Night of Lust

Author's Note: This serves as a sequel to my 'Duchess of Lust' series. However, reading those prior works is not a requirement to enjoy this new series. Places, events, and characters from prior stories are referenced, but this new series is designed to be read on its own. All of the relevant events from prior stories will be summarized within this narrative itself.

For those who have not read the 'Duchess of Lust' series, it is an erotic political/war drama, set in a fairly standard fantasy setting akin to the Holy Roman Empire and Scandinavia of the early medieval era.

As an additional note for readers of my Duchess of Lust series: I have done a bit of a retcon, deciding to give a formal name to the northern barbarian lands. In the original series I just referred to it as 'the north' or 'the northlands.' To give it a bit more flavor, I've decided to call that region 'Kovgaard.' So any references to 'Kovgaard' within this new series will refer to the 'northlands' that were mentioned in the original series. The worldbuilding in the original series was pretty scattered and lackluster, so there may be other inconsistencies or smaller retcons within this series, but nothing too major.

This series is also completely finished and is undergoing editing. Given the length of the complete story, I didn't want to submit it all as one entry, and so it will be submitted in chapters roughly once a week until complete.

***

A fist cracked into Caderyn's jaw, sending him reeling into the roaring crowd. Fierce shoves forced him back into the ring. Another wild swing from his brutish opponent damned near took his head off; sheer luck and momentum allowed the young man to duck beneath the blow. A savage sideways kick to the back of his foe's leg bought Caderyn time to reposition.

After spinning past his snarling opponent, Caderyn raised his fists, spat out a wad of blood, and flashed a wry grin.

"Come on, mate," he said, each word punctuated by a heavy gasp. "You can do better than that."

The bald, sweaty brawler let out a bestial roar and charged, which was exactly what Caderyn had wanted. Though he was a muscular man in his own right, Caderyn was practically a child compared to that brute, and so had to rely on wits and speed to triumph. Bobbing beneath the first reckless flurry of swings, Caderyn countered by ducking low and delivering a series of savage jabs to the man's ribs, before darting away to avoid a mighty kick.

With another bellow, the bald man charged, but that time Caderyn wasn't quite quick enough. A left hook caught Caderyn in the shoulder, sending him once more into the drunken crowd guarding the edges of the fighting pit. Slaps and shoves sent him back into the ring, throwing him off balance. A wild punch took him right in the gut and the breath exploded from his lungs as he staggered back.

Pain roared through his sweaty, muscular body. His limbs and lungs cried out for relief. Blood leaked from his nose and lips. Crimson rivulets ran down his cloth-wrapped knuckles. The small, rational part of his mind flailed against the storm of adrenaline, screaming for him to stop.

But by the gods and their saints, he felt so fucking

alive

.

Clenching his fists and taking a deep breath, Caderyn squared himself to meet the next assault.

A cry rose from the back of the chamber. Curses followed, along with a flurry of shouts. Stools and chairs thudded to the dirt floor as the crowd rushed for the exits, some men scrambling through the windows and out into the night. Others were too drunk to do anything but stumble mindlessly for the doors. A few fools had enjoyed the piss-poor ale a bit too much and remained slumped in their seats, unaware of the bedlam.

Caderyn's sweaty foe turned his bald head back towards the source of the commotion.

Grinning, Caderyn seized his chance, leapt forward, and swept the man's legs out from under him. Before the big man could hit the dirt, Caderyn landed two precise strikes to the man's face. Eyes fluttering, the man let out a low groan and tapped a shaky hand to the dirt three times in a sign of submission.

But the tavern's owner had scampered out with the others, leaving nobody to ring the bell and signal Caderyn's victory. The owner and the gamblers had all left with their money, too, but Caderyn hadn't been fighting for the silver.

Wiping sweat and blood from his face, Caderyn looked over to the door to see who had so rudely interrupted his fun.

"Saint's blood," he cursed, eyes widening at the sight of his mother.

Duchess Sarya of Fellhaven stood with her hands upon her hips at the far side of the tavern. Her flowing red curls matched the crimson staining her son's face; the green velvet of her dress matched the gleam of both her eyes and Caderyn's. Around her head was a silver circlet, and upon her dress was a brooch in the shape of a unicorn: all ducal regalia that Caderyn himself would one day inherit.

That inheritance was based on the assumption that she wouldn't have him strangled for this latest outrage, of course.

Beside her stood six armored knights of the ducal guard. Their blue and gold cloaks fluttered in the faint breeze that wafted in through the open doors and windows.

"Mother," Caderyn said, beaming with the same impish delight he'd displayed during the fight. "If the gamblers return and give me what I'm owed, I think you're entitled to a portion of the proceeds. That distraction of yours turned the tide."

The bald man on the floor groaned then rose slowly to his feet. At the sight of the glaring duchess, the man's eyes widened. After letting out a sharp gasp, he fell to his knees.

"By the gods and their saints," he sputtered. "I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I had no idea that I was fighting your heir. If I had known who he was, I'd have refused the fight."

"How much was the prize?" Sarya asked, her voice cold and calm.

"Fifty pieces of silver, my lady," said the defeated boxer, wiping blood and sweat from his face.

The redheaded duchess nodded to one of her knights, who stepped forward and dropped twice that amount in silver at the defeated man's feet. His eyes widened and he blurted out his thanks, then scooped up the prize and scampered towards the door.

"If I'm not in the dungeons next week, I'll come right back here for a rematch!" Caderyn shouted after him.

Avoiding his mother's fiery gaze, Caderyn limped over to the nearest table, peeled off the bloody hand-wraps, then took a swig from a tankard someone had left behind.

The ale tasted like absolute filth compared to the fine wines of the ducal palace, but there was something refreshingly

honest

about that swill. It didn't try to hide. It didn't lie about what it was.

"So why the interruption, mother?" he asked, though he was certain that her inevitable tirade would soon clarify the matter.

"If those punches didn't completely pulverize your wits, take a bit of time and think of what day it is."

Caderyn took another sip of ale and glanced at the ceiling. After a moment, his eyes widened and he took an even bigger sip, needing the bitter taste to get him through what was to come.

"Ah, yes," he said, still smiling. "The Ninth Feast-Day of Saint Wulfrun. How was the celebration?"

"Absolutely dreadful," she snapped, taking a menacing step forward.

Though Duchess Sarya was more than a foot shorter than her son, Caderyn nonetheless nearly flinched back.

"Your father and I had to make excuse after excuse for your absence. We eventually settled on the lie that you were off chasing poachers. Given the sordid state of this tavern's clientele, perhaps that was not entirely too far from the truth."

"Chasing poachers?" he asked, still smirking. "That would be a nice change from my usual duties of inspecting the troops and attending council meetings. That would have been

real

work. Real responsibility."

"Perhaps we would entrust you with 'real responsibility' if you weren't always off drinking, gambling, fighting, and whoring."

"No whores here tonight, mother. But if I'd won that silver, I'd-"

She lashed out with a speed that rivaled the fiercest boxer, her hand colliding with the tankard. It went flying, spraying that wretched ale all over his face and chiseled chest.

"Don't," Sarya snapped, jabbing a finger within an inch of his face, in a perfect echo of how she'd rebuked him when he'd stolen his father's sword as a child.

After a deep breath, Sarya stepped back and began to pace across the fighting pit, heedless of the puddles of sweat and blood.

"First you missed your sister's betrothal ball because you were off exploring the city cisterns. Then you showed up drunk to Duchess Chera's tourney and damned near killed her nephew with your antics during the joust. And then you missed Baron Marek's funeral because you were..." She cocked her head. "What was it you were doing again?"

"Performing as a masked duelist with that traveling circus," Caderyn answered, his tone warm and helpful despite his growing dread.

By the gods, this was the most furious he'd ever seen her.

"And now this," Sarya continued, spreading her hands.

"Truth be told, mother, it's probably a good thing I did not meet those stuffy priests. Knowing me, I'd have made a crass joke about one of their nuns or-"

"By the fangs of the gods," she spat. The only thing more surprising than her curse was the fact that she'd used a Kovgaardian one. "For once in your damned life can you wipe that smug look off of your face and know your place?"

His faint amusement faded, replaced by a fierce glare.

"You know why I'm here," he said, his voice as cold as hers had been when she'd arrived. "Because I hate it. All the talking, the negotiating, the blathering. I've begged you and father again and again to allow me to go north to learn from the tribes. To travel with a mercenary company as father did. To...serve as a scout on the borders with Jadewall.

Anything

.

Something

. I want to help, I want to

contribute

but-"

She cut him off with another raised finger.

"You are the heir to both Fellhaven and Ravenmark. You thus stand to inherit the single largest and most powerful realm in the Empire. No single man could even dream of inheriting two duchies. Which is why it is important that you learn the nuances of statecraft, not go gallivanting around as a sellsword or adventurer. And you should certainly not be brawling with peasants or sticking your cock in every two-silver whore in the city."

A dozen different quips arose in his throat. For the first time that evening, however, Caderyn managed to restrain himself.

"Fine," he said slowly. "I'll rush back to the palace, get cleaned up, and make an appearance for the priests."

"It would take half the soap in the palace to erase that stench," Sarya said with a sigh. "I'll make arrangements for you to go on a hunt in the morning with the priests. With your father there, of course, to ensure you don't drive those holy men to madness with your jests and jokes."

"I'm sorry," he said, wiping the last of the blood, sweat, and ale from his stubble-lined chin.

"No," Sarya said with a shake of her head. "You're not. If you were sorry, you wouldn't keep doing this. Now find your shirt. Let's get you home."

The shirt in question was being used as a pillow by one of the drunks, but Caderyn managed to slip it away without waking the poor soul. He caught a faint grin on the face of one of the knights, but he lacked the strength to return it.

Gods, what would happen to him to now? The first time he'd scurried off to the fighting pits, his mother had threatened to disinherit him. Would she actually go that far this time?

A part of him almost hoped she would. Then he could be just another knight, a wandering hero in search of stories and glory. His brother Berent would hate having to take on new responsibilities, but he had a far better head for political matters than Caderyn. If the title was to pass to his sister Vienne, things might be even better. She and her new husband would prove to be far better joint rulers over the realms than Caderyn ever could.

Together they stepped out into the night. The cobblestone street was dark and quiet, though the arrival of a ducal carriage had caught the attention of a few locals. Curious eyes peered out through doors and windows. A small crowd had gathered on the balcony of a tavern just down the street, with people jostling for a better view of their beloved duchess and her miscreant son.

A knight opened the door to the carriage. Sarya paused, sighed, and turned back towards her son.

Before she could speak, a shadow flickered on the far side of the street. A figure in a dark cloak leaned against the alleyway. Moonbeams glittered against the steel mechanisms of a crossbow.

Caderyn cried out, grabbed his mother by the shoulder, and yanked her behind him. The knights shouted, reaching for their weapons.

Over the echoes of those shouts, the click of the crossbow boomed like thunder. The bolt sliced through the night air. Pain flashed within Caderyn's face as the bolt skimmed over his cheek. Ice rippled from the shallow wound, sending an unnatural chill through his bones.

From behind him came a soft thud, then a grunt of surprise.

He turned, eyes wide, his heart burning with fear.

Sarya reeled back, a crossbow bolt jutting from just above her collarbone. Thick yellow liquid seeped from the bolt, mixing with the blood staining her dress.

Poison.

The icy chill worsened. He cried out but no sounds emerged. Yellow light wriggled around him. Icy claws gripped every bone in his body.

Time slowed to a crawl. His mother slumped to the ground. Knights moved sluggishly towards her as Caderyn stared, his body shaking as the icy chill of the poison coursed through him.

And yet he did not fall.

Rage took hold, replacing grief and shock. Even as time continued to crawl past him, Caderyn turned his gaze across the street. The archer had vanished, leaving only shadows behind.

A bright blue glow caught his attention and he whirled, his mind still slowed by the poison. Another person stood in the next alleyway.

Shadows churned around the other figure. Two bright blue eyes gleamed in the darkness. Another assassin? A nightmare inflicted by the pain and shock? His fingers brushed over the wound on his cheek.

No. The poison was making him see things. Breaking and warping his mind, when he should have been focused on his mother.

The blue eyes glowed brighter. A shadowy hand pointed down the alley. His terrified, poison-addled mind seized upon the signal.

Of course. That alley likely connected with the one the assassin was using to escape. Shouts rose from the knights as Caderyn broke into a sprint. Every footstep boomed like the beat of a war-drum. His heart burned, his limbs quivered, and the pain inflicted by his brawl faded away.

Caderyn ran straight through the blue-eyed shadow. It disappeared and churned around him like mist. A soft hand brushed against the back of his neck. A familiar touch. A lover's touch. Snow flitted down before his eyes.

Impossible. It was still summer.

Too focused on the hunt to ponder the illusions battering his mind, Caderyn careened down the alley. Movement clattered to his right, down a narrow passage that cut between a temple and a towering tenement building. At the far end of the passage was the cloaked figure, a crossbow slung over his back.

Baring his teeth, Caderyn gave chase. The assassin reached the edge of the passage and stumbled onto another street. As the figure turned, Caderyn caught sight of a pale, pockmarked face. Snarling, the killer reached for his belt.

A dagger gleamed in the moonlight, dripping with the same yellow substance that had coated the bolt. More snow fell in Caderyn's face as he charged, heedless of the dagger, caring only for blood.

"Left," said a soft, gentle voice in his ear. Warm. Caring. Familiar.

Caderyn bobbed left. The assassin twisted to meet Caderyn's advance, but his foot slipped on a cobblestone as he adjusted his stance. Caderyn's hand, still bloody from the brawl, lashed out and grasped the man's wrist. With a savage howl that echoed down the moonlit street, he pushed with all his strength. Something snapped within the man's wrist and Caderyn guided the poisoned blade backwards and upwards, straight beneath the man's chin.

Blood blossomed, mixing with the trickles of the yellow poison. The assassin twitched and writhed within Caderyn's grasp, his dark eyes widening.

Time slowed further still and it took the assassin a half minute to fall to his knees before Caderyn. The young noble stared down at his hands, which were marred by his own bruises, the assassin's blood, and the gleaming venom. Snowflakes fell, sizzling as they hit his skin.

A soft, pale hand reached from the darkness. Upon the back of the hand was a tattoo of a dead tree. Looking up, Caderyn gazed into a dark, shadowy face. Blue eyes gleamed from the darkness.

"One path of many," said that soft, loving voice. A woman's. Unfamiliar and yet...painfully intimate somehow. A voice he knew and could not grasp, like something from a half-forgotten dream.

One more snowflake landed upon the back of his hand. Everything went white.

Through the haze of snow, he could see the glow of distant bonfires. Howls and chants sliced through the silence. Images of fur-clad warriors danced before him. Rune-covered weapons hacked through flesh. Blue and gold banners of Fellhaven waved above fields of blood and ash.

Ravens fluttered down from above, bearing rusted swords in their bloody talons.

Adrift on the currents unleashed by that poison, Caderyn reeled, grasping at the bizarre symbols, forcing his mind to come to terms with them.

The war...he was witnessing the great struggle won by his parents. Decades ago, the barbarian warriors of Kovgaard had descended from beyond the mountains, seeking blood to honor their strange, hungry gods. His mother had stood against the invaders, seeking the aid of Duke Lucan of Ravenmark. Together, they and their hastily assembled coalition had shattered the barbarian horde and forced a peace treaty upon them. In time, the north had become uneasy allies of the south. Aside from a few raids and skirmishes, peace had reigned over the frontier for years.

And yet the vision continued to churn. Arrows rose and skewered the ravens, sending them plummeting to their deaths. The banners of his mother's duchy tumbled to the ashen ground, trampled by wolves and the boots of northmen. Tattooed and painted faces snarled amidst the churning snow. Blood sprayed and formed great rivers upon the ground.

Before him rose the city of Fellhaven: a glittering jewel upon an emerald plain. The towers of the ducal palace loomed over the thriving markets, vibrant gardens, and bustling theaters. Ash and blood rained down. Wolves leapt from rooftop to rooftop, bearing severed limbs in their jaws.

"One path of many," said the soft, strange voice.

His mind-struck by the poison and addled by fear-was showing him what would have happened if his mother had failed. The doom of Fellhaven. Rivers of blood ran down its elegant cobblestone streets. Immaculate public gardens shriveled into ashen skeletons. The towers of the palace toppled, spreading dust and doom throughout the great city.

A great tide of snow cascaded across the city, turning the flames to steam and covering the blood with a blessed sheen of white.

Cracks erupted within the ashen rubble of the palace. Glowing blue roots and vines wriggled from the fissures. Serpentine branches burst forth, rising high into the sky, churning together to form the trunk of a great tree. Pulsating blue leaves emerged from the branches, each one gleaming like a sapphire star.