The black charger's hooves thundered on the packed dirt of the old path winding through the woods. Racing at a hard gallop, the mount's rider turned his head to look over his shoulder at the sun settling below the tops of the massive oaks lining the path to the west. His hair whipped around his eyes as he again turned to face front and hunkered lower in his saddle. With the setting of the sun, the temperature began to drop rapidly, the cold stinging his face and hands as it dried the fine sheen of sweat that covered his exposed skin.
Along both sides of the well traveled road, great black oaks stood like a line of brigands at an execution which did nothing to settle his anxious nerves. Beneath his mail shirt and tunic, a claw hooked into his gut and pulled sharply down. Weak, he felt as if he would collapse in on himself. He so very badly wanted to just let himself slip from the saddle, to find darkness and oblivion when the hard, bare ground caught him. Movement to one side of the path caught his eye, but he was rushed past too quickly to see anything.
As he turned forward again, a lark's shrill made him bolt upright in the cantle. The sudden jerk on the reins caused the stallion to bark around the bit in its mouth and they surged on. A quick hand caught the horn of the saddle and kept its owner from falling from his perch and living the fancy he'd just picture. He cursed himself, owing the near slip it to nerves and not some premonition. Stretched out along the length of his charger's neck, he apologized and encouraged the swift beast; urging it on faster and faster towards night's coming veil.
For a second he swore he'd seen a pair of eyes peering out between the heavy limbs of an oak as he'd reasserted control of his ride. But another lark's call issued from the lofty branches and he did not bother a second glance should the startled horse try to leap out from underneath him again. He forced his stomach to relax and his mind to blank, his eyes locked on the path directly ahead of them. The thoroughfare straightened into a long corridor where the oaks grew together more densely than the outer fringe of the wood.
Suddenly a girl burst from the heavy underbrush and scrambled along the embankment of the road a quarter league ahead of him. Even at that distance he could see her wild hair was a tangled nest full of leaves and other debris from the forest floor. A long patch work skirt and muslin blouse she was wearing were both torn and streaked with dirt. The chapped, pale skin exposed through the gaps in her clothing was flush and reddened.
He began calculating the closing distance between them as three large, huddled shapes came crashing through the gap in the trees the girl had emerged from. The fatigue in his limbs disappeared as he saw her fear widened eyes as she stumbled over the ruts in the road left from peasant ox cart. Already he could hear her shrieking, pleading for his aid above the noise of the horse's hooves and his own coarse breathing.
When she was but yards from him, he pulled hard on the charger's reins bringing the massive creature to a shuddering halt. In a single fluid move he swept down from the saddle and grasped the maiden by the waist, pulling her up to him. Once she was seated, he placed her hand on the reins wrapped around the saddle horn before swinging down to the ground. Now, all three of her pursuers drew up short, the dust wafting around them obscuring the tree line.
They were a dirty sort, heavy of limb and chest, their dark hair and wild beards hung off of leathery faces marked by soot or ash. Equally filthy skins and rags composed their attire, heavy oak war clubs dangled from their hands by leather thongs. Eyeing him, the stood abreast, almost spanning the entire width of the path.
Suddenly, the one standing in the middle grunted something in a Slavic tongue and two more of his barbarous brethren emerged from the wood line behind him. Looking at the newcomers, he again cursed himself and the girl's attackers. He could find no simple solution to the problem.
Positioning himself between them and the girl on the horse, he drew his long saber and braced his feet for an attack. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he looked into the flush face of the maiden and saw the tender pink of one nipple poking through the tear across her blouse that she modestly held together in one white knuckled fist. A smudge of the same ashen filth as on the face of the Slavs on that innocent bud awoke a savage hatred in his heart.
One of his challengers saw the opportunity and lunged; he feinted on his left and thrust the nimble tip of the saber at the Slav's face. The point struck home and the burly lump of cloth and fur hit the ground gurgling through the wound in its neck. Outraged, his four brethren bellowed in their coarse tongue. He allowed himself a small smile, having shown that they attacked no mere knight errant. He backed into the horse, to try and wheel it towards the gap in the barbarian's barricade, when he looked again at the girl. However, all the desperation and fear in her face was gone.
Instead her face was contorted into a mixture of anger and disgust. She looked down on him as one would any sort of creeping, crawling vermin and raised her hand. In the tight little fist he saw an ironwood cudgel like sailors carried on the bounty...and then he saw no more as it crashed down upon his crown.
*** He slowly opened his eyes and stared up at a bare stone ceiling. Through the haze of pain robbing him of his thoughts, he vaguely remembered the girl, the barbarians, and the obvious ambush he'd walked into. Lying there, he didn't have to look down to know he'd been stripped to his simple leggings, feeling the light cotton along his legs without the familiar weight of his armor pressing down.
Fighting the dull ache at the back of his head, he tried to move but found himself bound. Rawhide thongs tied his arms and legs apart as he lay on what felt like a bedding of fur. He looked down at himself and was surprised to feel his hair slightly damp. His tunic was gone, dressed in only his leggings, the damp hair—he'd been stripped and bathed. Surely these robbers thought him of some importance and were holding him ransom. They'd be sorely surprised to find no one waiting for him any where—nothing to be gained by holding him captive.
But why wash him? He let his eyes wander about the room. He was indeed on a bed, a large expanse of silk, satin, and furs heaped upon a dais rising out of the floor in the middle of the room. The chamber was immense; light cast by a dozen odd candles on various plinths could only accent the gloom with orange yellow light, adding to the shadows that gathered in every dark corner. A large fire place stood open across from him, a fire blazing happily in the open edifice. A wrought iron grate hung above the portcullis giving the image of a blind demon opening its maw to gobble him up, a tasty morsel for its burning gullet.
To the right of the fireplace were a series of short tables around a great oaken chair draped with more furs. Each table was stacked high with books, the spines visibly cracked with pages of text sticking out the front like obscene tongues. A short stool in front of the chair had an open tome and a decanter of some crimson fluid. A draught of the drink sat at hand in a fluted crystal glass. In the deepening shadows beyond he could barely make out the edge of a book shelf equally over laden as the tables.
He turned his head and began inspecting the left side of the room. This side of the room was much closer to the bed, perhaps some 5 meters beyond the edge of the bed. In the furthest corner next to the fire place were a low bench and a rack of arms. He could see his own mail and saber tucked in among the many kinds of armor and blades. He noted the peasant girl's clothes heaped to one end of the bench on the floor and his heart sank.
He'd been so foolish. He should have listened to his apprehension, but it did him no good to chastise himself now. He could only wait and hope for an opportunity to escape before his kidnappers realized he had nothing to offer them. He tenderly dropped his head back to the soft mattress. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It was a tired, defeated gesture, but when he opened his eyes he found himself with something worse than he could have feared.
He stared up in the beautiful eyes of the fair maiden. Looking into those eyes his breath was stolen...and then he saw the pennant over her shoulder. Hung high between two pillars behind the bed was a crimson flag, a pair of long swords crossing a black heart. She glared down at him with a cruel smile tugging at her lips when his eyes shifted and his jaw clenched around a stricken gasp.
She turned her head to follow his gaze and he was torn between the slender, pale neck of his beautiful assailant and the terrible coat of arms she admired. She again turned to look at him, savoring the fearful, wary look in his eyes as he studied her face. She slowly stalked around the edge of the bed, watching his eyes track her every movement. Even though his arms and legs lay limp, the muscles beneath his smooth skin were undoubtedly tensing. Ready. Waiting for her next move.
She stopped at the food of the bed, her body outlined by the roaring fire in the grate. She wore a simple leather bodice and crimson short skirt made of the same material as the accursed coat of arms. Her long, dark hair had been tamed into a knurled bun at the back of her head and held in place by a long, silver bodkin. A ruby inset to the pommel of the stiletto gleamed wickedly as the fire passed through its red heart.
His knitting brown amused her, his eyes shining defiance. He lifted his head and looked down at her and again she found herself looking into the dark eyes that had barely passed over her face before pulling her onto his mount. A shiver of anticipation ran over her spine and now she did smile, exposed the two long sharp fangs hidden behind her full, red lips.
"You recognize the pattern, yes?" She asked as she sat down upon the edge of the mattress between his legs.
He remained silent.
"How noble and swift you were to aide me. I always find Chivalry adds spice to certain men."
Still he remained silent.
"My gypsies are always so chivalrous, and loyal, however; much too undignified for my pure blood." She said as she dragged one long nail down his left pant leg. "After all, a dog may adore its master, but the master wouldn't take it as a lover...it merely buys it favor."
Again she smiled her harsh, toothy grin. "Not that your purpose is such either, but you already knew that didn't you?"
And still he remained silent, the muscles tensing along his jaw.
