Chapter 0 - The Highwaymen of Bregan Dor

The Highwaymen of Bregan Dor
Aranthir VI
 
              Night in the forested hills was a quiet, solitary experience. In the blackened shell of a watchtower sat a solitary wanderer. He was a of both human and elven blood, with short hair of dark brown and green eyes that glittered with the flames of his small campfire. Seated on a fallen stone, he idly stirred his small cauldron and listened to the wind in his pointed elven ears. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted and far in distance came a wolf’s howl. But Aranthir of Ildranon was not worried. Wolves feared fire, even ones grown as bold as those of Bregan Dor. 
              A populous and formerly prosperous river valley just fifty miles northwest of the king’s city, the region was home to many of the kingdom’s wealthiest families, which made it an attractive place for a mercenary such as Aranthir to seek work, at least in normal times.
              Aranthir added a pinch of herbs to his little cauldron and impassively regarded the tower around him. its walls were blackened by smoke but spared the king’s cannons. Whatever defenders had fled without a fight. Upon arriving as the sun fell, he had searched the tower ruins for food and supplies, but found nothing but rats. Still, the tower was sturdy enough to make a good place to sleep for the night, for it at least shut out the wind that howled through the hills. In the morning he would descend into the valley.
              Outside, he heard his horse snort and whinny. Then came the scraping of its hooves in the dirt as it tried to escape the tether. Aranthir set aside his spoon and reached for a dagger sheathed in his boot. With his other hand he drew his longsword as he slowly moved toward the empty doorway of the watchtower. His horse continued to snort and scratch at the dirt until it suddenly stopped. Aranthir slowly and quietly opened the flashpan of his pistol, ready to fire. 
              There came the sound of someone shuffling in the dirt road. Aranthir cast a spell of protection about himself and peered around the stone doorway.
              In the road crouched a robed and cloaked figure, two bony, four-fingered hands clutching a tall, gnarled staff. The figure was short and hunched, its hooded head pointed down. Aranthir stole a look at his horse, who was sleeping silently at its tether.
              “Greetings, fellow traveler,” Aranthir called. He stepped around the doorway enough to show his body and swordhand but kept his dagger hidden. The figure in the road slowly turned its face toward him. Its face was inscrutable in the darkness, hiding from even Aranthir’s keen elven eyes. Two dim yellow eyes with cat’s eye pupils stared back at him. Aranthir felt his skin crawl under its gaze.
              “Hello to you, Aranthir of Ildranon,” the creature rasped. Its voice sounded to Aranthir like the shuffling of ancient scrolls in a long-deserted library. Using its staff like a boatsman’s punt, the creature hopped and shuffled a step closer to him. “What good fortune to meet you here.”
              “Have we met?” Aranthir asked. His eyes searched the woods around them for any other surprises. 
              “Many times,” rasped the creature. “Might I share your fire?”
              Aranthir thought it unwise to refuse. “As you wish.” He waved to the interior of the hut and stepped back to allow the creature entrance. It approached with a strange sideways shuffle, its staff planted occasionally to allow it some stability. 
              Aranthir watched the creature with suspicious curiosity. He had never before seen such a creature, and its all-covering cloak made it hard to discern many features of it. The only skin it showed was on its hands and forearms, which were bony and withered, with a pale gray skin like that of a corpse. It hobbled to the doorway and paused. The hooded head lowered and the creature shook its shoulders like a dog coming in out of the rain before it stepped across the threshold.
              Inside, it seated itself across the fire from Aranthir and laid the staff across its lap. Though the creature now stood barely more than an arm’s length away, the face beneath its hood was completely shrouded in darkness. 
              “A warm fire on a cold night,” it rasped. Aranthir said nothing, observing suspiciously with his weapons in hand. The lowered its face toward the fire, its shrouded face drinking the light and remaining frustratingly hidden by shadows. 
              “What brings you to my fire?” Aranthir asked after a pause. The creature did not immediately answer and instead stared into the campfire. 
              “I seek a gift,” it replied after a long pause. “A gift of a ring.”
              Presently, a third eye flicked open in the creature’s hood, roving independently from the other two as if it belonged to another creature entirely. Aranthir’s grip tightened on his dagger.
              “I see you wear a fine ring there,” the creature rasped. It pointed to Aranthir’s gloved hand, underneath which he did in fact wear a masterfully wrought silver ring set with a brilliantly cut sapphire. But the ring was fully hidden beneath the glove.
              “You have the second sight,” said Aranthir cautiously. Such sorcerers were never to be taken lightly, especially when encountered in circumstances as strange as these. The creature shrugged in response. 
              “In the valley below us, there is a man with a ring. He wears it always, but I have need of it.”
              “You want me to steal his ring from him? Why? For what purpose?”
              “Steal it from him? No. I merely require it. It is a gold ring, set with three rubies in the mouths of dragons. Bring it to me at the ruined vineyard along the east road before the sign of the Hunter fades.”
              “You have not answered my questions. I am not a thief for hire. Who are you?”
              “I do not ask you to steal anything. Merely to keep your eyes,” its three eyes flickered as one, then locked onto him all together, “open.” Aranthir still could not see a face, but he had the distinct sensation that it was smiling it him.
              “You must at least tell me your name if I am to work with you?”
              The creature was still and silent, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the wind whistling through cracks in the tower’s stone. Then it sighed. “I suppose you may call me Verinusa. If you must have a name.”
              Verinusa, Aranthir thought. An old elven word for merchant. But more than that, he knew. The word was an archaic one. He would have to look it up in a library sometime. If only so many had not just been burnt.
              “Very well, Verinusa,” replied Aranthir at length. “There are eight days left in the sign of the Hunter. What if I cannot bring you this ring before then.”
              “I do not plan for things that are not eventualities,” replied the strange creature. “I have read the runes and I know things. Our meeting is merely to bring about such an eventuality. I thank you for the fire and the meal.” Aranthir looked into his cauldron and saw that the oats and roots he had been boiling for dinner were still there. The thought of what this creature considered a meal set him even further on edge.
              “I take my leave,” the creature said in a voice that was suddenly silky smooth. It planted its staff in the dirt and levered itself to its feet. Then, shuffling sideways in its hunched posture, it passed through the door and out into the night.
              Aranthir shook himself and went to the door to look after it. But when he looked out into the night, there was nothing there. Sword and dagger still at ready, Aranthir pulled his cloak tighter around him. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled again. 
 
              The following morning, down the hills from the ruined watchtower, a brightly painted coach bounced down a wooded road. On the front seat it carried a driver and a guard with a loaded blunderbuss. Two pages clung to handholds on the rear. And in the coach cabin rode Count Ilan Kasmarta, his steward Ailfein, and his daughter Laila. The two men had their heads buried in papers, and a bored Laila busied herself by looking out the window at the woods they rode through. Spring was nearly begun, and the winter thaw had receded early. In the woods beyond the road, Laila could see birds flitting from branch to branch, searching for the first flowers of spring. She brushed her long, honey-colored hair with an ivory handled brush as she tried to lose herself in the idyllic woods.
              It made for happier thoughts than her father and his steward.
              “Can we raise more money from the horse ranches?” Father asked, but Ailfein shook his head.
              “The new tax has no one looking to buy, and if we stop collecting the tax, the king’s men will notice. And won’t you need those horses next year?”
              “What about grain sales?”
              “All our neighbors had strong harvests last year. The price of grain has fallen so low it’s causing problems for the king.”
              “Not enough problems. His treasury is still full enough for another campaign. Damn it all…”
              “And moving money around is difficult with these highwaymen running rampant.”
              Father sighed and looked out the window. They usually traveled with guards, but the financial ravages of war had left her father short of money and good men. Today they had chosen to travel fast instead of safe. 
              Still, Laila thought it might be romantic to meet the highwaymen. She often went incognito among the peasants near the castle, and they spoke of the highwaymen in glowing terms only. They were not the rapacious plunderers of her father’s words, but instead were dashing, gentlemanly rogues who lived a life of adventure, always in keeping to their code of morals. 
              Yet Father was looking for mercenaries to exterminate them anyway. 
              “The sooner we can arrange the marriage, the better,” Ailfein said quietly. Father gave him a significant look, but Laila heard them all the same.
              “I don’t want to marry the Viscountess’ son. He is a boor, and stupid with his money.”
              “Then it is most fortunate for him that he has so much of it,” Ailfein muttered. 
              “If his mother were not such a miserly coward, we could have kept our men afield long enough to force the king to a more lenient settlement,” Father agreed. “But do not continue these protests, dear Laila. The marriage has been arranged and it will go forward.”
              “It is not official until the priests have approved it,” she replied hotly. Father was in one of his moods again, but Laila had inherited his stubborn streak and could not back down from a fight.
              “The priests will see it soon enough.” Father did not look up from his papers. “We must keep everything between ourselves to avoid the king’s spies. But once Lord Kaster returns from his mission to Calinad, you will marry him, and we will have his money on our side.”
              “I won’t,” declared Laila. “I’ll marry someone else. I’ll find a priest and have them do the rites, and ---“
              “Laila!” Father snapped, at last looking up from his papers. He fixed her with a cold stare. “This is about more than your happiness. Our coalition against King Petarr requires sacrifices on all our parts. For without sacrifices, he will win, and obliterate our natural rights. The boy is a tyrant. He must be brought to heel, or replaced with his brother, or else everything we have is under threat. Do you understand?”
              “Your natural rights… are not worth marriage to such a profligate fop of a man,” Laila fumed. Her face was growing hot, even though the coach windows were down and a breeze blew through the forest.
              “Foolish woman,” Father growled. “You would doom your whole family to be paupers just to marry a pretty face.”
              “Sire,” Ailfein broke in, “The Viscountess is still insisting on a dowry, and I fear we cannot meet her demands.”
              “Why should I bring a dowry?” Laila demanded. “He’s the one with the money. Will I have to pay for the privilege of shackling myself to Lord Kaster?”
              “The Viscountess will come around.” Father was ignoring her, and that only made her fume the harder. “She will see that unity against the tyrant is more important than her dowry. We must have our soldiers, and she’s the only one of us with any money left.”
              “Which speaks as much to her family’s fortune as it does to how little she was involved in the first campaign,” Laila spat. The Viscountess was perhaps the most contemptible lord or lady in the entire kingdom, and certainly the worst of her father’s increasingly useless allies. “Why should I marry into a family that is likely to abandon you when things get difficult? Were you not six months ago cursing her absence at the Zanni Fords?”
              “That is why we need the marriage,” Father responded with even greater exasperation. The Viscountess would not dishonor a marriage alliance.”
              “I don’t believe you. And I won’t do it.”
              “You don’t have to believe me. You will marry him and it will be proven to you. It must be proven to you. To us all.”
              Laila turned away and looked out the window. “I’ll run away,” she said quietly.
              “Yes, dear,” Father responded absently. The conversation lapsed after that, with Father and Ailfein returning to their papers as they desperately searched for any way to wring more money out of his estates. Meanwhile, Laila turned to thoughts of a life of adventure, far away from the viscountess’ dreary castles and her obnoxious idiot of a son. She thought of the minstrels’ tales and riding freely through the woods like a vagabond. Sleeping under the stars and the tree branches, never in the same place twice. 
              It all seemed so wonderful when compared to the life she had ahead of her.
              From behind them came the sudden sound of hoofbeats. Laila heard the pages shout and the driver crack his whip. The coach jerked forward, the horses running at a gallop. 
              “What is it?” cried Ailfein.
              “Highwaymen!” came the reply. Laila froze. Father reached for his sword. Their coach hurtled round a bend, then came to a sudden halt. Laila was thrown from her seat and landed in Ailfein’s lap. The steward helped her up with an apologetic shrug. Hooves sounded outside the coach and Laila turned to the window to see a handsome man in a fine white coat ride up to the window.
              “Terribly sorry about all that,” the man said in a courtly accent. “We’ve made a bit of a mess of you all, haven’t we?” Father was clutching his sword’s hilt, but the man in white made no move toward his own. “Come now, good sir. Put your blade away. There’s no profit for you in fighting us. Why don’t you step out where you can see us?”
              Laila and her father exchanged looks. With a resigned shrug, Father opened the door and Laila stepped out into the forest road. 
              Ahead of her, a tree had been felled across the path and behind it stood five men with bows. Behind the coach were five more men on horseback. All were well-dressed, well-groomed men in white coats and broad-brimmed black hats. Some of them even wore mustaches in the fashion that had been in vogue at court until the clean-shaven Petarr had cast everything into turmoil. Far from the gruff, menacing bandits of Father’s nightly gripes, the highwaymen were all smiles. Just like the minstrels at the Red Griffon said, she thought. 
              “There now,” said the leader as Father and Ailfein stepped into the road behind Laila. “We just wanted to stop your coach to retrieve some of our property you were carrying.”
              “And what might that be?” Father asked with narrowed eyes. His sword hung in its scabbard, but his eyes were nearly weapon enough. 
              “There appears to be a chest of silver on the back of your coach that bears my mark.” The bandit pointed to a chest stowed between the pages’ mounts and the body of the coach. 
              “I don’t see your mark on it,” Father replied. 
              “Aye, the red feather is my mark, sir,” replied the leader.
              “And you see a red feather on that chest, do you?” Father asked. In answer, one of the mounted highwaymen produced a bow and loosed from it a red-fletched arrow. It streaked between the pages, who both yelped in surprise, and stuck quivering into the oaken chest. 
              “As you can plainly see, that is mine,” the leader said with a laugh. “Sirrahs, do be kind enough to hand it over, why don’t you?” the pages reluctantly dismounted and unstrapped the chest from its place. The mounted highwaymen converged on them, pried open the chest and filed their saddlebags with pouches of silver.
              “Listen here, you little shit,” Father snapped. He stepped closer to the leader and pointed an accusatory finger at them, “You can enjoy this little lapse in order now, but it won’t be long now before I’ve got you all up on scaffolds! I’ll root you out and salt the fields you came from!”
              The leader replied with an easy laugh. 
              “I think you’ve got enough enemies already, my lord. I’m doing you a favor. What would His Majesty think if he found all this money in your possession? Why he might think you were raising funds for an army, and did he not promise severe retribution on any lord who defied his authority again?”
              “Don’t think to threaten me, whelp. The king is but a boy. He won the first bout, but we are the land’s most ancient nobility. He cannot hope to hold a crown when he denies us our natural rights and strips away our ancestral homes. Once he is dealt with,” Father stabbed at the man’s thigh with his finger, “It will be the end of your little game.”
              The leader was unmoved, but his attention was caught by something else. “I say, that’s a fine ring you’ve got there. I think it used to be mine.”
              Father retracted his hand and looked down at the ring. It was a beautiful gold ring fitted with three gold dragon heads that each carried a ruby in their mouths. 
              “This ring? This was my father’s ring, and his father’s before him. You’ve no more claim to my ring than my daughter.”
              “That may be, but red is my color.” Another red-fletched arrow streaked past and stuck in the dirt at Father’s feet. The leader held out his hand. His face a mask of fury, Father pulled the ring from his finger and thrust it into the outstretched hand. “All in a day’s work!” the highwayman laughed as he slipped the ring onto his finger. He held it up to catch the sunlight streaming through the trees. 
              Father retreated to the coach, his face turning red with nearly apoplectic rage, and leaned in close to Laila.               “You see why you must marry Lord Kaster? This is the kind of anarchy that Petarr’s reign will unleash on us. Anarchy!”
              “You care nothing for order,” Laila accused, “This is just about your pride. You will sell me to anyone if it gets you back your ring and your pride.”
              Laila could see right away that she had struck home. Father’s face turned an even darker shade of red. His hand lashed out and struck her across the face. She staggered and fell against the side of the coach, clutching her burning face. Tears welling up in her eyes, she looked up at her father, wounded.
              “Sire!” Ailfein gasped. The highwaymen shifted uncomfortably, and their leader spurred his horse forward. 
              “Good sir, that is no way to treat a lady,” the highwaymen called down from his saddle. Two of his fellows rode up to his side, hands on their sabers. 
              “Might we extend a helping hand?” the taller of the two asked. He was blonde and handsome, perhaps two years older than Laila herself, and his steel blue eyes soothed her burning face.
              “You might,” Laila said, extending her free hand. She stepped past her father to the handsome highwayman’s side. “I find myself in need of rescue, sirrahs. Is there a gentleman among you?”
              “Laila,” Father warned, “don’t you do anything foolish.”
              She turned back to him. “I told you I would run away.” To the highwaymen she said, “A gentleman? Have you any?”
              “Aye, I would be happy to rescue you, my lady,” the blonde one said. “Captain?” he looked to the leader, who tilted his head from side to side.
              “I don’t see why not. You’ve a pretty face, and it would be nice to have some new blood around the camp.”
              “Laila!” Father roared in fury, accompanied by a scandalized “my lady!” from Ailfein. But Laila paid them little mind. Thrusting one foot into the handsome blonde man’s stirrup, she swung herself up into his lap and threw an arm around his neck.
              “Let’s go,” she urged, and the highwaymen turned from the coach and began to ride back the way they had come. “Farewell, Father! I hope you can find a new alliance without me!” 
              “Laila! Insolent girl! Come back here right away! This isn’t a joke!”
              If it isn’t a joke, why am I laughing? Laila wondered as her rescuer spurred the horse into a canter. 
 
              That afternoon, Aranthir rode slowly into the town of Baergun. The lively market town lay along the fast-flowing Walska River that ran through the valley floor. The town’s walls had withstood the king’s cannons and the people within them looked to be carrying on life as usual. The market square was thronged with merchants and buyers alike. As Aranthir rode up, two merchants were inspecting a bolt of deep blue linen as one extolled the fertile valley soil and the quality of flax it produced. 
              Other merchants crowded the square as well, hawking everything from artisan’s tools to trinkets and shiny baubles. One man had a small chest of alchemical concoctions ranging from medicinal to amusing. Aranthir kept the hood of his cloak raised enough to cover his head, unwilling to attract anymore attention than his panoply of weapons were already drawing. Several suspicious or curious looks were cast his way, but more attention was paid to the merchants than the mercenary. He was thankful for that. Ever since his unsettling meeting with the three-eyed sorcerer, Verinusa, as it named itself, he was on constant watch. What did it want with a ring? Where am I to find such a ring? Would it be for sale at the market? Verinusa is an old word for a merchant. Yes, but not any merchant, a traveling merchant, perhaps a peddler or a cabotage trader... The market seems as good a place as any. 
              Aranthir dismounted and led his horse around the market, inspecting the wares of jewelers. Baergun was a modest town, despite the merchant traffic, and nothing as expensive as what the sorcerer had described was on display. Aranthir checked the fingers of the merchants as well, but found nothing there either. 
              Leaning against the wall of a building on the square’s outer edge, he sighed to himself. In addition to the three-eyed sorcerer’s mission, he was also in search of work from a more mundane employer. Anything to bring in some coin, he thought, the winter has been most unproductive. Yet his encounter with the strange sorcerer would not leave his mind. Perhaps a drink or something, he thought. His eyes roamed around the square looking for an inn or taphouse and he smiled as they alit on one façade in particular. Or something indeed. I know just the thing to take my mind off it. 
 
              Aranthir moaned in release as he ejaculated in the girl. She spasmed in harmony with his cum, arching her naked white back on the soft feather bed. His hands clutched at her round and plump breasts, kneading them as he slowed his thrusting into her wet, pink sex. He stopped, chest heaving, and looked down to see his cum dripping out of her along the shaft of his cock. With a delighted giggle, the whore looked up to him and bit a delicate finger between her pearly teeth.
              “One of Nystra’s Chosen, I’d bet,” she giggled. “You could fuck the tits off a nymph.” She propped herself up on her elbows and looked to her dripping, shaven purse. Aranthir stepped away from the bed, his cock still hard and wet as it retreated from her. The half-elf stood back from the bed, admiring the girl in her fully naked, post-coital glory.
              She was young and pretty, with pale, soft skin and long red hair that fell to her waist in waves. Her brown eyes were painted black around the edges to make them pop, as they had when she was sucking Aranthir’s cock, and her pale cheeks powdered red. Her brow was dotted with beads of sweat, some dripping along her naked chest to her breasts, which were white and soft and topped with pale pink nipples in rings of flesh so pale they were almost invisible against her complexion. 
              When the madame of the house had brought her girls to him for inspection, Aranthir had taken noticed of this redheaded girl first. Of all the girls standing naked in the parlor, she was not merely the prettiest, but also the most eager to fuck. She found his eyes entrancing and had barely managed to introduce herself as Olora without getting lost in his eyes. And she had proven to be a bedmate worthy of Nystra herself. Aranthir had lost a bit of his senses, cumming on her face at the end of their first bout in bed and necessitating a wash of her face before he could kiss her again.
              Not that Olora cared, she had licked the cum off her own face even before the servants had delivered a wash basin for her use. Aranthir stood naked in the middle of the little bedchamber and stroked his cock, wondering if he had enough time and stamina for a third time.
              The madame’s timekeepers had not yet appeared. Aranthir grabbed his sagging cock in his hands and held it out for her. “Here, girl. Lick it clean before I go.”
              Olora thrust herself forward on the bed and swallowed his cock between her thin pink lips. Her brown eyes stared up into his own as her tongue obediently cleaned his cock. From the next room came the sounds of a couple fucking. Aranthir smiled down at Olora and she back at him, her pink tongue working around his cock without interruption. She finished with his cock and lay back on the bed. Aranthir wiped the sweat from his brow and gathered up his clothes.
              “I’ve never fucked an elf before,” she said dreamily. “Would you like to go again?” she asked, laying on her stomach with her pretty face propped up on her hands. Aranthir laughed and shook his head. He sat down on the bed and began to pull his pants on.
              “I’ve only so much coin, and no more to spend on you, my dear.”
              “Perhaps you could get some work. Talk to Madame Milsy, she might have some rats for you to kill.”
              “Rats? Dear girl, that’s not really my line of work.”
              “Are you afraid of them?” she asked innocently. “I’m not, but some of the other girls are. Lina saw one in her room the other day, started screaming her head off while she was riding some poor bastard’s cock! Madame Milsy sent in the Twins and  they nearly started beating the man before Lina pointed out the rat.”
              Aranthir smiled and shook his head. “No, sweet girl. I’m not a traveling ratcatcher. I hunt larger vermin.”
              “Oh, so you’re probably here to kill those highwaymen. They’re all any of the men want to talk about. I had a man last Priest’s Day, all he wanted to do was talk about highwaymen. Imagine! I’m standing there, naked, his cock in my hand, and he’s half crying to me about some bolts of cloth that got lifted off his horse. It makes a girl feel common, it does.”
              “Highwaymen, hmm?” Aranthir mused as he pulled on his shirt. Assassins always say whores know the best gossip, but usually pillow talk goes the other way. “Tell me about them.”
              She snorted. “I just did. They’ve been running mad up and down the valley all winter. Korwen says they’re always perfectly polite, even when they’re robbing you blind! Says they’re handsome too, though I’d bet a gold talent he’s never even met one. If it’s true though, I’d like to see ‘em come in here. I could do with a handsome man every once in a while. Yourself included, in case you’d be wanting to come back? Sir elf?”
              Aranthir buckled on his sword belt and stood up. He gave her an affectionate kiss to the head, and she smiled shyly. “I must be going now. Perhaps some other time when I’ve more coin to spend.”
              “Shame that is.” Olora rolled over onto her back and let her head hang over the edge of the bed. Her long red hair fell to the floor like a waterfall at sunset. “I’ve got myself all worked up again.”
              “Who is the local lord of this town?” Aranthir asked, pausing at the door.
              “Count Ilan Kasmarta,” Olora proclaimed with mocking grandeur. Her pretty face twisted into a sneer. “A real miser. He’s raised our taxes again, and ran roughshod all over the council. The burgomaster has been raising hell in the town hall all week. I heard it got ugly this morning, someone from the Brewer’s Guild got his nose broke by the guard.”
              “The Count’s guard? Is he in town?”
              “He was this morning. Along with several other rich men. They’ve all been gathering at the burgomaster’s home, no doubt raising more trouble. The town’s coffers are nearly after buying off the king’s men last year. If they bring another war on us, Milsy says they might start selling girls to slavers to pay.”
              “Well, we can’t have that,” replied Aranthir. “I’ll go down to the burgomaster’s home and see if I can take care of this problem for you.”
              “You’d take on all the highwaymen by yourself?” she asked, eyes full of wonder. She sat up, her red hair falling across her chest and concealing the movements of her beautiful breasts. Aranthir stepped to the bed and brushed her hair away to expose them again. Olora blushed, a curious reaction for a whore. She is just besotted, Aranthir mused. The poor girl really has never fucked an elf before. 
              “Aye, but that isn’t my intention. In any case, I must be going. Thank you for the wonderful fuck, and perhaps I’ll return when I’ve made some more money.”
              “Enough to bring a friend?” Olora asked eagerly, “the other girls would love to make you cum.”
              Aranthir laughed. “Perhaps. I’ll be seeing you.”
              “Nystra keep you well!” the girl called as Aranthir stepped into the hall. The narrow hall of the house was lined with doorways to the girls’ rooms and as a consequence lit only by candles in sconces along the walls, which in turn resulted in a smoky atmosphere that only made the naked girls who walked up and down the hall seem more exotically alluring. 
              One such woman waited at the entrance to her chamber, leaning against the doorjamb in an open robe of sheer cloth. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders and down her back, one lock twisted around a delicate finger tipped with red-painted fingernails. Above her shaven sex was tattooed the lover’s knot, a holy sign of Nystra, Goddess of Pleasure.
              “Hello there, Master elf,” she purred as Aranthir approached. “I heard the fucking you gave Olora. Have you any left for me?”
              “I’ve got the cock but not the coin,” replied Aranthir apologetically. “If that disappoints you so, speak with your madame.”
              “It does disappoint me,” she replied with a practiced pout. “These tits need your deft hands upon them.” She grabbed her full breasts in both hands and pressed them against her chest. Aranthir felt his heart flutter at the sight but remained outwardly calm, a skill drilled into him by many teachers. 
              “Some other time, perhaps.” The whore opened her mouth to speak, but Aranthir continued past her and down the stairs to the ground floor.
              As he reached the bottom of the stairs he was intercepted by Madame Milsy, a stately woman of perhaps fifty, who held another whore by the arm. The madame’s companion was blonde and buxom, her naked body on display beneath the loose woven netting of her dress.
              “Master Aranthir,” the madame cooed as the girl on her arm batted her long eyelashes at him. Her eyes had been painted similarly to Olora’s own. “I trust your stay was pleasant?”
              “It was,” replied Aranthir casually, “your girl is a champion lay. But your prices are not to my purse’s liking and so I must be off to earn some more coin to pour into your pocket.”
              “I make no apologies for the price,” Madame Milsy declared, raising both hands in defense. The girl at her side flipped her hair over her shoulder and primped for Aranthir’s benefit. Despite the feel of his cock hardening again, he resisted the urge to throw more money at the madame. “This house won’t keep itself up and painting these pretty faces isn’t cheap.”
              “Of course, of course. But in any case, I must be off. I hear your town has had trouble with highwaymen?”
              “Highwaymen, the king, the nobles… It’s fortunate we haven’t had a dragon fly in and start making demands but gods only know what will happen next.”
              “A dragon might be too much for me, but these highwaymen I might be able to deal with. Which way to the burgomaster’s house?”
              “Take the market street toward the west gate and look for the Temple of Eldrin. It’s across the way. Good luck, and do be sure to sing my house’s praises to whomever you meet!”
              Leading the blonde girl behind her, the madame went through a set of double doors and into the parlor, where three fat merchants waited, sipping wine. 
              With a bemused smile and a shake of his head, Aranthir stepped through the doors of the Lady’s Favor and onto the market square again. Two men, both with graying hair, sat on the front steps passing a smoking pipe between them. They had been there when Aranthir went inside and acknowledged his return with a smile and nod. Aranthir nodded in return.
              “How are the girls today?” the shorter of the two asked, the words whistling through his missing teeth.
              “They’re waiting for you, my friend,” replied Aranthir. With a smile, he turned and headed out into the street. His horse was stabled across the square, but he decided to leave it for the time being. Riding on the city streets drew enough attention and introduced the problem of ducking under handing signs and the like.
              Presently, he found himself the target of attention from above.
              “Goodbye, Master Aranthir!” he turned to see Olora standing naked on the brothel’s front balcony, accompanied by a buxom wench, equally nude, with raven hair. They both waved to him with broad smiles and struck a pose for his viewing pleasure. Aranthir gave them a bemused smile and waved in reply. Giggling, they retreated inside with their arms interlinked.
              Leaving his horse in the stable, Aranthir pulled his cloak around himself and began making his way across town to the burgomaster’s house. It was now midafternoon, and the crowds had thinned relative to the midday throngs he had passed through before his brothel detour. His trip across the town was thankfully free of suspicious stares and soon enough he arrived at the Temple of Eldrin. Across from its gold-flecked marble edifice was a grand house with a small crowd outside that could only be the burgomaster’s home. Settling his cloak about him, Aranthir strode up to the gate.
              The gate was manned by a single, somewhat beleaguered, guard in a padded jack and an open-faced bascinet helm. 
              “Stay back, if you please, stay back,” the guard repeated as he pushed the onlookers back from the gate. They were well to-do men and women, in puffy plumed hats and coats of thick, richly dyed wool. Golden rings and other ornaments shone on their fingers.
              “What’s the word?” a rotund man in a dark blue vest and black coat demanded. “Why won’t the burgomaster come out and speak with us?”
              “I’ve been here every day for three days,” growled a middle-aged woman in a long green dress, “and every one of those days I’ve lost money on the roads. I demand to speak to the lords inside!”
              “They aren’t taking visitors,” explained the guard in a voice think with resignation. “I am sorry.”
              “This gate won’t save your master if he continues on like this,” snapped a gray-haired woman from the back of the crowd. The guard’s eyes narrowed, and his hand drifted almost imperceptibly to the rapier at his side. But a tall man next to the threatening woman took charge instead.
              “He’s three weeks from the election,” the tall man declared, one hand on his cane and another on the thick brass chain draped about his chest, “how does he expect to win when he won’t listen to us?”
              At this point, a man in the crowd turned to regard the approaching Aranthir. “What do you want, half-blood?” he snapped. Aranthir replied with a casual shrug.
              “I am a mercenary. You have a highwayman problem?”
              “We do!” cried the tall man, “Ah, the gods have answered our prayers.”
              “Hold on now,” the first man cautioned, “he is just one man.”
              “That is one more than you seem to have now, isn’t it?” replied Aranthir. “But it seems the man to speak with is inside, while I am outside.”
              “Aye, he is,” the old woman said with a clap of her withered hands. She fixed her practiced glare on the poor guardsman. “Let him in already. I’m tired of hearing your master’s excuses.”
              “I’m afraid I cannot let an armed stranger into the house,” the guardsman complained, his eyes inspecting Aranthir’s form. 
              “Very well,” the woman in the green growled, “perhaps we will go around the burgomaster and hire the half-elf ourselves. What does that say about his administration of the town?”
              “He’s useless!” cried the fat man. “He’ll be stripped of his position and run out of town!”
              “Calm down, calm down!” the guard cried, palms held forward. He sighed. “Alright, I will let the half-blood in. But you had best be the real thing, vagabond.”
              He lifted a heavy keyring from his belt and slowly unlocked the gate, even as the townsfolk poured more jeers and abuse at him. As soon as the gate opened, the crowd surged forward. The guard pushed back, shouting and shoving his weight against the gate to keep them out.
              “The half-elf only! You all wait outside!”
              “Damn you!” the crowd cried back. Aranthir held up his hands.
              “Everyone, stay calm. I will meet the burgomaster and the count and report back to you. But do not sour our agreement with the guard through anger.”
              The crowd shuffled back from the gate guiltily and the guard let Aranthir through. No sooner had Aranthir passed the gate did he slam it back into place and lock it. With a heavy sigh, he pointed Aranthir at the house’s door. 
              “The majordomo will greet you next. He can be a bit… difficult, I’ll warn you.”
              Aranthir snorted. “Aren’t they all.”
              The house’s door was a solid piece of oak carved with climbing vines and even little songbirds in the woodwork. He took a brass knocker sculpted in the shape of an owl’s head and rapped it against the door twice. After a length pause, the viewing slit slid open, and a pair of haughty eyes looked up at him. 
              “Who seeks an audience?” the majordomo asked with undisguised disdain. Aranthir wondered where the man had acquired the gall to act this way while serving as a mere burgomaster’s majordomo. Petarr’s staff had more decorum than this, he reminded himself. He opened his mouth to give his own name, then stopped. Might they recognize my name from the war? Will they turn me away without waiting to hear me out? Perhaps they will just try to kill me. Oh, what does it matter?
              “Aranthir of Ildranon,” he said at last. Even with only the man’s eyes exposed, Aranthir could see him sneer.
              “Please wait.” The slit slammed shut again and Aranthir sighed. He looked back to the crowd at the gate and gave them a cheery wave. They seemed altogether unamused. The wait dragged on and the crowd of the town’s luminaries grew increasingly restless. They began to harangue the poor guard once again until the door to the house creaked open. There stood the man with the majordomo’s eyes, a short, fat little man with a thin mustache and a balding head. Head tilted back, he peered along his fat nose at Aranthir with his hands clasped behind his back. Behind him were two soldiers in the livery of the local nobleman, hands on their swords.
              “Come with me,” the majordomo commanded. Aranthir stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Even King Petarr exhibited more humility. Were this snide little man king, he would have the entire realm aflame with rebellion within a week. He followed the majordomo down a hall adorned with paintings and tapestries and into a glass-walled conservatory. 
              The glass walls and domed ceiling caught and trapped the light such that even in the early spring, it was balmy inside. The room was filled with stone planter boxes sprouting with shrubs from all over the world. Potted plants and flowering vines hung from the ceiling and from the moment the majordomo opened the door, Aranthir’s nose was overwhelmed by exotic scents. 
              Carefully he stepped inside to find a gathering inside. The four men and one woman in the conservatory’s sitting area were even more richly dressed than the crowd at the gate. They wore richly dyed clothes of silk and velvet, some of them clearly sweaty in the heat. 
              The majordomo turned to the least well-dressed man there. “Sir, this half-blood vagabond is Aranthir of Ildranon. He claims he can exterminate the highwaymen for you.”
              Aranthir again suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against a planter box filled with ferns from the island of Paleas to the south. The majordomo bowed stiffly before his master and then left; his nose still held high. The burgomaster shifted in his wicker chair and looked to his companions, who all stared at Aranthir with suspicious hostility. They must remember me, Aranthir mused. 
              “So…” the burgomaster began, “you offer your services? At what price?”
              “That depends,” Aranthir replied. “On the nature of your problem. How many highwaymen? And how well-armed are they?”
              “Hold on a moment there,” exclaimed a tall man in black velvet, “We are no fools, we know your name.”
              “Aye,” hissed the woman, seated on her divan with a glass of golden wine in her hands, “You were at Pegia, in command of a hundred of the king’s horsemen.”
              “And at Ranmaur,” added another nobleman, a fat man with fleshy jowls that shook as he rose to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger, “You killed half a dozen of my knights! And you were at Murhayk! Cursed Murhayk, that still runs red with the blood of the flower of Saeclar’s youth!”
              “You come before us now?” the last man hissed, clutching a gentleman’s cane in his bony old hands. “To gloat? To finish what your master started?”
              Aranthir sighed heavily. “I come before you now in search of coin. The war is over. I care little for what preparations you are making here, when you raise your banners against Petarr again, I will not ride to his side. I have ridden under his banner before. More importantly, I have ridden alongside Paskor aban Rulsun—” the assembled nobles spat on the floor, the burgomaster muttering a profane oath under his breath, “and seen what the king’s dog does. I wish no more of their wars. Today, I am a humble sellsword in search of honest work. And I hear you have a highwayman problem.”
              The tall man sighed. “Indeed we do. They were routiers during the war, but now that the king’s truce is in effect, they have continued their banditry unabated. The king has refused to turn on what he calls his loyal servants, and with the new limit on lords’ retinues, we have not to the strength to drive them out.”
              “And the men who maintain great retinues in violation of the limit do not want to reveal to the king just how strong they are,” Aranthir added for him. Kasmarta said nothing and Aranthir laughed. “Fear not, for I have no love for the king. Your preparations will not be exposed by me, though I would not put much stock in their secrecy in any case. Petarr’s spies are thick as flies, and you have won little love from the commoners as it is. Your truce will be short-lived, so let us talk highwaymen and matters of payment.”
              “Very well. I want this dealt with quickly. If this goes on any longer, I fear the king will offer these brigands membership in the Blackcloaks.”
              “These men may be brigands, but they think themselves men of dignity. They would not stoop so low as to join the Realmsguard. Aban Rulsun’s reputation travels far.”
              “Not far enough,” the woman muttered. “We sent to the Assassins’ Colleges at Ildranon for a golden knife, but they have not replied. In the old days, they would have sent a man to do it free of charge.”
              Aranthir shook his head. They believe what legends of the assassins they want to here. The truth would only make them angry, and they are angry enough already. He kept his tongue still.
              “In any case,” the tall man went on, “I want to know where their base is. And,” he paused a moment, “they have a captive. My daughter.”
              Aranthir raised a quizzical eyebrow. These highwaymen were bolder than he thought. The tall man’s face reddened as he continued. 
              “Stolen out from under my nose on the road, just this morning!” he fumed. The woman rolled her entire head with dramatic flair. 
              “Oh, come off it, Kasmerta. Your daughter’s a well-known slut who likes to slum it. You won’t convince anyone that she didn’t run off with them.”
              Kasmerta rounded on his companion, his fists clenched at his side. He looked about to beat the woman to death and Aranthir cared not enough to save her. How these nobles survived with mouths like hers, he could not say.
              “Does the truth wound you?” she asked mockingly. “I only agreed to marry my dear boy Kaster to her because he likes her smile. And he’s no stranger to sluts, though usually of lower birth.”
              “I ought to have you flayed, Viscountess,” Kasmerta spat, choking off each word in a fury. The other nobles and the burgomaster shrank into their chairs as if they hoped to merge with the furniture and escape further notice. “Your boorish, spendthrift of a son should be begging on his hands and knees to marry a woman like Laila!”
              “A spendthrift? Which of the two of you was pleading for money when the king was knocking at your door?”
              “My money was spent on an army!” Kasmerta roared. The viscountess was unimpressed, but the others sank lower in their chairs. Aranthir bowed his head and rubbed his temples. “Your son spent money on what? Horses and whores?! Don’t you accuse me of profligacy!”
              “A wonder how Petarr managed to defeat the lot of you,” Aranthir muttered. Kasmerta and the viscountess turned their gazes upon him, and the other three lifted their heads from their chairs like turtles creeping forth from their shells. “But you’ve a kidnapped girl and presumably silver to pay my fee,” he went on. “And so, I will deal with these highwaymen for you. The king is your problem for another day. Tell me, how do they strike? What roads do they frequent, what targets do they attack?”
              Kasmerta visibly stabilized himself, while the viscountess studied the contents of her wine glass with a satisfied smirk. “Coaches,” he said at last, “they hide along wooded roads and in the rough ground toward the edges of the valley. They avoid the river, there are too many eyes to see them. They strike at men of wealth, leaving the peasants alone. And so, the peasants protect them, the ungrateful wretches. I’ve had them arrested, whipped, branded, hanged, but they won’t give up anything on these men. They think them delightful characters from some tale come to life.”
              “Stupid wretches,” the fat man growled. “My men captured a huntsman who surely knew something, but the overzealous brutes beat him to death before he would give up their location.”
              “Well, you are surely on top of things,” Aranthir replied acidly, “I think it a wonder that you even need me.”
              “Careful with your tone, vagabond,” the fat man snapped, “I’d just as soon beat you for the dead of Murhayk! I won’t easily forget a king’s man.”
              Aranthir shrugged. “His silver spent as easily as anyone else’s. But now you require someone with a lighter touch to find these highwaymen. And to rescue your dear daughter, Kasmerta.”
              “And they stole my ring,” the count added, as if he had just thought of it. “An enchanted ring that has been in my family since time immemorial. It is gold, with three dragon heads each holding in its mouth a ruby.” 
              Aranthir’s ears perked up. Had the three-eyed sorcerer known he would take this job? How? But wait…
              “Your ring was stolen this morning?” Aranthir asked.
              “Aye,” was the reply. Aranthir’s brow furrowed. The three-eyed sorcerer said I would find it in my travels, and that I would not have to steal it. Could it have known that the highwaymen would have it, even before they stole it?
              “The devils stole it right off my finger,” Kasmerta continued, oblivious to Aranthir’s confusion. “I’ll offer a reward of a five thalers for it. And ten for my daughter.”
              Aranthir suppressed the urge to sneer at his valuations. “And for the location of their base?”
              “Fifty thalers,” the fat man declared, “That is the price we agreed upon, Kasmerta, Viscountess? Is it not?” The two of them nodded their heads in agreement. 
              “Aye,” Kasmerta said softly. “Fifty thalers for their base, and five for each highwayman you account for, dead or in shackles.”
              “I’d offer a bonus for a live one,” the fat man murmured. His eyes flickered to the others as he realized he had spoken aloud. “I want to watch them dance at the end of a rope,” he hissed in reply to their gaze. He held his hand up behind himself in imitation of a noose, and made the face of a strangled man.
              Aranthir turned his eyes away from the fat man’s macabre imagination. “Very well, I accept your terms. What aid can I expect from you?”
              “Nothing until their base is discovered,” the viscountess replied haughtily. “We are paying a high price for your… expertise. I won’t have my soldiers doing your job for you.”
              “Understandable,” Aranthir replied in a voice of ice, “I’ll just kill them all myself. If you will excuse me, I see no profit in lingering here any longer.”
              “Just as well,” the viscountess sneered at his back as Aranthir headed for the door. “I grow tired of your stench.”
              Aranthir felt his hand drifting to his dagger, but reached the door before his patience ran out.
 
              Laila squealed with delight as the cock penetrated her tight young asshole. Shuddering, she clutched at the chest of the man beneath her. His name was Elnas, she had learned during her stay in the highwaymen’s camp, and he was very handsome. He had steel blue eyes, the same ones that had captivated her on the road, and a neatly trimmed beard that tickled her face when they kissed. He was tall and strong, with a well-toned chest that she thought more appropriate for a king’s statue than a real, flesh-and-blood man. 
              Yet what he did not possess was the cock in her ass. That belonged to his friend and constant companion, Boine. Boine was as handsome as Gelnas, though in his own way. Where Gelnas was sharp-featured and striking, Boine was soft and alluring. While Gelnas’ steel blues pierced her soul, Boine’s deep brown eyes promised to lure her in and drown her in his arms. It was how he had talked his way into her asshole.
              Gelnas looked up at her, holding her by the hips as she sat atop his cock.
              “Is that good?” he whispered, and Laila nodded with feverish delight. She had never taken too men at once before, but the highwaymen were both experienced and gentle. She felt their cocks throbbing inside her, Boine in her ass and Gelnas in her pink, shaven sex. Slowly they began to thrust into her, and she felt her whole body flush with excitement. Boine clutched at her little breasts, squeezing them in his broad hands and kissing at her neck. She felt the press of their hot bodies from both above and below, 
              Their hands caressing and clutching at her, and at each other. Laila lowered her head to kiss Gelnas on the mouth. His lips were soft and welcoming, and his beard tickled her again, eliciting a giggle that was stifled by the kiss. The men began to fuck faster, keeping time with each other so that Gelnas withdrew from her as Boine thrust into her. Her little body shuddered under the increasingly relentless pounding of their cocks and Laila moaned through Gelnas’ kisses. 
              Her pulse quickened. Her asshole was seething with pain, but the pleasure of having two cocks in her at once overwhelmed it. Laila clung to Gelnas as the two men built to a climax and they all spasmed at once. Laila squealed again, her whole body shaking as she felt two loads of cum spurt into her. Sweat coated her body as Boine rolled off her.
              “How was that, dear?” Gelnas asked, stroking Laila’s hair. Before she could reply, Boine leaned over and kissed Gelnas. 
              “That was wonderful,” he said. “We’ve come a long way from fumbling around in the aldorman’s barn.”
              Gelnas laughed and pulled his friend closer. Laila pressed her lips against theirs for a three-way kiss and they obliged. Still sweaty and with their cum dripping out of her two holes, Laila rolled off Gelnas and lay panting on the bed.
              They were in the bedroom of an old manor once owned by the Baron of Ganias. The old baron and his family had fled when the king’s armies came for them, and nature had set in soon after. The highwaymen had fallen far behind on the place’s maintenance. Weeds grew in the courtyard, birds had taken to nesting in the eaves, and the well crank had rusted, but the abandoned manor had a rustic charm to it that she found delightful. 
              Gelnas and Boine had spent the first night after the robbery in the woods with her on the orders of Elbian, who did not fully trust her. There, she had given herself over to them. The two men had taken turned fucking her and coming on her face beside a forest campfire under a canopy of stars. It had been everything Laila wanted in an adventure. In the morning, they dared Elbian’s wrath to bring her to the manor base. Elbian had accepted her with a shrug and a leer, but the other woman in the group, Anadra, still watched Laila with a suspicious eye. Laila thought the older woman envious of her youth, slender figure, and the attention lavished on her by the men. 
              “I had better get to the horses,” Gelnas said suddenly. He sat up, gave Laila and Boine a kiss on the check each and then began to dress himself. Boine lay lazily on the pile of bedding, stroking limp cock with one hand as he admired his friend’s bare backside. Laila rolled over on one elbow to watch.
              “When am I going out with you?” she asked as Gelnas pulled on his breeches. He shook his head.
              “Elbian is still wary. He thinks you might be a spy for your father.” Laila snorted. 
              “Father would never let me be anything so interesting. Besides, in the stories, spies are always given some test to prove their loyalty. They’ll say ‘prove you’re not the king’s man by killing one of his knights,’ and then the spy will have to fake killing the knight as a deception.”
              “So, we should have you kill one of your father’s knights?” Boine asked languidly. 
              “No, you should have me do something a real lady would never do, like take it up the ass from a commoner. Or two,” she giggled. Her backside was still smarting from Boine’s pounding and she rubbed it with a pleased smile.
              “Fair enough,” Gelnas said, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’ll ask him, but it may come at a price.” 
              Laila knew what that meant. The leader of the highwayman had been admiring her slender form since he first stopped the coach. She sat up and walked to the window. From the house atop a hill, she could see out over many miles of the valley. Somewhere in the distance, her father’s castle lay nestled among the rises and falls of the land. Down in the middle of the valley wound the dark blue band of the Walska River, flowing from the hills and eventually passing through the king’s own city of Daum Albor. 
              “Thinking of home?” Gelnas asked. Laila pulled her hair into a braid and looked away.
              “No,” she replied, though in truth she was. The highwaymen were making for a great adventure, and the sex was wonderful, but she found herself missing some of the comforts of home. Her friends would no doubt miss her, and she had not had a proper bath since the morning after the robbery. All the fucking and cum on her skin had left her smelling a bit rank. 
              The highwaymen must have seen her sniffing herself, for Gelnas said “We’ll head down to the stream when I’m done with the horses. I could use a bath myself.”
              “Aye,” Boine agreed, grabbing his shirt off the floor. “But first, we’ve some bits and bridles to attend to.”
              “Oh, yes,” Gelnas agreed. “And speaking of leather, we have something you might like to try later…” he gave Laila a significant look and she giggled mischievously. She felt her heart flutter again. With a laugh, they left and headed for the stables, leaving Laila all alone and naked in the bedroom. She could see them working in the stable from her window, along with all the other highwaymen going about their tasks in the manor’s yard. Gelnas and Boine has stripped off their shirts to move some things out of the stables, and Laila found their sweaty backs mesmerizing. She reached for an ivory-handled hairbrush.
              
              Crouching low in the dirt, Aranthir examined the hoofprints. They were deep and numerous, indicating fast moving riders, and recent as well. Yet they were quickly lost in the mess of the busy road. Hoofprints and footprints mingled in the damp dirt, cut through here and there by wheel marks that made his task harder. 
The peasants had been little help. Some of them clearly knew something, but sweet words and bribes alike had failed him. Even the tale of a damsel in distress would not move them. It was an attitude Aranthir knew all too well; when lords quarreled with kings, the commoners had little to gain and more to lose. 
              He surveyed the ambush site again. The highwaymen had prepared well, assembling brush to obscure positions for their archers and cutting through a tree trunk to quickly drop it across the road. They must have insiders to tell them the routes, Aranthir thought. Going to so much trouble to guard a small road through the forest would only be worth it if they knew their quarry would pass through here. He sat down on a rock and drew out his map. Here he had marked all the locations of the highwaymen’s ambushes. They favored the woods and the foothills of the valley, as the count and his companions had said. They kept to the west side of the valley as well, with only a single incident toward the center. Aranthir had been prowling the back roads for two days, mapping routes the escape routes from each of their sites. 
              He sighed. Had they left anything of note behind, he knew a spell to use. But it was no use. He marked the latest ambush site on his map and traced his finger along all the possible exits. Slowly, he began to see a pattern emerge. Each of the past ambush sites implied an escape route that ran through a crossroads in the foothills. He rolled up his map and stowed it away. It seemed as good a place as any to sit and wait.
 
              “Laila, you’re getting your wish,” Gelnas told her one morning after he and Boine had tended to the horses. Laila sat up in bed, the meager sheet falling away to expose her little breasts. That attracted Gelnas’ attention.
              “I’m going out with you?” she asked eagerly. She cast aside the bedsheet to sit naked amid the bedding, and Gelnas nodded.
              “Elbian heard from one of his spies, and the Baron Velidyr will be riding to his keep by the Barrows today. We will ambush him at the ruined inn.”
              “Baron Velidyr?” Laila asked with some trepidation. The man was familiar with her. Father had briefly considered him as a match for her, before the war and their meeting had not been one the baron was like to forget. Laila could see feel his beady, sunken eyes watching her every move as they peered out from his pallid, bloated face. 
              “You know the man?” Gelnas asked, kneeling next to her on the bed. He ran a callused hand down her soft flank and Laila flushed in spite of herself.
              “I do,” she replied, putting a hand on his as she attempted to block out the memory of the baron’s face. “He is an ugly man with hungry eyes. I’d be happy to never see him again.”
              “Would you be happier to take some of his gold?” Gelnas asked, sliding a hand between her legs. Laila smiled.
              “Nothing would wound him more.”
 
              Late that morning, Laila found herself crouching in the rotting ruin of an inn that overlooked a forgotten road in the woods. The trees were budding with spring, their branches reaching out over the road in a protective canopy, as if to shield the impending robbery from the eyes of the gods above. Laila felt her heart pounding in her chest. At last, she was living the life of a highwayman. This is better than the songs! she told herself. Someday, minstrels will tell tales of me, she thought as her eyes searched the old road for signs of the baron’s party.
              Gelnas and Boine were across the way, arrows nocked to their bows as they waited in the brush. Elbian had set two lookouts and hidden himself ahorse in the woods. Her head hidden under a hood and veil, Laila clutched her borrowed bow and pressed herself against the wall. In the distance, she heard the familiar snort of horses. They were coming.
              The coach rounded a bend into view, pulled by four horses and driven by a driver in a red cloak. Beside him sat a man with a glaive in his hands. Two more mounted men-at-arms in gleaming white harness rode behind the coach, each of them holding a lance topped with the baron’s pennant. They’re short no guards, just like Father, Laila thought. Elbian will rob him blind!
              There came a great creaking and cracking, and the tree that the highwaymen had prepared teetered on its trunk and crashed into the road. The coach driver pulled the horses to a halt and the men-at-arms spurred their horses forward to flank the coach. Lances leveled, their gleaming lanceheads darted about in search of an ambusher. But Elbian’s men were too fast. 
              A red-fletched arrow streaked into the neck of one of the horses. The animal screamed in agony and reared back, nearly spilling its rider into the road. From the brush, the highwaymen rushed forward. Laila sprang through the door with her bow at the ready.
              “Hold there!” cried Elbian, emerging from the forest at a canter with Anadra at his side. They both wore sabers at their hips but raised empty hands in greeting. The wounded horse staggered, and its rider deftly dismounted before he could be thrown off. The coach door opened, and the fat baron stormed out into the road, his fleshy rolls and jowls shaking under his black velvets. Wisps of white smoke puffed from his pipe and seeped from the door of his coach.
              “Damnable brigands!” he roared, and even from this distance Laila could feel the fury in his voice. “I’ll have you flayed alive!”
              Elbian laughed as he slowed his horse to a halt. He looked down at the fuming baron from his saddle and tipped his hat.
              “Good afternoon to you, sir!” the highwayman called, but his cheer did nothing to soothe the baron’s fury.
              “Come down here and fight me, you gutter-breeding whelp! I’ll pull your arms from their sockets!”
              “Father, no!” A young woman emerged from the coach behind the baron and Laila felt her breath catch. It was the baron’s daughter Mira, a plain and mousy woman she knew from a hundred balls and banquets throughout her life. Mira grabbed at her father’s heavy shoulders, but the taller and heavier man fought her off. He fumbled for the sword at his side but before he could draw it Elbian drew his own sword in a flash and laid it against the man’s neck.
              “I would advise against such intransigence, my good man,” he supplied with an easy smile. The baron released his sword with a furious look. Mira pulled him back toward the coach.
              “That’s a good man,” continued Elbian easily. “Now, if you’re just hand over your coin and valuables, my friends and I will be on our way, and you can continue about your day. How does that sound?”
              “It sounds like you’ll be begging for the gallows soon enough,” replied the baron with narrowed eyes.
              “Father, don’t anger them,” Mira urged quietly. Baron Velidyr’s face darkened in an impotent scowl and he glared daggers at the arquebusier.
              “Come on, man! Are you going to stand there all day?” the arquebusier replied with a helpless shrug, and the men-at-arms were no more eager to take on so many. “Thieves! All of you!” roared the baron. “You take my money and then just stand by when I am beset by brigands?!”
              As he fumed, the highwaymen tore into his coach, scattering the luggage about the road as they searched for gold and gems within them. The baron stalked about in the road, ranting and raving.
              Laila watched with concern as he drew up close to Elbian’s second, Suyren, the steel hidden by Elbian’s silk. The baron jabbed at accusatory finger at Suyren and roared once more.
              “You! You dare to rob me, brigand? When I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging for a quick death. I’ll feed what’s left of you to the dogs.”
              “Big words from the fat man,” Suyren spat, guiding his horse closer to the sputtering baron. “I wonder, are you are bold with your steel as with your words?” Suyren’s sword flashed out from its scabbard, and he slashed at the baron’s collar. A scrap of black velvet fluttered away. The baron stood still, his face a fearsome shade of red.
              “No words?” Suyren asked. He sheathed his saber with a mocking smile. “As I thought. Enjoy watching your things ride away with us.”
              Fuming, Baron Velidyr rushed the gap between them and seized Suyren’s horse by the reins. They struggled as Mira wailed and her father tried to tear Suyren from the horse but to no avail.
              Suyren kicked him in the face. The baron yelped in pain and fell to the road with a wet thud. Mira squeaked in fear and Laila herself gasp. The baron turned to his back, his face growing somehow redder. Mira cried out to him, but it was little use. The baron tore his blade from its scabbard and lunged at Suyren. Startled by his victim’s pluck, the highwayman only just managed to dart aside and draw his saber. The baron’s gleaming blade cut air, then slashed through the rump of Suyren’s horse. 
              The courser wailed in pain, joined immediately by its wounded counterpart, which bolted free of the man-at-arms’ grasp. The two wounded horses threatened to run wild in the road, and the other highwaymen turned from their plundering to look at the disturbance. Gelnas had a fistful of silver coins in one hand when Suyren’s panicking horse bowled him over. They flew from his hand, glittering in the forest sunlight, and all broke into chaos.
              The arquebusier leveled his weapon at Suyren, but was felled by an arrow to the neck. The baron’s two men-at-arms shouldered their lances, one afoot and the other ahorse. Arrows whistled from the trees around them, but all were defeated by their armor. Shattered shafts and blunted heads skipped off the polished plate and went skittering away into the forest. Elbian scrambled to mount his horse and the baron stabbed wildly at the fleeing Suyren. Laila stood stupefied on the inn’s porch. 
              Sabers flashed in the sunlight and the highwaymen closed in around the baron. The mounted man-at-arms dashed to his master’s aid, his lancehead slashing madly about. Boine caught it on the arm, and it cut apart his white sleeve to turn his swordarm red beneath it. Another, less fortunate highwayman took the lancepoint in his neck. 
              But the brave soldier was outnumbered and soon became surrounded. His horse was unarmored and soon enough brought to a halt. Gelnas pulled the man from his saddle and the highwaymen immobilized the poor soul. He thrashed and kicked, reaching for the long dagger at his hip, but it was no use. Roused to a murderous frenzy, the highwaymen abandoned their gentlemanly demeanor and stabbed blades into the gaps of his armor. Blood ran red over the shining plate and into the dirt.
              His compatriot discarded his lance and drew a blade, but quickly realized he was doomed. With his steed still disabled by the arrow, he went to work cutting a horse free from the coach’s yoke. The driver slumped from his seat with two arrows in his chest and fell to the road beside the terrified Mira. 
              Her father was apoplectic and oblivious to the demise of his servants. He charged ahead his man-at-arms was stabbed to death, blade held high for a wild slash. Suyren wheeled on him, horse under control at last, and spurred the animal to meet the baron’s charge.
              His saber flashed, blood sprayed, and the baron fell dead in the dirt. Mira screamed, Laila felt her own heart fall, and the forest fell still. The only sound was the last man-at-arms desperately hacking a coach horse free, and the sound of another arrow striking uselessly off his armor. Elbian looked from the dead baron to Suyren, holding a bloody sword and a satisfied smile.
              “Grab the gold, we must leave now,” he commanded. Boine tore off part of the baron’s coat for a bandage, but the other bandits went for the money. Elbian ignored the sobbing Mira to tear into the coach’s seats in search of more gold. Suyren dismounted and approached the crying woman.
              “Suyren,” called Elbian, “what are you doing?”
              “Plundering,” replied the other brigand. “Boine and Gelnas have their slut, I want one for myself.”
              “The first girl came willingly,” Elbian reminded him, hand on his sword. past their notice, the surviving man-at-arms at last freed a horse and mounted it, galloping off down the road as arrows streaked past him. He cut quickly through Laila’s vision, but she barely noticed, instead staring at the lifeless form of Baron Velidyr in the road. 
              “You will rob and kill a man, but not ravish his daughter?” Suyren sneered. “We are brigands, despite your pretensions of etiquette. Let us be brigands.”
              He reached down from his saddle and seized Mira by the arm. She screamed and beat useless at his grasp with her tear-streaked hands, but the highwayman was not to be denied. 
              “Suyren, let her go!” Elbian’s saber was in his hands. Suyren rounded on him, his own saber darting forward. He snared Elbian’s weapon beneath the crossguard and tore it from the man’s startled grasp. 
              “Forget it, Elbian,” call one of the archers, emerging from his hidden post to stand by the coach. “Let him take the girl and let’s get out of here. One of them got away.”
              “Aye,” said another archer. “We could do with another slut around the camp anyway. Highborn girls know the Ways of Nystra better than any but the priests.”
              Gelnas approached with an armful of plunder. “Suyren, we won’t keep the peasants’ love if we resort to this.”
              “Peasants? You think the peasants have any love for this girl? How many generations of peasants have endured lordlings riding down from their keeps for a night of fun in the villages, either for pay or an impromptu corvée? They will pay a silver a piece for a turn on her and a chance to give some back.”
              Laila could hear no more. A hundred conversations with Mira played through her head as Suyren hauled the girl over his saddlehorns. She ran forward and seized Suyren from the blind side. With a yelp of surprise, the man loosed his grip on Mira as Laila pulled hard at him. Wide-eyed, Suyren flailed about for a handhold and then fell to the ground. 
              “Run, Mira!” Laila cried. “Ride to safety!” 
              Mira needed no further encouraging. She clumsily hauled herself into the saddle and kicked the horse in its flanks. Suyren had made it to his feet and grabbed at her again, but between Mira’s desperation and the other highwaymen, she slipped his grasp and went galloping down the road.
              “Damn you!” Suyren roared. He wheeled on Laila and struck her across the face with a backhand slap. Her vision exploded with bright stars and she staggered back. “My horse! Bad enough you let her go, but that was a fine horse!”
              “Take the dead knight’s horse,” Elbian replied coldly. “We must go. Now.”
              “This slut has lost me my horse,” Suyren protested. His face a mask of cold rage, he stared down at Laila with murder in his eyes.
              “We will continue this discussion at camp,” Elbian declared. “Let us leave before any aid shows up.”
Laila took the opportunity to flee Suyren’s death glare and return to her horse behind the inn. In no time at all, they were all galloping away as fast as their horses would carry them.
 
              Not far from the ruined inn lay a crossroads where, not so long ago, someone had built a wooden watchtower. It was poorly maintained and quite ramshackle to begin with, but Aranthir had managed to climb his way to the top of it for a good view. The crossroads lay perhaps two hundred yards down the slope of a little hill from the tower, and he had turned his horse loose on the grassy hill to graze. From his precarious perch, Aranthir surveyed the woods and meadows within view. Not far from the first crossroads, in the other direction, was another junction of backwoods trails. Already he had seen a pair of hunters, or more likely poachers, making their way down the trails with a boar between them. 
              Besides the hunters and a simple peddler, Aranthir’s watch had seen nothing of interest pass by. The backwoods were deserted, and the peasants were out in the fields as winter gave way to spring and the fields needed tending to. So bored, Aranthir had slouched down in the watchtower, playing with the string of his horn-and-bone bow. It made an amusing twanging sound as he plucked at it, whiling away the hours under a warm early spring sun.
              It was movement in the far distance that caught is eye. Barely visible through the trees were the white shapes of men on horseback. Aranthir sat up straight, the bow falling from his lap to the worn planks of the watchtower’s floor. The horsemen were galloping and, even though he could only catch a glimpse of them here and there as they passed through open spaces in the treeline, he could make out their numbers well enough. They wore no lord’s colors that he knew of, and this was where he expected to find the highwaymen in any case. Moreover, they were heading toward him. 
              He snatched up his spyglass from his belt and put it to his eye. The white-clad figures leapt a half-mile closer to him and, following their path back to where they had come from, he could just make out the form of a coach in the road behind them.
              Apliss smiles upon me, my hunt is near its end, Aranthir thought with a smile. He stowed the spyglass and slung his bow over his shoulders before clambering down the ladder as fast as he dared. With elven grace, he leapt down the last half dozen rungs and whistled for his horse. The animal came obediently trotting toward him as Aranthir ran to meet it and swung into the saddle. He spied the riders again as they passed through an open meadow to his north and kicked the horse into a gallop. 
              The riders made a hard pace, winding through the backwoods trails and into the rugged foothills, but Aranthir kept pace with them and stayed out of sight as well. They were riding too fast to spend much time looking to their rear, but all the same he thrice dropped back as he gained on them and then picked up their trail from hoofprints later. It was after perhaps an hour of riding that they turned off the road and into an abandoned manor amid fallow vineyards. 
              Aranthir dismounted at a safe distance and tied up his steed. Crouching low in the brush as the sun sank toward the horizon, he approached the manor with all attendant stealth. A handful of highwaymen were gathered in the manor’s main yard, embroiled in a heated argument. At this distance, even Aranthir’s elven ears could not make out the nature of their dispute, though it was not heated enough to merit the drawing of swords. As best he could tell, it pitted two men against four of their fellows, while five more stood aloof, unable or unwilling to choose a side. As he picked his way close, the two men on the defensive threw down their caps and stormed off, leaving the rest to fume. 
              A man stepped forward and soothed the fuming quartet before dismissing them all with a wave of his hands. Bitterly, they dispersed to the tasks of maintaining a highwaymen base. Two men lifted pilfered coffers from their saddlebags and carried them into the manor house while another led the horses into a stable. Aranthir watched the money go with mild interest, but his mind was focused on counting their numbers. 
              The base was located, and the count’s main task was fulfilled. But Aranthir was not of a mind to just up and leave. He crept along the edge of the hill to a perch in the trees and drew out his spyglass. Passing the glass over the manor, he stopped when he spied through the window of one bedroom a naked woman. She was young and slender, with long flaxen hair bound up in braids about her head, and she was bound with ropes and leather straps. Her hands were bound behind her and her ankles tied together. Two men stood over her, naked and with their cocks in their hands. 
              Aranthir put away his spyglass and drew his sword.
 
              Laila knelt naked on the bedding. Gelnas and Boine had bound her in their leathers soon after arrival, eager to take their minds off the wronged ambush, but she could tell their hearts were not fully in it. Boine was stroking his cock with his wounded arm and wore a sad expression on his face, while Gelnas’ eager demeanor was clearly feigned. Yet Laila was ready to suck their cocks all the same. Gelnas held his hard cock out to her and she strained against her bonds trying to reach it with her mouth.
              From the hall outside came a sudden commotion and Laila drew back as the door burst open. In burst Suyren, followed close behind by Elbian. The lead bandit was irate and he stabbed an accusing finger at Laila, naked and bound with two men towering over her.
              “You!” sneered Suyren, “you must go. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived.”
              Elbian pulled at Suyren’s arm. “Come on, leave them be.”
              “I will not!” Suyren shoved him away and stepped toward Laila. She recoiled, and fell to the bedding as she tried to back away. Boine knelt beside her to undo her bindings, and Suyren continued to rage. “I am still not sure you are not a spy, despite your… attempts to ingratiate yourself. If you will not leave, perhaps you could make yourself useful.”
              He stepped closer still and shoved Boine away. The bindings on her arms had been loosened, but Laila was still unable to free her hands. Suyren loomed closer, his hungry eyes drinking in her naked, vulnerable form. She felt her cheeks flush and pulled her legs up to her chest to cover herself.
              “Suyren, leave before you do something you’ll regret,” called Elbian quietly.
              “What would I regret?” Suyren asked, turning to face the other three in turn. “And who will stop me?”
              In reply, an arrow streaked through the window and struck him in the throat. Suyren staggered and fell to the bedding beside Laila, his dark red lifeblood spilling across the floor. The others stood in shock and Laila stared into Suyren’s eyes as the light went out. 
              Someone leapt through the window. He was tall and slender, but showed the muscles of a warrior. He wore a brigandine coat with worn sallet helm atop his head, beneath which were two piercing emerald eyes that swept quickly over the room and all within. A flashing sword was in one hand while the other held a short bow, made not of wood but of horn and sinew. His features were sharp and fierce, like those of a hawk. 
              Elbian was the first to regain his senses. He drew his saber and stabbed at the stranger, but his thrust was easily batted aside. Boine and Gelnas forgot the bound Laila and scrambled to retrieve their swords from where they lay against the wall. The stranger shouldered his bow with a fluid, practiced move and grasped his longsword with both hands. Elbian withdrew toward the door, his saber ringing against the longsword as he desperately parried his attacker’s movements.
              Gelnas produced his saber from its scabbard, but as he turned to face the stranger, a dagger flashed forth and struck him in his naked belly. With an agonized cry, he dropped his blade and fell to the wooden floor with a thud. Blood rushed from his wound as he curled up and waited to die. Laila screamed, fighting against her bonds as she kicked Suyren’s dying bulk away. Boine had found his own sword, but when he saw Gelnas, he threw it aside and pulled Gelnas away from the fighting toward the side door.
              Meanwhile, the stranger dipped his swordpoint beneath Elbian’s guard and ran the highwaymen through up to the hilt. Elbian gasped, but did not scream. His saber clattered to the floor. The stranger twisted the blade in his belly and let him fall. He turned toward Laila, green eyes flashing.
              “Laila Kasmerta?” he asked in a lyrical voice that sent chills along her spine. She considered him a moment, feeling her hair standing on end. The stranger stepped toward Gelnas and Boine.
              “You know me?” she managed, fighting to sit up despite her bindings. 
              “Your father sent me to find you,” the stranger replied. 
              “A spy?!” Boine gasped. He stared at Laila with a wounded look on his face, almost as grievous as the one dealt to his lover. “I should have known,” he whispered harshly.
              “No!” Laila cried, fighting against the ropes, “I am not a spy!”
              “Suyren was right all along! I should never have been so stupid, and now Gelnas is going to die!”
              “No, you’ve got it all wrong!” Laila wailed. The stranger stood still, suspicious eyes ranging from Laila to the two naked highwaymen and back. “Boine, please! I don’t know this man!”
              “Well, he knows you!” Boine hauled Gelnas through the door and slammed it behind him. Laila stared at it in bewilderment.
              “They’ve got it all wrong,” she whispered to the closed door. 
              “And so have I,” the stranger replied. “But that is for another time. We must go before the others arrive.”
              He picked up Laila and slung her over his shoulder without waiting for a reply. She did not protest, feeling the Boine’s barbed words in her heart as the stranger crossed the room toward the window he had entered through, stopping only to take something from Elbian’s corpse. He lifted her through the window and followed close behind as shouts sounded in the manor and courtyard.
 
              Aranthir slung the girl over his shoulder and made for his horse as fast as he could. The bandits were stirring in the manor and he wanted to be hidden in the woods before they could restring their bows. The girl said nothing as he rushed down the grassy slope of the hill and through a hedge. He stopped on the far side and set her down on her bare feet to undo her bindings. She said nothing as he did, nor did she make an attempt to cover herself. Aranthir momentarily regretted not grabbing her clothes in the bedroom but the sight of her naked body was something to behold.
              She was slender and pale, with smooth, soft skin and little breasts with pink nipples. Her long flaxen hair was tied about her head, though a long strand of it had come loose as he carried her and now hung down the side of her face. Her green eyes would not meet his, instead staring sadly into the distance as he unbound her arms and legs. 
              “I am Aranthir of Ildranon,” he said by way of introduction, and she stirred from her stupor. “Your father sent me to find you and the highwaymen plaguing the valley.”
              “In that an order?” she asked bitterly. 
              “That is the order I chose,” Aranthir replied. He threw aside the ropes and leather, leaving her standing naked and free in the grass. “But you were not their prisoner after all.”
              “No, I was not,” she remarked with rising anger. “I ran away from my father to live with the highwaymen. But now that’s all ruined, thanks to you.”
              “Why did you run?”
              “My father does not understand me. He thinks only of his own plots against the king. I heard songs and folktales of the highwaymen. They live how they please, with no bonds to hold them to anyone else. They are free, as I should be.”
              “I am sorry. If I had known you were there willingly… Well, I am unsure of what I would have done. But the highwaymen must leave now.”
              “And what of me?” Laila asked. 
              “I will deliver you back to your father.”
              “I won’t go,” she declared with a stamp of her bare foot in the grass. Aranthir tried not to notice how it made her little breasts shake. He sighed.
              “The bandits are not likely to have you back now,” he said. “You might as well go home.”
              “They will take me back! They took me in to be free!”
              “They think you a spy. And with two of their number dead, there will be discord within the group. I know their type, they will fracture. They will flee to the next valley and split into smaller groups. The lords’ men will be coming for them. They must run, die in battle, or face the headsman. You have no future here, even if they would accept you into their company.”
              She made to reply, but stopped with her mouth half open. She stubbornly pressed her lips together and clenched her fists. She knows I’m right, Aranthir thought. I suppose what matters now is if she will admit it. The girl’s eyes grew wet and she sniffled. 
              “They will,” she told herself aloud.
              “Come along, girl,” he said as soothingly as he could. Aranthir put an arm around her bare waist and led her toward his horse, casting a cautious look over her shoulder toward the manor. No pursuit had materialized as yet, but he heard the shouts from the manor’s courtyard. “Whatever your earlier dispute with your father, he wants you back. I am headed there, as it is.”
              Laila snorted as she wiped her eyes. “That’s it? Just walk home naked and say I’m back?”
              “Would you give up the life of a noblewoman so easily? It’s not an easy life outside the castles and manors of the world.”
              “You seem to manage it,” Laila replied. They reached the horse and Aranthir lifted her into the saddle before climbing up. He seated himself in front of her and arranged her hands around his waist for security. 
              “I am not you,” he replied when he was settled. Laila set her lips in a pout, but said nothing more. Aranthir spurred the horse forward and cantered into the tree line as a trio of horsemen rode from the manor behind him. “But hold on. We must ride now.”
              He ducked low to avoid a hanging branch and then they were off. They wound along the foothill roads in silence, hearing only the calling of the birds and the beating of hooves beneath them. Aranthir put as much distance between himself and the manor as he could, but also took care to stay off the well-traveled routes. He rode through freshly tilled fields, pastures, streams, and thickets, doubling back where needed to leave a confusing trail.
              The sun sank low in the west and Aranthir came to a deserted farmstead. He cast a look over his shoulder and saw no signs of pursuit. He pulled the horse to a halt.
              “We’ll rest here for the night,” he declared. Laila said nothing, but nodded her head. He helped her down from the horse, finding a soft patch of ground for her bare feet to land in. Together, they led the horse behind the stable, out of view from the road. He set up camp in the house and made a watchful circuit of the fields before returning to cook their meal.
              Laila crouched in the corner, wrapped in a blanket to shield herself from the chill night air. Her face was taut and her lips still set in her pout. Aranthir had little to offer her but food. She turned up her nose at it, so he set it beside her for later and ate his own.
              When finished, he walked the property again and returned to find Laila picking at her food, staring sullenly into the fire. Her long, bare legs stretched out from under her blanket, glowing in the firelight. He sat down across from her and she looked up at him.
              “Take me with you,” she said. Aranthir shook his head.
              “The life of a mercenary is not kind to a lady such as yourself.”
              “I lived the life of a highwaymen,” she countered. She shifted to face him and the blanket slid from her shoulder, baring on little breast in the firelight. 
              “For a week,” Aranthir replied, “I have lived this life for nearly twenty years so far. Believe me when I tell you, you are not suited to it.”
              Laila scowled and bit her lower lip. “I won’t go home,” she declared. “You can’t make me.”
              Aranthir settled back against the wall of the farmhouse. “I’m afraid I can.”
              She stood up, the blanket sliding from her naked body to the floor. The orange firelight played across her pale form, stirring feelings of lust in Aranthir.
              “I could run off right now. You wouldn’t stop me.”
              “Naked, at night, and in bandit country? You’ll be a someone’s fuckslave by morning. Even if I didn’t have my horse. Sit down, finish your food, and we’ll reach your father’s castle in the morn.”
              “I don’t want to go back!” she spat at him. He was fast losing patience.
              “Sit down or I’ll tie you up again.” Her eyes narrowed. 
              “You wouldn’t dare.”
              “Try me,” he replied casually. Laila set her jaw and clenched her fists by her naked hips. She stared at him for a long, hard moment as he sat against the wall, then she bolted for the door. Aranthir sprang up from his seat and gave chase, catching her with the door half open. He threw his arms about Laila and hauled her from the ground, her naked legs kicking uselessly in the air.
              “Let me go!” she screamed. Aranthir’s breath caught and his eyes scanned the darkened woods around them for signs of someone who might have heard.
              He was aware of what he looked like; an armed man dragging a naked, screaming girl into a house, and could only hope that there was no one nearby to see. He would hate to have to kill anyone who didn’t believe his story. And he just knew the girl would not be above lies if she thought she might escape his grasp.
              “How dare you!” she cried, and he clapped a hand over her mouth. His arms dug in under her breasts, her skin soft to the touch. Ignoring her muffled cries of protest, Aranthir wrestled her back through the door and kicked it closed. She went limp in his arms and he lowered her to the floor with himself atop her.
              “Will you stop now?” he asked, straddling her as he dug through his pack for a length of rope. “Or must I spank you like an unruly child?”
              Her cheeks reddened at that and he felt her heart quicken. Oh, she likes the thought of that, he mused with a smile. He uncovered her mouth and she pushed her lips together in a pout.
              “Do not speak of spanking me, sirrah. I am a highborn lady. Remember your place.”
              Aranthir snorted in amusement. “You are a spoiled brat.”
              “How dare you?!” She cried again, thrashing about in outrage. Aranthir pulled three cords from his pack, ignoring her flailing.
              “Give me your hands.”
              “What? Why?!” she demanded, turning over. Her white little breasts were flushed and he could hardly take his eyes off them.
              “Because I don’t trust you not to run off while I sleep.”
              “You will not bind me!” she cried. “I am no slave!”
              “Fine, don’t cooperate,” he said, and grabbed her hands. She screamed in indignant fury, kicking her legs beneath him as she fought, but he easily overpowered her. She spat a stream of curses at him while he bound her hands and feet and carried her back to the fire where he sat her down with her hands tied behind her back. 
              “There,” he said after setting her down. “Now perhaps we can get a good night’s sleep.”
              Laila stared murder at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her long hair wild. She flopped to the side and began worming her way to the door.
              “You look ridiculous,” Aranthir sighed. She made no reply but to grunt with exertion, her slender body writhing in the firelight. He desired her something fierce, and felt his cock hardening against his leg. But he merely watched her make agonizingly slow progress toward the door until at last she reached it and stopped. 
              “Now what?” he asked, and she whined in frustration. “You didn’t think this far ahead, did you?”
              She turned her head to look back at him through the tangle of her hair.
              “I told you you were not cut out for the bandit life.” He rose and stood over her. “Will you stop fighting now?”
              He picked her up and carried her back to the fire.
              “Sit there and go to sleep.”
              “I don’t have to listen to you,” she muttered petulantly. Aranthir plucked at her rope bindings and laughed.
              “I’m afraid you have no other choice now.”
              Her scowl deepened, but she said nothing more. Aranthir sat himself down again and watched her. She no longer struggled against her bonds, instead staring into the fire with angry defeat on her face. Her body was smeared with dirt and dust from the floor and her wild hair called for someone to tame it. 
              He moved closer to her, and she turned her glare against him. 
              “Now what?” she snapped. Aranthir could only sigh.
              “I thought to brush your hair. Make you look more presentable to your father. Rather than like a wild animal I dragged out of the woods,” he finished acidly.
              “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. With a roll of his eyes, Aranthir crossed the hearth again and lay down before the fire.
              “I’ve had enough of you for one day. I rest now, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
              She scowled but did not reply. Aranthir closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come, but was soon disturbed by the sound of Laila again worming her way across the floor. He sighed to himself but did not stir. She could neither break her bindings nor open the door, and so he had nothing to worry about.
              Until she kicked him in the back. From her quiet gasp of pain, she seemed to hurt herself against his cuirass more than she hurt him, but he sat up with a start all the same. 
              She had dragged herself across the hearth toward him and coiled her bound legs beneath her for a strike. Their eyes met and she scowled at him defiantly. 
              Aranthir rose to his feet and grabbed her by the ropes.
              “Leave me alone!” she cried as he hauled her across the room.
              “Like you did to me?” he shot back. He sat her up against one of the room’s pillars and returned to his pack for more rope. 
              “If you hadn’t abducted me, you could sleep just fine by yourself.”
              “Well,” he retorted, standing over her with the rope. “If you hadn’t run off to play bandit, I wouldn’t have been hired to bring you back. So I suppose we’re both at fault. Now, are you going to behave yourself when I tie you up again, or should I bend you over and spank you?”
              Laila looked away and bit her lower lip. “Take me back,” she insisted quietly. Aranthir sighed.
              “Stubborn brat,” he muttered. Laila reared up onto her butt and swung her legs at him, He grunted as she struck him in the knees.
              “Oh, now you’re just asking for it,” he growled with exasperation. She squealed in indignation as he seized her by her long hair and hauled her over to raise up her ass.
              “Don’t you dare!” she cried as his hand rose up, palm out. He brought it down on her smooth white ass and the slap echoed about the room. Laila’s eyes went wide. Her legs quivered and she looked up to him, her mouth working futilely to form words. 
              “Are you going to behave now?” he demanded. She spat at him. Aranthir slapped her taut round ass again. Laila screamed and kicked, her bound body thrashing about in the ropes as she fought against him to no avail. Aranthir lifted her off the dusty floor and bent her over his knee, feeling his frustration and lust come out of him all at once. His hand rose and fell against her, reddening her white flesh as she screamed in his grasp.
              Her screams died away in throaty growls of lust, and he ceased his spanking. He grabbed her by the throat and turned her around to look him in the eye. Her green eyes flared with fire in the light of the hearth.
              “More?” he inquired, and she stared hungrily at him.
              “Fuck me,” she hissed, and he could only oblige. 
              He stood up suddenly, throwing her to the floor with a squeal. His armor clattered to the floor and his clothing followed close behind. Laila stared up at him with hungry eyes of jade. When his stiff cock fell from his trousers she licked her lips in anticipation.
              Naked, Aranthir knelt down on her chest and held his cock out before her lips. Laila strained against her bonds to touch her lips to it, and he fed it into her waiting mouth. Pink lips and a red tongue embraced his cock. He saw her eyes light up in delight and she smiled around the girth in her mouth. Aranthir felt her nipples against his leg as he sat upon her and watched, but a desire for the girl soon overwhelmed him. 
              He seized her head and held her steady for him to fuck her mouth. He thrust his cock into her waiting mouth, slapping his stomach against her pretty young face. Laila moaned with desire and, looking behind him, he saw her sex dripping between her legs. Aranthir pulled on her hair like a horse’s reins, driving his cock deep into her throat until his balls slapped against her chin. She moaned again, her tongue sliding all the way down the bottom of his shaft.
              When he pulled himself out, trailing a line of spittle, she turned her face up to his.
              “Fuck me!” she cried, and he could not deny her any longer. 
              He flipped her over and raised her up on her knees, holding her by the ropes about her arms and presenting to himself her wet pink purse lips. He pressed the head of his cock against her lips and pushed it inside her. 
Laila’s throat reverberated with wordless hunger for him, screaming to the far wall of the house in ecstatic fury. “Fuck me, mercenary!” she cried as he sank into her up to the base of his cock. Her long, wild hair lay splayed across her back, and Aranthir swept it aside to see the titillating expanse of her smooth white skin. He turned her head back to face him as he fucked, and her face was a masked of unrestrained desire.
              “Don’t stop, harder, harder!” was all that she could say and he did as they both desire. His hips slapped against hers, his cock throbbed in the warm, silky purse between her legs, and her little breasts shook on her chest. He reached down to pinch one little pink nipple between his fingers. Laila squealed and shuddered, her green eyes rolling back into her head. 
              Her ass, already reddened from the spanking, was now flushed all over as if she had been burned. She does indeed burn with desire for me, he thought to himself. And I for her. It has been so long since I’ve desired a woman like this. Her bratty insolence has only inflamed my desire for her. 
              All the frustration he had endured with her was now worth it. He desired little more than to pound her, punish her, master her little body for his own desire. And she submitted to him utterly, as hungry to be fucked and punished as he was to offer it. She gritted her teeth and squealed again, her sex growing somehow even wetter and hotter than it had already been. 
              It was too much for him. Nystra’s Tits, I’m coming!
              “I’m going to come!” he gasped. Laila’s eyes widened and he felt her clench herself around his cock.
              “No, not yet! Let me get on top of you!”
              He was not ready for this to be over, he knew, but it required all his willpower to pull out on the verge of climax. He seized his throbbing cock in one hand and pulled out of her, and not a moment too soon. For a few pained heartbeats, he thought he was too late and expected to see himself spurting cum all over her shapely white ass.
But he gained control of his cock, and he felt the fuck frenzy retreat ever so slightly from his mind. He would not let it go far.
              He yanked violently at the ropes binding Laila’s legs, pulling on the knots in frenzied desire. With practiced knotsmanship, he had tied them for easy release, but in the throes of lust he now found them harder than expected to untie. He looked to his discarded clothes, thinking to use a dagger to cut them free, but at last the ropes gave way and Laila threw her legs open wide.
              “Lay down,” she said, struggling to stand with her arms still bound. Yet in her lust she ignored those bindings, her eyes focused wholly on the cock that had been inside her. “Lay down and let me ride you.”
Aranthir did just that, kicking aside his clothes to make space for himself. Laila straddled him, his hard cock standing up between her butt cheeks as she rubbed herself against it. She raised her sex above him and tried to lower herself onto it, but the stiff cock flopped free and she growled in frustration.
              “Hold still,” Aranthir commanded, and he seized his cock in one hand to hold it steady for her. With his other hand clutching her little breasts, she lowered herself onto him successfully this time, and began to ride. She rose and fell on his cock, moaning with wordless delight as he clutched at her little breasts, slapped her red ass, and fingered her swollen sex. Laila rode with her head thrown back toward the ceiling, her spine straight and her knees wedged into Aranthir’s flank as she bounced up and down on his cock. 
              Aranthir held her under her armpits, thumbs playing with her nipples as he lifted her up and dropped her back down. Laila turned herself to look back down at him, and she smiled a suddenly bashful smile as his cock penetrated her pink purse. Aranthir’s reached up and wound a hand through her long hair.
He pulled her down to lie atop him, feeling her hot breath on his neck. She kissed his neck, moaning into his ear.
              “Untie me,” she whispered. “I would hold you in my arms, master half-elf.”
              “Aranthir,” he whispered back, fingers working at her bonds again. Her arms bucked with each of his thrusts into her, but he undid the knots faster than he had before.
              As her bonds came undone, her arms spilled from behind her, wrapping around him and as she showed kisses on his neck. “Hold me, Aranthir, kiss me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she whispered in a rush, her hot words searing against his neck. Her fingernails dug into his flanks and he thought he felt blood but did not care. His arms crushed the girl against him, slamming his cock into her warm, wet purse with all the lusty might he could summon to his mortal body. 
              Laila kissed him, pressing her mouth against his in a hot embrace as they fucked on the floor. She ran her delicate fingers through his hair, and he pulled on her long locks while slamming himself into her. She gasped as he pinched her nipples again, she squealed when he stuck two fingers into her purse as he fucked. 
              Laila planted her hands on the floor behind him and stared him in the eye as they fucked each other. The slapping of flesh on flesh resounded throughout the house, and Aranthir was suddenly away that the highwaymen were still out there. But he could not bring himself to care as he looked upon the naked girl riding his cock, biting her lip to stifle a scream as he legs quivered and her little breasts bounced on her smooth white chest. His mouth dove for those breasts, taking one little pink nipple in his mouth, biting it, sucking it, flicking it with his tongue. He heard Laila’s gasp as her mouth dropped open in shock. She trembled in his arms.
              “Oh, gods! Oh, Nystra’s Tits, I’m coming!” she screamed and Aranthir feared her screams would at last give them away to the highwaymen. “Oh, Nystra, oh, fuck, oh Nystra!” She balled up one little fist and punched it into his chest. Aranthir grunted in surprise, but did not protest.
              Her quivering slowed and she brushed her face clear of the long strands of hair that danced about her slender form. She sat somewhat sheepishly atop his cock, her cheeks flushed red with exertion and her breasts red from the pain. Aranthir clasped her about the hips and fucked her wet sex. Laila weakly braced herself against his chest as she lolled about atop him, drunk and unsteady with orgasmic headiness. She teetered forward with an exhausted smile and fell into his embrace once again. Aranthir rolled her onto her back and kissed her lips. Laila’s arms embraced him once again and soon enough, her fingers were digging into his back again. He felt her nails dig deep, then felt the faint sensation of blood on his back. 
              Laila squealed again, and for Aranthir it was enough. He shoved himself off her, he came deep inside her with a roar of satisfaction. Laila squeezed him close with her arms and legs, arching her back as he filled her up inside. 
              He rolled off her, leaving a line of cum on her leg, and lay beside her by the fire. Laila rested her head on his chest, lazily drawing designs in the sweat with one finger. He kissed her cheek and pulled one bare leg over him.
              “You’re not going to run away in the night now, are you?” he asked dreamily.
              “I can hardly walk,” she murmured as she lay against him. “Dawn will take all night to arrive but it will still be too soon. Lay with me here as long as we can.”
              “Of course, girl,” he said and blessed her brow with a soft kiss. “Go to sleep now.”
              Aranthir felt sleep coming for him quickly. He spared a moment’s thought to tie the girl up again, but the warm embrace before the fire was too sweet for him to ruin. If she runs off naked, she won’t get far, he told himself as sleep claimed him.
 
              When morning came, they still lay together before the dead fire in the same warm embrace. Aranthir smiled to himself. Perhaps she is finally tamed. Nothing a good fuck couldn’t cure. 
              They headed for the count’s castle, arriving in the midday. Laila was wearing a peasant’s dress Aranthir bought from a laundress for a silver, and as such was not immediately recognized by the guards, but they happily let her in once they did. Aranthir rode into the courtyard of the castle where the count waited, surrounded by thirty men-at-arms and sergeants, all armed and arrayed for battle.
              “Laila!” the count cried, rushing forward to embrace his daughter as she climbed down from the saddle. “I thought I had lost you.”
              “I… thought the better of things, Father,” was all the answer she could manage.
              “Do not worry, dear. We will forget what was said between us. I am just glad you are returned to me.” He turned to Aranthir. “You found their base?”
              “I did. There is an old manor on the west side of the valley, atop a hill surrounded by vineyards.”
              “I know the place. The Hajelins are distant cousins of ours, though I fear I may never see them again. How many of them did you slay?”
              “Two, perhaps a third.” Aranthir shrugged. “Your daughter’s safety was more important.”
              “Indeed. Well, I will have your coin all the same. Ailfein, pay the elf as ordered.” Aranthir waited while the coin was counted out and handed to him.
              “If you are looking for more coin,” the count said as he took the money from his clerk. “I will have need of good captains soon enough.
              Aranthir sighed as he stowed the coins in his saddlebag. “You should know your rebellion is doomed.”
              “Who have you told?” the count demanded, his eyes narrowing. His hand went to the sword at his hip and his guardsmen followed suit.
              “No one,” said Aranthir with a shrug. “I merely observe. Petarr defeated the best of you last year. Those who remain are the dregs of the realm. Old, foolish, disinterested, brash… you won’t last three months in the field against him and when he defeats you again, he’ll take your lands, your titles, perhaps even your lives. For you dear daughter’s sake, swallow your pride and come to an agreement with him.”
              “The tyrant? Never! You’ve seen what he’s like. You’ve seen the brigands he has unleashed on the realm.”
              “I don’t expect you to listen,” Aranthir continued, “but I had to say my piece. I have returned your daughter, try not to lose her again. I will not be able to help you next time, for I intend to leave this kingdom behind and go east for a while. Apliss keep you in Her favor. Lady Laila, I wish you good fortune.”
              “And good fortune to you, Aranthir of Ildranon.”
              He turned his horse about and rode away.
 
              The following night, Aranthir waited in the courtyard of the ruined vineyard. The sign of the Hunter had dropped low to the horizon, hanging just above the hills to the west. Aranthir had arrived in the late afternoon to find the place deserted but for a family of badgers nesting under a shed. He stabled his horse and built a fire to wait.
Night came slowly to the abandoned vineyard, and Aranthir was idly playing cards against himself when he heard his horse snort fitfully. He dropped the cards and drew his sword. From up the south road came a familiar sight, the strange, hooded creature hobbling along with its gnarled old staff for support.
              It stopped at the vineyard’s gate, two yellow eyes looking into the yard before the house, and shifted on its feet.
              “Ho there,” Aranthir called. “You were a long time in coming.”
              “Time?” the creature asked. “What time do you speak of?”
              “Never mind that,” Aranthir replied. He produced the ring from his pocket and held it out as he approached. “I have done as you asked. Here is your ring. Now, in exchange, how about you explain yourself?”
              “What’s this?” the creature asked hobbling toward him in its strange sideways shuffle. It peered at the ring with curiosity, extending one frail, withered hand to pluck it from his grasp.
              “You told me to bring this to you here.”
              “I did not, though I am happy to receive the gift.” Its third open flicked open. 
              “You did not? I met you on the west road eight days ago.”
              “Did you? Eight days ago, I was far away from here, and not to the west,” replied the creature. It sat down in the dirt, holding the ring in its hand, and studying it most intently with all three eyes.
              “Are there more of you?” Aranthir asked. 
              “More of my kind, but I am the only one of myself.”
              “Why is it that I have never heard of your kind, then?” Aranthir demanded.
              “We do not often cross the vale,” the creature replied.
              “You live in these hills then?”
              The creature laughed. “We live where you cannot go.”
              “And where is that? I can go many places. You might be surprised.”
              “Surprised indeed if you came to my home. Perhaps next time I will explain, or perhaps I already have.”
              “Speak sense,” Aranthir demanded. The creature shrugged its little shoulders.
              “I am afraid I cannot.” It hopped to its feet and the ring vanished into the dark depths of its cloak. “I must be going now, but it was most a most pleasing introduction between us.”
              “Where are you going?” Aranthir snapped, his frustration mounting with the cryptic little creature.
              “You would not know the name, but someday I may see you there. So long.” 
              Aranthir stepped forward, hoping to seize the creature and demand some straight answers, but it thrust one clawed hand up toward the sky and from above a ray of light fell on it. Aranthir followed the pearly lance up its lengths and saw that it came from Verinusa, the morning star. The creature cackled, its third eye shining brightly, and it streaked up into the sky and was gone.
 