Tessandra, lingering grief over his father's death, fears of the future, his concerns for Solveig and her unborn child...

So, so much to forget.

He rushed towards her and she lunged up from the cot to meet him. Their bodies collided in a frenzy of desperate lust. Their hands clawed at one another, struggling for control, in an echo of the duels they'd previously fought. Even as their arms grappled and writhed, their lips met in fierce, wild kisses. Thrumming groans and eager growls filled the air.

Somehow he managed to force her back down on the cot. She hissed up at him: a sound of animalistic, eager need. Her brown eyes flashed with an inferno of desire, her nails biting deep into the back of his neck.

Fierce nibbles and licks graced her neck. Each of her soft, pink nipples received a lash of his tongue. As his lips grazed down towards her sex, she growled and gripped his hair.

"No. None of that. Not now."

In response, Caderyn snarled back at her and drifted lower. Her thighs tensed beneath his hands as he pried them apart, exposing her dripping folds and the thick patch of dark red hair. Growling, Pelagia gripped his hair and tried to pull him away.

Ignoring the pain inflicted by her fierce touch, Caderyn glared up at her and brought his mouth down upon her sex. Quick little licks assailed her entrance, then he dragged his tongue along her folds. The tension in her limbs faded and she let out a soft sigh of surrender.

Caderyn settled into a firm and hungry pace, lapping fiercely against her folds, occasionally lashing her pearl with the tip of his tongue. Each fervent lick brought forth a low grunt, growl, or groan from the knight. Her grasp loosened upon his hair, gently gripping and guiding him, while her firm legs draped over his shoulders.

Eager to make them both forget the trauma of the past and the trials to come, Caderyn slipped two fingers inside her, instinctively seeking out the spot along her inner walls that he knew so well. She shivered as his fingers dragged against her. Desperate to overwhelm her so that he could sate his own needs, he quickened the pace of his tongue.

Pelagia's back arched, the cot shuddering beneath her.

"Saints' blood," she groaned.

Pelagia was not content to simply languish beneath his touch. Soon she began to buck and grind her hips against him, meeting the powerful efforts of his fingers and the devious skill of his tongue. Her muscles rippled with effort, using the same strength she used in battles and tourneys.

The movements of her body grew firmer and wilder as her climax approached. Short, high-pitched groans left her lips. Wetness greeted the effort of his fingers. His eyes fluttered with triumphant delight as she succumbed.

Pelagia clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle herself before unleashing a few strained cries. Unrelenting, Caderyn lapped at her sex for several more moments, his fingers still working, his wrist aching with the wondrous strain of conquering her.

Her hand fell away from her mouth. She gasped and let out soft little growls, before finally managing the strength to voice his name.

Taking advantage of her relative weakness and vulnerability, Caderyn withdrew his fingers, grabbed her shuddering hips, and turned her over. With a sigh, she tilted her hips upward in a silent invitation for him to mount her.

For but a moment he marveled at the iron strength of her buttocks and the dew dripping down her thighs. The beautiful view, of course, could not compare to the beautiful sensation of actually being inside her.

"Make me forget," she mumbled again.

Both of them sighed as he guided his aching manhood inside her. He sank deep, moving with a single slow and smooth thrust, until his trembling hips settled against her firm backside.

With a growl of effort, he grabbed both of Pelagia's wrists and pinned them together at the small of her back. Caderyn had expected a struggle, even a playful one, but instead she sighed and wriggled against the cot.

Knowing she was strong enough to endure it, Caderyn soon settled into an animalistic pace, allowing lustful fury to take hold. Her soft sighs turned to shaky sobs, then eventually to short, clipped little moans. The cot creaked and rocked beneath them. She silenced her growing noises by biting down on the blanket.

"I adore your strength," he growled through clenched teeth. "But it's a wondrous thing to just surrender, isn't it?"

If she'd tried, she perhaps could have forced herself out of his grasp or perhaps even shoved him onto the cot, and then had her way with him. But instead she submitted even further, tilting her hips up to grant him greater access, her teeth digging deeper into the blanket.

The contrast between her current submission and her usual ferocity struck him. He shuddered for a moment, wondering if she would yield again in such a fashion to Caderyn and his other lovers. The thought of Tessandra and Melisent sent a brief flicker of sorrow through him, but he drowned that pain with a flood of heated desire.

Panting and hissing through clenched teeth, he pounded away at the redhead, the rough sounds of their coupling filling the tent. A particularly brutal thrust caused her to shriek against the blanket. Even with the sounds muffled, his nearby guards almost certainly heard it.

The cot creaked once more, then one leg gave way, followed by the others. It crashed down onto the floor, but in his lust-induced madness, Caderyn did not miss a single stroke. If anything, the collapse of the cot only inflamed him further.

Again and again, he used that tight, warm, and sopping sex. Again and again, she whimpered out his name against the sheets. Again and again, he growled out her name in response, praising her for her beautiful submission.

Somehow she summoned the strength to lift her legs a little, her toes just barely grazing his buttocks. She released the blanket from her teeth and tilted her head to the side, granting him a view of her misty eyes and her drooling lips.

"Make me forget," she rasped.

Pelagia came again a few moments later, conquered by the pressure of his cock and the friction of her sex rubbing against the blanket. Her eyes fluttered and she bit down on the blanket once more to bury yet another broken cry.

He finally released her wrists, but only so he could lean forward and take a firm grasp of her short red hair. The crimson strands rippled within his fingers as he plowed against her. His eyes rolled back into his head as the sparks of lust ignited.

Growling wordlessly, Caderyn sent his release deep into her throbbing sex, the milky offering leaking forth onto the broken cot. The sensation of the first pulse of his seed only drove him to greater heights. Stroke after stroke sent more of his seed into her, filling her completely and utterly.

She mewled against the blanket, her muscular back rippling.

His powerful movements weakened and slowed. Sweat rolled down his muscles onto her back. Gentle fingers took hold of her wrists, tenderly rubbing against the red marks left by his fierce grasp.

After one last little painful pulse within her, Caderyn sighed and withdrew, then nearly laughed at sight of the mess he'd left behind.

"I'll need to give you another bath."

Pelagia answered with a wordless mumble. After a few shaky moments, Caderyn rose and collected another rag, then dutifully cleaned up the mess as best he could. When she recovered enough of her wits, Pelagia rolled over and let out a soft laugh.

"A duke shouldn't be undertaking such menial tasks."

"I like doting on my conquests," he said with a sly wink.

She affixed him with a playful glare and gave his shoulder a playful punch. After a moment her eyes darkened and she looked past him.

"And I did forget. For a few minutes. Thank you."

"I am sorry we couldn't 'forget' for even longer."

"One day, perhaps," Pelagia said with a sigh. "When the war is won and the dust is settled, you and I and the others can all take a reprieve at an estate somewhere and spend several days 'forgetting.'"

That thought brought a bright and joyous smile to his face, doing just as much to lighten his mood as the wild fuck had. Deep down, he knew such lustful delights would not erase the wounds inflicted by the war. And yet life was not abouterasing pain. It was about finding people to help ease the pain, even if only for a short while.

And despite everything he'd lost... he at least had found a few lovers with which to lighten that burden.

**

Baron Florian's men herded a dozen captives before him. As they were not knights or men-at-arms, they wore a haphazard array of clothing: simple tunics, robes, tabards, or gambesons. All the clothing had been dyed or splashed with green paint to mark them as men of Jadewall. A few had the hardened look of seasoned soldiers, with old scars to prove they had fought in many battles over the years. Others were old enough to have fought alongside his father against Ulrik. Some had perhaps raided into Wolfgate during the disputes over the trade treaty.

For all he knew, one of them could have been among the force that had assailed his father's camp during Aelred's betrayal.

And one of them could help light the way to true victory over Thandor.

Many of them wore holy symbols of Saint Acwald around their necks: little amulets carved in the shape of wheat entwined around an anchor. One man even had a tattoo of such a symbol upon his hand. Caderyn suspected many of them had been farmers or fishermen who venerated the patron saint of fishery and agriculture.

"I asked my men to bring you to me because of your devotion to Saint Acwald," Caderyn began.

Most of the prisoners stared down at the ground, a few even murmuring prayers to the saint in question. One old, wiry man glared daggers at Caderyn, his scarred hands tensing into tight little fists.

"During my pilgrimage, I learned from the shrine in Jadewall that Duke Thandor was confiscating most of the sacred harvest. Rather than most of the food going to the needy and downtrodden, it was instead used to fill Thandor's coffers and to feed his armies. This insult to your faith shall not stand."

He swept his gaze over the prisoners, trying to assess which ones might be the most amenable to cooperation.

"When I win this war, I will end those cruel confiscations. Completely. I shall seize not a single strand of wheat from the holy fields. But to right Thandor's wrongs, I will need the help of Saint Acwald's followers. I will needyour help."

"So you're going to create a little holy army of crusaders from among the dozen of us?" asked an old, scarred soldier. He grinned, showing off a row of cracked teeth and bloody gums.

Caderyn chuckled.

"Are you volunteering for such an army?"

A few soft, nervous laughs emerged from the other captives, but the old man did not answer.

"But no, I am not conscripting you into a holy war. Instead, I am willing to grant you your freedom, if you agree to convey a message to every shrine and monastery within Jadewall," Caderyn continued. "The confiscations within Jadewall will end, provided I receive the support of the holy orders."

Such measures would not topple Thandor on their own, but they could create a storm of dissent and force Thandor to look over his shoulder. The more he could distract Thandor and divide his attentions, the greater chance Caderyn had of victory.

"They'll be slaughtered," said the scarred old man. "They're not paladins or holy knights."

"What's your name?" Caderyn asked.

"Saebert. Was with the pikemen."

"Well, Saebert, I am not asking monks and nuns to take up arms, nor am I asking any of them to break their vows of pacifism. Even if they speak out against Thandor or withhold supplies, that will be enough."

"Even that will be an act of defiance against Thandor. They'll still be punished."

"Even if they stand as one? Even if they receive support from the peasantry? How many poor souls of Jadewall go hungry because of those confiscations? Will such people not see the wisdom in bringing Thandor down?"

Caderyn paced back and forth in front of the prisoners.

"And the holy orders will not be alone. Even now, my sister Vienne and her husband Tancred are marshaling our forces in Ravenmark for an offensive into Wolfgate. Within weeks, they could slice all the way through Wolfgate and be marching over the border into Jadewall."

Others might have balked at revealing such information to prisoners, but Thandor's spies were already likely aware of Tancred's efforts.

"Thus Baron Tancred will be in a position to aid any uprising. And once I seize Stonecurrent and storm the crossing, I will add my forces to the defense of the holy orders as well."

"We wouldn't make it," blubbered one of the other prisoners. "The crossings are well-guarded and-"

"The crossings only matter for wagons and large numbers of men," said Saebert. "A few strong swimmers could make it across without trouble."

Caderyn almost smirked at that. Years ago, he'd had an affair with a few dalliances with a nun at a convent in Jadewall and his weekly swims had acquainted him well with that river. Saebert was thus correct that a few men could slip across without Thandor's men noticing.

"Does this mean you will agree to my offer?" Caderyn asked.

Even if those men betrayed him and ran straight to Thandor with his plan, that could still play into Caderyn's hands. Thandor would worry that other messengers had made it through. His suspicions or reprisals could end up turning the holy orders against him regardless.

Several of the captives blurted out their agreement, perhaps too eagerly. No doubt some wished for a chance to return home and would not follow through on their vows. Saebert, however, looked over to the northern section of the camp.

"I will want something else in return."

"You are in no position to make demands," snapped one of Caderyn's knights, but the duke silenced the man's rage with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I want a trophy," Saebert continued. "When I marched off to fight Ulrik's horde years ago, I promised my son I'd bring him something back. Got my head cracked open during the first clash, so I missed my chance. Obviously missed my chance yesterday, too."

Caderyn glanced over at Girjar's section of the camp, wondering what sort of ridiculous honor-duel he'd have to face in order to convince them to hand over a weapon or a rune-etched totem. His eyes then drifted over to Ketrik, who wandered among the cots filled with men afflicted by the latest bout of illness to strike the camp.

After Caderyn called out to him, the shaman approached with a frown.

"Yes, my duke?"

"This man here has demanded a Kovgaardian trophy as the price for his aid."

For a moment, Ketrik's eyes drifted to the dragon-fang amulet around Caderyn's neck. The duke nearly bristled, for he'd not dare cast aside the memento Solveig had given to him. The shaman then reached for his belt and withdrew one of his rune-etched knives.

"We call this a soul-knife," said Ketrik. "It is used for certain rituals, usually to claim blood or to make sacrifices. Will this suffice?"

Saebert's eyes lit up.

"I daresay it will. A fine trophy."

Other prisoners made their own flurry of demands, mostly for gold and silver. With all of the loot they'd snatched from the enemy camp, Caderyn had little concern with tossing treasure their way. To further speed their journey, he allowed the faithful captives to take their pick of horses from the captured herds, then sent them on their way.

"Are you certain this will work, my lord?" one of his knights asked, glaring at the prisoners as they faded across the southern horizon.

"No. But even if the holy orders don't rise up, this will still confuse and confound Thandor. It will be enough to make him paranoid about a betrayal. And if that results in one single soldier being pulled from the frontline, then that is a victory as far as I am concerned."

**

Through the spyglass, Caderyn inspected the great keep of Stonecurrent. The imposing structure was a massive fortified bridge, with rings of walls and towers protecting both banks.

Centuries ago, Stonecurrent had been built by the old Empire as a bulwark against infighting between Fellhaven and Jadewall, intended to keep the two feuding provinces in line. Over the years it had changed hands a dozen times, most recently falling under the sway of his family thanks to the daring schemes of Sarya's great-uncle.

Now it risked changing hands once more. On the southern side of the river sprawled a great siege camp which dwarfed the one that had been deployed against Baron Everard. The banners of Aelred and Jadewall flew proudly over the massive, makeshift city. The camp had been there so long that some cabins and huts had even been erected, along with wooden watchtowers and palisades. Rows of siege engines were deployed on a man-made hill, flinging stones at the great ramparts of Stonecurrent.

On the northern side of the river was a smaller but still imposing camp, consisting of the hostile forces who had managed to flank around the great keep using smaller crossings. That force would have been quite larger, were it not for the daring raids mounted by Caderyn's forces which had staunched the flow of reinforcements.

That northerly camp was well-fortified with walls of sharpened stakes and man-made hills bristling with archers. Caderyn's own army outnumbered the enemies on the northern bank, but even if they scored a decisive victory, they'd still have to contend with the larger force beyond the river.

"I fear there will be no clever gambit to win this one, my duke," said Baron Florian, whose little frame looked almost comical upon his massive destrier. "We could raise siege engines of our own to bombard them, but that would of course risk damaging Stonecurrent as well... and that would perhaps take too long."

"I concur," said Rathgar with a sigh. "A frontal assault is the only way. Perhaps at night, when their archers and artillery crews will have less of an advantage. A push of horsemen along the eastern flank, a formation of pikemen right up the middle, and Girjar's mercenaries pushing along the west. If Tedrun sorties out with his garrison and hits them from the rear, we should be able to mop them up. It'll be bloody. Costly. Ugly. But it's the only way."

Caderyn swept his spyglass up and down the river, gazing upon the forests that had been thinned by the besiegers' demand for timber. In the distance he spotted a small wooden bridge that had been destroyed by Pelagia's raiders. The rushing rapids had seemingly prevented any attempt to rebuild it. In the other direction was a section of lower water that was suitable as a crossing, but massive rock formations on the northern bank made it impractical for the passage of wagons or horses. An army could have crossed there in a slow, precarious trickle that would have left them vulnerable to attack. A sudden rise in the water could have turned such an attempt into a deadly disaster.

Sighing, he looked back to the keep, realizing that Florian and Rathgar were likely correct. No clever gambit or devious tactic would win the day. Only cold, brute strength.

"My duke," Ketrik said, the wind rustling in the shaman's long gray hair as he guided his horse alongside Caderyn's. "There may be another option, but I must visit the river to confirm."

Caderyn raised an eyebrow.

"What sort of option?"

"Too soon to tell. But at nightfall, I can inspect the river with a small escort, then I will know for certain."

After a nod to the shaman, Caderyn looked to Rathgar and Florian.

"Make preparations for a night assault in case Ketrik's damnably vague 'option' does not prove useful."

What exactly did Ketrik have in mind? Had he detected another crossing? Was there some foul ritual he had in mind? Rumors from the last war still echoed around the palace: talk of sorcery that could wreathe a man in shadow, and spells that used fire to scry the future. As far as Caderyn knew, however, Ketrik was nothing more than a skilled healer, herbalist, and alchemist. True sorcery had seemed beyond his skills.

Time would tell. And crimson would stain the land if Ketrik's efforts proved to be for naught.

**

Caderyn's somber eyes swept over his troops as they assembled for battle, guided solely by the light of the moon and stars. Thousands of men: loyal soldiers who fought for vengeance, gold, and the reckless prospect of restoring the old Empire. Hundreds upon hundreds would die in a frontal assault upon the enemy siege camp. Many more would die in the subsequent fight against the larger enemy force on the southern bank.

His mind drifted back to his time in Tsannor, when he'd watched in horror as Duke Leopold had sent hundreds of conscripts to their deaths in costly assaults against the rebel baron Everard. Was his own path all that different?

"Of course it is," he murmured aloud to himself.

The revolt in Tsannor had been a bitter, stupid feud, while Caderyn's war had grander, higher stakes. Vengeance. Justice. Unity. Prosperity for the realm.

And yet such certainty would not spare his men from the carnage to come.

Riders thundered from the darkness, the ranks of his knights parting to allow them through. Ketrik and his escort trotted up to the duke. Soaked with mud and water, Ketrik had a fresh bandage tied around his forearm. Judging by the grim look in his eyes, his 'option' seemed to have failed, but the shaman nonetheless gave Caderyn a nod.

"I think it will work."

"Then why do you look as if you've seen a ghost?" Pelagia asked, frowning.

"Perhaps I have, in a manner of speaking," Ketrik said, his voice low and solemn. "May I have a word in private, my duke?"

Unnerved by the dark tone and the sorrow in the shaman's eyes, Caderyn dismissed his escort. They backed away, leaving the duke and the shaman alone upon the hill. Shouts and trumpets echoed in the distance as captains and knights organized their formations. Other trumpets bleated from the south; the enemy had long been aware of their deployment and had been preparing accordingly.

"This river is fed by ice that melts from the great mountains of Kovgaard," Ketrik explained. "Thus it brims with the very same power that I am accustomed to... power that I can make use of."

Caderyn could not help but smile, thinking back to the great myths and legends of Kovgaard. Would the water itself rise in a great flood to drown the invaders? Could it freeze and then shatter, sending great detonations of icy shards into the enemy camps? Or would the water create dark spirits to leap forth and hunt down Thandor's army?

His smile faded as the dour look persisted upon Ketrik's face.

"There is a ritual, a grim and costly one, that can curse the water for a time. For a few days, those who drink from it will be afflicted with crippling weakness, foul tremors, and fits of madness. The curse will not be enough to kill, but it would surely weaken the enemy enough for us to easily sweep them from the northern bank... and perhaps the southern."

Caderyn shuddered at those words, recalling his own brief bouts of delirium after he'd been struck with poison. He imagined thousands of men writhing in agony upon the riverbank, helpless to resist the advance of his troops. Such a victory might stain his soul... but the senseless deaths of his men in a frontal assault was another sort of stain, was it not?

"What sort of cost?"

"Sacrifices. Lives given to the spirits of the river in exchange for the granting of this curse. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power."

There were still scores of prisoners back with the supply train. They included men too wounded to risk transporting over long distances and some whom Baron Florian had wanted to question further. There were also some of his own men in chains, who had committed various crimes against the populace during the march. Caderyn had planned on allowing those men to restore their honor by leading assaults on the enemy lines... but Ketrik had presented another opportunity.

Caderyn gazed out at the moonlit fortress of Stonecurrent and the siege camp beneath it. The light glittered over the rushing waters. He wondered if the spirits Ketrik had spoken of could see him, if they gazed out from the waters and sensed his troubled thoughts.

His mind drifted to Solveig and his other lovers, wondering what they would make of this grisly rite.

They would understand. What were the lives of a few dozen condemned men compared to the lives of hundreds of his own loyal soldiers? Death would rule that night one way or another. Why not take the path that would lessen the slaughter for his own people?

"I heard rumors that during the last war that you conducted dark rituals on behalf of my parents," he murmured. "Did you ever undertake anything of this nature for them?"

"For them? No. Nothing this dark. Nothing this costly. But..." Ketrik let out a shuddering sigh. "A lifetime ago, I supported Ulrik's claim to kingship. I served at his side when he conquered the tribes who stood against him. Right before he began the invasion of the south, a coalition of other tribes rose in revolt, for they longed to lead the invasion instead. They held one of the largest keeps in Kovgaard: an imposing fortress on an island in the middle of a half-frozen river. To conquer that keep, I undertook a similar ritual on Ulrik's behalf."

Ketrik closed his eyes.

"It worked, but at great cost. Ulrik stamped out the rebellion and launched his invasion of the south, and it created the first fractures that eventually led to me abandoning his cause."

That did not bode well. If Ketrik had betrayed the last man he'd conducted that ritual for, what did that mean for his future service to Caderyn?

"I will not force you to do this," Caderyn said softly. "You have done far too much for my family for me to dream of such a thing. But..."

He waved a hand towards the assembled soldiers, who stood ready to march, fight, and die in his name.

"For them, I would pay any price."

Ketrik's eyes turned to the great keep.

"Tedrun's garrison may still drink from the river, my duke. The curse may yet afflict them. I could try to warn them with another ritual, but doing so might sap my strength for the darker rites. Messenger birds or other signals could be intercepted."

Caderyn gritted his teeth. If the curse did not kill outright, then at least Tedrun and his men could live. Better to suffer a curse temporarily than to starve to death within that keep, or die beneath the fury of another assault.

A small price to pay.

"I understand. And I think Sir Tedrun will, too. Make the arrangements." Caderyn looked over to Pelagia and his other knights in the distance. "But... let Girjar and his northern mercenaries handle it. Better if my own knights are nowhere near this dark deed."

"I agree, my duke. I would also suggest that you remain in camp as well. Better for you not to witness this grim work. Better not to let the darkness stain your soul."

"I will not hide away like some frightened child, Ketrik. If you are to unleash darkness, I can at least be at your side to witness it."

It was not simply a matter of pride. A dark, hungry curiosity had also driven that decision. He longed to see the true power of northern witchcraft, to glimpse the dark, eldritch strength that pulsed at the heart of Kovgaard's culture. The notion sent a deep and foreboding chill through his body.

**

Girjar Bear-Bleeder and his men had corralled more than fifty captives along the muddy bank, several miles upriver from the besieged keep. The men were all chained together and gagged. Frightened eyes darted about. Muffled pleas for mercy filled the air, only to be met by harsh laughter or curses from the northerners.

Caderyn had ordered the mercenaries to take care with the selection of captives, focusing on men within his own ranks who had committed crimes deserving of death. Four of the prisoners had attempted to rape a nun during the march, another had stabbed a whore, while several others had burned down a farm after stealing a pig. Most of the other prisoners were knights or minor nobles of Jadewall: all men who had played some part in the carnage in his father's camp. The remainder were knights and lesser nobles who had fought for Aelred, thus deserving of a traitor's death.

Rather than face the gallows or the headsman, they would instead face the strange fury of a Kovgaardian ritual.

Ketrik stood at Caderyn's side, staring up at the sky.

"There is one last matter, my duke," said the shaman. "One last condition."

"Name your price."

If the man wanted a barony or a mountain of gold, he'd have earned it.

"No more rituals, no more dark rites. This is the last time I grasp at the dark power of our gods for the sake of your family."

Caderyn wondered what other rites he'd undertaken on behalf of his parents. Due to the foreboding look on the shaman's tattooed face, it was not the time to press for details.

"I understand, Ketrik. And I swear it. Nothing further after this."

The shaman marched to the edge of the river and washed his hands. As he growled and chanted under his breath, he drew a knife made of bone from his belt, which resembled the one he'd given to Saebert. After a deep breath, he raked it over the back of his hand. The blood dripped into the river, then he collected the bloody water into a bowl.

Several of Girjar's men stepped forward, adding a bit of their own blood to the bowl. Judging by the proud tilt of their chins, the act seemed to honor them in some way.

Ketrik used the knife to draw several runes in the mud. Into the symbols he dripped the blood, then crushed up several flowers before smearing the whole mess together, creating a faintly crimson dark paste.

Upon smearing the mixture onto his fingers, he stalked down the row of prisoners, marking their foreheads with jagged runes. The sight brought to mind the symbols Solveig had marked Caderyn's body with, as well as the sigils that Melisent's nuns had used to protect the dead. He shivered at the similarities but continued to watch in awed, terrified silence.

Once each muffled prisoner had been marked, Ketrik looked to the mob of Kovgaardian warriors. He stared for over a minute, until five of them stepped forward.

Without a word, they knelt beside the prisoners and raised their chins high, allowing Ketrik to mark them as well.

Caderyn hissed. What madness had gripped such men? They seemed to bear no wounds and suffered no ailments; thus this was not a matter of seeking a merciful death. The ritual had no need of further offerings and yet they had stepped forth, offering their blood all the same.

The fiery zealotry of Kovgaard's faith knew no bounds. It had driven the warriors to invade Fellhaven, had inspired others to venerate his father for defeating the invasion, and had guided those madmen down towards the muddy lakeshore.

Ketrik washed his hands once more and knelt within the water. The minutes dragged on.

"Spirits of the mountains who birthed this river... hear my prayer," the shaman intoned. "Gather your fury, ancient and cold, and turn the life of this river into death. Grant your curse to those who drink from these waters. In exchange, we offer you life and blood."

After a deep breath, he dipped his head within the water. Keeping himself immersed with his own strength and force of will, the shaman writhed and flailed until more than a minute passed. Caderyn stepped forward, fearful the man might drown himself, but Ketrik's head erupted from the water.

Darkness clung to his bloodshot eyes. A rictus grin spread across his tattooed face as he rose to his feet.

"The spirits awaken. They await our offering."

Once more gripping the sacred knife, he stalked over towards the first sacrifice.

The Kovgaardian warrior grinned and raised his chin.

"A good death," the man growled.

Ketrik delivered that 'good death' with a brutal slash of the knife across his throat. The warrior's eyes widened and he lurched forward, his blood splashing into the river. As he gurgled and rasped, Ketrik moved to the next volunteer.

Soon all of the Kovgaardian offerings were twitching and writhing upon the muddy riverbank, their lives flowing into the hungry river. Muffled screams rose from the other captives. Some tried to rise, only to be battered back down by Girjar and his warriors. One man even dove into the water but Girjar's fierce hands dragged him back to shore.

Caderyn's horrified awe rose as Ketrik's butchery continued. One by one the captives died, their crimson gifts staining the dark water. Strangely, the blood did not flow downriver and join with the current. Instead it congealed, forming a dark and ominous crimson mass just beneath the surface.

His blood chilled as he stared, having never seen such witchcraft at work. This was far beyond the intensity of his visions or the power he'd witnessed during his visit to the coven in Kovgaard. This was power beyond his comprehension, a blade forged by unknowable hands.

He took a step back. Only stubborn courage prevented him from withdrawing further.

The last captive flopped to the ground. Ketrik prowled among the row of dying men, occasionally leaning down to deliver another thrust or slash to quicken the flow of blood.

Several of Girjar's men stepped forward. They moved among the dead, placing hands upon their backs and thanking them for their blood. Such gratitude extended even to the captives. Every sacrifice, it seemed, was worthy of the warriors' respect.

The shaman, knife still in hand, waded out into the midst of that churning bloody mass. His hands reached down before emerging, coated with inky darkness. Ketrik brought his fingers to his lips and whispered something.

The crimson mass dispersed, scattering like a school of panicked fish beneath the water. Droplets and tendrils of crimson flowed downstream and vanished.

Swaying, shaky steps brought Ketrik to the shore, where he collapsed in a limp heap alongside the sacrifices. Cursing, Caderyn sprinted forth, leaping over the bodies to kneel beside the shaman. Tilting the man onto his side, he felt for a pulse, finding it to be rapid and fierce. Ketrik's breath came in short, wild gasps. Blood leaked from his lips and eyes.

"Ketrik," Caderyn said, speaking for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"Here," the shaman croaked. "Shattered. But here."

Caderyn glanced up at Girjar.

"Go fetch one of the other witches or shamans. He needs a healer."

"No," Ketrik rasped. "Just time."

With Caderyn's help, he rose up a little so he could rest his back against a boulder.

Somber eyes stared out upon the river.

"It worked," Ketrik murmured. "May your saints forgive us."

"Send word to the barons," Caderyn said to Girjar, fear creeping into his voice. "Call off the attack. We hold for now."

**

For two days the curse wormed its way through the enemy camps. Jadewall's soldiers, thirsty from the effort of maintaining the siege, had drank from the river just as they had done for weeks. No doubt many had boiled the water to scourge parasites or diseases, but the power of the north could not be so easily fended off.

Mad laughter echoed from the enemy camp, along with keening, inhuman wails. Listless and dazed soldiers wandered from their posts, as the few unaffected soldiers tried to keep order or guide their comrades back into the camp. Through his spyglass, Caderyn watched clumsy brawls break out between curse-maddened soldiers and their bewildered friends. Bands of knights organized a relief effort of sorts, corralling the afflicted into one section of the camp, perhaps thinking they could contain the spread of what they thought was a disease.

Unaware of the source of the curse, the unaffected men continued to drink from the river or bathe in it. The scourge deepened. Sentries fell asleep at their posts. Artillery crews laughed and flailed about, tearing apart their weapons with their bare hands. Others, adrift on the curse's influence, walked numbly into the water or straight into roaring bonfires.

The camp on the northern side of the river practically melted away. A rapid, brutal assault by Girjar's mercenaries made short work of the few soldiers who had managed to avoid the curse. The Kovgaardian warriors, elated at the victory and having a strange sort of pity for the afflicted, then undertook a brutal slaughter of those still standing.

Helpless thanks to the curse tearing through their souls, the soldiers of the smaller camp died in droves. Most barely put up a fight. Some flailed wildly at the howling northern mercenaries, their blood flowing down to further feed the hungry spirits of the river.

Into that slaughter Caderyn rode, terror coiling around his heart. Pelagia, Rathgar, and Florian were at his side, all of them frowning or gasping at the baffling carnage around them. More of his men rushed forward to loot the camp and put the remaining foes to the sword.

"Baron Florian," Caderyn said. "Ride forth and ensure that none of our men drink from the river. Get a messenger to the gates as well to warn Sir Tedrun."

Florian's eyes widened further but he rode off nonetheless.

"What did this?" Pelagia asked. "And... how did you know it was going to happen?"

Caderyn offered no answer. Judging by the darkness of Rathgar's features, the baron had a notion as to the source of the ailment.

Raising his spyglass, he looked across the river to inspect the southern camp. Though his men had not yet been able to mount an attack, the larger camp was gripped by similar delirium. Confused and cursed soldiers wandered, some slipping and stumbling in the mud. Horses thundered out across the plain, abandoned and neglected by their screaming, raving masters. Several dozen curse-maddened men danced in a circle around a bonfire, while dozens more vomited or writhed upon the ground beside them.

"Duke Caderyn?" Pelagia asked, her voice low and firm.

"We did what had to be done. As we always have."

In grim silence he pressed forward, sending his horse past a pile of bodies where the last few unaffected men had made their stand against Girjar's mercenaries. Northlanders piled up weapons and armor, some saying prayers to honor their fallen foes.

Florian returned, his face even paler than it had been before he'd ridden off.

"I spoke to one of Sir Tedrun's men at the gate. They're suffering from similar afflictions."

"Saints' blood," Pelagia snarled. "Caderyn, what did you do?"

"He is still your duke," Rathgar snapped. "Pay him the proper respect."

Pelagia's eyes narrowed.

"Enough," Caderyn snapped. "The affliction will pass in a few days. It may already be fading for some. Thus we need to move quickly to take advantage of it. Florian: order Tedrun's men to open the gates so we can pass through. Have him gather any able-bodied men to join us for a sortie on the southern camp. We strike hard, we strike fast, we strikenow."

Pelagia's glaring face vanished from view as she donned her helmet. There would be time later to assuage her misgivings; for now, they had a battle to win.

**

His forces surged through the gates of Stonecurrent, thundering onto Jadewall's territory on the southern side of the fortified bridge. A paltry force of half-mad infantry rushed forth to meet them, only to be trampled or skewered by a wave of lancers. Other pockets of resistance prevented the battle from turning into a total slaughter; some of Thandor's men had recovered enough from the curse to mount a defense, while others had just returned from patrols and had thus not consumed the tainted water.

But without cohesion or clear leadership, each of those pockets of resistance were isolated and destroyed piecemeal. Those not run down by vengeful knights were peppered with arrows or torn to pieces by howling northern mercenaries.

The young duke did not take part in much fighting for the first assault, instead heeding his mother's pleas and lingering with the rear ranks of the vanguard. His eyes darted across the chaotic camp, watching with vengeful glee as banners came tumbling down and the blood of Thandor's knights stained the grass.

Through it all, listless and delirious men wandered through the camp, the curse rendering them helpless to resist. Some barely even noticed the carnage around them. Caderyn's skin crawled as he heard their murmurs and shuddering cries. Some of them even chanted wordlessly, raising their hands as if worshiping the strange, hungry gods who had cursed them.

He stared at a man whose hands tore into his own clothing and body, leaving long furrows in his flesh. Bloodshot eyes stared right at Caderyn. Drool and blood leaked from his lips.

"The river sings, the river bleeds, the river calls, the river weeps," he chanted, then raked his fingers over his cheek.

A crossbow bolt took the raving man in the eye. He flopped to the ground, his lips still moving as his body twitched.

"Hold!" Caderyn snapped, raising a fist. "Take prisoners if you can!"

The carnage on the northern bank had left few men alive, but there would be far more valuable captives within the southern camp. Thandor and Aelred could likely be among the survivors. The thought of capturing those men, however, did not erase the dreadful chill inflicted by the sight of the curse's effects.

Regret, however, did not seep into his heart. Had he not asked Ketrik to undertake that ritual, many of those accursed men would have died in other ways, along with thousands of his own troops. Suffering was inevitable no matter what he chose, but that dark sorcery had won him the day.

Horns howled from the south.

"Riders!" Gwion shouted, waving his sword to catch Caderyn's attention. "A whole fucking horde! Look to be mercenaries!"

Perhaps his thoughts of victory were premature.

Cursing, Caderyn readied his lance and bellowed out orders, gathering other nearby knights. With Pelagia, Rathgar, and Florian off commanding other troops throughout the camp to stamp out the remaining resistance, holding off those reinforcements would fall to him.

"To your duke!" Gwion howled, guiding his horse forth to Caderyn's side.

"How many?" Caderyn asked.

"I don't know. Hard to tell with the dust. Hundreds upon hundreds. Probably the vanguard of one of the Asparran mercenary companies Thandor hired."

Caderyn gritted his teeth, cursing Duke Inacio and Duke Leopold. Though they had offered tacit support in the form of confirming Melisent's birthright, they had still allowed mercenaries to pass through their lands to fight for Thandor. As his men assembled around him, Caderyn wondered why they'd chosen that path. Were they receiving a portion of the contracts from those mercenary bands? Or were they letting them pass in order to prolong the conflict and undercut Caderyn's attempts at seizing the Imperial throne?

Even if he conquered Jadewall, the other duchies further to the south still might stand between him and his wild dream of restoring the old Empire.

"Focus," he hissed under his breath.

Once Thandor and Aelred were captured or slain, he could worry about Inacio and Leopold.

His formation of knights rushed through the chaotic camp, bypassing the few scattered islands of resistance. Hapless, accursed men were trampled by the tide of knights, while others had retained enough of their wits to shuffle out of the way, growling and muttering to themselves in the process.

Caderyn finally spotted the approaching enemy formation, which advanced in a tight, disciplined column. The horses were smaller and sleeker than the fierce destriers of his knights. The riders wore light brigandine and horned helmets, wielding spears, curved sabers, and shields adorned with a symbol of a horned snake. Banners with that same heraldry flew high over their heads as they advanced.

During his travels further to the south, he'd not encountered any such mercenaries. He wondered if they were men from across the Sea of Talons, who had sailed to the Empire for a chance at loot and glory. Perhaps they were simply an eclectic band of Asparran or Tsannori mercenaries. Whoever they were, he could not allow them to charge into the camp. If they mounted a successful counterattack, they could buy time for the other survivors to retreat or organize themselves further.

There would be no clever tactics, no dark ritual to save him. There would only be the clash of steel, the horror of combat, and the ferocity of vengeful wrath.

Gwion raised his blade high, his forceful voice booming from beneath his helmet as he unleashed the war-cry that had guided the army for weeks.

"Lucan!" he howled.

The other knights took up the cry as they rode forth, the sounds drowning out the thundering of hooves and the distant clashes of steel. The incoming mercenaries offered up their own howling cry, one Caderyn could not decipher thanks to Gwion's continued roars.

Caderyn steadied his lance, his mind drifting back to the lessons imparted upon him by his father and Delwin. Both men had honed Caderyn into a capable warrior... and both had died thanks to Jadewall's machinations.

A deep breath stilled his heart, even as the mercenaries grew closer, kicking up dust and great clods of dirt in their wake. Another deep breath sent a chill through him, destroying the fire of fear and turning Caderyn into a cold, steely instrument of death.

"Lucan," he murmured, uttering the war-cry as a soft little whisper rather than a fierce howl.

The two charging formations collided. Horses and men screamed. Riders tumbled to the dirt, trampled to death by comrades and foes alike. His lance punched into the chest of a mercenary, sending chainmail links spraying through the air.

His body still guided by the tutelage of Delwin and Lucan, Caderyn dropped his lance in favor of his sword. Hacking back and forth, he waded into the carnage, his steel sinking into the flesh and weaker armor of his foes. Gwion was never far from the duke's side; his blade rose and fell with brutal ferocity, sending foe after foe tumbling to the ground.

The greater mass and momentum of the knights punched deep into the reeling, more lightly-armored mercenaries. Many of them turned, using the greater speed and agility of their lighter horses to pull back and regroup. Those who managed to break away did not retreat, but instead organized themselves for counter-charges, slamming into the teeming mass of armored knights again and again.

A nearby Fellhaven knight gurgled out his last breaths, slumping in his saddle. Caderyn snatched up the man's bloody lance and sent it through the neck of a dismounted mercenary. Tearing the weapon free, he steadied it against his body, then sent his horse charging towards a mercenary waving one of the serpent-adorned banners. He ran the man through, sending the banner flopping to the bloody ground.

Shrill horns blasted from the ranks of the mercenaries. Many of them turned their horses about, frantically withdrawing. Those too slow to act or who had lost their horses were butchered in short order, cut down by Caderyn's men still howling out the name of the fallen duke.

More than a hundred battered, bloody riders thundered southward. A score of his men, their blood still fiery and their rage guiding them, gave chase. Gwion and Caderyn both bellowed for them to return to their formation. More horns shrieked from the mercenaries. A small contingent peeled off, turning to envelop the knights and their slower, haggard horses.

It was the mercenaries' turn to unleash butchery. Spears thrust and curved blades flashed, tearing the isolated contingent to ribbons. Panicked, regretful knights turned to flee, only to be cut down by the more agile riders. One of the mercenaries raised his bloody saber as if in salute, before turning to rejoin his retreating comrades.

Caderyn cursed and lifted the visor of his helmet. As the battered survivors regrouped amidst the piles of dead, Caderyn raised his spyglass to watch the mercenaries withdraw. Beyond them, barely visible against the dusty, hazy horizon were several columns of infantry, marching under the same banners of the horned serpent.

At a glance, he wagered they only numbered a thousand or so: not nearly enough to win the day. But if the cavalry attack had succeeded in slowing Caderyn's onslaught within the camp, the infantry could have caught up to help further turn the tide. He watched with relief as the mercenary infantry began their own withdrawal, screened by other cavalry units and the survivors of that brave charge.

He swung his spyglass to the east, then let out another curse.

A long column of infantry and knights were withdrawing from the camp with great haste. Behind them, Girjar's exhausted northlanders struggled to give chase, though their advance was checked by a small but determined wall of pikemen. Those brave bastards and their long weapons made the northlanders pay dearly. Fiery will and sheer strength held the line, bodies piling high before them.

And yet those pikemen were nonetheless doomed. More Fellhaven infantry skirted around their flanks, creating breaches and opportunities for Girjar's men to exploit. Pikes and banners thudded to the ground, but the men still fought on with axes, daggers, and armored fists.

Above those brave fools was Aelred's baronial banner, displaying a burning river littered with spears. Aelred had sacrificed a large contingent of his infantry to buy time for the others to escape.

Cursing again, Caderyn looked to the retreating survivors, most of whom also marched under Aelred's banners. Caderyn's force of knights was too battered and spent to give chase. While a desperate charge could have caught the retreating force in the flanks, they'd likely be driven off or overwhelmed. The rest of Caderyn's army was too busy fighting elsewhere in the camp to cut off that withdrawal.

While the majority of Jadewall's forces had been slain or captured, complete victory still eluded him.

As Caderyn glared daggers at Aelred's retreating forces, Gwion led the survivors in a series of rousing cheers. Some laughed while others shouted up prayers to the saints. Northlander mercenaries howled out grateful chants to their ancestors, along with prayers to ward off the hunger of their bloodthirsty gods. Some men openly wept, in sorrow for lost comrades or with joy for their victory.

Caderyn could only stare grimly at the aftermath of the slaughter, for he knew in his cold heart that the war was still far from over.

**

Hours later, Caderyn sat in the great hall of Stonecurrent. Months before, he'd danced with Melisent and Pelagia there while Tessandra had played her lovely music. In the guest quarters upstairs, he'd shared a wild, wondrous night with all three women.

Overshadowing those lovely memories were the reminders of the price he'd paid for victory.

The elderly Sir Tedrun sat at the table, staring down at his cup of tea. Drool leaked from his lips as his left arm shook with fierce tremors. Though the seasoned knight still had his wits about him, he'd yet to regain full control of his body from the horrors of the curse.

The trembling grew so severe that one of his squires had to step forth to guide the teacup to his lips.

Pelagia sat across from Caderyn, pointedly not meeting his gaze. They'd not spoken since the battle; her mood had been soured by the bloodshed and by witnessing the scourge of that curse. Rathgar and Florian sat nearby, just as uncomfortable, but with not even a shred of ire directed towards the duke.

"This flux is a strange one," Tedrun croaked, licking a drop of tea from his chapped lips. "Never seen anything like it."

"Some of the prisoners are saying it is a judgment from Saint Acwald," said Florian. "A punishment for Duke Thandor, due to his requisitions of holy grain."

Florian was right about it being the work of supernatural forces; he was just wrong about the exact source. Rumors of Saint Acwald's wrath would play right into Caderyn's hands, so he saw no reason to dispel such talk.

"If only I knew which sins I committed against the saint," Tedrun said with a weak, raspy cough.

"We will summon more healers and alchemists from the capital and other keeps, Sir Tedrun," Caderyn said. "You and your men will have all the help you'll need. And I shall station more men here to replenish your garrison while you recover."

While he felt little guilt for the fate of Thandor's men, seeing a loyal knight suffer in such a way sent a painful twinge through his heart. Rising to his feet, he crossed over to Sir Tedrun and placed a light hand upon his shoulder.

"And you shall be well-rewarded for holding Stonecurrent so capably. When the dust settles and we carve out new fiefs from Aelred's holdings, you shall have your choice of the spoils."

More drool leaked from Aelred's lips as he managed a weak, crooked smile.

"The only reward I require is the sight of Aelred's head on a pike."

"I think we can manage that," Caderyn said with a soft chuckle, before looking to his other advisers. "What do the scouts report?"

"Aelred and about a third of the army managed to withdraw, linking up with those mercenaries. They're pushing southwest now, back towards their capital," Rathgar said.

"And we've confirmed that Thandor was not with the camp?"

"Correct, my duke," said Florian. "He was here last week, inspecting the troops, but he returned back to his palace to oversee the raising of another army."

"Then we must press forward," said Pelagia, her voice low and cold. "If he prepares another army to reinforce Aelred and the other survivors, the numbers will be evenly matched. We need to strike now to defeat them piecemeal, when we have the advantage of numbers and momentum."

"Agreed," Tedrun rasped. "If the opinion of a flux-stricken old man counts for much."

"The opinion of a loyal knight counts for a great deal, Sir Tedrun," Caderyn said, his face aching with the strain of forcing that smile.

Tedrun's wrinkled face twitched into an inhuman sneer. His left eye rolled back into his head.

"The river sings, the river bleeds, the river calls, the river weeps," he sputtered, invoking the exact same words Caderyn had heard from others afflicted by the curse.

The squire at Tedrun's side cast a nervous glance at the old knight. After a retch and a series of coughs, Tedrun leaned forward and shook his head.

"I apologize, my duke. The worst part of this flux is how it addles the mind. My healer says it's dehydration but..." He coughed and looked to Florian. "Perhaps indeed it is the judgment of Saint Acwald, though I cannot guess as to what I did to deserve it."

After another bout of coughing, he asked to be excused. Caderyn granted him permission and helped Tedrun's squires get the old knight on his feet. Murmuring more apologies, Tedrun shuffled off.

The other barons gave their reports on the status of the prisoners and the flow of supplies from Fellhaven. Stifling a yawn, Florian eventually rose, leaving Caderyn alone with Rathgar and Pelagia. The door slammed shut behind Florian, the sound echoing ominously through the feast-hall.

"I know what you did, my duke," said Rathgar, his eyes distant and dour. "Grim as it was... I think it was the right decision."

"I still have not learned exactly what you did," Pelagia hissed. "All I've heard is talk of a flux and this nonsense of a curse by Saint Acwald. Though I've never once heard of Acwald cursing anyone and this is unlike any flux I've ever encountered."

Caderyn's fingers drummed against his empty tankard.

"This cannot leave this room."

"I am sworn to both service and secrecy, my duke," Pelagia said, though her voice still burned.

Sighing, Caderyn looked briefly to Rathgar, then at the door.

"Ketrik conducted a ritual, sacrificing the lives of prisoners, criminals, and Kovgaardian volunteers. This ritual called to the spirits of Kovgaard, turning the river into a poison of sorts, cursing those who drank from it over the past few days. It is no flux, but instead an affliction unleashed by dark spirits."

"Unleashed byyou," Pelagia hissed, her eyes widening. "Do not ascribe blame to the spirits for this."

"I would unleash it a hundred times to save the life of a single loyal soldier," Caderyn snapped. "The rite, dark as it was, saved countless lives. Had we not done so, we'd have lost hundreds of men taking the northern camp, and far more seizing the southern bank. We may have evenlost today were it not for that ritual."

"Is it even a victory, if you had to pay such a price?" Pelagia's eyes narrowed. "I know the costs of war well, Caderyn. But this? This is a step too far. Conjuring savage spirits, warping men's souls, cursing loyal men like Tedrun..."

"Tedrun and his garrison would have died or starved had I not acted. Would you have had me cling to honor and lead us into defeat instead?"

"This isn't right," she murmured. "This isn't Kovgaard where we wage war with-"

"I wage war with the weapons I have," Caderyn snapped, the harshness of his voice causing her to flinch. "But if you have concerns about such witchcraft, you need not worry further. Ketrik will not undertake it for me again. This was the first, last, and only time."

"You say that now. But what if Tsannor and Asparra declare war on you in response to your claim of the Imperial throne? What if rebels arise a decade from now, defying your authority? What dark rites will you embrace then?"

"Clearly you are capable of thinking in hypotheticals, Pelagia," he growled. "So dwell on the hypothetical of a battle fought against the enemy when they were at full strength."

"Dwell I shall," she snapped, rising and downing the last of her ale. "Alone."

After slamming her tankard down on the table, she stormed from the hall, leaving Caderyn alone with Rathgar.

"She'll come around," Rathgar said softly. "And even if she doesn't... her honor is too fierce for her to abandon our cause."

And yet Caderyn suspected Pelagia might abandon his bed, even if honor kept her within his army. The way she'd looked at him and spoken to him... it was as if they'd never shared the warmth of each other's bodies, as if they'd never found solace in one another's arms.

Even as his heart quaked with that prospect, he knew it was a worthwhile price. What was one lost lover compared to avenging his father and winning an Empire?

He reached across the table, collecting Florian's half-empty cup, and downed it in a single gulp.

"Ulrik was faced with a similar dilemma," Rathgar said.

"I know. Ketrik told me how he used a similar ritual against rebellious tribes before the invasion."

"I do not just mean the dilemma of whether to use the ritual. I mean the dissent in the aftermath. Once Ulrik defeated those rebels, several jarls and warlords challenged him."

Rathgar rolled up his sleeve, showing a long, faded white scar on his lower bicep.

"They invoked a trial by combat. Five of their champions against Ulrik and four of his chosen warriors. I stood at his side. Nearly lost this arm in the duel, and claimed the souls of two warriors. Good warriors. Friends. Men who'd fought alongside Ulrik and I for years."

"And yet you still stood alongside Ulrik after that?"

"No. Because even though we won the duel, many of the other jarls doubted our chances and abandoned the cause. Many of us did not think Ulrik had the numbers to win... which turned out to be correct. I left his service and came south as a mercenary before he even launched his invasion, for I knew he was doomed to fail."

After rolling his sleeve back down, Rathgar continued.

"Ulrik knew that, I think. But he soldiered on, because he'd already paid such a grisly price. So many allies who had turned to enemies... or to corpses. The grim toll of that ritual clung to his heart, too. If he had abandoned his plans to invade, then the sacrifices would have been meaningless. The only way to make those costsworth it was to push forward."

"What is your meaning?" Caderyn asked, his brow furrowing.

"A warning, that is all. There may come a day when you are faced with a decision like Ulrik: to forge ahead or to chart a new, safer path. And like Ulrik, you may be tempted to forge ahead in order to justify the sins you had to commit along the way."

The grizzled northman spread his hands.

"But the choice of that path is yours alone."

Had such a warning come from any other noble in his service, they'd have earned a stern rebuke. Rathgar, however, had proven himself time and time again; more than any other baron, he had earned the right to speak his mind.

With that, Rathgar rose to leave the would-be Emperor alone with his dark thoughts.

What would Caderyn do, if faced with such a choice? If more duchies opposed his rise to power, risking all that he'd built, would he rush on ahead to make the sacrifices worthwhile? Would he stumble into defeat as Ulrik had? Or could he back down from his ambitious ascent and be content with simply ruling his own lands rather than reforging the old Empire?

"One path of many," Caderyn murmured, Solveig's words rippling in his mind.

**

Caderyn stood on the balcony of the room where months ago he'd shared a wondrous evening with all three of his lovers. His somber eyes stared out across the horizon, gazing southward at the ruins of the camp and the long lines of prisoners. Loyal soldiers fanned out to fortify the crossing in case of a counterattack, while Pelagia had organized several scouting parties to track the retreating enemy force.

After several long, tense moments of gazing upon the countryside, he looked back to the bed. Once it had brimmed with love and lust. Now the massive bed was empty. Cold. Bereft of anything remotely resembling warmth or affection.

Alone, Caderyn walked over and sat down, running a hand along the fine sheets, imagining the nude bodies of his lovers splayed out before him. Closing his eyes, he could hear their sighs and moans. Within those memories, Melisent's moans grew the loudest.

By the blood of the saints, how he missed her. It wasn't simply her wild lusts that he longed for, but her caring touch, her skill as a healer, her quick wit, and the gaze that could penetrate deep into his soul. She was the only person he'd revealed his deepest, innermost truths to. No person outside of Solveig's coven knew the truth of the ritual and the child that was on the way.

The mere thought of that child tugged his thoughts away from Melisent. Though war, stress, and sorrow had nearly shattered his sense of time, he was certain the child had likely been born already. He was a father. A father who would never gaze upon his child. A father who was doomed to never hold his firstborn.

But Caderyn had no strength with which to weep. Instead he stared at the wall for several minutes, picturing Solveig's blue eyes gazing lovingly down at her newborn child. A single painful sob erupted from his lips and he flopped back onto the bed, eager for the embrace of darkness.

After a few sullen minutes of staring at the ceiling, an icy chill wafted through the room. Thinking he'd left the balcony door open, he rose to see it was in fact closed. Beyond it pulsed a faint blue gleam. Caderyn crossed the room with delicate steps, snatching up his sword on his way to the door.

Blue vines emerged from the river. Like cerulean serpents they wriggled along the battered walls of Stonecurrent. The great walls pulsed in the wake of the vines, intensifying the strange blue radiance.

Another dream. And yet this was far more real and potent than the other visions. He could still feel the firm weight of the sword in his hand and the faint ache in his lower back where Aelred had stabbed him. The vines wriggled over the balcony and the door turned to blue ash.

Another vine emerged from the river, a pale figure clutched delicately within its grasp.

His breath shortened and he nearly sobbed at the sight of Solveig's nude, curvaceous body. Her eyes gleamed as brightly as the vine as it carried her towards the window. Once her soft feet graced the balcony, the vine turned to ash, depositing the resplendent beauty before him. Her body was just as he remembered it, still anointed with those fertility runes, with no signs of the pregnancy.

There had been little rhyme or reason to the vivid dreams of Solveig. The most intense visions had occurred after his initial exposure to the poison, while others had struck not long after meeting Melisent. As she smiled and slowly approached, he wondered if Ketrik's ritual had anything to do with her surprise 'visit.'

The grisly sacrifice had unleashed great power from the river, in perhaps the greatest surge of sorcery ever to have occurred within the Empire. Perhaps that wellspring of foul energy had served as a beacon for the same power that afflicted his mind with those visions.

The closer Solveig approached, the less he cared about the reasons.

"Solveig," he murmured, his voice aching.

"Caderyn," she said in a soft, low voice.

Her hand rose and tapped his tunic. It melted away into blue ash along with the rest of his clothes, leaving him as bare as the witch.

"Is this really you?" Caderyn asked. "Or is this a dream?"

After the great power Ketrik had unleashed, it was not hard for Caderyn to imagine that northern sorcery could help two souls commune within one single dream.

"I can be both," Solveig said softly, her fingers tracing over the scars he'd endured since he'd left Kovgaard.

She slowly circled him, her hand grazing over his body, until it settled on the spot where Aelred had stabbed him in the back. Even after all the skilled efforts of Melisent and the other healers, the wound still ached.

But no longer. The warm touch of the witch sent an icy pulse deep into him that shattered the lingering pain. He sighed, his eyes fluttering with relief.

Solveig circled back around until she stood before him once again. Both hands rose to rest upon his shoulders.

He realized he didn't care if this was but a dream or if her soul had somehow traveled hundreds of miles to entwine with his own. Caderyn would seize the fragment of joy and relief no matter the source.

Iron strength rippled through her arms and she gave him a firm shove, sending him toppling onto the bed. The fabric, however, was far harder than expected. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the bed had transformed into the very same altar where he'd impregnated her.

She moved with almost inhuman grace, practically floating across the room to join him on the stone altar. Solveig's lips descended, claiming a kiss that sent fire pouring into his heart, further easing the aches and pains inflicted by the war.

That wondrous mouth descended, kissing or licking each of his scars. The memories of the wounds faded with each kiss, until all that mattered was the warmth of her touch and the ice in her gaze. Those soft lips descended to his shaft, enveloping him all the way to the base.

His mind reeled back to the day they'd met, when she'd pleasured him with her mouth to claim some of his seed to craft a fertility potion for herself. The memories flickered around him, his moans echoing along with her soft whimpers. The memory of those wondrous minutes clashed with her present efforts. The sensations surged and churned, entwining together, merging past and present into one great storm of pleasure.

He came, filling her mouth with a torrent of his release. Solveig growled with delight, her lips and tongue thrumming against his pulsating shaft. She gulped his offering with hungry greed.

After another half minute of suckling, he surrendered once more. And again she eagerly slurped it all down, not letting a single drop go to waste.

As she rose, beaming triumphantly down at him, the weakness inflicted by those two sharp climaxes left his body. Usually after an orgasm he'd be lethargic and listless, but in that moment he feltpowerful, his muscles tensing and his lungs heaving with renewed strength.

Solveig sat at the edge of the altar, simply watching and waiting, as if curious to see what he might do with that newfound strength.

And by the gods, did he make use of it. Lunging with the ferocity of a beast, he grasped her wide hips and tossed her onto the altar. She yelped but did not resist, and eagerly spread her soft, pale thighs for him. For but a moment he marveled at her glistening folds and the patch of dark hair. Once more his mind danced back to their first and only coupling, when he'd bred her on that altar. Old sensations flared up, entwining with the present moment of the dream.

His body shuddered beneath those echoes. Guided by past delights and present needs, he settled once more between her legs. Firm hands grasped her ankles, pinning her legs back, rendering her even more vulnerable and wondrous.

Caderyn could see the ache in her icy blue eyes. She licked her lips in a silent plea... desperate to be bred once more.

He was quite eager to sate those needs. Though he'd teased her quite terribly back at the shrine, Caderyn dispensed with that nonsense and guided his cock into her warm, dripping sex. The two lovers cried out, the sounds rippling alongside the moans and cries from their first coupling. Both instances of lovemaking clashed, filling his mind and destroying his sense of time and place. The altar cracked and rippled, transforming once more into that fine, comfortable bed, and then back again. It was as if he were back at the shrine and still within the bedroom at the same time.

The uncanny confusion did not make him relent one bit. If anything, the storm of sensations only inspired him to fuck her all the more fiercely.

His fingers dug into her legs, keeping her bent back and helpless as he plowed into her, mating with a ferocity that far surpassed the treatment she'd received all those months ago. Solveig sobbed and moaned, thanking him and pleading for him, urging him on and occasionally growling out commands for more.

Solveig's hand slipped between her legs, caressing herself with tender movements despite the fierce pounding she received. Again and again she voiced his name, the sounds filling the strange dream even as he filled her with his seed.

The milky offering leaked forth but Caderyn continued to pound away, guided by the magic of the strange dream and the impossible lusts she'd unleashed.

The altar cracked beneath her. Blue light shone forth, matched by an eerie fire in her eyes. She lunged, tearing herself free from his grasp, forcing him onto his back. With ferocity to match his own, she rocked and writhed her hips, riding him for all she was worth.

Solveig's dew leaked down his cock, mixing with the seed he'd already spilled within her. Fierce hands clawed at his chest and shoulders. Matching her fury, Caderyn gripped her ample backside, slamming her down against him, then tugged at her braid, drawing forth cries of painful delight.

More of his seed filled her, but she continued to use him... and he continued to use her.

At last Solveig sank down, her trembling hips resting against his. The wild fuck had frayed her usually-elegant braid, causing long strands of hair to cascade over them both. Tears flashed in her icy blue eyes and she leaned down, claiming a gentle and loving kiss.

"Come back to me," she urged. "We await you."

Snow danced through the room, the flakes settling upon their sweaty bodies. Tears streaked down her face, landing upon his snow-adorned chest. Her hand rested upon his scarred cheek.

Caderyn closed his eyes. By the gods and their saints, he was sorely tempted. All the sorrow and carnage made a part of him want to leave the war far behind. Again and again during the war he'd glanced from the battlefields and pictured himself riding off towards the northern horizon.

And yet the sorrow would remain, even if he blinded himself to it. The war would rage on without him. Some other ambitious fool would make a bid for the Imperial throne. All his efforts would be futile and meaningless. All those sacrifices would turn to ash.

He opened his eyes.

Solveig was gone, and he was resting upon his back in the bed. A glance around the room confirmed that the snow and blue vines had vanished.

Once more he was in the waking world. Once more he was alone.

Caderyn glanced down at his body and hissed at the sight of faint scratches and bruises left by Solveig within the dream. Soft touches upon the marks caused further bursts of delicious agony. As he rose to his feet the marks faded.

Still shuddering, he crossed back over to the balcony, through which gleamed the light of the dawning sun. He stepped outside, sighing at the feel of the cool morning breeze. Before him sprawled the camp which held thousands of captives, around which stretched improvised fortifications, along with the camp of his victorious army.

As he gazed down at his troops and pondered the bloodshed to come, the dream retreated into the darkest recesses of his mind.

A dream, nothing more. A product of his own lonely mind, grasping for companionship in the absence of his other lovers.

Yet he still glanced northward, his eyes tracing the river flowing from the great mountains of Solveig's homeland. His gaze drifted back down the water, settling once again upon the army camp as buglers sounded out the calls for the troops to rise.

The harsh sounds fought off the lingering echoes of Solveig's words.

After all, Caderyn had a war to win, a duke to kill, and a throne to claim.