The Siege

The Siege
Hour 8
Six hours ago, they had worked out that the thing was using the shadows, and so Command had pushed the ship’s lighting up to its highest setting, and ordered all personnel to remain away from any areas that were not sufficiently lit, no matter what.
Five hours ago, there had been a small explosion in the reactor room – not enough to cripple the ship but enough to cause non-essential systems to drop into low-power mode.  As far as the ship’s limited AI had been concerned, lighting came under the non-essential heading.  Of course, Command had ordered Engineering to get the lighting systems re-classified as “essential”, but less than five minutes into the process they’d all been butchered.  After that, Command had not been willing to send more engineers out to die and had instead ordered all remaining personnel on the ship to make their way to either the command deck or the med bays as a matter of urgency – they were the only zones on the ship whose systems were all marked as essential.  They had lost another forty-seven crew in the ensuing scramble – eight of them to friendly fire, and four due to accidents en route; the rest had been butchered.
One hour ago, all contact with the Medical Centre had abruptly ceased.  There had been no call for help, and the comms seemed to be working fine, but nobody on the other end was answering.  There had been suggestion amongst those on the command deck that perhaps those crew members there had tried to make a run for it to join up with the ship’s Command, but nobody really believed that.  Nor did they believe that the crew there were keeping radio silence to try and fool the thing that was stalking them.
Now, the command deck of the flagship Chani IV was uncomfortably crowded, with the ship’s climate control systems struggling to cope with all the extra bodies putting out heat.  There was also the issue of supplies – food they could cope without for several more days without any serious issue but, between the heat and the adrenalin of terror, dehydration would become a serious problem sooner rather than later.  Seventeen people from an original complement of nearly two hundred; that was all that was left.  They hadn’t even been able to contact the other ships in the small siege fleet as the long-range comms had been the first system to go down, and with quarantine protocols in place – how the thing had known about them was anyone’s guess – the surviving crew of the Chani IV were not anticipating help anytime soon.
 
Hour -1
“Sir, they’re hailing us.”  Admiral Fendo looked up blearily at his subordinate, taking a few moments to recall who the man was and what he did.
“Who is?” he replied, the tiredness evident in his voice; it had been a long siege.
“The Tallawan shuttle, sir.  The one our scanners picked up leaving the planet’s orbit three hours ago.”
“Oh, yes.  Yes, I asked you to keep me updated, didn’t I?”  Fendo straightened up in his chair and brushed his hand down his crumpled tunic.  “Thank you, ah…,” he squinted at the man, “Lieutenant Roni.”  The communications officer gave a quick nod and sat back down.
“Shall I put them through, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, yes.  Voice only, mind.  Don’t want them to see that we’re as tired of this siege as they are.”  The officer nodded again, then opened the relevant channel and signalled to his commander that he was now connected.  “This is Admiral Fendo, of the Chani IV, representing the fleet of the Serket Hegemony.  To whom am I speaking?”  There was a pause lasting several seconds before the reply came through.
“Greetings, Admiral.  This is Ambassador T’Vorcia, speaking for the Royal House of Tallawah.  I am accompanied by Princess Talija ní Tallawah.  We wish to parley.”  Fendo sat back in his chair, blinking several times.  They were sending a member of the royal family to parley with them?  Optimism began to stir in his heart.
“Very well, Ambassador.  You may proceed to docking distance… masked coordinates to the bay are being transmitted to your ship’s AI now,” Fendo gestured to the comms officer, who began tapping away at the screen before him.  “You are, ah,” he looked to the officer, who held up four fingers, “approximately four minutes out.  We shall speak more when you arrive.  Admiral Fendo out.”
“Understood, Admiral.  Ambassador T’Vorcia out.”
There was silence in the command deck once the conversation finished, and Fendo found himself being stared at by his officers, their weary eyes allowing a glimmer of hope to shine through.  Fendo raised a cautionary hand.
“I know what you are all thinking, and believe me when I say I am thinking it too – the first attempt to parley in person since this siege began, and their ambassador is accompanied by one of their royal family.  But let us not get carried away.  Remember how we all believed that the destruction of Asherah would finally bring a Tallawan surrender, and instead they just dug in deeper?  Or the battles in the Endiku system, where they refused to surrender despite our overwhelming force, and instead fought on till the last of their ships had been destroyed?”  All around him, eyes lowered as reality chipped away at their optimism.  “The Tallawan are a stubborn people, and a proud people.  I would not be surprised if this attempt to parley is a stalling tactic, or even a distraction.  We need to be on our guard and remember that the war is not over yet.  But…,” Fendo shrugged and allowed himself a slight smile, “that they’re approaching us at all does mean they’re weakening.  So even if this isn’t the formal surrender we all hope for, it does at least suggest that the end is in sight and that we might get to go home to our families before you’re all as old and decrepit as me!”
There was a chorus of polite laughter.  Admiral Fendo, the “Grand Old Man” of the Serket navy, was a popular figure amongst his people.  To those under his command, he was almost like a grandfather, and to the citizens back home he was a war hero and a legend in his own lifetime.  There was not a man on the ship who did not respect the Admiral, and who would not lay down their life for him without hesitation.
“Sir, the ambassador’s shuttle has reach auto-dock range.”  Reported the ship’s comms officer.  “All scans have come back clean – no weaponry of any description found on board, not even personal arms.”  Admiral Fendo raised an eyebrow; no arms at all?  He would have expected a sidearm for the ambassador at the very least.  Of course, the ambassador would surrender it immediately upon boarding the Chani IV, but it was a matter of appearances.
“Hail them,” he replied.  “On-screen, this time.”  The officer nodded, and a few moments later the main screen of the command deck was occupied by the fur-covered features of a Tallawan.  Admiral Fendo knew enough of the Tallawan people to know that he was looking at a male of fairly advanced years.  Not so advanced as his own, however – Fendo was of the Alkonost, the dominant race in the Serket Hegemony, and a people for whom seeing a third century of life was not impossible, with a good diet and a bit of care, and Fendo was considered old even by those standards.
“Admiral Fendo,” said the Tallawan, giving a small nod of respect.  “I had presumed you to be a descendent of the Admiral Fendo I knew of.”
“The original, I’m afraid,” replied the Admiral, smiling politely whilst trying to look as composed and refreshed as he could.  “Am I correct in assuming that you are Ambassador T’Varcia?”
“I am,” confirmed the ambassador.  “With me is Princess Talija ní Tallawah.”  The ambassador leaned to one side and redirected his shuttle camera to point at a much younger Tallawan seated in the chair beside him.  Fendo was no xenophile, but he had to admit that the princess was quite a striking creature, with the most vivid purple eyes he had ever seen.  They reminded him of some of the flowers his third wife had been so fond of.
“Well met, Ambassador, and well met Your Majesty.”  The princess gave a nod so slight that Fendo almost missed it, and said nothing.  The camera swung back to the ambassador.  “Our scans tell us that you are unarmed, Ambassador.”  The admiral’s tone suggested that he wasn’t entirely sure the scans were correct.
“Our people have been at war for decades, Admiral.  The Princess here was not even born when the Serket Hegemony stopped politely asking us to join and resorted to force.  And for all this fighting, can it be said either side has benefitted?  We both have lost countless numbers of people, ships, and resources.  No, Admiral, war impoverishes us all and weapons are nothing more than a crutch for men who would sooner strike than speak.  Their time has passed, so let us end this war without them.”  The ambassador smiled thinly, and Fendo found himself somewhat taken aback by the little speech.  There was no part of it that was untrue – though the Tallawan were very firmly on the losing side in the attrition stakes – but to hear a Tallawan official as good as admit that they wanted an end to the fighting was nothing less than astonishing.  In all the wars he had fought, he had never met a people so intractable.  The few prisoners they had managed to take during land battles and ship boarding actions had been about as communicative as statues.  Even under the most advanced interrogation methods they revealed little, and had shown an astounding courage and fortitude.  He himself had personally witnessed a Tallawan soldier – a young female, barely an adult – kill her interrogator with her bare hands and then take her own life, all while heavily restrained and weakened from blood loss.  After that incident, they had taken to keeping prisoners at gunpoint at all times, even when they slept or were unconscious.
Fendo stared at the ambassador, willing him to give something away.  The man’s cat-like face was almost impossible for him to read, however.  Apparently the trick was to watch their ears and whiskers, but Fendo had found that did nothing more than give him a vague urge to pet them.
“Are you talking about peace, Ambassador?”  He said at last.
“We all wish to end this fighting, Admiral.  You and all those in your fleet have family and loved ones who miss you, and we all have those we need to mourn.  We would not see one more Tallawan life lost in a war we cannot win.”
“I… no, of course.  You are right, Ambassador.  This war has gone on for far too long.  It will be good to see its end.”  Admiral Fendo turned in his seat to address the comms officer again, “Give the hangar team permission to dock the ambassador’s shuttle, Roni.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, unable to keep the grin from his face.  On screen, the Tallawan ambassador looked away for a moment at something to his right – presumably his ship confirming their docking procedure – and gave a small nod of satisfaction.  Fendo saw him say something to the princess next to him; he didn’t know enough Tallawan to make it out completely, but he caught ‘Thank you’.
“Admiral?” said T’Varcia, turning back to face his comms screen.
“Yes, Ambassador?”
“I lied.  There will be one more Tallawan death.”  The screen went blank as the line disconnected.  Admiral Fendo found himself staring at it for several moments, puzzled.
“What did he me-,” the Admiral stopped mid-word as a flashing light on his report screen caught his eye; he knew immediately from the colour that it wasn’t one of the nice ones.
“Detonation reported at docking bay seven, Admiral!”  Yelled a midshipman.
“What in the Hells happened?!”  The junior officer had already turned back to his screen, quickly scanning the damage report as it came in.
“It… I…,” he half-turned in his seat to look at the admiral.  “The shuttle, sir.”  The young man swallowed nervously before continuing, “The Tallawan shuttle exploded, sir.”
“Exp-,”
“Casualties reported in docking bays five, seven, and nine, sir!”  Interrupted another officer.
“Long-range comms are down, sir,” continued the midshipman, “and we have a major hull-breach.  ETA till sealed fourteen minutes; relevant sector already locked down.”
“Both of you, shut up!” Bellowed the admiral, standing from his chair.  “Nothing turns an accident into a disaster quicker than people panicking.  Now, Midshipman Teve, please be kind enough to take a deep breath and then give me a full damage report.”
“Yes, sir!”  Replied the officer, regaining some composure.  “The Tallawan shuttle detonated without warning shortly before docking completed, sir.  We do not yet know why.  Docking bay seven has suffered catastrophic damage and is completely offline.  Docking bays five and nine have also suffered damage and are experiencing containment failure.  Additionally, the explosion has caused a hull breach through to the auxiliary hanger; the hanger has been isolated without any significant atmosphere leak or damage to neighbouring sectors.  It is, however, now offline pending repairs.”
“Right, thank you.  Rewill,” he turned to face the officer who’d reported the casualties, “what’s the loss of life at?”
“Sir, the entire crew complement of bay seven has been lost.  Bay five reports no loss of life but four crew members are in need of medical care.  Bay seven has lost eleven crew members to the explosion and subsequent leak. Aux. hangar reports no loss of life, and no injuries.  Sixty-one crew total, sir.”
“Severe injuries?” asked Fendo; the officer glanced at his screen again.
“Not life-threatening, sir.”  Admiral Fendo nodded, and drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the back of his chair.
“And we still don’t know what caused the explosion?”
“No, sir,” replied Midshipman Teve.  “The Tallawan shuttle was orienting itself to land when it just… exploded.”  Fendo stared at the officer for some time, recalling the ambassador’s last words about there being one more death.
“Fuck,” he announced, his voice completely calm and level.  “They didn’t come here to parley at all – it was a suicide mission.”
“But what about the princess, sir?” pointed out Lt. Roni.
“Ever seen any of the Tallawan royal family, Roni?  How confident are you that you could pick them out in a line-up of Tallawans?  The woman on that ship could have been anyone.  Hells, she may even have been the one who detonated the ship, for all we know.”  There was silence on the command deck for some moments before Roni spoke up again.
“Sir, what are your orders?”
“We continue as planned, Lieutenant.  As regrettable as the loss of life is, it changes nothing: our ship is still operating within acceptable parameters, and the rest of the fleet is unaffected.”  He paused, then reconsidered.  “Hmm, we’ll need to ready a short-range shuttle to contact Hammer and let them know what’s going on, also to forewarn them of my arrival; I can’t very well command a fleet from a ship with no comms, and the Hammer of Lianii is our next best-suited vessel to serve as a flasgship.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have the…,” Roni paused when he saw an incoming call.  “Sir, I have Commander Varde calling the deck.”
“Put him through, Roni.”  The admiral tapped his ear implant as the call was directed to his private channel.  “Commander Varde, what’s-,” Fendo stopped as his second-in-command talked over the top of him.  “What?  Varde, slow down, I-,” adjusting the volume of the call, the Admiral glanced over to his Midshipman.  “Teve, get me footage of the Commander’s sector on-screen, now!”  The whole command deck turned to stare at the images that appeared on the main-screen, eyes wide and mouths open. 
The entire sector was in chaos; none of the twelve viewpoints offered by the sector’s security cameras looked as they should.  Walls were covered with scorches and small impact craters from weapon-fire, and the Admiral could not even hazard a guess as the total count of bodies that lay strewn on the floors.  He saw a group of three crew members running down a corridor, one of them looking back to fire behind him with his sidearm.  A light flickered and then went out, and a blurred figured leapt out at the three men.  There was no audio on the security feed, and for that the Admiral was sincerely grateful – in a handful of seconds the three men lay dead, their blood sprayed liberally about the corridor, and the figure was gone.
“Varde, what in the Hells is happening down there?!  Yes, yes, I can see that, but what is it?  I… No, I can’t- wait, yes I see you now.”  On-screen, the commander came into view on one of the images, facing the camera directly as he continued talking to Fendo through their direct link. 
“Varde!”  yelled the Admiral, reflexively pointing behind the Commander at a blurred figure that had entered the screen from the top.  “Midshipman, get a full security detail down there, immediately!  And get that sector sealed from the inside – I don’t want anything or anyone coming out without my say-so!”  The officers aboard the Chani IV continued to watch in fascinated horror as Commander Varde edged away from the thing that approached him, backing him into a corner.  They saw him raise his gun and fire off two shots.  They saw the thing move with preternatural speed to dodge them, and then brutally and literally disarm the Commander.  Fendo heard the man’s scream as he lost his hand, and slid to the floor, clutching at the gushing stump. 
“Now, Midshipman!”  The officer snapped out of his stupor and hurriedly tapped away at his command screen.  Fendo watched on as the creature on-screen lowered itself down to the stricken commander’s level.  He heard a voice like a primal growl that sent a shiver down his spine as the thing extended a limb towards Varde.  The commander screamed again, and then went silent.  Admiral Fendo could not be sure, but he would have sworn that the blurred creature looked up at the camera then.
“Roni, cut the feed,” he said, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice.  He looked around him at the pale, terrified faces of his officers.  “What in the fuck was that thing?” he muttered.
 
Hour -3
Miles below the orbiting Chani IV, Emperor Ferri III of the Tallawan Empire stood in the council room of the royal palace, hands clasped behind his back and his eyes surveying the skies of his homeworld through two-inch thick bulletproof windows.  Standing by the council table, his Minister for Intrigue politely cleared his throat.

Storm of Zehir

STORM OF ZEHIR
-
A FORGOTTEN REALMS TALE
Illyra stirred upon the pile of furs that comprised her bed and rolled over to regard the male she’d had the fortune of spending the night with.  He was a little wan, perhaps, and more slightly built than most women would find appealing, but he had wonderful cheekbones and Illyra had dearly loved the feeling of his ribs digging into her while they’d made love.  She looked about the room, taking in the hastily discarded clothes, the overturned lectern, and the handful of candles that had been knocked onto a fur rug and there sputtered and died.  “Made love” was perhaps too delicate a term for what had transpired last night.  In truth, they’d fucked like beasts.  Or, rather, they’d fucked in such a way that even beasts would be ashamed, should they feel shame.  She stroked a finger down the young man’s arm as he slept, and smiled to herself as she recalled parts of the night before.  Poor thing, he’d been utterly exhausted after the first couple of hours.  Fortunately, Illyra had in her possession a number of balms, ointments, and potions to help keep her lovers envigored for as long as she needed them.  It seemed she needed them for longer and longer, these days.  The Illyra of just a few years ago would have been content with a few minutes of passionate rutting.  Content, if not overly-impressed.  But now, she expected her lovers to continue till the break of day, and still she found herself wanting more.  Sadly, all the potions in the world would only help so much, unless she actually wanted to make love to a corpse.  Not that the idea didn’t have a certain appeal to it, but that sort of thing was bound to get noticed and result in people asking the wrong sort of questions.
Illyra Payne, affectionately known as Illyra the Pale by her elder half-brother, Ilrym, had arrived at the Sword Coast earlier that year, shortly after the start of what passed for spring in the frozen north that they had left behind.  In Icewind Dale, Illyra had established a reputation as being gifted at the re-setting of bones, a skill that kept her busy in a region consisting primarily of ice, rocks, and icy rocks, and which was nearly as in-demand in the treacherous lands around Neverwinter.   Ilrym had also found gainful employment in the area, primarily as a caravan guard for the many merchants who travelled through the area.  In the less cosmopolitan north, his questionable heritage – for he had pale, almost white hair, dark skin, and quite obviously elven features – had seen him struggle to find work, with only the less reputable employers prepared to hire him.  In Neverwinter, however, it seemed most people were prepared to overlook the suggestion of Drow ancestry in favour of someone with excellent night vision and skill with a blade.  Between the two trades – healer and swordarm – they made enough to get by, and enough that Illyra could keep her other, more arcane, talents hidden from the general populace. 
Ilrym knew only half of his family – while his half-sister’s father was a tailor, his had been a Drow raider.  Illyra had always had an interest in the macabre, and seemed utterly fascinated by the taboo that surrounded her brother’s ancestry.  She had sworn that they would, one day, travel into the Underdark to find out more about that side of his family, though they did not imagine for a moment that Ilrym’s father, assuming they could even find him, would accept his bastard offspring with open arms.  What little knowledge they had been able to glean about his subterranean kin pointed towards a people who were cruel and unforgiving, and who absolutely did not tolerate weakness.  Beyond that, they had found depressingly little, as all the scholars they had spoken to on the subject had been frustratingly tight-lipped about the matter of Drow society, especially after taking notice of Ilrym’s appearance.  While Illyra had tried to find information out on her own, she had not had much more success than when accompanied by her brother as, in a cruel twist of fate, it was Ilrym who was by far the more charismatic of the two siblings, with Illyra having as much warmth as the grave.  Her successes in more carnal relations owed little to her charm, and almost everything to her looks, frank approach to the matter, and the fact that most men were reliably shallow.  Ilrym, meanwhile, could charm even the most ardent virgin out of her maidenhood, and would probably have made a very successful bard if he’d possessed even the smallest amount of musical ability.
Rolling over in her bed, Illyra tried to ignore the snoring of her most recent partner.  Though he may have been utterly spent, she still had plenty of both energy and intent, and opted to take matters into her own hands. 
It was a few minutes later, and just as she was sinking into the warm, blissful glow that followed the crescendo, that she was disturbed by a polite cough from the other side of her bedroom.  Illyra didn’t look up, knowing full well who the cougher was, and simply sighed before asking, in mildly aggrieved tones, what her brother wanted.
“Good morning to you too, dear kin!” replied Ilrym, unreasonably chipper despite the early hour, “Did you sleep well?”
“You know I don’t sleep, Ilrym,” she glanced across to where last night’s lover was doing just that, quite audibly.  For a moment, she almost remembered his name.  “Now what is it?”
“An opportunity!”
“Stop being so infuriatingly cryptic and vague.”  Glaring at Ilrym, she sat up in bed, rolling her eyes as his gaze predictably dropped to her bare breasts.
“You need to relax, Illyra.  Perhaps take a lover or five!”  He grinned, neatly ducking the bolster that was thrown at him, before continuing, “There is an explorer in town, a man by the name of Volo...thamp… something,” Ilrym waved a hand dismissively, “Regardless of his name, he’s apparently an adventurer and a writer, and he’s looking to make an expedition to Samargol, in Samarach.  It’s a city a long way south of here,” he added, noticing his sister’s blank look.  “And he needs a bodyguard.  Apparently the area’s quite dangerous, and the people of Samargol are exceptionally mistrusting of outsiders and foreigners, believing them all to be Yuan-ti spies.”
“You’re not selling it to me so far, Ilrym,” muttered Illyra as she climbed over the unconscious youth that lay next to her, and started to gather her clothes up.
“Well, they hate everyone equally, so my heritage really shouldn’t be a hindrance.  And I hear that Samargol is a city practically overflowing with lies, deceit, and intrigue.  Your tunic’s over there, by the by,” he added helpfully, pointing towards the item of clothing.
“Hmm, when you put it like that, it does sound rather more interesting than Neverwinter,” Illyra pulled on the last of her clothes and fastened her belt about her waist.  “When is this Volo person planning on leaving?  And what’s the pay like?”
“At first light; and a hundred gold a day, plus relevant expenses.  I understand there have been relatively few takers.  Something to do with the jungles of Samarach being infested with giant, carnivorous lizards,” He shrugged indifferently.  Illyra pulled aside the curtain of the single small window in her bedroom and peered out into the early morning gloom.
“First light today?”
“Yes.  Sorry, I meant to tell you last night but you were,” he gestured to the still-snoring man on his sister’s bedding, “otherwise occupied.  And I know how much you hate to be interrupted.”  Illyra ignored her brother’s jibe as she looked about her rented dwelling.  The few possessions she had of value were small and could be readily packed for travel – her scrolls and tomes, and a few minor artifacts – and most everything else could be easily and cheaply replaced.  Ilrym continued, knowing he had his sister’s interest, “The ship’s called The Vigilant.  The captain’s a Halfling but you can’t have everything.”
“I hate Halflings,” commented Illyra, practically spitting the word out.
“I know, I know.  Like I said, you can’t have everything.  Come on, it’s the chance to see the world, explore new places, kill exotic creatures, and get paid a not unreasonable amount of money in the process!”  Illyra hesitated, drumming her fingers on her hips while her brother continued to try to persuade her, “Loooots of crypts down that way, I’m given to understand.”  Illyra stopped her drumming and turned to look at her brother, one eyebrow raised,
“Hmm.  Well, I suppose we could do with a change of scenery.  And the money.”
“That’s the spirit!  I’m already packed, so I’ll see you down there.”
“Right.  Leaving at first light, you say?” her brother nodded, and Illyra again looked out of the window, “Suits me.  I’ll be there shortly.”  As her brother grinned and left her small home, Illyra took a carved obsidian dagger from her desk, and walked back to her bed.


Leaning against the railings of the Vigilant, Ilrym smiled as he spotted his sister making her way down the pier to the gangplank, a pack slung over one shoulder and a porter following behind with her travelling trunk.  Behind her, the taller buildings of the city of Neverwinter were just starting to catch the rays of the early morning sun, their grimy and smoke-covered brickwork briefly looking glorious.
“So glad you could make it!” he hollered from the ship’s deck, waving down at the younger of the two Payne siblings.  Illyra gave a thin smile in return as she walked up the gangplank to join her brother.
“You know me, always ready for adventure,” she said drily, while the porter set her trunk down on the deck behind her and then held his hand out for payment.  A couple of coins changed hands and the porter gave a brief nod before walking back in search of further customers
“Quite.  By the by, you missed a spot,” Ilrym gestured towards the corner of his sister’s mouth; she hastily licked a fingertip and wiped at the small smear of blood there.
“That’s the problem with not having a mirror.  Too easy to miss things like that.  Hmm.  Probably explains why the porter kept giving me strange looks.”
“Ah well, no harm done!  Well, not to us, anyway.  Might I say you’re looking much invigorated?  Practically glowing, dear kin.”  Upon the aft deck, the ship’s captain was bellowing orders out to her crew.
“Ugh.  I just remembered that I hate sailing nearly as much as I hate Halflings.”  Looking beyond her brother, she spotted a well-dressed man with a tidily kempt beard walking over to them, a cheesy grin on his face and his arms spread wide in greeting.  “Who’s this idiot?” Illyra muttered to her brother.
“Friends, welcome!  I am Volothamp Geddarm!” announced the bearded fellow, unintentionally answering Illyra’s question.  By her side, Ilrym grinned and gave his sister a wink before reaching out to give the bard’s hand a hearty shake.
“Volo, so good to see you again!  This is my lovely sister, Illyra.”  He stood to one side as he introduced their new employer to his sibling.
“Ah, Illyra!  Wonderful!  I have heard so much about you, though I do hope your healing skills will never be called into use during our little voyage!”  Illyra feigned a smile as best as she was able, before likewise shaking Volo’s hand in greeting.
“I would be equally pleased were our voyage to be that uneventful, Volo.”  She paused, looking around, “Is this it?  Is it just the two of us accompanying you?”  Volo grinned and shook his head,
“Fear not, no!  We have a fourth member to our little group, who is already aboard and settled.  And the sponsor of this journey, Lady Sa’Sani, has sent two of her representatives.”  Volo waved his hand in the direction of two men leaning against the railings on the other side of the ship, both of them in studded leather armour and with short swords hanging from their belts.
“They look a little… underwhelming,” said Illyra, her brow furrowed as she regarded the pair, neither of whom gave the impression of being seasoned warriors.
“Oh they are primarily here as envoys, to ease our arrival in Samargol.  But between your spellcasting powers and your brother’s legendary falchion,” Illyra turned to her brother, one eyebrow quirked as Volo spoke, “I do not envision us having any difficulties!  Now, I shall leave you to get settled and meet the rest of the party, while I discuss our course with Captain Kassireh.”
Illyra waited until the bard was out of earshot before turning to her sibling and hissing at him,
“Legendary falchion?  And my spellcasting powers?!”  Ilrym raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, backing away from his sister’s anger.
“I… may have overstated our capabilities but it was only in order to guarantee employment.  Besides, you can cast spells and while my falchion may not be legendary it is at least enchanted.”
“I know exactly one spell that isn’t a cantrip, Ilrym, and the enchantment on your sword is to stop it rusting or breaking!”
“Ah well,” replied Ilrym, shrugging his shoulders and offering a broad smile, “There’s always the other guard that Volo hired.  If things turn out nasty we’ll just make sure he’s at the front!  Or whichever direction it is that we’re being attacked from.”  Illyra let out an exasperated sigh at her brother’s blasé attitude, and stalked off towards the stairs down to the lower level, dragging her travelling trunk behind her.


The accommodation belowdecks was basic, to say the least.  They were, at least, not expected to sleep in hammocks, like the crew, but Illyra and her fellow guards had a single room to share, with the beds little more than straw-stuffed mattresses on the floor.  Not that she was used to much better, and not that she really needed a bed anyway, but the lack of privacy was not something she relished.  Four beds, Illyra noted, and just the three of them hired for Volo’s voyage; clearly he had hoped for a better response to his offer of employment.
Already having claimed one of the beds was a man dressed in lightweight combat leathers, his back to the ship’s hull as he lounged on the mattress, apparently reading one of Volo’s guide books.  He looked to be not much older than Illyra and her brother, though his head was bald of hair and instead had a single scaly ridge that ran the length of his scalp.  That, however, was not the most unusual thing that Illyra noticed about her new roommate – besides the ridge, his skin had a vaguely reptilian look about it, and was a soft shade of greyish blue.  Well, at least her brother would receive less attention about his own non-standard looks.  Placing a leather thong to mark his page, the blue-skinned man closed the guidebook and looked up at Illyra with eyes the colour of sapphire, offering her a broad smile.
“Ah, you must be one of my fellow hired swords.”  He stood gracefully from his bedding, laying the book down and walking over to offer his hand to Illyra, “I am Draca, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  As he got closer, Illyra found herself unable to avoid staring at her eyes.  His pupils were vertical slits in his eyes, and the blue of his irises was iridescent, like the wings of a butterfly.  The irises seemed too large, as well, with the whites of his eyes only visible at the edges.  She stammered an apology as she realised that he was still standing there, politely smiling and with his hand out, while she gawked at his eyes.  “It’s quite alright,” he replied, “I’m used to people being caught off guard by my eyes.  One of my ancestors was seduced by a dragon and, well, that sort of thing tends to linger in bloodlines.”  Illyra nodded as she gave his hand a distracted shake, noticing that there was a hint of scale on pretty much all of the bonier areas of Draca’s facial features – his cheekbones, around his eyes and along his jawline, and, most prominently, on his chin, where the scales were evidently thicker and protruded almost like a short beard .
“Illyra,” she managed at last, releasing Draca’s hand, “and my brother, Ilrym, is currently topside.”
“Ah, yes, the Half-Drow with the falchion.  We met a little earlier; I think he will add good balance to our little group.  My preference is to avoid face-to-face fights where possible, so his strength and more aggressive style should come in handy.


They had been at sea for three days when Ilrym found himself awoken by a noise that took him some moments to identify, in his half-asleep state.  Looking across the unlit cabin, he nonetheless saw in total clarity the sight of his half-sister on all fours, her small breasts jiggling as she was ploughed from behind by the other member of their little mercenary bodyguard.  He was mildly surprised – Illyra tended to prefer slender, boyish looking men, something that this Draca fellow was very much not.  Maybe it was the eyes, he mused to himself, certainly blue was her favourite colour.
He made a pillow of his hands as he lay there to watch the pair going at it, smirking at the sound of Illyra’s moans of ecstasy and the grunts of exertion from her newest lover.  All in all, he considered, it was just as well that Illyra was a gifted healer, else she’d have by now spread the clap or some pox or other to half the Sword Coast.  Ilrym considered making a humorous remark, but in all honesty he was rather enjoying the show and had no desire to interrupt it.  Besides, for some reason or other his sister didn’t particularly like being watched during the act.

Bastard for Hire

BASTARD-FOR-HIRE
-
AN ERO THE UNDYING TALE

Chapter 1 – Why Can’t I Just Have a Quiet Drink Anymore?

Across the Warmlands - or, indeed, any other plane with sentient life - there are taverns, or the local equivalent thereof, that invariably attract patrons of a more criminally-inclined nature.  The sort of people who would cheerily murder their own mother for a handful of currency; who would strike a man - or woman - down for the seemingly minor crime of "looking at me funny"; and who would consider thieving to be an honest job with good hours and prospects of promotion.  These places are usually in an undesirable part of the town, city or spaceport.  Or at least somewhere that nobody goes without good reason and possibly an armed escort.  The lighting is always low so that nobody has to see the floor and can assume that the sticky puddle that they just trod in is nothing more unsavoury than a spilt beer and that the things that keep crunching beneath their - probably hobnailed - boots are just wood chippings; and furthermore so that the bar staff - brave and hardy individuals that they are - don't have to see too much of the almost-certainly scarred and disfigured faces of their clientele and can thus plead plausible ignorance when asked by a person of law if they have "seen this man/woman/thing".  The ceilings will tend towards exposed beams or other structural workings with little to no insulation - after all, these are not places where you would profess to feeling "a bit chilly" unless you had a death-wish and up-to-date life insurance.  The decor will be austere in the extreme and the furnishings will be threadbare, ramshackle, and replaced on a regular basis due to breakages.  However, contrary to Movie-Law, the average chair is marginally stronger than the average head... for the first few impacts at least.  Glasses are replaced with even greater frequency, such that even with the bartender's likely tendency to use "Spit & a Rag (tm)" as a cleaning aid they won't have time to develop any life more intelligent than the bar's patrons.  The beer options will be "beer..." and not so much bought as rented for a few hours.  The washrooms we will not even delve into except to say that they, in all likelihood, have developed life more intelligent than the customers.  Another common feature of these establishments is that they will have an agreement with the local dog-food factory, dead-collector or suchlike or will conveniently back onto a deep or at least fast-flowing river.
This squat, ugly and decidedly run-down structure on the leeward edge of the squat, ugly and decidedly run-down town of Willemstadt is just such a tavern.  Towards the back there is a booth that somehow manages to be dark and dingy, even in a room that is already definitely "dark and dingy" and cut off from the outside world - and fresh air - by a short set of heavily worn stone steps and a solid, wooden door - only just installed after its predecessor was smashed in an especially rowdy bar brawl. 
And, sprawled in that booth, his booted feet crossed at the ankle and resting on the bench he sits upon, his fine, feathered chapeau tilted forward and down to shade his features from all but the most suicidally-persistent of on-lookers and his eyes following the hypnotic movements of Lurleen, the bar’s squirrel barmaid, and her delectably swaying rear as she weaves through the pressing throng of drunken customers, is a cat.  The cat goes by many monikers, a goodly number of which cannot be repeated in polite company, but we shall refer to him by the name that himself most commonly claims to go by.  His name is Ero and he is a bastard.  More importantly, he is a bastard-for-hire.  I feel it pertinent at to point out at this juncture that I do not mean by this that he will – for a fee – arrive unannounced at weddings or other important parties and claim to be the lovechild of the bride, groom or guest of honour.   I mean that, for a very reasonable fee – or sometimes “unreasonable”, depending on the job in question and how many corpses it’s likely to involve – he will happily carry out a variety of dastardly criminal activities on behalf of someone else; including but not limited to murder, theft, arson, rape, stalking, loitering with intent, jaywalking and genocide.  In fact, he is not just plain old “Ero” but “Ero the Undying”.  Or even “Ero the Destroyer”, “Ero the Scourge of Six Hills Valley”, “Ero the Rapist of St. Isaac’s Convent” and “Ero the Bastard Who Owes Me Fifty Silver I’ll Kill Him If I See Him”.  Right now, however, he is simply “Ero the Bored and Jobless” and he’s currently just killing time in his favourite haunt, waiting for either some excitement or a job or, ideally, both in one nice and convenient little package.  With a wistful sigh, the moggy finished the last of his pint of watered-down beer – able to be called that only because nobody in this town had heard of the Trade Descriptions Act – and stood slowly but gracefully from the unpadded bench.  Then, empty and battered pewter tankard in paw, he made his way leisurely over to the bar, where Lenni the landlord was using a filthy rag to move the dirt on the bar around so as to ensure that it had a nice, even coating.  Ero’s intent was merely to get a refill without paying but, after only a few short steps across the sticky, warped and largely rotten boards of the tavern’s floor, he was intercepted by a fall-down-drunk bear who slurred aggressively at our heroic protagonist.
“Oi!  Gerroutofmefugginway!  Ya dumsunnuva-“ Ero’s response - a sharp kick to the ursine’s leading kneecap followed by the time-honoured pub-brawl tradition of using his mug as a large and painfully effective knuckleduster – was far from his usual adroit repartee but nevertheless served a purpose.  As the hairy oaf crashed loudly to the floor, drunken slurs still bubbling from his broken mouth, Ero regarded his somewhat ruined tankard with mournful eyes before making those few, final yards to the bar with no further interruption.  Indeed, having seen the speed with which the bear was put to the ground by someone half his size, the considerate people at the bar had even made the unanimous decision to shuffle to one side and clear some space for the chapeau-wearing felid fella.  It took him a few moments to catch the landlord’s eye – the grizzled old raccoon only having one eye left to catch and that being on the other side of his short snout from Ero – and when he finally did, the reaction was less than conducive to fulfilling Ero’s epic quest.
“Gah!  No, not again!  There’s no more bloody room on your tab until I see some coin!” Snapped the tender, flicking his bacterial-breeding-ground of a bar cloth at the moggy’s paws as they rested upon the counter, cutting Ero off before he could even start.
“Lenni, Lenni, Lenni...” Began our hero, his paws raised in a conciliatory manner and his tone gentle and smooth as silk. “Lenni.” He added, for emphasis. “I have no doubt as to your adamantacy with regards to my henceforth lack of remuneration vis-à-vis lended monies for the purpose of pursuing the purchasing of purportedly inebriative beverages.  And as such I feel honour-bound to offer this humble chunk of pewter as a means to recuperate some of my access to your most munificent financial forestalling.”  With that most flowery and barely-intelligible of lies, Ero presented the sorry-looking and heavily misshapen tankard to Lenni and smiled magnanimously, his pearly-whites glinting in what little light the numerous sweaty candles dotted around the back shelves of the bar threw forth.
“That” began Lenni “is one of my tankards.  And it’s goin’ on yer tab!”
“But dear Leonard, I thought you said there was no more room on my tab for any further additions?” Asked Ero, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.  The raccoon tender growled with annoyance and grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand, launching it at his most antagonising of patrons.  Rather conveniently for the drink-seeking feline, said object just happened to be another tankard.  And so he snatched the projectile nimbly from the air and doffed his wide-brimmed hat with his free paw before murmuring his thanks to the incensed bartender and grinning broadly as he ducked away into the crowd that filled the small bar.  Quickly he made his way back to the gloomy corner booth and retook his seat, much to the displeasure of the bar patron who had claimed it in Ero’s absence and now found himself sprawled upon the bar floor.  So, he’d recouped his loss and found a fresh tankard but that still left him in need of a fresh beer to fill said vessel.  Or at least a beer of some description – “fresh” might be asking a bit too much in this place.  The cat’s eyes lit up and he let out a loud, shrill whistle as the curvaceous figure of Lurleen sailed past with tray full of empty mugs and glasses held high above her head.  With a slight wince at the noise and a resigned sigh, the squirrel femme stopped and turned around to face the source of that noise.  She didn’t need to look to know who it was trying to get her attention for at this time of night there was only one likely customer who had enough muscle control and remaining teeth to produce the sound.

A Werewolf in the Court of King Harold - Prologue

Prologue

England, 1066 AD.  After the rout of the combined forces of Haraldr Hardrada of Norway and Tostig Godwinson of England at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, the surviving Vikings and rebels had turned and fled back to their longboats or just run for the hills.  At the end, only a few had stood their ground – an elite group of Norse soldiers, all former Varangian Guards.  An impasse had been reached, with the few dozen remaining Varangian encircled and trapped, but Harold’s soldiers too exhausted and battle-weary to try to take the heavily armoured Norse warriors on.  Harold, ever the bold, ever the fearless, had walked through his men to face the trapped warriors, and made them a simple offer.  He would give them each six foot of English ground – a little more for the taller ones – or they would lay down their weapons and pledge fealty to him.  The Varangian were professional soldiers rather than mercenaries, but with their king dead and his army broken and fled, they were smart enough to realise that they had nothing left to fight for on that battlefield, and so they bowed the knee to King Harold II of England. 

Harold, in his wisdom, knew that if wanted them to fight for him as fiercely as they had fought for Haraldr, himself a Varangian, then he would need to earn their loyalty.  And so he offered that each of them would become a freeman of England, a ceorl, and be given a hide of land to own should they ride south with him and fight against the Normans who were preparing to set sail for England’s coast.  They had looked to their leader – not their captain, for he had died in the battle, but to the warrior considered the most senior in their ranks.  A giant of a man, nearly as sizeable as King Haraldr himself, he had removed his helmet and coif to reveal a wild mane of dirty blonde hair and beard, and had barked out in a loud and clear voice that Harold’s offer was accepted, and that he and his men would give their sword and their life for their new liege lord.  His acceptance was echoed with a roar from his men, and a palpable sense of relief from the soldiers surrounding them – no more blood would be spilled on the soil of Stamford Bridge that day.

                With little time to treat the wounded or bury the dead, Harold’s reduced forces had marched hard for the south, knowing that they had a race against time to intercept the Norman invaders.  They met just two weeks later at Hastings – tired and bloodied.  The Normans, however, were relatively fresh after their short sea voyage, and had many more archers than England’s armies.  Their cavalry, too, would enjoy a significant advantage over the mostly unmounted infantry of Harold’s army.

                The two armies met in the morning of October 14^th, when Norman scouts foiled Harold’s hopes of catching the invaders unawares.  Nonetheless, the English held the high ground to render the Norman archers largely impotent, with their shields and the landscape itself proving adequate protection.  When arrows failed, William sent forward spearmen to break the English shield wall and while the defenders had few archers to assault their attackers with, they nonetheless inflicted heavy losses on the approaching Normans with thrown spears, axes, and even simple rocks.  At last the Norman cavalry advanced to support their infantry but, still, Harold’s forces stood strong.

                As the invaders broke away and turned to regroup, a portion of Harold’s men, led by his Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwine, broke rank to pursue the Normans, cutting them down as they ran, only to be caught in a counterattack led by Duke William himself and his mounted bodyguard.  The English soldiers were routed, and the two Earls slain.

                After the two opposing armies regrouped in the early afternoon, William changed his tactics.  Seeing how effective his counterattack against English pursuers had been, he ordered his cavalry to attack once again, and to then feign a full retreat to draw more defenders away from the English wall.  The first time was entirely successful and the English defensive position was significantly weakened.  William commanded his men to repeat the manoeuvre, seeing that one more break might be enough to turn the battle in his favour and allow the shield wall to be stormed.  Again, the Normans charged the wall before feigning a retreat, and again English troops chased after them.

                This time, however, things did not work out quite so well for the Normans, as the leaders of their pursuit were no ordinary fyrdmen, nor even huscarls, but the Norse Varangians who had pledged themselves to Harold after Stamford Bridge.  Anticipating the Norman counterattack, the Vikings checked their pursuit and were ready for the cavalrymen to halt their retreat and turnabout.  As the Norman cavalry swung around and charged the soldiers chasing them, they found themselves immediately pelted with javelins and axes.  As the two sides clashed, the Norman knights learned first-hand the devastating effect of the six-foot-long Dane axes, as their horses were cut down from underneath them.  Within minutes, the Norman counter was over, the cavalry unit massacred while the Varangians and Englishmen still stood.

                The crushing failure of the cavalry ploy hit the morale of the Norman force as much as it buoyed that of Harold’s men.  The English had now seen how to handle the Norman cavalry, learning from the example of the Varangian, who were themselves experienced at fighting against mounted troops during their time serving the Byzantine Empire.  By now, the Normans had lost more than a third of their cavalry, and many of their remaining horses were exhausted or wounded, forcing the remaining knights to dismount and fight on foot.  Perhaps feeling that a failure in the next attack would lose him the battle, William then made his first real mistake of the day ordered a full charge against the English shield wall.

                With the Varangians back in the fold, the English initially braced for the charge as the Norman knights and infantry raced up the hill towards them, supported by their archers.  As the Normans closed, the soldiers at the centre of the English line fell back, drawing their enemies in and using their own tactics against them.  Their flanks then rushed inwards, crashing into the sides of the Norman charge and forcing them to fight on three fronts.  Though they took heavy losses in the opening exchanges of the risky manoeuvre, Harold’s men succeeded in sucking the momentum from the charge and quickly began to overwhelm them.  William himself was unhorsed for the third time in the battle, after a Huscarl’s axe took his horse’s head off in one swing.  On foot and in the thick of the mêlée, William showed himself to still be a skilled warrior and seasoned leader, felling many an Englishman and inspiring his men to keep fighting, even as the flanking became a full circle, and he and his men were trapped by a closing ring of English axes.

                Bodies piled up on the Sussex hill and the grass was red with the blood spilled by the time William gave up hope of a favourable outcome and signalled a surrender.  King Harold himself walked out to meet his defeated rival, the left side of his face a bloody mess after a Norman arrow came within an inch of finding its mark, instead deflecting off the bone of his eye socket.  He regarded his enemy calmly, the both of them standing tall and strong despite their injuries and exhaustion.  After some moments of hushed anticipation – interrupted only by the cries of the dying – William stabbed his sword into the ground at Harold’s feet and bowed his head.  With a nod, Harold claimed the Norman duke’s weapon and held it aloft to his men as signal that the battle was won.

William, like Olaf Haraldsson before him at Stamford Bridge, was allowed to return home with his surviving men on the promise to relinquish all claim to the English throne and to never again set foot upon English soil.  Though Harold lost an eye at Hastings he survived the battle and continued to rule England as Harold II, with the country’s Earldoms divided amongst his brothers-in-law, Morcaer of Northumbria and Eadwine of Mercia, and his younger brothers’ heirs in Kent and East Anglia.

The surviving Varangians, reduced now to barely a dozen in number, were hailed by Harold as the heroes of the day, without whose cunning and staunchness the battle may have been lost.  They settled well into the lands that Harold had granted them in Sussex, close to the site of their finest hour, and throughout the coming winter found themselves invited to many a feast at the homes of various nobles who were keen to be seen as grateful to these mighty warriors.  By the Spring, however, the shine on their victory had started to fade, and the people of England grew less welcoming of the foreigners living on their soil.  Relations were further strained by the Varangians insisting on keeping to their Pagan ways and refusing to accept the traditions of the Christian Anglo-Saxons they lived amongst.  

Game of Thrones - Tyrion's Champion

(I did have plans at some point of continuing the story arc of my OC in this, and having her feature in a few other scenes/plots from the TV show but I've never quite got round to it.  Anyway, this is my first, and to date only, fan-fic piece, featuring my assassin Talija taking the place of Oberyn Martell.  I did have another piece in the pipeline with Talija being hired to arrange for a somewhat more karmic death for Joffrey, but it veered into torture gorn so I'm probably not going to post that up xD)

Tyrion’s Champion

A Game of Thrones Fan-Fic

                Tyrion sat on the cold, uncomfortable stone bench and stared unblinking into the darkness.  Tomorrow, at noon, his fate would be decided in a trial-by-combat.  If the Gods judged him to be innocent, his champion would win.  If not, both he and his champion would die.  The slight, almost trifling issue with that was that his accuser, his own sister, had chosen Gregor “the Mountain” Clegane as her champion, a man aptly appellated for his size and indomitability.  Tyrion, meanwhile, had no champion.  His brother, Jaime, once renowned as the greatest swordsman in the realm, could not hope to stand a chance against Clegane since losing his right hand to Roose Bolton’s men.  His only other hope had been his erstwhile bodyguard and friend, Bronn, but Cersei has seen to it that Bronn, whose true loyalty was only to money, had been suitably paid off to not fight for Tyrion.  In truth, Tyrion could not find it in himself to blame the man; a life of luxury and comfort as a minor lord, or almost certain death at the hands of Gregor Clegane.  A man would have to be insane to even need to think about it.  There was, he supposed, the slight possibility one of his three judges, Prince Oberyn of House Martell, might volunteer.  The man was certainly full of confidence in his abilities, and had more than a small axe to grind when it came to Gregor Clegane and Tywin Lannister.  The issue there was Oberyn’s hatred of all who bore the Lannister name, which included Tyrion himself.  Did Oberyn hate Clegane enough to stand by Tyrion instead?  The odds were not favourable.  And that left Tyrion looking at facing Clegane himself.  Well, at least that would save them having to bother with executing him after the trial.  Once the Mountain had finished with him, they probably wouldn’t even need to bury him, they could just wash the ground down and sluice his remains into the gutter. 

Midday.  Less than twelve hours away by his estimations.  Still, the parts of his life that hadn’t been filled with torment and misery hadn’t been too bad, he supposed.  And he had plenty of fond memories to look back on.  Now if only he could recall some of them...

                “Lord Tyrion.”  The voice, from out of the darkness behind him, damn near made him soil his breeches.  Jumping to his feet – a short journey for one of his height – Tyrion turned to stare into the darkness, his eyes wide and his pulse racing.

                “I don’t want to sound unoriginal, but who’s there?”  He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice with his usual facade of sarcastic bravado, and almost succeeded.

                “A friend,” replied the unseen speaker.  Their voice had an odd quality to it, almost as if its owner’s mouth were not fully accustomed to forming the sounds that made speech.  It was an odd thought, and Tyrion wondered why it had occurred to him, while at the same time fervently wishing that it had not.

                “Friends do not sneak up on each other in the dark...” Observed the Imp, squinting into the impenetrable shadows of his cell.

                “And enemies who sneak up on you in the dark do not politely announce themselves.”

                “A fair observation.  Speak then, friend.”  He could just about make out a shadow fractionally darker than those that surrounded it.  Man-height or thereabouts, so still considerably larger than he.

                “Some hours from now, you shall seek to prove your innocence in a trial-by-combat.  Your accuser’s champion is a man who has yet to be bested in combat.  While you yourself have no champion to defend your claim, and so will certainly die.”  There was a slight rumbling to the shadow’s voice.  Almost like someone rolling their Rs, but somehow doing so with every syllable.

                “Yes, thank you for reminding me.  I will admit that this night was going so peacefully and pleasantly that I had actually quite forgotten about my fate.”  His words dripped with their usual sarcasm, a weapon he could wield as skilfully as his brother cou-, as his brother used to be able to wield a sword.

                “There are few men in the Seven Kingdoms who could hope to face Gregor Clegane and live.  Fewer still who could hope to actually defeat him.”

                “Again, a timely remi-“

                “Fortunately for you,” the voice continued, ignoring Tyrion’s interjection, “I am no man, and at noon I shall slay the Mountain.”  There was silence for some moments as Tyrion tried to process this new and rather unexpected information.

                “Why?” He managed, eventually.

                “Because I am a deadlier fighter than he.”

                “No, I mean why would you risk your life for me?  For my, ha, innocence?  I don’t even know who you are!”  There was a slight movement in the shadows; did the figure just shrug?

                “There are some whose interest is solely in protecting the realm.  There are even some who consider your continued drawing of breath to be beneficial to this goal.  It is for them, and for their money, that I shall fight in your name.”

                “Ah, so perhaps again my life is to be saved by a mercenary who champions me!  My, Fate truly does have a sense for the dramatic.  But who... what are you?”  His nerves, already frayed, were shredded yet further by the shadow’s voice, and by the whole mysteriousness of it.  This was no time for games!  Tyrion waited, but there was no answer forthcoming and, though his eyes strained, he now could not make out even the hint of a deeper shadow amongst the darkness of his cell.

                Morning came and, with it, Tyrion’s jailer with breakfast.  He did not eat it; how could he think of something as inconsequential as his stomach when he was set to lose his head in just a handful of hours?  It seemed not long after that the jailer returned, this time with a pair of Goldcloak guards.  Tyrion knew what this meant – he stood up, slowly, and presented his wrists that they might be clapped in irons, thinking to himself how pointless it seemed to chain one as physically helpless as he.  Were they expecting him to wrest the sword from a guard and fight his way to freedom?  No, this would be at his father’s insistence, just another opportunity to humiliate him.

                As the guards walked him out to the courtyard, somebody cried from a cell,

                “Gods be with you!” Tyrion could not think of a single god he would wish to be with him right now.  They were all vicious cunts as far as he was concerned.  As he walked, his life drifted before him.  How similar these moments were to when he had been dragged out into the court of Lady Arryn, accused by Catelyn Stark of attempting to have her son assassinated.  That time, Bronn had stood up and declared that he would fight for Tyrion, and the canny hired-sword had despatched Lady Arryn’s champion with surprising, almost contemptuous ease.  However, Ser Vardis Egen had been but a normal man.  A competent knight and swordsman who was nonetheless blinkered by honour and made soft by peace.  Gregor Clegane had no such limitations.

                As he was led around the corner of the broad stairs down to the arena, he got his first proper glimpse of his mysterious champion.  They were more like Ser Loras than Ser Clegane, being not more than a few heads taller than Tyrion himself, and slightly built.  They also seemed almost devoid of armour, clad in leathers and with a cowled tunic under their jerkin, its stiff leather hood hiding their head and face from him.  What he could see, sticking out of the back of the figure’s breeches, was what looked for all the world to be a tail.  Black, slender and furred like a cat’s, and slowly flicking back and forth as its owner stood waiting.  To the figure’s right was a table bearing a collection of weapons and other fighting implements, and beside that his champion’s squire.  The squire, at least, seemed somewhat normal, though Tyrion did not recognise the sigil upon his vest, nor could he even tell rightly what it was.  As Tyrion approached, his guards stopped a few yards before the sheltered table, blocking his escape should be decide to try to run, not that he would be even close to stupid enough to try.  Ahead of him, his champion turned and presented a face almost completely obscured from view by the hood and its shadows.  What little he could see was covered by a loose-fitting cloth mask, so that all Tyrion had to go on was a pair of eyes.  A pair of pale green eyes, their irises slits rather than circles.  He approached warily, still remembering the voice he’d heard the night before.

                “I take it that it was you to whom I spoke earlier, then?”  The figure nodded, then turned back to check through their spread of weapons.  “I see you aren’t bothering with armour...”  It was clear in his tone that he did not feel this to be a particularly smart move.

                “The only armour I need is the air between his sword and me, Lord Tyrion.”  Tyrion shivered as his champion spoke.  There was something deeply unsettling about, yes he was sure of it now, her voice.  He may not have seen a face, but the leathers did not much conceal a general shape that suggested their wearer to be female.  Either that or a slender man with some very unusual chest muscles.

                “You seem very sure that there will be air between you and his sword.  Clegane may be big and he may be called ‘The Mountain’ but do not presume him to be slow.” He warned.

                “I presume nothing, Lord Tyrion.  I know Clegane well, and have seen him fight many times.  I know his strengths, and his weaknesses.  He relies heavily on striking terror into the hearts of his foes, but a composed enemy would note that his technique is awkward and that, even with his great strength, his sword’s momentum is not easily reversed.”

                “Oh good, so you’re going to dance around him and then tickle him to death. I am relieved to hear you have a plan.  You are aware he is wearing full plate armour, yes?” The hooded figure half-turned to regard Tyrion out of the corner of one eye, then resumed checking through her weaponry; none of which looked to Tyrion’s eye to be capable of doing much to inconvenience such a massive and heavily-protected foe.  To their left, high up in the royal enclosure and far from the risk of being splattered with blood following a particularly violent decapitation, sat Tyrion’s immediate family.  His sister looked smug, as ever, his father cold and calculating, and his brother more than a touch worried.  Of them all, Jaime was the only one who’d ever had time for him, and hence the only one of them he had time for in return.  Cersei and Tywin could go drown for all he cared.  His attention was brought back to the immediate events as the master of ceremonies announced that battle would soon commence.  Tyrion barely heard the words through the sudden pounding of his heart and the rush of his blood in his ears.  Ahead of him, his champion paused for a moment before taking up her weapons and donning them quickly but calmly.  Across the arena Clegane rose to his feet like an avalanche in reverse, and slammed down the visor of his helmet.

                “W-wait!” Cried Tyrion as his champion started to walk out into the field of battle, “I don’t even know your name!  How can I cheer you on in your public suicide if I don’t know your name?”  She paused and looked back over one shoulder to face him.

                “Talija,” came the brief reply, before she looked out to her opponent and walked into the blazing noonday sunlight.  The crowd roared as Gregor Clegane stomped out onto the sand-dusted floor of the arena, his greatsword held easily in one massive hand and the sunlight glinting off his battle-worn armour.  As the roar subsided, a murmur replaced it once the crowd saw who, or what, Clegane faced.  Tail twitching, Talija calmly took her position in the circle.  Sword and dagger slung across her back and pouches strapped to her thighs, she stood with an iron-bound stave held casually across her shoulder.  Opposite her, Clegane roared furiously, pounding his breastplate with one gauntleted hand while stabbing the air with the sword in his other.  Tyrion’s champion slid her fighting stave down from her shoulder and held it lightly in both hands as she moved into a half-crouched fighting stance, looking like she was preparing for a friendly tournament duel rather than a vicious fight to the death.  All for the sake of a ‘half-man’ she didn’t even know, or at least who she’d never met; of that much Tyrion could be certain.  He’d have remembered meeting a woman with a tail.

                The gong was struck and the crowd held its breath, while Tyrion was sure his heart stopped beating for a moment.  Sword at the ready, the Mountain moved first, striding towards his opponent with murder in his heart.  Talija moved as well, stepping away from the edge of the arena before beginning to slowly circle Clegane, keeping him firmly in her sights as she sidled around till they had switched sides, with Clegane moving to match her.  They both hesitated then, each waiting to see who would seek to strike first, each trying to get a measure of their enemy’s confidence.  The crowd, however, did not have long to wait, as Clegane’s lust for violence overruled any sense of caution and he charged the much smaller figure before him, cleaving the air with five feet of sharpened steel in a sideways swing that would surely have cleft her in two had she been slow on her feet.  But slow she was not, and Tyrion’s champion nimbly ducked under the scything blade before leaping up again in the opposite direction to Clegane’s attack, forcing him to turn awkwardly to face her again.  As he brought his sword up for another go she lunged inside of his reach, stabbing forward with her stave to catch the knight a glancing, inconsequential blow to the side of his helm before she darted on past, pirouetting to face his back,

                True to Tyrion’s word, the Mountain was faster than his size and moniker suggested and he came around with a rising, two-handed swing of his sword that ploughed straight through his opponent’s staff as she held it protectively before her, the hardened, reinforced wood parting like a mere stick under the edge of Clegane’s mighty weapon.  For her part, Talija was quick to react, somersaulting backwards out of the reach of a follow-up attack and using the two parts of her stave as improvised javelins, hurling one then the other towards her foe.  Clegane barely reacted as the wooden missiles bounced off his armour.  Sharpened though they were from being bisected, they were still twigs against his steel plate.  He laughed, then.  A loud, deep, and unmistakably unpleasant laugh as he saw his opponent disarmed and impotent.  Crouching, Talija reached to the flat pouch on her right leg, flicking it open to reveal a set of four metal darts.  With a blur, she launched the first at the approaching Clegane; it struck his helmet with an audible clang, missing his eye-slit by inches.  Another one was let fly and the knight raised his arm protectively, laughing again as the tiny weapon bounced harmlessly off his gauntlet.  Talija hesitated, then threw another dart towards the oncoming Mountain, a moment later throwing a small object from the pouch on her other leg.  Again, Clegane parried the dart with his forearm, roaring with laughter now, only to be cut short a moment later as the second object, a small glass globe, smashed against the corner of his eyeslit, exploding into fragments that glittered in the noonday sunlight.  The gargantuan knight’s roar of dismissal turned into one of pain as the razor-sharp shards of glass showered his face, along with the liquid contents of the globe.  Where that colourless liquid touched his skin the knight’s face blistered and steamed, and the roaring continued.  He shook his head mightily, sparkling glass splinters and now-muddied acid droplets flying from his helm and face.  He tore his helmet from his head, casting it towards his enemy before trying to scrub the vitriol from his skin with a mailed hand.   Talija side-stepped the blindly thrown helm and it bounced on towards her squire, catching him mildly on the leg and making him stagger for a moment.

                Growling through the pain and panting angrily, Gregor lifted his head and regarded the tiny figure who’d managed to wound him.  The right side of his face was a ruin of bright pink, acid-melted flesh, and his eye was milky-white and unseeing.  Teeth gritted, Clegane grasped his sword with both hands and rushed Talija, bearing down on her like a landslide.  Tyrion’s champion readied herself, half-crouched again and her empty hands before her, fingers splayed.  As the Mountain began to swing that great length of steel he wielded, she sprang under the oncoming arc, diving past his plate-clad legs as they stomped towards her, and in one smooth movement drawing the dagger that was slung across the small of her back and plunging the short blade into the unprotected back of Clegane’s nearest knee.  He staggered and roared again in pain, while Talija hit the ground with both hands and rolled, springing nimbly up onto her feet and spinning to face the stricken giant.

                She was expecting to see the Queen’s champion sprawled on the floor, vanquished.  What she was not expecting was a backhand blow from his gauntleted fist that lifted her off her feet and set a couple of her teeth loose in a spray of blood and spittle.  Picking herself up from the sandy surface, Talija stood on uncertain feet, her vision swimming from the blow.  She looked up in time to see Gregor lumbering towards her, sword raised with intent of splitting her in twain, and threw herself to one side to just barely escape a killing blow.  Rolling as she hit the ground, she again staggered upright as the Mountain lunged again, the tip of his sword swinging around to slice through the air, her hood, and drawing a line across the bridge of her nose as she launched herself backwards to get out of the way.  Impossibly, the Mountain was on her again as she tried to ready herself, the dagger still in his leg slowing him down but what should have been crippling pain was drowned out by his fury and bloodlust.  Again, the knight’s greatsword whirred through the air, much to the delight of the crowd and of Cersei and Tywin in particular, and again the tailed champion just barely moved out of the way in time to avoid a mortal injury, a corner of her cowl sliced off as she ducked under the passing blade.

                Grabbing a handful of sand before Clegane’s sword could make another pass, she threw it in his face, distracting and fully blinding him for just long enough for her to dive between the great pillars of his legs.  But with blood and tears in her eyes she misjudged the gap and was caught in the ribs by the Mountain’s plated knee as he stumbled around, and ended up in a bruised heap behind him.  Rolling quickly onto her back and pushing herself up on her hand, she spied the hilt of her dagger, which still stood proud of the giant’s leg.  Still prone, she swung a booted foot at the embedded weapon, twisting it in the wound and causing the blade to shear through the ligaments around it.  As his knee exploded in red hot agony that not even he could ignore, Gregor Clegane gave out a cry that stunned the audience into silence.  He continued upright for a few seconds, blood pouring from his ruptured knee, before the useless limb collapsed under him and the Mountain came crashing down, sending up a great cloud of sand and dust.  The beast at its centre roared and thrashed, struggling to turn to face his assailant and flailing his sword about him, half-crazed with pain from the crippling injury.  Stumbling to her feet, Talija backed away hurriedly, moving out of the eye-stinging dust cloud and throwing back her ruined hood so that she could use her face scarf to mop up the blinding blood that dribbled from the shallow wound on her face.

                A great gasp of surprise went up from the crowd as Tyrion’s champion at last revealed her visage to them.  Surely this was no person, but a beast!  Her face and, indeed, her entire head, were covered in short black fur, while her ears sat atop her head, rounded and as furred as the rest of her features.  Her face was long, her nose and jaw jutting out together to form a short muzzle, and the fighter looked more feline than human, with long whiskers even jutting out from the sides of that muzzle.  Her head turned as she managed to pick out the occasional cry from the general clamour.

                “What in the Seven Hells is it?!”

“The Imp is championed by a demon!” 

While she had been distracted by the negative reaction of the crowd, against all the odds Ser Gregor had managed to rise.  Not to his feet, but up onto his one good knee.  His other lower limb lay limply in a puddle of blood, and the knight’s face was twisted into a grotesque grimace that was equal parts fury and agony, but still he held his sword.  He grabbed one of the discarded stave halves and used it as a crude crutch to push himself up on, so that he knelt upright before his foe.  Even reduced such as he was, still he was taller than his cat-faced adversary.  Lifting his sword high, the knight let out a fearsome bellow, and was answered in kind by a bestial roar from Tyrion’s champion.  She knew, and no doubt Clegane knew, that he had but one swing left in him.  The weight of his sword would surely send him crashing to the ground and leave him vulnerable to a final strike, but that would not matter if that last swing managed to connect.  Of course, she could always just wait and hope that he bled to death before he could get himself mobile enough to threaten her.  The baying crowd made her mind up for her – she would defeat Cersei’s champion, and she would do so in combat.  The noise of her short sword being drawn from the scabbard on her back was lost in the noise of the crowd, and Talija focussed her gaze on the crippled Mountain as she readied the single-edged blade.  This was no warrior’s weapon, but the tool of an assassin, designed purely for killing rather than fighting.

The two champions glared at each other, both with their teeth bared in a snarl, while the audience fell into a hushed silence, eager to see the battle reach its climax.  Talija flipped her sword around in her hand so the un-edged side of the blade lay along her forearm.

Clegane readied his sword, half-raised and ready to strike.

Talija ran at the mountain, her boots kicking up dust and sand.

The greatsword started to swing down.

Time seemed to crawl.

“She’s going to die,” Tyrion thought to himself.  “And so will I.  Oh, look, a rhyme.”

Charging certain death, his champion dropped to her knees and slid, leaning back till her tattered hood dragged on the floor.  

Clegane’s sword cleaved the air, mere inches above her head.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd; even Jaime was on his feet.

Arm moving like a whip, Talija brought her short sword around before her, bracing it with her other hand and aiming for the lightly-armoured gap between the Mountain’s helm and collar.

Silence filled the small arena as the tip emerged from the back of the giant knight’s neck, scarlet with his blood.  Silence that continued after his enormous blade slipped from his grasp and skidded across the floor.

From where he stood, eyes dry they’d been open so long, Tyrion fancied he could hear a bubbling gurgle come from Clegane.  The enormous form of the armoured knight twitched, twice.  His makeshift crutch clattered to the ground, sounding as loud as a temple bell in the hush of the arena.

Then silence again.  Nobody dared make a sound, nor even move.  Not least Tyrion’s champion, who knelt before her defeated foe, both hands still on her sword.  It seemed as if hours passed before the master of ceremonies spoke up, his voice cracking for a moment.

“Gregor Clegane… is defeated.  The gods have judged Tyrion La-,” he paused at the sound of a strained curse from the Imp’s champion.  It was only then that Tyrion realised the reason for her holding the death-delivering pose has nothing to do with drama and everything to do with physics – she was stuck.  A murmur arose from the audience as they came to the same conclusion, and a cry of

“The Mountain yet lives!” went up from one observant citizen as the great hulking form of Gregor Clegane started to lean forward, towards his enemy.  Another curse was cut short from the much smaller fighter as weight overcame strength, and the Mountain fell on top of her.

“You know, I should have been very interested to see how they would have called it,” mused Tyrion, in between gulps of wine. “How does one interpret that, as a message from the gods, I mean?  The defending champion wins and then gets killed by the accuser’s champion’s corpse.  ‘He’s innocent but kill him anyway’?  Would they have only half-killed me?  Or perhaps some sort of re-match with fresh champions?”  Pale green eyes glared meaningfully at him but Tyrion largely ignored them.  “From an academic point of view, that is.  Obviously, I’m glad you survived getting squashed, not least because it means I survive, too.”  He took another long sip of wine before regarding his saviour in silence for a few moments.  “Do they pay you extra for that?” he continued, to Talija’s obvious exasperation.  “Some sort of ‘sorry you broke most of the bones in your body’ compensation, or is it just considered a risk of the job?”

“Well, anyway,” he continued, after receiving no further reply beyond a bale-filled glare, “Maester Pycelle has every confidence that you will be up and about in no time.  Apparently your,” the dwarf waved a hand vaguely, “inner parts are much the same as our own.”  He paused again, his gaze drifting along the bed-bound form of his victorious but battered champion, “I wonder, does that me-,” Tyrion looked up at the sound of a muffled growl, “I’m only curious from an intellectual perspective!” he insisted.  “Besides, I’ve never fucked a woman with a tail.  Now, now, don’t exert yourself or you will undo the wonderful work Pycelle has done at resetting your bones.” Talija settled back down onto her bed with a grumble, her attempt at clawing the dwarf’s face severely impeded by the broken bones of her arm.  “I would so dearly love to know what was going through your mind when you realised you lacked the necessary momentum to make him topple the other way.”  He paused again while he refilled his empty goblet.  “Though I’m fairly confident I could guess the general gist of it.”

Behind the Imp, the door to the small but comfortable chamber opened, and a stocky old man with broad, slouching shoulders lumbered in.  Tyrion had seen him before, at the arena, but hadn’t paid him much attention.  It had since become apparent that he worked with Tyrion’s furry champion, as something akin to a Maester.  He put Tyrion in mind of an ape that somebody had half-heartedly attempted to shave before shoving into roughspun robes.

“You tiring her?” said the man, giving Tyrion a look of naked contempt.

“Not at all, we’re just having a pleasant and relaxing conversation!  Isn’t that right?  See?  She’s growling with happiness!”  The man grunted as he walked over to Talija’s bedside.  “Saman, wasn’t it?” asked Tyrion.

“Saman Kine,” replied the man as he started to inspect Talija. “Saman is title. Like Maester.”

“Ah, so I should just call you Kine?”

“Not if want to live.” Said Kine, not bothering to look across to Tyrion as he examined Talija’s arm and shoulder. “Hunh.  Your Maester’s not bad with bones.  Quite good, maybe.”  Kine conceded, though he seemed reluctant to admit as much.  “Rest,” he said to the heavily bandaged champion, patting her gently on her other shoulder.

“Maybe some wine, Saman Kine?  You could stay and talk for a while.  You seem a chatty fellow.”

“Poison,” was all the Saman had to say, before he turned and left the room.

“Curious fellow, your Saman,” commented Tyrion once the door had shut.  “Acts like a Maester, looks more like someone who could twist my head off by the ears.  Tell me, is everyone you work with so… unusual looking?  Oh now, don’t roll your eyes, it’s not my fault you can’t talk right now.  Well, not directly anyway.”

Fully a week passed before Tyrion next visited his champion.  Not for a lack of trying on his part, but apparently the Saman had made it clear to the guards posted at her door that she was not to have any visitors while she recovered, particularly overly-talkative and drunken dwarfs.  And so it was that the change in her condition came as quite a surprise when he was at last allowed back to see her.

“My, you’re looking well,” commented the shortest of the Lannisters as he observed Talija seated at the small table in her room.  “A lot less… bandagey.”

“Your Maester Pycelle did a good job stabilising my injuries.  Kine did the rest.”

“Oh, so you can call him ‘Kine’ but I have to use his full title?”

“He doesn’t like you,” replied the feline woman.

“Not many do,” remarked Tyrion without hesitation.  “Mind if I join you?”  Talija shook her head in reply and extended an open hand to the chair opposite her.  Tyrion smiled and took the offered chair, after diverting to grab a bottle of wine and two goblets.  “I assume you drink, even if he doesn’t.”  She nodded, and the dwarf filled both the goblets.  “It’s good to see you again.  And I don’t mean that like, well, that, just that I didn’t get the chance to properly thank you for saving my life.  You were on milk of the poppy and I was on milk of the grape.  It was at least two days before I dared sober up, just in case I turned out to be having a particularly vivid and long dream while I was waiting to be beheaded.  So… thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

“You do not need to thank me.  I did what I was paid to do.”

“I know that, but seeing as how I don’t know who paid you, you’re the only person I can thank.  Besides, even if I’m not indebted to you I am nonetheless still immensely grateful.”  Talija gave a gracious nod, then sipped her wine in silence. 

“Um, this is awkward,” he said after a lengthy spell.  “I’m not often at a loss for words but then I’m not often sat in front of a woman with head-to-toe fur, a tail, and a cat’s head.  Well, never in fact.”