The Blackguards - The Huntress

The Blackguards

The Huntress

                “We have been trekking through this thrice-damned forest for two days and still we have not found your mysterious ranger, Wells.  How much more must my feet suffer before you will admit that this is a fool’s errand?”  Talbot took a lazy swipe at a fern that had the misfortune of being in his path, his stave snapping a handful of stems.

                “It’s not a fool’s errand and you complain too much, Marcus.  You’ve gotten soft in your age!” said Wells, grinning.  “Was a time you’d enjoy this sort of a jaunt.”

                “In those days,” said Talbot, his tone indignant, “I would at least have hopes of catching some fair maiden out collecting berries.”

                “Well, the lady we seek is by all accounts no maiden, and if she were collecting berries it would probably be so she could distil poison from them.  I believe she is at least fair of skin.”

                “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that,” replied the cleric, sighing.  “Why do we need her, anyway?”

                “There are three main ways of getting to Orthond, my dear friend.  By boat, by road, or by traversing the woods.  Unfortunately for us, Orthond has very good border controls, and they are excellent at documenting official visitors to their realm…”

                “Meaning we need to be unofficial visitors.”  He sighed again, and Wells nodded in confirmation.  “Arin save me, we’re going to spend weeks trekking through the bloody forests just so we can sneak in, aren’t we?”  He could tell from his companion’s grin that he had guessed correctly.  “Bugger and damnation,” muttered the priest, wearily.

                “Sounds like an accurate summary of your li-,” he paused and went very still.

                “Wh-?” started Talbot, before being shushed by his friend.  Silencing and stilling himself, his eyeballs swivelled madly as he tried to spot anything out of place.  Beside him, Wells nervously cleared his throat.

                “I um, I suppose it’s too much to hope any of you can speak but I presume you can understand what I’m saying, or at least that someone who is listening in can understand.”  There was silence in the forest, and Talbot fancied he saw a low, dark shape hidden in the undergrowth ahead of him.  “We’re looking for Keturah Romé,” continued Wells.  “We have need of her considerable skills,” he added, when only silence greeted his previous statement.  “We can also offer assurance that she will be extremely well paid for her services, and not just in money.”  A shadow moved, and Talbot fought the urge to void his bowels.  “I also have a royal pardon, signed by the royal fat shit himself.”  Added Wells, hoping that this last would be enough to catch Romé’s interest, even if the rest had not.

                “I’m listening,” said a low female voice, far, far too close behind Wells for his liking.  Beside him, he heard a squeak of gas escape from the nervous priest’s backside.

                “Ah, Keturah Romé, I presume?  Any chance that my friend and I could stand up properly without being ripped to shreds?”

                “I suppose,” came the reply, after an excruciatingly long pause.  Wells nodded in relief and straightened himself up, while Talbot dropped down to his knees to offer up a prayer of thanks to anyone who was listening.  When Wells turned around to face the ranger, he found himself rather surprised.  He knew of Romé only by reputation, and from the report that Bosanquet had passed to him.

Like many rangers, she preferred life out in the wilds to a civilized bed, but unlike most she had come to completely shun human contact.  As far as Wells knew, he was the first actual person to speak directly to her in several years.  He had been expecting a mud-covered hermit, ungroomed and unkempt, looking like they had not only slept in a hedgerow but had also brought most of the hedge with them.  What he saw before him was nothing like that mental image, however.  Keturah Romé was tall, slender, and with delicately defined features like a porcelain doll.  Her cheekbones and eyes awoke in Wells darkened soul a sense of poetry he probably never knew he’d possessed, and for the first time in his adult life he found himself completely at a loss for anything sensible to say.

                “Shut your mouth,” snapped the ranger, interrupting the choir of angels singing in Wells’ head, “Will attract flies.”

                “Sorry, I… I uh… Sorry,” managed Wells.  By his side, Talbot gave his friend a quizzical look.

                “My, oh my, the great Wells de Hanivel at a loss for words.  I never thought I would live to see the day.”  Turning to face the ranger, he offered his most winning smile as he delicately rubbed one of the golden rings on his fingers.  “I am Marcus Talbot, Almsman of…,” he hesitated; he had not studied Bosanquet’s report as thoroughly as Wells, but he had at least skimmed through it, “that is to say, devotee of Chailanri,” he admitted, seeing no reason to keep up the Arin façade.  “And this is my dear friend, Wells de Hanivel, a smuggler of some renown.  You must be Keturah Romé, the ranger of the wilds.  I am delighted to see that you are even more beautiful than the report suggested!”  He held his smile, even as Keturah glared at him in forbidding silence.

                “Friend talks a lot, Wells,” she said to the smuggler.  Wells smirked; his delight at seeing Talbot’s charm fall completely flat helped him to regain his own composure.

                “Part of why he’s joining me on this little jaunt.  Sometimes a sharp tongue is more useful than a sharp dagger.”  Keturah grunted in response, suggesting that she felt otherwise.

                “Other friend not talk so much.  Like her better.”  Wells and Talbot both turned to look in the direction the ranger nodded.  After some moments squinting, de Hanivel spotted Talija lurking in the shadows of a split tree.  He had known she was following them, of course, but he’d lost track of where she was almost as soon as they’d entered the woods.

                “Of course, it’s always good to have a dagger as an option,” said Wells, letting out a small laugh.  When he next looked at the tree the assassin had been in the shade of, she was gone.  He was not surprised.  “Anyway, that you have decided to grace us with a face-to-face suggests you are at least interested in hearing my proposition.  Am I correct?”  Keturah nodded curtly, and Wells found himself fervently hoping that the next and final person on their list would turn out to be a little friendlier than either Talija or the ranger.  If he was stuck with just Talbot for conversation for the duration of their little errand, he might end up killing him.

                “We’re heading to Orthond, and we need to get across the border without being noticed.  Our employer suggested you would be the perfect person for this task.”  The ranger said nothing, so Wells continued, “Once in Orthond, your talents would continue to come in handy; I understand that you’re a very capable tracker, hunter, and marksman as well as a forest guide.”  Keturah nodded again.  Wells was surprised to have actually found someone less talkative than Bosanquet’s pet assassin, though Keturah was at least better looking.  Quite a lot better looking, really.  Her almost total lack of discernible personality aside, Talija was so plain that even Talbot had professed her to be not worth fucking.  Although he may have just been trying to cover for his nervousness around her.  “Would it help if I barked or so-,” Wells blinked as a blade appeared in the ranger’s hand, “Okay, okay, bad joke, I apologise,” he added hurriedly.

                “Payment?” asked Keturah, slipping the dagger back into a sheath hidden under her thick cloak.

                “Our employer’s advisor suggests you have no interest in physical currency…,” he left the statement hanging in the air, then nodded when it seemed Keturah was not about to correct him, “but that you might be interested in not only a pardon for all the crimes-, for all the alleged crimes you’ve committed,” he corrected himself as the ranger’s eyes narrowed, “but also to be named official Warden for these forests.”  Keturah blinked, and her head tilted quizzically to one side.  “That is to say you would have full reign over these forests, officially, and be subject only to the King’s own word.  Which he would, of course, very decently ensure you never heard, on the understanding that you, ah, how can I put this?  Play nicely whenever you’re in a settlement.  You would also be free to deal as you see fit with any poachers in these lands.”

                “Already do,” replied Keturah.

                “Yes, well… now you’d be able to do it legally and officially.”  The ranger shrugged indifferently.  “You’re a hard woman to please, Keturah.”

                “That’s what the report said,” quipped Talbot with a smirk, which he regretted almost immediately as he came under the ranger’s dagger-like glare.  “Um, I meant that it said you had little interest in human, ah, currencies and customs.”  The glare abated, and Talbot let out a small sigh of relief.

                “You’ll get to go to Orthond and probably kill a lot of people, as well as meet plenty of new forest creatures,” said Wells, somewhat exasperated.  He hated trying to deal with hermits – they so rarely had the decency to be as greedy as regular people.

                “Think about it,” said Keturah at last.  “Answer at sunset.”  With that, she turned and left the pair where they stood, not saying another word.

                “Um, great!  Well, we ah… we’ll just make camp here and wait then, yes?”

                “But perhaps let’s not light a fire?”  Suggested Talbot, as Keturah moved out of sight amongst the trees.  Wells looked around – he could see no sign of the creatures, which he fervently hoped were wolves, that had been lurking in the undergrowth.

                “Good idea, Marcus.”  He looked up, trying to gauge what little he could see of the sky beyond the tree canopy.  “Should only be an hour or two at most.”

                “Splendid.  So, am I to assume that I am the only member of our little party who’ll be contributing anything by way of charm and warmth or do you have someone else with social skills lined up next?”

                “A necromancer,” replied Wells.  Talbot rolled his eyes and sighed.

                “Lovely.  A cut-throat, a beast-fucker, and next a corpse-lover.  Why, oh why did I agree to this, Wells?”

                “Because you crave adventure and excitement, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”  The priest regarded him in stony silence.  “That and you’re excited by the prospect of violating a few Orthond women.”

                “Ah, now that sounds more likely a motive.”

                “Anyway, Greslet is by all accounts a very pleasant old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

                “You said he was a necromancer…,”

                “I said he wouldn’t hurt a fly.  I never said he wouldn’t defile its corpse and use it for ungodly purposes.”

                “Wonderful,” muttered Talbot as he sat himself down on a fallen log.

The Blackguards

The Priest

                At the second polite yet insistent knocking upon the door, Jehanne stopped scrubbing her mother’s apron and dropped it back into the bucket.  By the time she had dried her hands and walked over to open the door, the house’s visitor had his fist raised to knock a third time.  Jehanne smiled politely at the gentleman – for he clearly was a gentleman, well-dressed and well-presented – and quickly apologised for her tardiness in receiving.

                “Truly sorry, sir, I was in the middle of m’chores!” she said hurriedly, while bobbing an awkward curtsy at the man.

                “It’s quite alright, my child,” replied the older man as he lowered his hand.  It was then that Jehanne took stock enough of his clothing to realise he wasn’t just a gentleman but a member of the clergy, his sash and robes marking him as a priest of Arin.  “Is your mother home?  Or perhaps your father?  I had a matter of the church to discuss with them.”

                “Father’s at the smithy, and Ma’s at the mill, sir,” said Jehanne, clumsily curtsying again.

                “Oh please, there’s no need to bend the knee to me, dear girl. I am a priest, not a lord!”  He grinned cheerily, and Jehanne found herself blushing.  She was used to priests being old and dull, but this one was barely older than her father and seemed most jolly and lively.  “A shame that your parents are not home to receive me.  Still, I have come all this way...” he paused, looking expectantly at the young woman before him, who gave only a blank look response, “Ah, might I trouble you for a glass of milk or small beer?  My throat is somewhat parched.”

                “Oh, of course!” answered Jehanne, stepping back and beckoning the priest into her home.  “Um, please do come in, Almsman.”  She waved an arm towards the basic table and chairs that served as the family’s seating and dining area, and shut the door behind the priest as he entered, before hurrying off to fetch him a mug of small beer from the barrel in the cool-room.

                “You are very kind.  Your parents are, I trust, adherents of Arin?”  The girl nodded at the question as she handed the mug over, and then stood respectfully off to one side, her arms clasped behind her back.  “That is always good to hear.  Mm, that is most refreshing,” he raised the mug slightly and gave a nod of thanks, “you have my sincere gratitude, young lady.”  Setting the mug down, he smiled kindly at the girl as he looked her over.  “How old are you, my dear?”

                “Fifteen, Almsman,” she replied, without hesitation.

                “Ah, a wonderful age – still full of the joy, wonder, and energy of youth, but not yet weighed down by the trials and tribulations of adulthood!  Tell me, my girl, do you subscribe to the same faith as your parents?”  Jehanne nodded.  “Splendid, splendid.  So, like your parents, and like all the faithful of Arin, you are aware it is better to give than to receive, and that none are to be praised so highly as them that give to the needy?”  Jehanne nodded again, her expression growing vacant.  “That is very good to hear, indeed.  You see, dear girl, I have a need for something that you have.  Will you give it to me?”  Again she nodded, her eyes beginning to glaze over.  “Splendid, splendid.  Tell me, what is your name?”

                “Jehanne,” replied Jehanne, her voice flat and without emotion.

                “Jehanne?  Such a pretty name.  And such a pretty girl, too.  Please, Jehanne, take off your clothes for me.”  The girl nodded again, and started to undo the lacing of her bodice, her hands moving slowly, as if she wasn’t consciously controlling them.  The priest smiled broadly as Jehanne exposed first her breasts, and then the rest of her as her simple and plain dress slipped down to the floor.  “Ah, the flower of womanhood – how it blossoms!  Come close, Jehanne, let me see if your nectar is as sweet to taste as your petals are to look at.”

                “Ah, yes!” cried the Almsman as he thrust into the girl again.  “Arin approves of your offering, my sweet!  But not, ah, not half so much as I do!”  Beneath him, Jehanne moaned quietly, distantly, as if stirring in her sleep, while the priest of Arin violated her.  “Oh, thank Arin for the naivety of peasant girls!”  He grunted, swatting the girl’s rear as his groin slapped against her buttocks.  “It’s hardly even a challenge to persuade you to offer your-!”  The priest went silent, freezing in place at the feel of a cold steel point touching delicately against the flesh of his back.  Nothing moved except his eyes as a man walked out in front of him, a smirk on his bearded face.

                “You know, I always felt that religion was nothing more than a con but if I’d known it was this kind of con then, well, I’d say to myself that I ended up in the wrong line of business!  Hello, Talbot.”  The priest’s eyes bugged at being called by his real name, but otherwise he managed to remain perfectly still. 

                “Wells,” he replied weakly, his voice coming out in a flat croak.

“Let’s do introductions,” continued Wells, “my colleague behind you,” he flicked his hand in a lazy gesture, “goes by the name of Talija.  Talija, this is Marcus Talbot, a shiftless priest and unrepentant con-merchant.  Now, Marcus, I’m sure you’re smart enough to realise that’s a dagger she’s poking you with, and that if you make any movements I don’t like the look of, or if you try to charm me, then you’ll find yourself missing a kidney.  That in mind, let’s talk.”  Wells paused, glancing down at the girl that Talbot was in the midst of sodomising.  “Neam’s tits, does that girl even know what’s going on right now?”  He leaned down and waved his hand in front of her face.  Jehanne didn’t so much as blink.

                “I, um, that is to say…” Talbot cleared his throat and tried again, “No, no she does not.  When the charm wears off she will remember very little of this.  What little she does remember will seem to her like a dream.”

                “A dream that leaves her with a sore arsehole?”

                “There is that,” replied Talbot, shrugging carefully.

                “And probably a lifelong aversion to priests, I’d hope.”  Talbot just shrugged again.  “Well, anyway, we – that is, my colleague and I – are here to discuss business, not the merits and drawbacks of using enchanted jewellery to abuse young women.”

                “Business?” said Talbot, a trickle of cold sweat running down his spine and his legs beginning to cramp from the effort of holding the pose he was in.

                “Business.  I have been employed by a certain someone to act in the interests of a certain someone else of some quite considerable power and influence.  Round these parts, anyway.  Cross the border they couldn’t give two figs for his tubby arse.  Still, he’s asking me to go and investigate something that his usual employees haven’t been able to get to the bottom of, and he’s given me licence to employ others who can help me.”

                “What,” said Talbot, swallowing, “does that have to do with me?”

                “Well, the thing I’m investigating is likely to upset a few people, and there’s also likely to be folks who don’t want to answer any questions I might have.  Now I can be quite persuasive in my own right, and my colleague with the dagger certainly has her methods, but it strikes me as what we need is a real master of persuasion, someone who can tease an answer from even the most reluctant tongue.  So I thought, who’s better at the art of persuasion than my dear old friend and former co-conspirator, Marcus Talbot?  And here we are.”

                “Could I perhaps put some clothes on?” asked Talbot, his tone hopeful.

                “Not a chance.  Now, here’s the offer – you come and help me find out what’s going on in the eastern realms, and when we’re all done you’re a free man with a clean slate.”

                “I am an Almsman of Arin, what use to me is a cle-“

                “How many holds are you forbidden from entering, on pain of being dangled from the gate by your knackers?”

                “Ah, one or two, I must confess.”

                “Right.  And how many noblemen have personally vowed to make you a eunuch should they ever see you again, after what you did to their daughters?”  Talbot remained silent, but the look in his eyes answered Wells’ question for him.  “That’s what I thought.  You help me, then the fellow who’s paying me will make sure that anyone who has a reason to do you harm will be suitably paid off.  And who knows?  You might even get to have a bit of fun on the way.”  The two men stared at each other, Wells with a cocky grin on his face, while Talbot was rather more ashen.

                “Taking into account the rather close proximity your colleague’s dagger is to some of my fleshier parts, do I really have a choice?”

                “You could say no.”

                “And if I did?”

                “We’d walk out the way we came in and leave you to finish emptying your nuts in the girl’s back passage.  Assuming you’d still be in the mood for that.”

                “That’s it?” Talbot raised an eyebrow.

                “That’s it.  No catches.  Help us and you’re a new man without a nasty past.  Turns us down and we’ll leave you to it.” 

                “I would very much like to visit our fair capital again before I die…” Talbot looked down to where his flaccid member had long since slipped from Jehanne’s rear, and he let out a heartfelt sigh.  “Very well, I agree to your terms.”

                “Grand!” said Wells, clapping his hands together.  “Oh, one other thing you probably ought to know is that Talija over there,” Talbot let out another sigh, this time of relief as he felt the slight pressure on his back vanish as Well’s colleague took her dagger away, “is completely immune to your charms, and if she catches you trying to use them on me or anyone else in our group then she’ll feed you your own testicles.  Understood?”

                “Understood,” replied Talbot, his voice almost a squeak.

                “Good, good.  Now, get your clothes on, say goodbye to your latest sodomite, and let’s go find us a ranger.”