Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale

“Wake up pet,” Anastasia called quietly, patting the girl’s cheek lightly. She sat on a pile of furs and held the new slave in her arms like she would hold a child. Accepting a snifter of brandy from Quinlin, she poured it smoothly down the unconscious girl’s throat. Sputtering and fighting back tears, the thief awoke and clung to the enchantress desperately while trying to regain her senses.

The warmth felt nice against her chilled, bare skin after the dankness of her cell. It was also nice to feel the comfort of another’s arms around her, cradling her rather than having to support her own weight. Being held helped ease her sore muscles. But as the fog of unconsciousness finally faded into the clarity of awareness, she realized that Lord Cinder sat several paces away in a comfortable chair. She jumped, startled that he wasn’t the one holding her and struggled frantically, trying to escape the enfolding arms. When they didn’t let her go, she felt her panic rising. Blindly she thrashed and pushed but escape seemed impossible.

The sudden sting of a hard slap rocked her head to one side, but the shock held little power when compared to the roar of it in her ears. Dazed, she barely felt Quinlin’s hands cup her dirty face. Long fingers massaged her temples, thumbs stroked her eyebrows, and warm palms steadied her thin cheeks. The battle-witch’s hands felt like silk but were as strong as steel gauntlets, almost a man’s hand in disguise.

“Hush, hush little pet,” Quinlin whispered soothingly. “The Master told us that you are not supposed to speak. Is that right?”

The woman had such a kind, innocent face and bright, beautifully gray eyes that the girl couldn’t help but feel comforted. She nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. Quinlin smiled warmly and kissed her lightly and lovingly, tugging softly on the girl’s lower lip as she pulled away. She didn’t even flinch from the kiss, going so far as to follow the fingertips that slipped off of her cheeks. Wonder didn’t seem to describe the feelings that made her heart beat like thunder as the woman turned away. Fascination and awe were good places to start. The woman moved with such a fluid grace, like a cat, hardened muscles moving under sun-browned skin. She wore nothing more than the jewelry the thief had seen on her earlier. How naturally she moved without clothes! Easy, sure steps with no trace of shame of self-consciousness, almost a man’s stride- heavy on the lead foot with a minimum of feminine sway, a step that matched the boyishness of the witch.

When she turned her head, she was treated to a similar vision. The flame tressed enchantress also sat completely nude, holding the girl across her lap and tight against her firm, perfect breasts. She could see the pierced nipples, the gold gleaming just before her face. The older woman radiated a pleasing and soothing heat that kept her from trembling with cold born of uncertainty. She snuggled closer, allowing the warm hand to circle familiarly across her flat, empty belly.

“Well little thief, it seems to be a day for surprises all around. Pleasant ones for you, I hope.” Cinder leaned against one arm of his chair, gesturing with a brandy snifter in his free hand. He seemed pleased; his face appeared softer, brighter than before. The sternness had faded away, replaced by a mask of resigned contentment. He wore no armor and carried no weapons save a very small flogger lying in his lap. An embroidered dressing robe hung on his shoulders, a single tower on a field of flames under an eternity symbol, open in the front. He’d also abandoned his hard riding boots for rather plain slippers lined with rabbit fur. Otherwise, he too was nude. His hard cock stood out from his loins like the branch of a tree, a club of male flesh that she wanted to beg to have assail her again.

Actually, he was the only one in the room wearing much of anything, the girl realized.

“I told you that you would have one more chance to change your mind and this is it. You now know how much Value I place on your future if you stay with me. It will take some time to pay off this debt, but a lot less than you think. You are still free to leave right now. If you do, I’ll reduce your Value to thirty Barons and cast you out the moment it’s paid in full. I’ve told you what will become of you in either event. But I want you to know more about me before making your final decision, because once you do so there will be no going back. Do you understand?”

Mindful of his command of silence, she shook her head negatively. She didn’t understand at all. He was the Master and she was the slave. He didn’t have to explain anything, nor did he need to be giving her a choice at all. What more could there possibly be?

“Good. Honesty to your Master shows you to be clever, or at least intelligent. The first step to learning is to admit that you don’t know.”

“I was born on the seventh of Windshammer in the year 734.” He leaned forward in his chair, drawing her attention to his face, but not his eyes. “At my last birthday celebration I turned one hundred and seventy five years old. This is not a joke. As far as I know, I am immortal.

“My father was a freeman landholder in Cevanties, about one hundred miles southwest of Odgred. My mother, a somewhat learned but otherwise unambitious woman, was once the governess to a local merchant prince but, tired of raising someone else’s children, she married my father to start a family of her own. I was the fourth of five boys and had two sisters, one older and one younger. I hated the farm back then, the long tedious hours behind the plow, making do with hand-me-downs, sleeping with all my siblings in the same bed, animals in the cottage at night for warmth. All I could think about was getting away. Now…now I sometimes long for that simple sort of life…

“I was fourteen when I set aside the plow and took up the sword, as part of the militia training. I had talent even back then because Sir Robert Tatum, our Imperial Garrison commander, took a number of us to train even better. I completely left tilling soil and other farm chores behind to become an adventurer at sixteen, taking with me my youngest sister Tara and next eldest brother Stephen. We wandered for weeks to the south and west before eventually making our way to the Wyndle Valley and settling in the frontier town of Greenbow. The three of us founded the Wild Rose Company with the other adventurers coming to the valley.

“There were eight of us all together. Tara knew how to use a sword, but nowhere near as well as I did because her real skill lay in using the bow. She was so calm under fire that I remember one time when she leaned between two stones and kept firing even with an arrow lodged in her thigh. Stephen had the role of healer and peacekeeper, the same role he always played as the middle brother. He saved my life at least once a week during our most chaotic year through the use of stitches, herbs and magic. I was, as I have ever been, a warrior skilled then only in the sword and spear. Today there isn’t a weapon in the known world that I cannot kill with.

“We followed a seasoned mercenary swordsman by the name of Joseph Renderhall. He was a good mentor, taught me a lot about warfare, wine, and women- the most important things in the life of a young mercenary. My good friend Darin Harrierson was an Earth Mage, born and raised in the Wyndle Valley before being sent to the Magister College in Antilles. You would be surprised how helpful an earth rampart springing up from nothing can be. Our other mage was Natasha Cyansis, a dark and moody bitch who taught me about passion and would later teach me the true meaning of betrayal. She was, like Quinlin, a war-witch and my first lover. And, ironically the last person I ever felt any emotions for.

“And then there were Kyle and Lynda Hammerssmith. Kyle wasn’t very smart to say the least; strong as an ox, but simple as a stone. As the blacksmith’s son he didn’t need to be smart, just skilled and he wasn’t that either. He actually broke an anvil as an apprentice. The closest he ever got to skill with a hammer was the day he learned to switch from a head strike to a body blow in mid-swing. He was so proud of that- like a child with a treat. His younger brother had the brains, and eventually took over as his father’s apprentice. Did nice work, too, as I recall. His name was… Bryan, I think; and he would repair our armor as best he could, shoed our horses, even traveled between towns with us once a season when he had to.

“But how Kyle ended up married to a mouthy cleric like Lynda I will never know. I used to think that my father was overbearing before I met her; afterwards he seemed like a pussycat in comparison. I really believe that she browbeat him into it. Her tongue was sharper than my sword and she never stopped trying to spread her dying faith. Truth told, I don’t think she ever stopped talking about gods, holy crusades, and the precepts of faith. Sadly, her religion was dying and her god is so forgotten that only the odd history text and I now remember, and my memory often fails me. As much as I wish it wouldn’t, but there is much for me to remember. Even her simple shrine and the few holy places she loved are gone, taken by stronger gods as their own, I supposed.

“I only had a little faith in gods back then. I hold absolutely none now. If there are gods somewhere, they have a lot to answer for… doing this to me.”

He clenched his free hand into a fist so hard that it creaked. Something like anger crossed his face for a brief instant. He stared at the white knuckles as if trying to see the blood being forced from them. He cleared the anger from his mind and loosened his fist, using his free hand to stroke his leg absently.

“The deeds of the Wild Rose are still legends in the Wyndle Valley, even if sometimes the names and events are somewhat distorted. We hunted monsters, rescued kidnapped children, fought bandits; we even cleverly misled an entire army of C’ar-V’in raiders in the summer of 753. We did all those things that heroes are supposed to do. And in the end we…they did the one thing all heroes are supposed to aspire to…

“They died.”

He drained his brandy, let Quinlin refill the glass, and drank that down while staring at the floor. The blankness of his face was more terrible than any despair or anger could have possibly been. He had to be in pain, but either couldn’t or wouldn’t show it. The girl wanted to go to him then, to hold and comfort him, but the redhead’s grasp wouldn’t let her loose. When she turned to ask for release, Anastasia just shook her head and silently told her to wait.

“Around the middle of 757,” he continued, “a few months after my twenty-third birthday, Summersclimb I think, we began to unearth evidence of some sort of controlling influence behind many of the recent attacks on the Wyndle Valley. A plot of devious complexity that encompassed such a variety of pieces that no single thread could be followed in its entirety before crossing a weave of others. A botched pickpocket attempt could lead to pirate attacks in a river harborage two weeks away, then the kidnapping of a third son of a woodcutter could be the beginning of an attempted coup of the Wyndle Imperial garrison or a rise in the price of cheese. Some clues even went back to other adventures that didn’t seem associated to anything else at the time they happened. We never knew where any clue would lead us, or if it was a clue at all. It took us a full year to discover the source of this influence. Almost another full year passed before we could gather enough evidence to convince the Imperial garrison to join us for a counter-offensive in spite of all the help we’d given them before then.

“Before we became entangled in our war with the Syndicate of Eternity, life was simple. We protected the weak and fought for Law and Custom, our enemies fought against it. Simple.

“Afterwards…afterwards, life got complicated.”

He set his refreshed brandy aside untouched. From the slack set of his jaw, the hang of his head, and closed eyes, it was easy to see that he was trying to keep powerfully hurtful memories from overwhelming him. White knuckled fists beat against his bare legs as if the despair could be fought as any other enemy. Finally, he rose from the chair and moved into the fading sunlight to collect himself. The girl could feel his sorrow and found herself close to tears. Quinlin and Anastasia, who had undoubtedly heard this story before, both trembled but neither made a move toward him. They knew that he would neither permit nor accept any attempts to comfort him until the story was over. When he spoke again, his words came out slowly but clearly, as if he were reciting a speech that he’d given many times over. She could hear the catch in his voice, a lump in his throat that threatened to trip him up at every pause.

“The Syndicate had a shit-poor name since none of them were actually deathless. Some of them were certainly very old, but none of them were immortal. To this day, I have yet to meet someone else like me. Sometimes I lead a very lonely existence…very lonely indeed.

“Their plan was capture enough land to allow them to conduct their experiments unmolested. They also wanted the largest local focal points for ley lines, those currents of magical energy that span the world, under their control. Five such lines met in the Wyndle Valley near the lakeside town of Casseples. Their fortress at the time sat over the connection of only two. The theory was to tap the power of the ley lines and use the raw energy to bestow immortality on Syndicate members. I didn’t find this out until much later, in a later encounter with the Syndicate, but that’s another story entirely.

“We led a small army against their stronghold- Imperial troops and a score of other mercenaries, even a few members of the militia who owed us favors and could be spared from their homes and businesses. They used a strange sort of building stuck in a lonely corner of the valley, set in the deep western forest four days from the nearest settlement. Tall and foreboding, with ugly gargoyles at every possible place on the walls, it waited for us like a bear trap. There were no windows, no guards walking either patrol or parapet, not even a visible ward on the gate. Magic or slave labor could have raised it, but we’d never caught any slavers, so magic seemed more likely. I still think that the fortress was a monestary or a nunnery of some kind. Monks, nuns, and secret cabals- I’ve never understood the religious love for high, near-inaccessible locations.

“As our Imperial allies lay in wait, we of the Wild Rose Company slipped into the fortress. We should have known that it was too easy, but Natasha said there were no magical detectors or barriers around the structure and we trusted her. So we scaled the lowest part of the wall we could find and forced the door to the kitchens.

“You must understand- at this point we still had no clear picture of the Syndicate. We thought they were more of a simple evil, out to overthrow the Empire for their own gain. Carve out a kingdom of their own by conquering the Valley and enslaving the citizens. That sort of thing happens often on the frontier where those with nothing but hate and cruelty want power and think it is better to take it than earn it. Much like Victor Guinness tried to do here. We learned what they were truly like within hours of entering their citadel. They pursued immortality with a religious fervor bordering on fanaticism. They had a reach that stretched further than we’d been led to believe- long enough to reach out and bury a knife in my back. They lured us there, baited us like fish to a hook.”

A silence like the Shroud of Death descended on the room when stopped speaking. It was hard to tell on his impassive face, but he looked haunted and weary. Main in his heart throbbed an incredible desire for his home and its comforts. Or the arms of his lovers and the ease he felt therein. But telling the story to the new girl was too important to stop.

“It’s funny in a strange sort of way how your memory works sometimes,” he continued, more subdued and rehearsed than before. “I remember very clearly the painful bite of steel being shoved into my back, but I don’t remember ever falling down. It was a deathblow, that knife in my back, and I never fell down. I remember hearing the clash of arms all around me, but can’t remember seeing anything but a bright white haze for the longest time. I remember Tara’s last screams as clearly as if they happened just a few moments ago. And I can hear the way Darin pleaded for his life with the same clarity that I can hear Victor Guinness’ shouts. But I remember nothing of how Stephen died, only that he lay before me in a pool of blood. My last memory of my gentle brother and his healing hands is that of his empty eyes staring up at me with his face forever twisted in terror.

“A narrow tunnel of blood red opened through the white haze before me, and through it I saw Natasha- our friend, our companion, my lover. I saw the bitch mercilessly slit Lynda’s throat like she was killing a suckling pig for roasting. I realized that it had been her knife that I’d felt in my back.

“Then came the anger. The RAGE. The incredible, overwhelming need to kill. The roar of vengeance with armed enemies right before me. My throat burning with bloody vomit. With my hands full of steel, hate in my belly, and the taste of blood in my mouth, I have vague, disjointed memories of joining in a terrible, berserk battle. Wading into a tide of attackers, lashing out at anything, anyone that got in my way. Fleeting brutal images of the dead all around us in piles, of Joseph and Kyle and I awash in slaughter, of a half-dozen robed figures in an interrupted ceremony, my hands around Natasha’s throat and her eyes wide with fear. Then a bright light and stentorian voice crashing into an all-consuming noise. And then there was nothing. Nothing…

“Almost a week later I crawled out of the ruins, alive in body only it seemed. The building had collapsed in an explosion of magic. The remaining Imperial troops were terrified when I stumbled into their camp in the middle of the night. That’s when I found out I was the only survivor.”

Cinder turned away from the window and became more animated. He acted happier, but the emotional pain remained on his face. He had reflexively put a hand against the small of his back during his story, as if covering that old physical wound as if it had just happened.

“That’s been the story ever since. I’ve been the only survivor of nearly everything I’ve been a part of. I’ve traveled much of the known world, visited the capitals and great cities within a week’s ride of every port less than a month’s sail from Odgred, sailed both the Shapean Sea and the Olarth Ocean, and on and on. I’ve been involved in nearly every war on three continents for over a century and a half. I’ve seen friends die from wounds taken in battle and enemies pass on from the illnesses of old age. I held the last Emperor when he was born in the Imperial Palace, and again when he died on the Downey Heights. I have fought and bled and killed since before your great-grandfather was born. I have led tens of thousands of soldiers into hundreds of battles against more enemies than I can conceivably estimate. I’ve spilled enough of my own blood to fill a deep lake to flooding.

“I’ve killed monsters both bestial and human. I’ve dealt the heavy hand of the Law to hundreds like Duke Guinness. The name ‘Jonas Cinder’ is spoken with awe in the halls of the Imperial Palace and fear in the dark valleys of the H’Nurt Clan Holds. Many Seawolf ships and their crews rest at the bottom of the Shapean Sea because of me. My enemies number in the thousands of the living and probably in the millions of the dead, many of whom I sent there myself. The Kenku of the Jotékoku send me presents every year on my birthday at great expense for what I have done for them. I have seen things that no man have ever seen, been places that no one has ever been, done thing that no one shall ever do again. No matter how much I’ve seen I’m still amazed by the new. I think that when I’m no longer surprised at anything- that’s when I’ll know that the end is near.