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"I once heard it said that a storyteller has but the briefest moment to snare the mind of his listeners and make them follow his story to the end. I once heard it said that one must start off the story with a grand mystery or a bloody war--something exciting." Renz's voice was satin-soft. He and Vira sat under the moonlight on a mossy boulder in a deserted corner of the fort that had seen too many bar fights and not enough tenderness.
"Will you tell me of your swordsmanship, then?" Vira asked in a hush. Renz felt her shift closer to him in the way a faithful hound reaches out for her owner's fingers.
"No, not swordsmanship," Renz said, adjusting his battle-ax to avoid poking her in the ribs. "You must forgive me, my sweet, but I have no such tales. The truth is, the really talented storyteller--the one who always smells of campfires and whose voice has wrought fantasies in the minds of children and noblemen alike--will describe the background before ever beginning the story of an epic battle or doomed love. Such men, the truly talented, know how to create the proper setting. They start at the beginning. A noble prince dying in the woods, handing off his infant son to--"
"Was your father a prince?" Vira asked, her voice subdued with the anticipation of a girl half expecting to hear half-lies.
"Had he only been one, I would be a match for you." She shifted even closer, and he heard a soft sigh surging from a place deep within her where fantasies still lived. On the wall above, the sentries exchanged smoldering torches together with their shifts.
As Renz inhaled the scent of his nearing prize, he remembered his "noble" lineage. His father, like his father, his father, and his father before him, went straight from their mother's tit to an ale jug, though it much humbler in dimensions. Whenever he surfaced from that bottleneck, he had only strength enough to bed his wife and ride a patrol. One or the other was bound to be his downfall. But the man's heart was strong, so Renz's father survived the bouts with Renz's mother. His neck, however, snapped like a twig when he drunkenly fell off his horse during a patrol in the Ashes. No one was sure whether it was the fall that killed him or the leagues that his trusty steed dragged him through while evading the hot pursuit of other Silver Bear warriors who tried to save their comrade.
"Well, you are no noble; you have no scars of epic battles and no Silver Claw on your shoulder. What will you capture my attention with, except those pretty eyes?" she asked in the coquettish way of a girl whose attention was captured and fettered with chains strong enough for a giant.
Renz had long ago realized that his quick smile, the silver-colored hair, and the varnished silver glint of his eyes were the perfect combination to seduce common girls. More than that, what really won him favor with women was his approach--life owed him much, and he was collecting.
If only the prize were greater. "If I were walking the halls of the Borian lords or even inspecting the plump granaries of the Kitaran wheat barons...surely I would have entangled the heart of a proper maiden, one of nobler blood and sultrier appearance!" Renz thought as his palm softly lowered to Vira's thigh. It was soft and smooth. How depressing it was, he thought as his fingers gently squeezed that thigh, that, alas, his talents were being wasted here at the edge of the world. Not that he was certain this was the edge of the world. Vague legends, half-baked rumors, and holy priests (all equally untrustworthy, in Renz's opinion), spoke of vast lands beyond the border. They said that the Ashes stretched into sunset and then beyond. Unfortunately, Asenthia lacked not only maidens worthy of Renz's arrogant attention but also competent cartographers who could render accurate maps. Besides, no one had the courage to truly brave the Ashes, so Renz was stuck here at the border, at the edge of the world, with Vira. Vira! He remembered and turned back to her, realizing that his mind could also use a good mapping to avoid meandering down the various side paths.
"It is so because I have nothing--no lineage, no shiny coin, no rank, no great victories. Not even any future but to serve quietly in this fort for the rest of my life. Anyone else to whom you might gift your love will not cherish or remember it the way I will..." His voice faded to nary a whisper so that she had to lean closer and closer toward his lips.
"You're mad!" she excitedly whispered. "I am to wed your general with the sunrise! My father will see you hanged if he finds out!"
"I will chance all of that for one night, just one night--" Their lips met and interrupted the moonlight.
They were out of step with each other; their lovemaking was akin to a battle. It lacked the fluidity of an old couple dancing the same dance at the annual village fall festival.
She brushed her lips against his. He tried to bite them. She caressed his cheek with her fingers. He twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled. She tried to shush him to a slower pace. He snorted like a bull plowing a field. She kissed his neck. He choked hers.
The cot groaned under them, its wooden frame threatening to break. Their ardor shook the nearby table, wobbling the half-full goblet of wine--the red liquid swooshing in pace with their thrusts until it overturned. A crimson river was birthed, with most of the tributaries seeping into the wood and only the heartiest taking a path of exploration: winding under the crook of a still-smoking pipe, around hills of melted wax, and by a mountain of cleanly-picked chicken bones. Eventually the stream became a waterfall, and Renz heard those drops of wine drumming off his ax belt as they fell from the table.
The wine stopped dripping. Renz tensed and jerked out. His seed rushed forth onto her thighs, slowly oozing down to her knee and onto his tabard--mandatorily hand-washed for her upcoming wedding. Dragon seed! Renz thought. He rolled off her naked, sweated-sparkling body. She rolled onto him, eager to share pleasure's aftertaste. He rolled her off, using his pipe as an excuse. They were doing their awkward dance again.
The surge of pleasure slowly ebbed. With it left the insatiable, insane lust he had felt just moments before. In its stead came the realization that he had just plowed the future wife of the Master of the Order. Dragon seed! He swallowed loudly, imagining what a noose would feel like crushing his throat. They would not even chop his head off. That mercy they saved for traitors, murderers, and rapists. No, his death would be far slower and more painful.
He deeply inhaled the smoke of his pipe along with the smell of his room. Surely underneath discarded tunics, cloaks, and breeches was a dead rat. There was also the stale, sour reek of spilled wine and regretful sex, the latter being more distinct and accusing.
A gaze around his room--anything not to look at her. Two dull daggers, thrown out of boredom, stuck out of a wall a good foot away from the crudely drawn target. In the corner was a bucket filled with water the color of sword rust. A chamber pot covered by some dirty rags completed his furnishings.
The panting, glistening Vira was oblivious to these unromantic details and was kissing his shoulder as she murmured some soft words of affection into his skin in a futile attempt to add significance to an act that had none. He shrugged her off.
"You should hurry, Vira; it's dawning," Renz said. "You'll be late for your wedding."
The After-Hero Page 4
