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Captain Price sat his sturdy, bay warhorse and watched grimly as the enemy approached on the opposite side of the shallow river. His broad shoulders were tense beneath his chain mail and heavy leathers and his saddle creaked as he shifted uneasily and fingered his broad axe. Would they be able to negotiate a truce with the new War Leader of the tribes of Wildlings? Or would this horrific war continue for another ten years? His men were wretchedly outnumbered and battle weary. It was only by the grace of the Goddess that Roba’s skills had not granted him the power to harness the creatures of the Dark as well, because the kingdom would have been lost long ago if he had.
The war was decimating both their territories and Price was well aware that both his late King and the Wildling Chieftain were equally responsible for it. Both too arrogant and proud to coexist in adjacent kingdoms. But both were dead now, King Shepherd and the Wildling War Leader, Roba, and there was now a real chance for a true peace settlement. The new Queen of Laswell desired that peace and it was up to Price to negotiate it.
Which was why Price and his company sat patiently waiting for the Wildling party to approach. Beside him, his second, Farah muttered in dismay beneath her chainmail veil, and shifted in her saddle, and her white mule restlessly pawed the ground, revealing her uneasiness. At his shoulder, Alex swore as well as they all recognized the new standard that now flew over the Wildlings. It was a long, inky black banner bearing a grinning, fanged skull. Price swore silently.
The Ghost was the new War Leader of the Wildlings.
Their chance of peace has just plummeted because there is no warrior as ruthlessly efficient and brutal as The Ghost. Rumor claimed that the huge warrior slept on a pile of skulls. Price didn’t doubt it, the man certainly excelled at taking heads. The Ghost was infamous, clad in his inky black leathers, bone plated armor and eerie full skull mask made from an actual vampire skull. He was a silent wraith who left death and destruction in his wake. Many claimed he was a demon summoned by Roba and bound to his will.
As they watched the front ranks of massive, stone-skinned mountain trolls parted and a small figure mounted on a large, feral boar emerged and the animal trotted straight into the river and splashed across to meet them. The diminutive, green clad rider’s face was hidden with a full faced, smooth obsidian helmet from which two antenna like appendages protruded. He carried a white flag of truce on the end of his spear. He used no reins on the massive tusked beast.
At the sight of it, Price motioned and one of his sergeants, an indigo tattooed clansman nudged his sturdy Fell pony forward to meet the emissary. Iain MacTavish was one of his best linguists. The cheerful young man with the improbable battle name of Soap was well liked by all of Price’s company and a favorite of Price. He was a slippery whirlwind in battle and just as relentless as any Wildling warrior. The two met in the middle of the river on a sandbar and had a short conversation. Price huffed out a relieved breath when MacTavish nodded enthusiastically at something the helmed emissary said and the two clasped wrists. Then both warriors returned to their companies.
Iain was grinning, blue eyes sparkling as he gave Price the good news.
”The Ghost wishes to negotiate for peace and invites you to the Sacred Dell tomorrow noon to parley under the Eyes of the Lady.”
Price gave a soft laugh, and huffed out a relieved breath. He turned his attention to the company across the river, just as the front ranks parted again and a tall, glossy black Kelpie strode forward. The fanged, scarlet-eyed equine shook out its long, wet, weed tangled mane, jibed and mouthed the bit of its silver bridle, the reins held firmly in the big, black gauntleted hand of The Ghost. Price nudged his own horse forward to the edge of the bank and placed a hand over his heart and bowed in acceptance and acknowledgment of the message. The Ghost regarded him impassively for one long moment, then gave a curt nod in acknowledgement before turning his mount and retreating, his army closing ranks behind him and following.
For the first time in years there was laughter and tentative hope around their campfires that night. Price even allowed a few barrels of ale to be cracked open, although he was careful to maintain a sober watch. However, upon climbing to the nearest sentinel post, there were bright celebration bonfires visible in the next valley and large figures could be seen cavorting around them. Clearly the enemy army was celebrating as well. Price went to his tent and lay down on his bedroll and lay his weary head back. He would sleep soundly tonight for the first time since his beloved companion fell in battle over a year ago.
****
Price and his personal company arrived in the small sacred valley promptly.
It was sacred because of the ancient marble temple of the Lady which held a place of honor in the wildflower meadow. The small pillared, moss and vine entwined rotunda held a simple statue of the Lady, the Mother of All, Nature herself. She stood tall and proud, dressed in a simple peplos, her hair, tangled with plants and animals flowed to her bare feet with a flowering branch in her right hand and a deer skull held in her left, her ancient, carved all-knowing eyes gazed out over the valley and far away mountains. Peace reigned in this valley. She would tolerate nothing less and any creature could find refuge and sanctuary at her feet. No one knew who built the temple or sculpted the statue, only that it had been there for centuries.
They found The Ghost already encamped there, a simple canopy tent respectfully set up out in the meadow by the small stream that murmured through the dell. He too, had come with only a single company of trusted warriors. Now he sat, still black clad and fully armored despite the summer heat, on a camp stool in front of the canopy, a huge, razor sharp scimitar across his knees.
A lean pair of raven haired, spear holding warriors flanked him. Their golden brown skin, ochre war paint and keen dark eyes, along with their simple buckskin clothing, jaguar pelts, jade axes, obsidian blades and colorful feathered cloaks revealed them to be Southerners from the tropical jungles far to the south. Price was impressed and curious. The Southern warriors were known for their high standard of honor and pride and seldom swore loyalty to foreigners.
The little emissary was there as well, perched on the side of his snoring swine mount as he munched enthusiastically on an apple. The little man jumped up and dropped his apple in the open jaws of his snoozing hog, who snorted and chewed automatically with an appreciative grunt. He stepped forward and removed his upper helm, revealing huge oval black eyes and the fact that his twin appendages were indeed, antennae. He also sported two glistening, clear dragonfly-like wings on his lean back.
Price tried not to gape like an idiot but he hasn’t seen a fairy since he was a lad. They too, tended to avoid alliances with others. He politely returned the little man’s bow. Behind him, the Ghost lifted one hand and a stone troll silently carried over a log cushioned with a bear skin for Price to seat himself on and several small goblins scurried out of the tent carrying trays of goblets and a cask of rare wine, tumbling over themselves in their haste to serve. The Ghost made a point of drinking first to demonstrate the lack of poison, sipping the beverage. His bone mask covered only his upper face today, revealing scarred lips and jaws and pale blonde stubble. The Fae knelt at Ghost’s side and Soap did the same beside Price to translate.
The Ghost said nothing, merely sipped his wine, content to allow his emissary to state his terms. Price became increasingly wary as the terms stated seemed appallingly short. Even Soap appeared startled at the words, but neither the emissary nor his huge master appeared phased. The young clansman sat back abruptly on his heels, apparently taken aback.
Price watched as he swallowed hard and turned to translate to Price.
”The Ghost says he offers peace in exchange for one precious thing.”
”What is that?”
Price asked curiously and took a careful sip of the very good wine, eyes steady on the huge figure across from him. The Ghost appeared amused, dark eyes steady, a tiny smirk crooking his scarred mouth.
”A War Prize.”
Price froze, then wondered why he was so surprised. It was not uncommon for a victorious warlord to demand a war bride in exchange for a peace treaty. Mentally, he began to run a list of eligible young noblewomen and their dowries through his head, knowing none would go willingly to the Ghost’s bed. Queen Laswell would not be pleased but the terms were both generous and fair and she was the most practical, intelligent woman he knew. Her army was outnumbered and worn down and she knew it. She would agree immediately to such simple terms. Before he could agree, or ask further questions, the emissary spoke again, voice firm, and Iain translated.
”The Ghost will choose from among your company. The chosen must agree freely and take a vow of heart loyalty. As a gesture of goodwill and sincerity the Ghost offers gifts.”
Stunned, Price watched as the Wildling War Lord rumbled out a command and a lumbering, hairy, simian faced wild man stepped forward and unceremoniously dropped a decapitated head at Price’s feet. Roba’s oily, stinking head gazed up at him, mouth forever frozen in a gape of astonishment. He had been slain by his own lieutenant. He raised astonished eyes to the Ghost’s amused gaze. Apparently Price is not the only one who is weary of the drawn out war that has cost many lives and started over a simple implied insult to King Shepherd’s questionable masculinity.
The big man spoke again, a low growl and a tall, hooded, cloaked figure hesitantly emerged from behind the big Wildling and stepped slowly forward, head down. The Ghost stood, looming over the figure and surprisingly gently, urged him to step forward towards Price, even as he abruptly whipped the man’s concealing cloak off.
Price nearly falls off the log and does drop his goblet as he lurches upright, eyes suddenly tearing at the sight of the abashed, beloved face thought long lost. Arms open wide, he steps forward and sweeps his beloved close, holding tight, barely daring to believe his senses.
”Gaz!”
His bondmate and second, Kyle Garrick, fell in an ambush in a mountain pass over a year ago. His body was never recovered, not surprising since his small scouting band was attacked by a pack of vargr, who were known to devour their victims. The loss nearly gutted the Captain. Price buries his wet face in dark, curly hair and nearly weeps aloud. Kyle does weep, and hugs back fiercely. Price reluctantly releases him so his friends can engulf him in a group hug. Iain, Alex, Farah and the others crowd close and laugh with joy at his return. König lifts him and swings him jubilantly off his feet in a crushing hug. Kyle is much loved by the Company.
Price looks to where the Ghost stands. He thinks he detects a note of deep satisfaction in those dark eyes. Price clears his throat and addresses him directly and places his sword hand over his heart in pledge.
”I thank you. I owe you a great debt.”
That minute smirk again, on the scarred mouth and a regal nod of acceptance. The huge Wildling gestures and the emissary steps forward and speaks directly to Price in his own language, his accent smooth and cultured.
“We will meet you here tomorrow for the Choosing and the Handfasting under the Eyes of the Lady. You need only bring the men of your personal company.”
With that, the Wildlings stand and withdraw without ceremony, striding to the trees where the Ghost’s sleek, black water horse stands untethered among other steeds, horses, stags, boar and even a tawny feathered griffin. He swings smoothly up into the saddle of the tall beast, ignoring its sharp, snapping teeth. He rides away, flanked by his warriors and followed by the Fae emissary perched on his grunting, snorting mount who trots daintily, tail held comically high, at the Kelpie’s silver shod heels. As he passes by, Price notices his gaze lingers on one person, who stands staring openly back with fearless, curious eyes.
His youngest sergeant, Iain MacTavish.
Price’s men do celebrate that night, after he sends his fastest courier falcon with news of the treaty to the Queen and he makes a point of firmly reminding them that one of them will be chosen tomorrow to consort with the Ghost. And that if chosen, that man must go willingly or risk breaking the new peace. To his great pride his lads scoff at his stern warning. It’s Alex who speaks for them, as he often does, one long arm draped over petite Farah’s shoulders.
“It is an honor to be the man who ends a war, Captain. We will not shirk our duty. Even if one of us must play wife to the Ghost.”
The others agree loudly, toasting Alex’s words.
Price, his own arm around Gaz’s shoulders (he finds it difficult to remove his hands from his bond mate) wonders if Alex will be so agreeable if he is chosen and must separate from his beloved Farah. Gaz has been very quiet about his time among the Wildlings, admitting only that he was badly wounded and ill, and recovering for many months and that he had been taken under the Ghost’s protection. Something that disgruntled Roba. That night in their shared tent, Price tenderly undressed his lover and flinched at the horrific claw marks visible on Gaz’s torso and gut. He would bear the scars for the rest of his life and was damned lucky not to have been bitten and turned.
”The Ghost beat the vargr off me, and Bug kept me alive with his healing magic. Roba could do nothing, because Ghost claimed me as a prize.”
Then seeing his bondmate’s stricken face, he hastened to explain.
”No, not as a bed toy or slave, more like…a pet. He kept me close and safe from Roba and his minions. I was well fed and clothed and allowed to carry my weapons. He was interested in our people and our way of life and he would question me through Bug.”
”No interrogation?”
”No, none at all. He wasn’t interested in intel. He was simply curious about humans and I think he was already busy planning to assassinate Roba even back then. “
Gaz shivered and pulled their blanket and sleep furs over his bare shoulders
”Roba was pure evil, Price. He dabbled in necromancy, and blood sacrifices even worse than Graves and his Shadow company, when he worked for the King before they fell out. The Ghost has his own sense of honor for a Wildling. Unlike Roba, I never saw him rape a captive or underling or take pleasure in torturing an enemy.”
Price pulled his man close to warm him and they lay back together, holding and breathing each other in. There would be time for further intimacy later, now they focused on reconnecting. Price gently cupped Gaz’s head and scratched his scalp through his overlong curls, inhaling his familiar scent with deep pleasure.
”What is he? Did you ever see his face?”
”I think he is at least part human with perhaps a touch of giant like König, and no, he doesn’t show his face to anyone. Not even Bug, who I think is more a very old friend, than an underling.”
Gax snuggled close to lay his head on his man’s broad shoulder.
“Make no mistake, he is no thug, or mindless beast Price. I have seen him analyze battlefield positions in one glance and come up with winning tactics on the fly. He is brilliant at warfare. He is very intelligent and he understands and speaks our language, and others. His use of Bug as an interpreter tends to throw the unwary off.”
”You make him sound like a good ally to have.”
”I think he could be the best. I suspect Roba had a geas on him to control him and he managed to break it. He hated Roba. He simply walked up to the fat prick last week and took his head before he could open his mouth. The entire camp celebrated because Roba ruled them with fear and black magic. He has already gradually unwound several of Roba’s geasan and released several tribes to return to their forest and ocean homes—the Selkies and Undines and the Satyrs, Dryads and Nymphs. I think…he plans to free them all after he secures the peace treaty. “
He rubbed his cheek against Price’s whiskers and wound an arm over his chest, snuggling close as his husband gave him a loving squeeze.
“The Wildlings followed Roba because they were forced to do so, but they follow the Ghost because he fought in the front lines with them and they are loyal to him. The Southlanders, Alé and Rudy have sworn an oath to repay him after he freed them from being blood slaves to a vampire witch and I think the Bug just stays because he likes him.”
Price hummed, intrigued.
”He has no wish to rule the Wildlings and expand his territory as Roba did?”
”I think not. I have never seen him show any interest in treasure or slaves either. He dispensed Roba’s hoarded gold and jewels among the others. I don’t think he has a use for them at all. The only thing besides myself I have ever seen him claim after a battle is the water horse he rides and any well crafted, sharp blade that catches his eye.”
Gaz yawned his head heavy on Price’s shoulder as he dozed off, weary from the day’s excitement. Price stayed awake longer to savor the feel of his man in his arms and to contemplate the machinations of the Ghost. His man was in good health with a healthy amount of meat on his bones, his scars clean. He has been well cared for, treated more as a guest then a captive. The clothing Price gently removed is of the finest quality. He had the feeling that whatever man the Wildling chose as mate would be similarly well cared for. While the needs of the many outweigh that of the individual, it didn’t mean he had to like it and it troubled him that he would lose one of his men, voluntary or not.
The next day Price and his company rode into the Lady’s dell bright and early and found The Ghost and his company already waiting.
Earlier a rare, flickering difficult to hold travel portal had opened near his camp and the Queen sent one of her most skilled couriers through with gifts for the new Wildling War Chief as gestures of welcome and goodwill. Two tall, magnificent warhorses, one black and the other dappled gray, a carved cedar chest of the finest silks, wools and furs, and two diadems—one silver and the other gold. She also sent a wax sealed letter for the Ghost’s eyes only, lightly inked with hexes on anyone who dared open it other than its recipient. Price saw the hovering murder of crows in the trees and it dawned on him that they or a shapeshifter among them spied on his army for the Wildlings. It was one of the reasons the Queen was desperate to make peace with them. Mere men had no chance if the very forests and all the creatures within, both mundane and magic, turned against them.
As they paced their warhorses forward, Price felt nothing but pride for his company. Each man had made a point of bathing (even Meat and Ruin, who scorned such niceties) and wearing the very best they possessed in clothing, jewelry and weapons. Even the horses’ tack was polished until gleaming and strung with tiny brass peace bells that sang with each movement. Shy König was without his hood today and his braided strawberry blond hair and beard shone with brass beads and scented oil. Young MacTavish was especially handsome, in his best plaid kilt, his bronzed shoulders and arms gleaming with oil, his woad war paint renewed and his long, sable hair braided intricately and knotted up and held with silver clasps. Meat, who was riding beside him made a crude remark and Soap threw back his head and his bright laugh rang across the dell and suddenly, Johnathan Price knew without a shadow of a doubt whom the Ghost would choose today.
There was no tent today, just an intricately woven rug spread out on the ground and the Ghost seated again on his tall camp chair, flanked by his Southlanders and his emissary. A startled Price noticed it was made of polished white ribs and femurs. Price dismounted and bowed and the big Wildling again gave him a regal, courteous nod. At Price’s gesture his men dismounted and spread out in a wide semi-circle for the Wildling’s viewing, each man standing tall and proud and freely meeting his eyes.
The Queen’s Courier stepped forward with a deep bow and gave a short but passionate speech as he presented her gifts and the missive. As they watched, the little Bug examined the sealed parchment minutely before passing it to his liege, who cracked the heavy wax seal and unscrolled it. That he could read and read well was obvious. His dark eyes quickly scanned the letter and he nodded to himself. One of the Southlanders stepped forward with a quill and ink horn and the Ghost took it and scrawled a line and his signature at the bottom of the parchment. He sealed it by casually biting his thumb (Price caught sight of sharp incisors through a scarred lip) and stamping it with his bloody thumbprint. He handed it back to the Bug who rolled it back up and passed his clever hands over the seal. When he handed it back to the Queen’s courier, the wax seal was now black and bore a tiny white skull intaglio. The courier bowed and withdrew, tucking the missive into his surcoat. He would return to the Queen immediately after the handfasting.
Now the Ghost stood and surveyed Price’s company of brave men. His personal company was small, less than twenty men and women, each warrior armed with their own specialized skill sets that made one of them as valuable as ten seasoned men. While some specialized in being human juggernauts and breaking the front ranks of the enemy (König, Ruin and Meat), others were expert snipers (Farah) and specialized in infiltration of the enemy ranks and spying (Alex, Gaz) and a few bore all these skills and more (Soap and Seraph).
As Price watched curiously, the towering Wildling slowly removed his gauntlets and handed them absently to one of his bodyguards. Even his big hands were scarred, Price noted with something like pity. This man has suffered much in his life and endured. The Ghost paced slowly down the line of men doing each the courtesy of looking in their eyes and while he may have lingered briefly in front of Alex (and Farah was tense as a drawn bowstring beside Gaz until he walked on) and König (who didn’t hide his disappointment at not being chosen), he stopped in front of Iain, looked deep into his eyes and bowed low, extending his hand. To his credit the young clansman did not hesitate. He stepped forward and clasped that big hand in a firm grip, meeting the Ghost’s eyes fearlessly.
For a moment the air itself seemed to still, then a shaft of golden sunlight parted the morning clouds and struck the couple, bathing them in light. The air was suddenly alive with singing birds and loud cheers from man and Wildling alike, for it was made clear that the Lady herself approved of the match. Price tilted his head and watched as the fearsome Ghost gently lifted Iain’s sword calloused hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, as gallant as any court born noble and Iain MacTavish, one of the fiercest, most volatile warriors he knew, blushed like a wild rose.
Beside him Gaz gave a happy sigh and something within the Captain relaxed for the first time in years. Both companies took a moment to discreetly step back to give the pair a semblance of privacy. Price spoke up and invited the Wildling company to celebrate at their camp and to his pleasure the emissary agreed and the two Southlanders stepped up to formally introduce themselves and he discovered to his pleasure that one spoke their language well. Rudolfo and Alejandro were clearly bondmates. They wore matching, intricate glyphed scarlet armbands tattooed on their biceps.
Price relaxed further when they chatted quietly with Gaz, clearly friendly and respectful. Several huge mountain trolls lumbered up carrying huge barrels of ale under their arms, followed by a giant born with two entire spitted oxen ready for the fires under his arms and troupes of bickering goblins and dwarves carrying further platters of meats, vegetables and sweetmeats . The men cheered and they headed to Price’s camp to set up the celebratory feast, and Price prepared to follow.
However he was intensely curious and could not resist glancing over Alejandro’s shoulder to where the Ghost and his Chosen stood together, hands still clasped, heads tilted and gazes locked. Soap seemed to be saying something that held the larger man’s full attention, blue eyes locked on his. Price frowned in puzzlement. Did his young sergeant know the Ghost? Granted, happy-go- lucky young Iain seldom met a stranger, but he was utterly fearless with the big Wildling.
Before he could investigate further, the Ghost turned his head and whistled a single high-low note and the Kelpie paced out of the tree line. The Wildling Lord climbed into the saddle, reached down and swept his startled Chosen up in front of him, tucked him into his cloak and spurred his murderous mount away into the trees without ceremony. Price turned to find the Southlanders grinning, well pleased and Alejandro slapped Price’s shoulder and spoke a rapid phrase that Rudy translated.
”All will be well now. The war is over. We are all brothers in arms now.”
Price could only agree.
After a very raucous night, they all, man and Wildling alike, with the exception of sensible Farah (who spent much of the night ensuring that certain drunken fools did not tumble into a bonfire and set themselves ablaze), got roaring drunk and Price awoke with a full bladder and a pounding head, wondering if the Bug’s boar had shat in his mouth while he slept. He had disjointed memories of dancing around the fire in a wild martial circle dance, that was more crack-the-whip than an actual dance, Gaz laughing at him across the bonfire, feasting and drinking way too much goblin wine before staggering tipsily into his tent groggily determined to ravish his laughing bondmate.
He had vague memories of a group of giggling, naked forest nymphs and dryads joining the party and consorting with his men, a group of goblins fist fighting some dwarves over a keg of vintage Laswellian brandy and König yodeling out a drunken, woeful song while the huge, dim mountain trolls watched admiringly and clapped. It was a celebration that the band Bard was probably already composing a song about unless he was still unconscious. Price sat up, clutching his pounding head, wondering if invisible imps had taken up residence inside it with tiny hammers. Kyle lay sprawled snoring beside him, and Price paused to leer at his lean naked body and wished fervently he could remember if he actually got to make love to him before he passed out. He slowly wobbled to his feet and staggered to the entrance of his tent, desperate to empty his bladder, nearly falling over Rudy and Alé, who lay entwined nude under a feathered cloak. At least someone got lucky before succumbing to drunken debauchery.
Outside the tent, he found the Bug curled sound asleep in the arms and lush bosom of a voluptuous, green-skinned nymph, who was at least thrice his size, both using his furry hog as a snoring pillow. From the purple stains on the beast’s hairy jowls, it has gotten drunk and celebrated with its master as well. Venturing farther out into the bright sunlight he found König tucked cozily under the arm of a massive, snoring mountain troll, who held an entire wine barrel under his other. They were using a tent as a blanket. Price hoped König had not consumed half the contents. He was notoriously cranky when hungover. He nearly trips over Meat and Ruin who are lying stark naked entwined together in the middle of camp. An interesting development since both men usually are quite vocal about despising each other.
After relieving himself, he found Alex and Farah in their tent, Farah already up and bustling about the fire, mutton sizzling on the spit and flatbread baking on a flat stone in the coals, while Alex sat and groaned pitifully from beneath a nearby blanket. He was a bit worried to not find MacTavish, before remembering him being swept off by the Ghost. The young man could take care of himself, but Price was a good friend of the young clansman’s father and took a paternal interest. Silently, he assumed the seat Farah waved him to and gratefully took the cup of bitter hangover tea she silently handed him. Another groan sounded from under the blanket and it slumped over and began to snore. Alex has never handled a mix of wine and ale well and Price has seldom tasted anything as potent as the Goblin wine that was consumed last night.
****
Iain has always tried to be courageous in battle, but admittedly the most difficult thing he has done was standing still as the huge Wildling War Lord towered over him and extended his hand. He found himself taking it automatically as he stared up into whiskey eyes. There was something very familiar about that gaze that he could not for the life of him place. He is aware of the whoops of happiness around him as a celebration breaks out but barely manages to stammer out his name and ask the Ghost his, before the man calls his unholy steed and swoops him away. Iain is surprised at the surge of pure arousal he feels at the casual display of strength.
They ride into the trees and follow a narrow game trail up the valley until they reach a tiny clearing near a bubbling spring. There is a small yurt set up there and it is strung about with garlands of greenery and flowers as well as brass singing bells and red ribbons. It’s clearly a nuptial tent and Iain swallows hard. Yes, he has been intimate with men before, most warriors have, but he always dominated any encounter, so in this, he is truly a virgin.
His new Consort slides from the saddle and graciously lifts him down as easily as if he were a delicate maiden and he flushes again at the display of strength. He forces himself to relax. His new consort has been nothing but courteous and somehow Iain feels he can trust him.
As he watches, the big Wildling abruptly strips the Kelpie of his tack, including the magical bridle that holds him under geas and rumbles something in the guttural Wildling tongue before slapping the sleek flank. The creature snorts in derision and steps away and immediately morphs into a handsome, fey man with wicked green eyes, long pointed ears, pale flawless white skin and long, luxurious black hair that flows over his broad shoulders and down his naked back. He wears only a few long strings of shells, pearls and gold coins as clothing. He accepts his silver bridle from the Ghost and steps away, lean buttocks flexing, towards the Spring, trickling down into the valley, says something with a wicked glint in his eyes and a slanted glance over his shoulder at Iain (who got the distinct impression of jealousy), then with a final rude, two fingered gesture at them both, dissolves into a shimmering stream of water that flows rapidly away down the hill merging with silver trickle of the bubbling spring.
Apparently the Ghost has just freed him from servitude. Soap remembers Gaz mentioning that the Ghost has freed entire tribes from Roba’s geasans since he came to power. Iain tilts his head and studies his new spouse curiously. This is not the act of a cruel man. This is the act of a Liberator, not a Dictator. The Ghost turns to him, and lifts the thick hide at the entrance and bows him inside. Iain swallows hard and obeys. He is more curious now than apprehensive. His Mam always said he was like a cat that way.
Katherine, Queen of Laswell, Kingkiller, is not one to sit smugly on her new throne. The second that she receives word from Johnathan Price that the war is over she informs her people and graciously accepts their cheers from the balcony overhanging the courtyard. She has just acquired a second moniker, Peacekeeper. Word goes out immediately over the kingdom, sent via courier, messenger birds and magical means. She gives a satisfied glance to the pole from which the late king Shepard’s head sits rotting and raven pecked and turns back inside.
Tavane, her sorceress wife, has already set the spell to open a portal to send the hastily gathered gifts for the new Wildling War Lord and Katherine hopes they suffice and that she has not read the situation wrong, but ever since she received that secret message via crow from an operative that she thought long lost, things have progressed smoothly and rapidly to end the war. So, she watches as her Courier carries her official missive and takes the gifts through the transport portal.
She hopes that the kingdom’s best war horses, finest textiles and the exquisitely crafted heirloom sun and moon marriage diadems will be accepted. She would empty the entire treasury to ensure a lasting peace. Too many mothers have lost their sons and daughters to this senseless war. Katherine will never regret taking that arrogant fool, Shepherd’s head. Now she can turn her attention to Graves. The Shadowmancer is well imprisoned in a pentacle high in a tower cell. He did aid her in taking down Shepherd, but she knows better than to trust a mercenary. He had plans to depose her as well. As she ascends the stairs, Tavane at her heels, she wonders if banishment would suffice. It is not always wise to discard a sharp tool.
Price and his company return in a week, war weary heroes to their people who greet them with jubilation and a Queen’s feast. Graves is gone from the kingdom, exiled to the Southlands where he can cause mischief with the warring tribes there. They are too far away, separated by the sea, and too busy quarreling among themselves to plague Laswell. Price resumes his place as the Queen’s Own Captain and he and his men begin to settle slowly into peace.
The Bug and the two Southlanders accompanied them back as emissary and diplomats for the Ghost, whom the Bug offhandedly informed them was now considered the King of the Wildlings, not just War Lord. The Queen is quick to welcome them to court and see to their comfort. The little fae emissary is soon well liked for his cheerful, mischievous nature and curiosity about human culture and cuts quite a charming swath among the court ladies. His enormous hog, who goes by the improbable name of Hyacinth, settles cozily into the stables, provided with a stall of his own and an awed stable boy to curry him daily, feed him and escort him to the river for a blissful daily wallow.
The two Southlanders, warriors to the bone, prefer to bunk in the barracks with Price’s men. Price is not surprised when Rudy casually informs him that Alejandro was a War Leader among his tribe and Rudy his second, before they were captured and bewitched by the vampiress Valeria. She made the mistake of trying the same with the Ghost and he simply relieved her of her head and burned her body. The more that Price and the Queen learn of the mysterious Ghost, the more intrigued they are.
****
Soap steps inside the yurt and blinks as he realizes the ceiling is open to the elements. Sunlight streams in, illuminating the heap of blankets, pillows, and furs that make up the marital bed. A small table nearby groans under the weight of platters of cooked meat and other delicacies. A glass and gold ewer holds rich purple goblin wine, ready to be dispensed into twin goblets. There are tiny giggles and a delicate crown of flowers suddenly floats over and gently crowns him. The Ghost rumbles gently and the invisible sprites laugh again and quickly disperse with one last teasing tug at Iain’s braids. He laughs aloud, enchanted as always by the wee folk and catches a smile on the Ghost’s scarred mouth.
He freezes in his tracks. He knows that shy smile. He has not seen it close up in too many years, since he was a wee boy on his yeoman farmer father’s farm. Hesitantly he approaches, hand out, because it suddenly occurs to him that this man, his man, is still under a carefully crafted geas and that now he can help break it. The Ghost turns to face him, the portion of face he can see, now impassive, but he knows those impossibly kind, whiskey brown eyes.
Little Iain, all of eight years old is locked in fierce battle with not one, but three of the village bullies, each who tower over him and are older. How dare they take his wee sister’s dolly and make her cry! Granted he is not doing well, he has a split lip, a black eye and is currently being held down and his face ground into a dry cow pat, but he keeps fighting. He sinks his teeth in Conn’s hand and the older boy yells and thumps his head, and Lugh digs a knee in his back harder, to hold his wriggling form down. There is the jingle of tack and the clink of heavy iron horse shoes on cobbles when suddenly both boys are lifted off his person and Angus, who was laughing and jeering them on, turns and flees.
Simon of Riley, young Knight Defender of Laswell, yanks the older boys off the little one and sends them on their way, howling with firm smacks to their bottoms. He cannot abide bullies, having suffered the same before he hit his growth spurt and suddenly towered over them. He bends again and lifts the little one to his feet, brushing dirt, straw and dry cow shit off his face and small, sturdy kilted body. He suddenly finds himself under close scrutiny from a pair of striking, bright blue eyes. The little imp gives him a gap-toothed grin, his dark hair standing ruffled on end like a little bantam rooster’s comb and proclaims,
”Ah am going ta marry ye one day.”
Behind him, Simon’s men grin, and chuckle aloud at the bold declaration of the little clansman. But Simon bites back a grin and gently uses his kerchief to wipe the blood off his small suitor’s face. He will not shame the small warrior, so he gravely ties the cloth around the skinny little arm in a lover’s knot, eyes crinkling with amusement.
”Then you should carry my favor, yeah?”
”Aye!”
The little one piped up, puffing out his small chest. He was barely thigh high to the tall young knight. To Simon’s great amusement his wee suitor then takes his big hand and clumsily smacks a wet kiss on it. He beams up at Simon, still holding his hand.
”Ah’m Iain, what is yer name?”
Today Iain stares into those eyes and lifts a hesitant hand to his face. The air is suddenly still, as though all the world is waiting. Iain swallows hard, remembering the ending of an old tale his gran used to tell him by the hearth and he follows his heart and the whispered wisdom of his elders. Closing his eyes a moment he whispers,
”I see you, Simon of Riley. Ye are mine and mine alone.”
He leans up and presses a loving kiss to the scarred mouth, cupping his face with one hand and with the other carefully lifted off the hard mask, which tingled in his hand as the geas faded away. How long had poor Simon been trapped in that wretched skull mask? The mouth beneath his softens and big arms enfold him and hold him close, as the big man sighs and the kiss deepens and he opens his eyes to see the scarred visage of the former Knight Protector, whom all thought fell in battle and lost at the beginning of the long war.
Iain had grieved and castigated himself for not having the courage to approach the man sooner and confess his love.
He felt tears rise and blinked hard to try and hide them.
A big hand cupped his face and tilted his chin up.
”Don’t cry love. Roba’s geas is broken and I thank you.”
Reverently the two stared at each other. Simon flushed beneath the ardent gaze. Iain didn’t seem the least bit phased by the horrific scars marring his once handsome face. He knew they were frightful, slashing both cheeks and even across the bridge of his nose. His once golden blond hair has faded to a silvery ash gray. Simon thought Iain beautiful, despite the jagged scar on his chin and the precise one slashing through his brow, all wide blue eyes and bronze skin and thick, sable hair.
There was a snort and a muffled, ribald giggle from behind a tapestry and Simon rolled his eyes, sighed, and strode over and nudged a rotund, grinning, nut brown imp out and summarily booted it out the door, where it cackled with glee and scurried off into the underbrush to join its hooting fellows.
”Cheeky bugger.”
Simon growled and turned back to his…consort. If Iain really desired to be. He would never force his blue eyed boy. Instead of being afraid, his young consort was regarding him with fond eyes. It’s been years since any man looked at him without fear. Under Roba’s cruel and carefully wrought geas, Simon, tortured and resurrected as The Ghost, could speak and act only under extremely limited circumstances. He remembered how Robas had laughed as he sealed the skull mask on his brutalized face, jeering as he informed him that only his ‘one true love’ could ever free him. After all, who would dare to love a monster?
Only a bright-eyed clansman who has loved him from afar for years, apparently. Simon had recognized those beautiful eyes across the battlefield over a year ago and immediately set his minions to verify the young warrior’s identity. Once he did, he set his plan in place to assassinate Roba. There was a simple death curse that kept Roba safe from Ghost’s vengeance. If he killed Roba he would die within the year unless he could break the geas on him. Simon had gambled on his clever, blue-eyed lad still having feelings for him and against all odds won.
It had been difficult, he had to keep his reckless, courageous boy from being killed in battle with the Wildlings and he had to make sure Roba never suspected he knew him. The paranoid necromancer would have had Iain slain immediately. So, Simon persevered and somehow won. He has accomplished his main goals. Now he has only to free the remaining Wildlings, most of whom are loyal friends and allies. It would not be difficult, he can feel the last of Roba’s dark enchantments sloughing off him like a shedding snakeskin. Soon he would be able to free the remaining tribes, the sprites, imps, goblins, dwarves and trolls as those last tough, lingering tendrils of spellwork anchored on him faded enough so that he could break them with a word or two.
Now though, suddenly faced with a man he thought he could never win, he finds himself as tongue-tied as a virgin bride. His eyes fall on the small carved casket on a nearby table and he seizes it up. It contains a fae wrought gift for his beloved. One of pure moon silver dwarf-hammered and sung with spells of protection and luck. Simon designed it himself in case he fell in battle before he could accomplish his plan. The necklace would protect his love. Bug would have seen the heavy chain delivered into his boy’s capable hands. Simon knows such heavy neck chains are considered sacred and symbols of status among the clans in the Highlands. Wordlessly, he offers his heart gift to his consort, hoping it pleases him.
Soap is startled when Simon suddenly grabs up a carved box and thrusts it into his hands, eyes suddenly shy. Hesitantly he takes it, noting how heavy it is. Opening it, he gasps at the gift within. The collar is made of thick, double links joined by a clasp etched with the sacred symbols of his people. The pure silver gleams in the light. The heavy necklace weighs at least three pounds and the 23 double links are thick and heavy. The closing ring is etched with the double spirals and sacred staff of his people. It’s the collar of a clan chieftain or a king. Or in this case, he realizes, the beloved consort of a Wildling King.
Awed, he stares up at Simon and stammers,
”Ah have nae gift for ye!”
Simon hurries to clasp his hands, holding them tight within his own and reassuring him.
”You gave me my freedom, love. There is no greater gift than that.”
Blue eyes search his.
”Aye?”
Then those blue eyes widen at a sudden thought and Simon smiles as that familiar cheeky grin emerges as his boy reaches into his plaid and pulls something out with a flourish and Simon gapes at a tattered, worn kerchief still bearing his embroidered family crest and initials. His long ago token, still cherished and kept close to his boy’s brave heart over the long years.
“Ah do have a gift for ye after all.”
His love proclaims, beaming proudly up at him.
Simon nods, too emotional and filled with love to speak and reverently accepts the little piece of worn cloth, holding it tight in one big fist. Never would he have dreamed as a young soldier that his simple act of kindness to a tiny, valiant child would someday be his only salvation. He watches as those beautiful eyes crinkle with mischief and his boy gives him a familiar, cheeky grin, although he is no longer missing a milk tooth.
”But, ah think you should put tha fine collar on me. After…”
Simon swallows hard and croaks out.
”After?”
His love grins and indicates the bower of soft bedding before them and says firmly.
”After.”
Laughing, Simon sweeps his love off his feet and strides for the bed and grinning, Iain carelessly tosses a priceless chain aside to attend to more serious and pressing matters. Lost in each other’s arms and busily exchanging increasingly heated kisses, neither notice the little imps who peek lasciviously out at the couple and smothering giggles, hurry to tidy the tent, spell the food so it stays fresh and carefully place the precious treasure on the bedside table. Their beloved new king may have freed them, but they and their fellow Wildlings will be loyal to the man all his long and blessed life. Nothing of the Dark will dare venture close to their king or his beloved consort again less it be shredded to nothing by outraged tribes of Wildlings.
The sunlight passes over the tent and dapples a broad pale back, then a bronze one with dancing leaf shadow. The lovers entwine on their bed and the soft sounds of kisses and the intimate sound of skin moving urgently against skin fill the tent along with soft moans, gasps and guttural cries of pleasure and soft laughter as they rediscover each other again and again and again. They fall asleep so closely entwined that there is no space between them. The big man cradles his sturdy lover close, wrapped protectively around his sleeping form, one huge, sword calloused hand still entangled in the cascade of silky, sable hair he spent an absorbed hour gently unbraiding and running blunt, scarred fingers through as they talked and talked deep into the night.
When the shy moon rises, her pale light finds them deeply asleep and when he wakes in the morning with a sleepy, adoring smile at his still sleeping husband, Simon grins at the sight of the dark intricate braids strung and wound with shiny beads and precious jewels that now adorn his boy’s head. The little folk have been busy while they slept because they adore anything their chosen King cherishes and his boy is going to find himself pampered in a thousand little ways from his new entourage. His purse will never be empty nor his clothes or shoes in need of mending, nor will he hunger, thirst or find his abode untidy.
The new Wildling King and his new mate stay in their love nest for three days before venturing out for more than the time taken to relieve themselves. On the fourth morning they emerge grinning and covered with scratches and love bites to find the Queen’s gifted horses tacked up and waiting patiently beneath the trees, with a note from the Bug tacked on the saddle of the tall black gelding. Simon snorts when he reads it and opens the saddlebags to find new clothing magically sewn and crafted for them from the Queen’s gifted cloth and furs and the twin diadems.
Smiling he turns and gently places the silver diadem, carved with a half moon and stars and set with tiny winking sapphires on his love’s dark head. He laughs aloud when Iain in turn, promptly crowns him with the golden one set with citrines and engraved with the bright sun.
”At least we will be well dressed when we present ourselves at court.”
****
The day is going well at the new Queen’s court.
The nobles and diplomats have learned very quickly that Her Majesty does not tolerate fools, sluggards or thieves. Several of Shepherd’s old cronies have already been relieved of their stolen lands and goods, sent into exile or met the axe for various crimes. Several new heads now surround Shepherd’s on flanking poles as grim examples, a grim mockery of his former council. The new queen is a lawful one who has firmly stated that all, poor or rich may seek justice from her. No one dares challenge a highly intelligent warrior Queen who has a talented sorceress for a wife and a burly war hero Captain with a company highly skilled in warcraft at her back.
Her Majesty bites back a smile at the sound of small hooves clip-clopping across the marble floors of the great hall and a snorting Hyacinth (crowned with daisies today courtesy of his small groom) with tail held high, and his diminutive rider approach.
The Bug dismounts with a courtly bow, sweeping the huge, feathered velvet hat he has taken to wearing off with a flourish.
”Your Majesty, the Wildling King and his Consort approach for audience. Will you see them?”
Katherine, Queen of Laswell straightens proudly on her simple oak throne (the elaborate gold, bejeweled one that the former King favored was broken down and dispensed to those displaced by the war) and nods regally.
” I welcome His Majesty, the Ghost, King and War Lord of the Wildlings.”
She answers graciously as her couriers stir and press forward as she stands and strides out to meet the Wildling King herself, her plain skirts swirling around her ankles, an act of unprecedented courtesy for a Queen, with her Captain, Wife and Bodyguards at her heels, all alert and curious.
She and her people stand and watch as a small but motley company of Wildlings approach. Two stately white stags lead the procession, their massive antlers twined with garlands, followed by a pack of furry vargrs and a half dozen huge, stone-skinned mountain trolls, holding their formidable clubs. A company of armored dwarves guard the sides of the company and the two royal riders, seated on the gifted warhorses are followed by a small horde of imps, brownies and goblins, who are bickering as they attempt to hold formation and march with dignity. A flock of tiny pixies, a murder of crows and a swarm of sprites swoop, fly and twinkle over the progression. The pixies are scattering glittering pixie dust everywhere.
Price snorts with amusement as König greets his mountain troll drinking companion by name and the delighted being bellows back cheerfully as a pair of small goblins break into a fistfight after one trips the other and roll scuffling and bickering into the gutter, while their fellows loftily ignore them. His gaze however is on the mounted couple.
Soap MacTavish is waving at his clansmen and huge family, a bright smile on his radiant face. He is dressed in his family weave and cloak and cobalt blue and ash gray silks, his long, sable hair knotted up in bejeweled braids and he wears the moon silver diadem on his brow. Around his neck, a huge silver, double linked chain winks in the sun. When Meat bellows up a ribald inquiry regarding his marriage, Iain instantly yells an insult back regarding his own ‘shortcomings’ with bedfellows and the gawking crowd roars with laughter at the big man’s expense. Ruin pats his brawny shoulder in commiseration and Meat snarls and elbows him and they fall discreetly back in the crowd, exchanging punches and attempting to put each other in a headlock.
Price huffs out a relieved breath, because clearly his former sergeant is holding his own in his new company.
A pace in front of him, the Queen is smiling and beside him, Gaz is grinning with delight at the sight of his best friend. Everyone’s awed gaze though, is on the huge masked man who rides beside young MacTavish. The Ghost is as imposing as ever, clad in his funeral black from head to toe and hooded, cloaked and masked with a fanged skull. He is a huge, broad shouldered man with a narrow waist, long legs and thighs like tree trunks. He carries his usual scimitar and long handled axe over his back and his person bristles with knives. The crowd mutters in awe and more than a bit of fear.
He watches as both men dismount and Iain strides ahead of his towering consort to bow low before the Queen, sword hand over his heart. He raises his head and speaks clearly so all can hear.
”Your Majesty, may I present to you my sworn companion and bondmate…”
and he turns and bows towards the Wildling King, who steps forward and drops to one knee, abruptly whipping off his masked helm, revealing a horribly scarred, but very familiar face to those present, under cropped ash blond hair. He wears the golden sun diadem on his brow.
” …Simon of Riley, Knight Protector of Laswell and Peacemaker and Lord Liberator of the Seven Tribes of Wildlings.”
For a breathless moment there is silence, then everything seemingly happens at once—the astonished crowd roars with cheers, the Queen steps rapidly forward and bends and cups his face and presses a tender kiss to Simon’s stunned face, her own eyes wet, and Simon’s former comrades and friends swarm over and converge on him and sweep him up into a mass embrace while Soap beams with pride. Price and Gaz are weeping because they know Simon well having served with him for years in the King’s Company. After years of being lost to them, their beloved friend and knight, known by all for his chivalry and courage, Simon of Riley has come home at last.
****
Later after a day of celebration, a great feast shared by commoner and noble alike and a epic retelling of the heroic Tale of Simon of Riley who nigh sacrificed himself to get close to the evil Roba told by the Bug (who to everyone’s delight stood on Hyacinth’s back while he did so) the party finally winds down in the Queen’s Own Guards tower which houses Price’s company.
No one says a word when the Queen and her wife slip inside the barracks and join them in one final round of hearty ale. Tonight she is only Kate, who served in Intelligence and spy craft long before she took matters in her own capable hands to end a senseless war and became a Kingkiller in the process. She sits with Price, her oldest and dearest friend and they share a pitcher as they converse.
Nearby, Tavane is conversing with the Bug as they both share a great love for convoluted magical workings (and mischief). Gaz is sitting with Alé and Rudy picking up the threads of a halting bi-lingual conversation started while he was captive with the Wildings (both Southlanders were his bodyguards as much as his guards), Meat and Ruin are drunkenly arm wrestling in the corner and Price wonders if it will evolve into another bout of naked ‘wrestling’ later. König is snoring away, drunk again with his troll friend by the hearth. Price suspects there will be trolls trying to enlist in his company soon. The castle is already infested with goblins and other wee folk determined to stay near their chosen ruler.
Price finds himself beaming proudly as they gaze across the room where Simon sits on a window ledge, Iain seated cozily between his legs leaning back in his husband’s arms as he sleepily chats with Alex and Farah. Simon is finally looking less perplexed and amazed at how very happy his former comrades were to have him back, but he is silent and keeps his boy within arm’s reach at all times, as though unconsciously fearing Soap could be snatched away at any moment, one big hand nervously toying with a slender, silken braid of his husband’s hair.
Price shudders to think about what could have happened if Simon had not met Iain all those years ago, or not recognized him as an adult later. Each might have slain the other in battle, or worse, Roba could have kept tight control on his geas bound captive as he gained power and Simon became lost in his Ghost persona. He raises his cup to them and to his Queen and wonders just how long she has known that her own wild card was still operating under Roba’s nose. She gives him one of her rare smiles, sharp blue eyes crinkling in private amusement and he thanks the Goddess that clever Kate of Laswell is his good friend as well as his Queen.
Suddenly, he has one burning question. Leaning close enough to be heard over the chatter he plaintively asks his Queen, indicating the Bug who is now cackling with laughter because Meat just keeled off the bench he was seated on, pulling Ruin down with him. (Price sighs as there is every indication of naked wrestling before Seraph abruptly drops a concealing rug over their heads sparing their sight)
”Why do they call him the Bug?’
FINI
07/23/2024