Vesian II
Deep within the ancient forest stood a ruined stone keep. Perched atop a hillock in what was once a clearing, the crumbling structure had long been home to only crows and the occasional fieldmouse. Recently, new denizens had moved in, disturbing the long-held quiet that reigned beneath the green canopy. Day and night, great bonfires burned in the overgrown stone husk, both to welcome and see off raiding parties that ventured from the forest. The fires burned with sorcerous fury, casting long, dancing shadows across the cracked walls that echoed with bestial cries and war chants.
But in the noontime sun that pierced the branches of centuries-old oaks, the keep stood unnervingly quiet. The forest sounded only with the songs of birds, carried on a light summertime breeze.
Softly clinking with each step, a pair of mailed feet climbed the twisting stone steps to the keep's front door. They bore a veteran knight, nearly forty and scarred with many a battle. Sir Bertrand de Guyse held an arming sword with a jeweled pommel in one hand and with the other he brushed away the choking vines and thorns that still shrouded the stairway. He stopped on a landing and looked to the open gateway at the keep's gatehouse.
There was no door in the portal, though the rusted remains of a portcullis still hung above the threshold. From beneath the raised visor of his houndskull bascinet, Bertrand could see through the arrowslits above the door. Nothing moved within the gatehouse halls. Steeling himself, Sir Bertrand crept closer.
A flutter of wings drew his attention and his gaze snapped to a pair of crows that noisily alit atop an old, rotting beam over the gate. The two birds squawked between themselves as they fixed their yellow eyes on the knight. Bertrand considered them carefully. Shaking his head, he unslung a shield from over his shoulder. It was a thick piece of oak, rimmed in iron and painted with a white boar's head on green; the symbol of Duke Conon de Niys, lord of these lands. Bertrand raised the shield before him and began to climb the last steps to the gatehouse door.
Looking to the ceiling for murderholes, Bertrand grew uneasy. There was no sign of the raiders he had been warned of.
They are hiding, like the cravens they are
, he told himself. But he had a mission to complete. He passed through the darkened gatehouse and stepped into a courtyard. It was as overgrown as everything else here, with both vines and tufts of grass pushing their way up through cracked flagstones. A burnt out firepit sat in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by animal bones and other refuse. Behind the firepit was an old well, its roof removed and replaced with a long, thick chain of iron that rose from the well's depths and climbed over an oaken beam to a winch on the parapet above. Bertrand looked to the well with concern and crept closer.
He was five paces from it when suddenly, everything sprang into motion. From the sides of the courtyard, four orcs burst from the shadows. They were tall and broad-shouldered, hulking slabs of muscle clad in rude furs and hides. Each of the brutes hefted a crude but fearsome iron saber in its hand, snarling through their yellow tusks as they closed in.
At the same time, the iron chain in the well began to clatter and the winch spun at the behest of an unseen hand. From the well's depths rose a cage, built as if for a great bird. Bertrand stopped as the cage rose into view, for within was the maiden daughter of his master, Lady Alienor. The poor young woman was naked, her beautiful long blonde hair flowing loose over her bare shoulders as she clutched at the cage's bars for balance. At the sight of Sir Bertrand, she cried out in desperation and fear.
"Sir Bertrand! Thank the gods you came!"
"Fear not, my lady," Sir Bertrand began, but before he could finish, the orcs were upon him. He fended off one blow with his shield, and batted aside another with his blade. The sight of the maiden had left him off-guard, and he took a blow to the helmet in the rush. His head rang and his vision spun, but Bertrand was an old hand. He regained his senses and struck back, forcing his foes onto the defensive for a moment while he recovered.
Ducking beneath another blow, he retreated two steps to put all the orcs in front of him. The brutes were both strong and brave, but favored an aggressive attack over teamwork. They came at him all at once, running into each other as they did. Bertrand kept his shield raised, striking with the sword's point from behind it. His sword lashed out twice from the cover of his shield, each time surprising the orcs and drawing blood. He backed away as the orcs came on, leaving their wounded brethren to stagger behind them.
Bertrand darted aside from one stroke, but caught it on his shoulder all the same. The blade cut through his surcoat and screeched across his mail. He would be sore for a time, but no worse for the wear. His attacker, however, would regret his reckless stroke. Bertrand spun on his heel and plunged his blade into the hip of the orc who had struck him. The brute howled in pain and fell to one knee. He turned his ugly, one-eyed head to stare hatefully at the knight, who merely turned to the last remaining orc and stabbed at the brute's leg.
The orc darted back, his eyes drawn to the arming sword such that he was slow to react when Bertrand struck him in the face with the ironbound rim of his shield. The orc's head snapped back, his free hand going to a nose that was surely broken. But it was the least of his worries, for Bertrand's swordpoint quickly found the orc's throat and tore it out. The orc on one knee fell to his backside and began to scrabble away.
His two injured compatriots froze in fear for a moment, their eyes going from their dead companion to their wounded companion, then to Bertrand and back to the dead orc. Bertrand did not give them time to think. He rushed forward and struck. One orc tried to run and fell on his wounded leg. The other offered a limp defense before he was spitted on the knight's blade. His fallen companion tried his best to crawl away but received a mortal blow for his trouble.
The last orc stopped scrabbling, his back to the courtyard's wall. He clutched his wounded leg and sneered at Bertrand as he approached.
"There's more of us," he promised as Bertrand loomed over him.
"Good," Bertrand replied, "A mere four deaths will not slake the duke's thirst for orcish blood."
Before the orc could reply, Bertrand stabbed him through the heart and twisted the blade. Satisfied for the moment, he turned toward Alienor.
With the orcs now dead, Alienor bolted up in the cage, her bare feet splayed across the bars as she leaned against the walls and caused the whole cage to tilt forward.
"Quickly!" she cried, "before she comes back!"
Bertrand gulped as she stood up. Her naked body was on full display, and the knight who had watched her a court for many years could not tear his eyes away. She had always been a beauty, moving gracefully about the court in gowns of brocade often trimmed with fur. Bertrand had long envied whichever man would call her wife, harboring dreams that it would be him. When she had disappeared and the duke had sent forth his knights, Bertrand had dared to believed that his time had come. Now, with her standing before him nude and pleading, he let his mind wander.
Despite his years at court, he had never before been blessed to see her naked. Her young body, only recently a woman, was pale and supple, with narrow hips and small breasts. She was smudged with dirt in many places, but her tear-streaked face had never been more beautiful to Bertrand. He took a step forward, but his eyes were drawn to between her legs, where he sensed her shaven sex calling to him.
