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byThe clashing of swords was nothing new to
Remel Seldago's dreams. He was, after all, one of the most decorated
sword masters in the realm. The best, some said, at least when he was
sober. Yet as streams of morning sunlight flooded through the shutter cracks
of his second story room at the Stuck Pig Inn--a terrible name for an
establishment housing some of the finest whores in all of Erna--he realized
something was amiss, other than his throbbing headache. He was awake, he
knew now, yet the sounds of steel on steel remained, and as the fuzziness of
the prior night's ale continued to wear off he was keenly aware of other sounds;
shouting, screaming, windows breaking, folk begging for mercy...the sounds of
war. Remel jumped from the large bed, the finest
available at the Stuck Pig, naked as the day he was born, and rushed to the
window, throwing back the shutters. It took a moment to comprehend what
he saw. Scores of soldiers, clad in red and black armor with matching
pointed helmets, the Lion of Southstar adorning their banners and
breastplates. They were everywhere, pouring through the streets like a
mad hoard of ants attacking a dead carcass, fighting with the City Guard, as
well as the commoners, and burning houses and inns and anything else that could
be put to the torch. Reports had put the rebel army at least a
week away, maybe more. How had they moved so quickly to descend upon the
capital, and more importantly, how had they breached the city walls?
Remel suddenly wished it were a bad dream, wished he would wake up any time now
with a nice case of morning arousal, next to the whore who had shared his bed
last night. Adelia was her name. Or was it Annabella? It
mattered not at the moment. As a sworn brother of the King's Watch it was
his duty to protect the king and be by his side in times of crisis.
Judging from the chaos in the streets below and as far as he could see across
the city, the time of crisis had arrived. He turned away from the window
to dress. A quick scan of the room only revealed the
whore’s dress, yellow silk with black lace trimming, thrown lazily over the
foot of the bed. It was only then that Remel noticed she was no longer in
the room. "Just like a whore to leave in the dead of night," he
muttered, and chuckled slightly, despite the bedlam outside, wondering where a
naked whore may store her coin. He could think of a few places. She
no doubt wouldn't forget her earnings...and gods did she earn them! He
had paid dearly for her, but was with no regrets, as usual. Yet he was
surprised she had left her dress. A memento perhaps? He grinned at
the thought. A high pitched scream, followed by the
sound of glass shattering brought him back to the here and now.
"Damn ale," he cursed, shaking his head despite the pounding inside.
His wits were needed at a time like this, yet here he was, thinking of whores
and dresses and muses. He walked to the nightstand, trying to pull
his tousled blonde locks into some sort of order, looking for his hair
brooch. His scalp hurt, he noticed, and his memory was still a little
foggy, but he thought he remembered his hair being pulled rather harshly last
night. Upon further thought, it may have been the night before last, with
Susanna…or was it Shavonna? He couldn't remember. In any case his
hair was all in tangles. He brushed it from his face as best he could,
tucking it behind his ears while he searched. The nightstand was bare upon inspection,
however, and his brooch was nowhere in sight. Devante Montero, his mentor
and teacher, had made it special for him, a small, fine polished silver plate
with his initial engraved on it, woven into the leather chord that held his
hair. He checked the floor, thinking he may have thrown it off in haste,
as he had his trousers, but the floor was empty, other than a few dust balls in
the corner. Remel furrowed his brow, slightly puzzled,
noticing just how bare his room seemed to be. He walked to the bed and
threw back the blankets, looking for his trousers, looking for anything he
owned, but only found a few strands of red hair from his previous evening's
companion. A quick scan of the wardrobe revealed nothing but his sword
and scabbard, something he would need very soon, no doubt, and breathed a sigh
of relief that it was not gone. He searched the entire room, yet his
clothing was nowhere, nor was his purse and his boots. Could the whore
have stolen them, and his brooch? Why take his belongings, yet not his
sword, the most expensive piece in the room? Women were afraid of swords,
maybe that was the answer, but with his head pounding as it was it was hard to
think of answers. Still, he tried to make sense of it.
His jerkin was made of boiled leather, with a gold-plated eagle--the sigil of
House Flores, and his King, Nicolas--worked into the front, its eyes made of
rubies. It would make a treasure for some. The possibility of a few
loose gold coins in his trousers would make them worth stealing, along with his
purse, and his newly made boots, with their steel tips and gold spurs would
fetch near ten gold marks. His shirt was fine silk, along with his
doublet... "I'll be damned!" Remel groaned
through gritted teeth, pounding a fist on the empty night stand.
"The blasted woman left me with only my sword!" In another time
he would have found the situation amusing. Devante, who after his father
died when Remel was young, had been the only father figure in his life, had
often said his drinking, womanizing and gambling would someday lead him to be
shirtless and poor, with only his sword to warm his bed at night. But at
a time like this he found no humor in it. He needed to be by Nicolas's
side as soon as possible--no doubt where Devante would already be, the ever
consummate professional he was--yet he'd look like a complete fool running to
the castle naked, even if he made it that far with the carnage in the streets. A loud thud shook the door to his room
nearly from its hinges. Remel spun around, grabbing his sword and
unsheathing it in the process. “Prick,” he called it, which seemed
fitting, naming his sword after the only thing he liked to stab with better
than it. Another thud followed, along with a mumbled curse on the other
side. A final thud brought the door crashing into the room, followed by a
soldier in red and black armor, sword and shield in hand. He took the
room in at a glance and focused on Remel, naturally, since the room was as bare
as Remel’s ass at the moment. A smile broke from under the man’s
half-helm. "Oh, I’ve truly seen it all" he
said with a chuckle. "The regal and honorable naked soldiers of Remel didn't respond to the taunt.
Instead, he took his fighting stance, albeit naked, feeling more than a little uncomfortable
and exposed. Sure, he'd fought with no armor on occasion, hung over
frequently, but never naked. Unfortunately he had no choice at the
moment. The soldier advanced on Remel, lazily,
anticipating an easy kill, and took an overhead hack when he was only a few
feet away. Remel quickly sidestepped, letting his enemy’s blade just
miss. A good sword master always let his opponent think he was close to a
kill. It was an easy escape, one he'd made many times, yet naked he
realized just how close he'd been to losing his manhood--or any reason to live
for that matter. Normally it was safe and tucked away in his
trousers. Yet naked it was flopping about like a fish out of water, easy
prey for even the worst of swordsmen. The thought made him shudder.
There would be no time for games with this fellow. Remel ducked his
opponent’s next move, a backhanded slice meant to take off his head, took the
man's shield with his free hand and rammed into his exposed chin. Teeth,
blood, and a mumbled curse spewed from his mouth all at once. Remel
wasted no time. His sword sliced through the man's neck and bone like a
warm knife through butter, ending the curses and screams as he fell to the
ground with a thud. Smoke began to pour through the windows,
heavy and black. It was a shame. The Stuck Pig was a fine inn and
deserved a better fate. The man Remel had killed was fairly small, but he
had the idea to steal his clothes, or at least his trousers and boots.
That is, until flames began to engulf the window treatments and ceiling beams.
There would be no time to discard the man’s armor, unclothe him, and clothe
himself. The heat of the increasing flames
intensified quickly. It had been an especially dry summer and the flames
consumed the dry wood like a starved dog. Remel cursed, resigning to the
fact he would have to survive the ordeal naked, and made for the door. At
the last moment the yellow from the dress caught his eye and he looked back,
pausing, thinking. Maybe he didn't have to flee to the castle
naked. It was almost unimaginable, but he strode quickly to the bed and
picked up the dress. The silk felt soft in his rough, callused hands and
still smelled like whatever her name was. There was a pair of matching
yellow slippers under the dress, along with a set of white, cotton stockings.
He paid them no mind and instead looked over the dress. Annabella--or was
it Adelia--wasn’t overly tall for a woman, yet she wasn’t short either.
He was fairly confident he could at least get the dress on. How it would
look on him was another matter. That he actually cared how it looked on
him was a matter he would take up with himself another time. The heat continued to intensify.
"Naked or dressed like a woman," he muttered, sweat streaming down
his face. Could one option be less embarrassing than the next? He
pulled the dress over his head. There was no more time for thought.
It was tight fitting under his armpits, and there were two saggy areas on the
chest that he couldn’t quite fill out. No man could have filled them
out…well except for maybe the king’s fool Mattwitz, who had the unfortunate
nickname of “fat tits” among the castle servants. For the most part the dress felt
comfortable. He took a few practice cuts with his sword to test it
out. With no undergarment he still felt vulnerable around his
manhood. "Damn it all," he swore, grabbing the cotton
stockings. It would certainly be an added embarrassment, but he needed to
be comfortable to make his way to the king. He pulled on the right
stocking quickly and forcefully, ripping a hole through the foot in the process
and did the same with his left, before pulling them up to his waist. He
yanked the ripped bottoms up over his knees. Adelia, or Annabella, or
whatever her name was, must not have had as long of legs as he remembered.
The stocking were uncomfortably snug all over, especially around his manhood,
forcing him to adjust himself three times before he was able to make them
tolerable. He took another practice swing, more
forcefully this time, and was rewarded with a splinter in his heel. He
pulled it free and threw it across the room, happy that it would eventually
burn with the rest of the inn. The slippers looked too small, but he'd
already put the dress on and the stockings. A pair of slippers couldn't
be any more embarrassing, he thought…until he put them on. After a brief
moment his toes broke through the end on his right foot, followed shortly
thereafter by his left. Before he could take them off a burning
rafter crashed down onto the wardrobe, sending it up in flames. It would
only be a few moments until the whole inn caved in. Remel scampered from
his room and made his way down the steps as quickly as he could, sword in hand,
still getting used to his new garb, and still adjusting himself periodically
under the dress. The damn stockings rode up whenever he moved. Soon
he was free from the devastation of the inn and into the streets, where he met
the devastation of the city. There were hundreds of small battles
everywhere, all part of the larger siege of the city. Red and black
armored invaders tried to cut down any living soul they could see, while the
city watch, the king's soldiers, inn keepers, smithies, and any other commoner
who could wield a weapon struck back, defending their home. From the
looks of it the invaders had the upper hand. Remel soon found himself surrounded by
three men, the Lion of Southstar adorning their breastplates, blood already
slick on their blades. He brushed back his hair with his free hand,
something he realized he would have to do often without his brooch, to his
dismay, sword ready in the other, and took a defensive stance--a sword master
never went on the offensive when faced with larger odds than two-to-one. "Are you lost sweet thi -...,"
one of them started, but stopped when he saw Remel's face, and sword.
"What in blazes?" he finished. "Damn ugliest woman I ever
saw." "All the better to kill her
quickly," his comrade added, and they descended upon Remel. # Gaspar Romera loved his king dearly, as one
should in his position as the king's secretary, yet he utterly hated moments
like this, when he was forced to serve as the king's eyes in the time of
war. So it was with great despair when King Nicolas ordered him to survey
the damage that Lord Pascal and his invading Southstar army had inflicted upon
the city through the powerful looking glass atop the castle’s tallest tower. "Tell it to me truthfully
Gaspar," the king said, hands clasped behind his back, voice somber.
"Leave nothing out." His eyes, drooping and baggy from years of
stress, were closed and wet at the corners, his face weathered and wrinkled. At
sixty years of age he truly looked eighty, but Gaspar supposed that would
happen to any ruler during an extended war, and this one had lasted eleven
years. "Well, your Grace,” Gaspar said,
surveying the gloomy scene, “it seems the south side of the city is taking the
brunt of Lord Pascal's attack. Although a new offensive is taking root to
the west as well. I believe the Stuck Pig has just gone up in flames." "Damn," the king swore, opening
his tired eyes and pounding a fist into his palm. He wore a robe of fine
purple that once must have fit him snug and proper, yet now hung from his limbs
loosely. "Damn it all! Where are Babin and his army? I sent
word to them weeks ago, they should have been here by now!" "Would you like to take a look, your
Grace?" Gaspar offered, stepping aside from the looking glass, hoping. "No, damn it,” the king protested,
waiving a hand as if swatting a fly, “you know my eyes aren’t good enough,
Gaspar. Don't be foolish." Two sworn brothers of the King's Watch
flanked him. Where the remaining seven were was anybody’s guess -
probably trying to survive the onslaught with the rest of the city folk.
It seemed as though Southstar's army had come from nowhere that morning, taking
the city by total surprise and breaching the walls in short time. Lord
Dory Babin and his ally army were said to be nearing the city, but if they
didn't arrive soon the city, and the reign of House Flores--the longest of any
in the history of Erna--would be doomed. "Keep looking, Gaspar," the king
ordered, now pacing and muttering from time to time. With a sigh Gaspar put the looking glass
back to his eye. The view was still of the Stuck Pig and its surrounding
area. He was just about to scan further to the south when a mane of
blonde hair caught his attention. A woman with muscular arms was
surrounded by foes, wielding an impressive sword, and quite noticeably holding
her own. "Your Grace," he said, watching
in fascination, "you would not believe this, but there is a woman fighting
the enemy outside the Stuck Pig." He noticed the woman often reached
under her dress, but for what she was grabbing for he could not tell. "A woman you say?" the king
replied, stepping closer. "Yes your Grace, and in a beautiful
yellow dress.” Gaspar watched her reach under the dress again, appearing
to yank at something before she cut into another foe. “And it seems as
though she must have some sort of weapon under her skirt." "All women have a weapon under their
skirts, Gaspar," the king replied, and chuckled, despite his mood. "But this must be a legitimate weapon,
your Grace, and it’s impressive. She reaches under her skirt often as
she's wielding her sword, and her foes keep falling all around her." "Impressive indeed!" the king
boasted. "I swear, the folk of this city never cease to amaze me,
Gaspar. A woman warrior fighting an invading army. This will be one
for the stories.” He turned to one of the King’s Watch. “Jorg, run
and fetch my bard. If we survive this day he will want to put this to
song.” “Yes your grace,” the man replied, slipping
into the castle. The king resumed his place next to
Gaspar. “Tell me of her bust Gaspar." "Flat as a butcher's board your grace,
and rather muscular for my liking. Nice calves however, and beautiful,
flowing blonde hair. She has a strength and elegance about her that is
certainly arousing." "I love blondes," the king said,
“speaking of arousals. I would prefer a larger bust, but I can forego
that if her legs are as nice as you say. Elegant and fierce, I like what
I am hearing! Too bad my eyes have gone on me Gaspar, I would like to
look upon her.” “You might get the chance, your
grace.” Certainly with the way the woman was slaying her enemies she
would have more than a good chance of survival. If only Babin and his
army would arrive. “Would that I could be so lucky,
Gaspar. Hopefully she'll have a plump bottom,” he said, making two cups
with his hands, “to go along with those legs. If she survives the day, I
would like to get to know this lady. I’m not too old to take another
wife." The king continued to babble about bosoms
and bottoms and legs while Gaspar continued to watch as foe after foe fell to
the woman's blade, entrapped and enthralled. # The roaring fires surrounding him had Remel
sweating like a traitor in a torturer's chair. The silk dress clung to
his body as he continued to battle one invader after another. His
head still pounded, but that was something he’d grown used to over the
years. He adjusted himself after beheading another man, leaving him next
to the other fifty or so he had slain, cursing the tight stockings.
He had never felt so uncomfortable fighting in all of his life. "Better than naked," he kept
muttering, trying to convince himself. He couldn't tell if the clinging
dress, the too small slippers, or the stockings were the worst.
"Definitely the stockings," he said, readjusting his manhood for what
seemed like the hundredth time. Half his hair was plastered to his sweaty
face, the rest seemed to be frazzled in every direction, but he had no time
gather it. It seemed the enemies were endless. Just as he positioned himself to face
another set of foes loud trumpets blared from nearby. Remel paused for a
moment and backed away as the sounds of hoof beats drew nearer. A second
call of trumpets sounded just as a full cavalry of soldiers rounded the corner
to the street Remel and his foes were on. The soldiers were clad in
green, the sigil of House Babin--a trio of hummingbirds--on their breastplates
and banners; a most welcome sight to Remel. “Move aside my lady!” their
leader shouted as Remel scampered to the side like a woman in distress, more
literally than he would have ever imagined. He thought he heard another
man mutter, “Hairiest tits I’ve ever seen,” as they passed, but it could have
been his imagination. He leaned against one of the only buildings on the
street not burning, and watched as the cavalry ran through the Southstar host,
demolishing them in their wake before continuing towards the south end of the
city, the sound of their hoof beats receding as they went. The street
suddenly seemed desolate compared to only moments before. Remel gained his breath for a time,
adjusted himself again, pulled back his hair as best he could, and started for
the castle, cutting through alleys when possible, avoiding the main streets at
all costs. The Babin host may have crushed the enemy by the Stuck Pig,
but he had no knowledge of the rest of the city, and there was the matter of
not wanting to be seen. He needed to rid himself of the damn dress he was
wearing…and the slippers…and the blasted stockings. In five blocks Remel arrived at another inn
he frequented, the Wishing Well, thankfully still intact, and went to the rear
entrance--as befitted a regular patron. As he rounded the building he
came face to face with the whore who had entertained him the previous night…and
subsequently stole his belongings. Her red hair, green eyes and freckles
were unmistakable. She had a sack strung over her shoulder and Remel
thought he knew what it contained. They both stopped in their
tracks, staring, mouths open. “Adelia,” he finally said. “It’s Annabella,” she replied, not kindly,
dropping the sack from her shoulder. “You stole my clothing!” he roared. She looked him over. “You ruined by
dress…and my slippers!” she yelled back, a hand on her hip while the other
waved an anger finger at him. “And I stole nothing from you, fool!
You asked me to wash your clothing, re-bind your hair brooch, and shine your
boots. Why would I steal from you? You pay better than any other
patron in the realm. Fool!” Remel wanted to answer, but he didn’t have
one. If he had a gold coin for every time he said something he couldn’t
remember the next morning he’d be the richest man in the realm. He stared
at her for a few moments, mouth open, at a loss for words. Finally she
started laughing hysterically. “Not only are you a fool, Remel, you look
like one too,” she said between bursts of laughter. Remel’s jaw tightened in anger and
humiliation. He was embarrassed, sore, tired, hungover…and in a
dress. He wanted to yell and scream. He wanted to hit something, to
stab something. That is until he looked to the side and saw his
reflection in the inn’s large picture window…and couldn’t help but laugh
himself. The dress was entirely too small. The lace shoulder
drapings that were meant to hang closer to a woman’s elbow barely spread over
his shoulder. His hairy chest poked through the strings meant to tighten
around a woman’s breasts. And the torn slippers…it was all too
much. They continued to laugh until tears streamed from their
faces. Finally Remel wiped them away and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m assuming my belongings are in there?”
he said, nudging the sack at her feet with his slippered foot. “Yes,” she said, putting a hand to his
face, “all washed, polished, and rebound. Now get out of my damn dress.” “Gladly.” Remel stripped as she began taking his
belongings from the sack. It was a moment of pure jubilation as he
removed the stockings. He was fully naked again when the back door of the
inn burst open. Remel reached for his sword, now propped against the inn,
and spun to face whoever it was, but lowered his blade when he realized it was
two brothers of the King’s Watch. “Remel?” the first through the door said,
Niko, the youngest of their brotherhood. He was followed by the man Remel
wanted to see less than any other at a moment like this; his advisor and
mentor, Devante. “What is the meaning of this?” Devante
said, steely gray eyes piercing as ever, set to either side of his large beaked
nose. With his white hair he looked like an eagle staring down its
prey. The oldest of their lot, and by far the most seasoned, he had
taught Remel everything he knew about swordplay and life itself; except for
whoring, drinking and gambling. Those traits were from Remel’s father,
Devante claimed, who had died when he was only a boy. He knew Devante did
not approve of his life choices, yet the man was utterly loyal to him, and
their father-son relationship kept Devante mum when it came to most of Remel’s
torrid habits. “Here the rest of us are,” he continued, “either
protecting the king or fighting in the streets and you’re in an alley behind an
inn, whoring around?” “It’s not what is seems!” Remel protested,
cupping his manhood with one hand. Yet how would he explain today’s
transgressions and expect these men to believe him? “I’m disappointed in you, Remel,” Devante
stated, and he looked it by his expression. Remel regretted that
look, and always had. “The king will not hear of it, I put my word on it, for
your father’s sake.” “I’m truthful, Devante! I put my
honor on it,” Remel continued, he had to make them understand. It was
true that Remel whored, and quite often. He gambled excessively and drank
entirely too much. A tavern brawl or three happened from time to time,
except for last week, when he participated in five. But to question his
loyalty to the king was one thing he couldn’t, and wouldn’t take. His bad
habits had never gotten in the way of his duty. “I believed this woman
stole my belongings last night,” he said, pointing to Annabella with his free
hand. “I’ve been fighting today in the dress she left in my room.”
He picked it up and held it out for them to see. Niko snickered until Devante hit him with
an elbow to the ribs. “Honestly, Remel,” he said, “you’ve been too much
in the bottle today if you expect me to believe a story like that. As I
stated, the king will not hear of it. Dress and be back to the castle
quickly. I believe we have won the day, but I will need a full report
from our generals.” With that the two men were off, leaving Remel and
Annabella alone. “I believe you, Remel,” she said, handing
him his trousers. “I know you do,” he replied, more
humiliated than ever. “Shall I call on you again tonight?” she
said, smiling provocatively. Remel slipped on his tunic and tied back
his hair, relieved to finally have it out of his face. What he needed
tonight was a good night’s sleep, along with a fresh set of clothes, and his
dignity. “I’ll bring a friend this time,” she
replied in her most sultry voice, and when he did not answer, “and a bottle of
the city’s best wine.” Remel chuckled, knowing the wine would be
bought on his coin from last night, finished clasping his jerkin and began to
walk away. He stopped a few paces later and turned back. Who was he
kidding? He could never decline an offer like this. “Meet me at the
Silver Pike at midnight.” He left her there smiling, tattered and dirty
dress in hand, and headed for the castle. # “All rise for the King!” the king’s
secretary piped. Gaspar was his name. A gangly youth, skinny and
tall, with a mop of tangled auburn hair that contrasted his pale complexion and
a large Adam’s apple that looked as though he’d swallowed a walnut. Remel
thought him rather ugly, with his horse face and big teeth, but in his position
as the king’s secretary he believed the youth had no trouble finding a lady to
lay with. Most men determined another man’s stature in life by the money
or power they could amass. Not Remel. He determined another man’s
stature in life by how many women they could bed. And judging from his
own life so far, the only position more lucrative than his as a sworn brother
of the King’s Watch was the king himself. But king was a position Remel
could never attain, so he deemed his life as a colossal success. Unless
word spread that he was prone to wearing dresses. That would certainly
put a damper on his stature. The large double doors of the throne room
opened. Many prominent lords, ladies, and other members of the court were
present, waiting anxiously, filling the room to near capacity. Even the
king’s fool Mattwitz was there, standing behind the throne in his black and
white motley…and his large breasts. Remel and his brethren lined the walk way
to the throne, clad in their polished armor, swords at their sides, helms
tucked under their arms. Across from Remel stood Devante and Niko, the
former of whom had given Remel several stern looks since they had taken their
positions. The king entered, followed by the last two
members of the King’s Watch. Some had been caught in the fighting
today. The rest had remained in the castle to protect the king.
Luckily the castle had not been breached, however, and none of the King’s Guard
had sustained serious injury, other than Remel, of course. The
embarrassment of fighting in a dress had injured him dearly. The king took his position on the throne,
smiling widely, squinting to see everyone in attendance. It was widely
known that the king was nearly blind, yet it was something not discussed
often. “We have won a great battle today!” the king proclaimed, followed
by cheers from the crowd. “As we speak our enemies are fleeing for the
hills west of the city. Lord Babin and his forces, along with half of our
army are giving chase. At best they will catch them before they reach the
safety of the mountains and demolish them completely. At worst their
forces are already decimated to the point where they are no longer a
threat. It is a great day indeed. It seems this long war has ended,
finally.” Again a chorus of cheers erupted.
Remel and his brothers remained statuesque, as was their duty. The king
waited until the masses quieted before he continued, and turned to his
secretary, “Have we had any word, Gaspar, of the woman?” “No your grace,” the boy replied,
remorseful. “Not even a whisper.” The king seemed disappointed. “It
seems we have a mystery warrior in our city,” he continued, “possibly a martyr,
pray she is not dead. Gaspar and I witnessed this warrior ourselves
today. We personally saw her slay more than two hundred Southstar
invaders on her own!” Rumblings started among the
listeners. “Her?” they were saying, or “she?” or “a woman?” “Yes, yes!” the king continued, cutting
through the murmur. “This warrior was a lady. A lady sword
master! And beautiful as well. Gods was she beautiful. Tell
them Gaspar, you speak of it more elegantly than I.” The boy stepped forward and cleared his
throat. “She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes
upon,” he said theatrically, looking past those in attendance, as if picturing
her again. “We,” the king interrupted. “Sorry your grace,” Gaspar replied,
distracted from his far away stare, and having the decency to blush. “The
most beautiful woman we have ever seen,” he continued, again looking through
them all, “in a fine yellow dress only suitable for a princess.”
Remel felt his heart drop, as well as his jaw, and quickly shut his gaping
mouth. “Her hair was of a blonde so golden you would have thought the sun
radiated from beneath her scalp.” Remel was glad his hair was tucked
under his armor. “With arms just tone enough to wield her blade better
than any man in the realm. No offense to you all,” he said, nodding to Remel
and his brotherhood. Remel swallowed hard. If word
got out that he was the woman the king was referring to he would never live it
down. “None taken,” a few of the King’s Guard
murmured, but Remel could only look across from him, to Niko and Devante.
Niko had a wide grin across his face that Remel would have loved to slap
off. A sideways glance from Devante set him straight,
however. Devante set his gaze on Remel again, eyes slit with
suspicion as he looked him over, and then they went wide with what seemed to be
a mixture of wonder, amusement, understanding and embarrassment. Remel
began to feel sweat trickle down his back and swore he could feel more eyes
upon him than just Devante’s, or maybe it was just his imagination, but either
way, he wanted to get away. He needed a drink, a set of dice, and a fine
woman or two by his side. “What she lacked in bust,” Gaspar
continued, “she more than made up for with the rest of her frame. Her legs were
long and fair, muscled to perfection. The King and I flinched at every
sword stroke dealt her way, lest her marvelous figure be tainted, but she
deflected them all, and body upon body of our enemy began to pile at her
feet. Pure elegance radiated from this lady, this mysterious, dangerous
and beautiful lady.” Poetry was a strong suit for the boy, Remel
reflected, feeling the urge to vomit as he continued. “The smoke from the
burning buildings blocked our view before we could see her fate. We know
not if she lived or perished. All we are certain of is it seems as though
she single handedly blocked the advancement of an entire enemy battalion in the
west side of the city.” “Put word out, all of you,” the king broke
in urgently, “in regards to this lady. I will offer a reward for any man,
woman or child who can locate her whereabouts. A very handsome
reward.” Murmurs continued through the crowd, excited whispers and
discussions about a female warrior and her legacy and a handsome reward.
“That is all for now, my good people,” the king continued. “There is much
devastation and hurt in our great city that needs mending. Please, gather
your resources and put them to good use. And damn it, find me that lady
sword master!” “Hail, hail!” the cheer went up.
“Hail the King! Hail House Remel didn’t share their enthusiasm.
He was sore to the bone and tired…and mostly embarrassed. All hope of
Adelia, or Annabella, or whatever her name was being the only person to know
about today’s transgressions was thrown out the window by the king’s secretary
and his poetic version of Remel’s figure. He knew Devante would not
spread word of what he knew, but was not so certain about Niko, whom he may
have to pay a visit to before the night was over. His reputation may
depend on it. He could live with titles such as “gambler,” or “drunk,” or
“whoremonger,” but he would not want the moniker “cross-dresser” added to the
list. Soon the throne room emptied and the king
gave orders to the King’s Watch. Remel was relieved and given orders to
report to the west side of the city until midnight, which suited him just fine,
after all, that was around the time he would have two beautiful women and an
excellent bottle of wine waiting. As he exited the room a strong grip caught
his arm and spun him around. Devante stood before him with a grim set to
his jaw, and looked Remel up and down, no emotion whatsoever showing in his
demeanor. He only grunted and shook his head. Ashamed, Remel pulled
free of his grip and began to walk away. Before he made it far Devante
called out to him. “Remel,” he said in a flat voice, and Remel
grudgingly turned. “Yes, Devante,” he said, defeated. A slight grin came across his mentor’s
face. “I always knew you were a pair of tits away from being the most
beautiful woman in the realm,” he said with a laugh and merriment in his voice
that Remel had never known him to have. Remel felt the flush on his face
as he watched the man return to the throne room. He needed a drink, more than ever. Read more stories by this author This story has been viewed: 3881 times.  Did you enjoy this story? Show your appreciation by tipping the author!
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