Bitchmaster: With This Ring, I Thee Rule (Patreon)

It had been almost a year since the King had died and it was still raining.

The two were not connected. They seemed like they should be, to the Princess Katrine, but she knew they weren't. It always rained in the city of Petrichor, in almost all of Yasminia. The rain picked the mud from the bedrock like flesh from the bone. It chiseled at outsiders, leaving only the Yasminians and their strong, nilstone cities that the rain could not touch. It made music.

Outsiders were always so surprised at Petrichor. They expected it to be dank, depressing, but the sun shone through the rain. In other cities, you heard the hustle and bustle of the crowd, footsteps, raised voices—a cacophony. In Petrichor, you heard an eternal orchestra.

Katrine belted her dressing gown securely around herself, leaving her bedroom deep within the stronghold and going to the outer ring, where vast windows belied the palace's fortifications. Their glass could be broken, but that would just reveal the mighty walls within. The rain's music grew from faint strings, echoing within the palace's inner chambers, into a chorus caressing her ears. Katrine came out to the stained-glass bubble that encased the palace, its mosaic of colors that danced and pulsed, even with only the white shadow of the moonlight to join with the rainwater. 

Besides the archway she had come out through, there were any number of wands imbued with portholes. She took one, brought it to the wall of glass that separated the palace's ramparts from a steep fall, and tapped the wand to the glass. Instantly, the colored glass became clear. Another tap and the wand's magic removed the rain from sight. 

Now she could see clearly out of the castle, past the city limits, down the mountain Petrichor was built upon, into the rivers and streams that carried its rain away, the wetlands that shielded it from invasion better than any wall. It was night, but that just helped her see the torches. A long snake made of torch-flame that wound up the trader's road, its smoke enough to lick at the pregnant moon. In a heartbeat, that rope of men and horses could become a noose around Petrichor. All because of one man.

"Damn him," Katrine muttered, her voice sounding young, petulant even to her own ears. And it wasn't just him. It was the Count as well, who had driven Petrichor to this. "Damn them all." She needed Mother.

Turning on her heel, she returned the wand to its rack—it wasn't as if it could do anything but provide a view—and roamed the halls of the palace until she found a flying chair inside its elevation shaft. She seated herself, then pulled the lever beside her seat, opening a sluice-gate deep below in the palace's ground level. Rainwater flowed through a dry passage, turning a water wheel that turned a pulley that raised the chair, dragging it up the shaft. It was a lengthy process, but that just gave Katrine time to think. She had much to think about.

Though in a way, she only had one thing to think about. Rain.

The rain fell on Petrichor, it traveled down the canals, it emptied into the lakes, it flowed into rivers. As it pulled away from the chilly city, the sun took its toll. The water was called back into the sky, becoming the clouds that held, ever-shifting, above Petrichor to shield it from the desert sun. 

And unlike people, those clouds reached their limit. There were months when they were a virgin white, when the rain stopped briefly or became snow, but more often they were dark, the collection of waters painting them in colors of amber, lipstick, plums, indigo, coffee. It was a never-ending cycle, the rains coming and going, never staying. Never lingering. She wondered what a drop of water would think of her.

Ten years ago, it might've fallen past the window of an orphaned child, the rain slate-gray, an endless assault on the glass. Five years ago, it could've run down the glass of the church windows where Duchess Lona of Sangri married her father; a light, happy rain as the teenage princess saw her new mother in her wedding gown and realized just how beautiful she truly was, in the traditional finery of the Yasminians—a white dress streaked through with color like raindrops coming down. 

A raindrop could travel the world in that time. Circle it, in rivers and clouds and rain, making its way back to see that happy flower girl, that blushing bride, that nervous husband once more, only to find the princess orphaned anew as a young woman, the bride widowed, the king's kingdom torn asunder. 

Count Margis would not accept a foreign queen as ruler, or a young woman. Or anyone but himself, Katrine thought. His powerful House Guard, a full third of Yasminia's standing army, was in open rebellion. The rest of the court flittered, faithless, between joining him and staying loyal to the legitimate heir, or even declaring for themselves. That was another third of the army useless, retainers protesting that their forces, so quick to descend on bandits or those who would not pay taxes, now could not be mustered.

And the threat of the Kun Horde, as always; now no longer even the mercy of them fighting amongst each other, but all marshalled by their new leader, kingdom after kingdom falling before this warlord.

The open sluice-gate had filled its capsule and the chair's ascent had come to an end. Katrine stepped off the flying chair, onto the grate that surrounded it, and then out of the elevation shaft, pulling the lever as she left. With the sluice-gate closed, the water was free to drain away, the weight of the chair dragging it back down to the lowest level. 

She was now on the promenade of the palace's tower, the keep that shot up from the courtyard like a sword held aloft. It was so high that it climbed even above the clouds. Katrine could see them out the glassless windows, hanging low and pregnant over the city—steamy wisps of rain not yet fallen. In places, they glowed bright from underneath. Glass-enclosed bonfire beacons, industrial forges, bonfires, funeral pyres; from here, as small as the cloches a flower would be kept under. 

But Katrine was in no mood to cloud watch, thinking on what each glow might mean in the peasants' world. She walked under a mammoth telescope, one of many in the observatory topping the keep, and hurried through the guard stations to her mother's chambers. None of the Royal Guard challenged her. At the door to the bedchamber itself, one quietly parted the door, trying to avoid waking the Queen. Katrine slipped inside with a thankful nod.

The bedroom was as her father had kept it for so many years. Only the bed had changed, no longer the traditional Yasminian kind with four posters and a canvas strung over the mattress in a pyramid, to keep out the rain back in the days that roofs still leaked. This was from Lona's mother country, the mattress softer, the sheets longer, the pillows shaped like triangles to be fitted together to her liking. Katrine didn't begrudge her stepmother the reminder of home. She was just sorry that Lona had gone to such a distant land for love, only to have it go where she couldn't follow.

Lona was a beautiful woman. Younger than the King she had married, but old enough to tutor Katrine in the ways of motherhood—it had been a good match. She was still in the prime of her life, and though Lona had heard rumors that she herself had grown as beautiful as her stepmother, she was far too humble to believe them. 

To her, Lona was the epitome of womanhood, of royalty, of beauty, of elegance. Her body was buxom: hips wide, breasts full, a voluptuous body all ready to swell with the child that the King had never given her. Her face was diamond-shaped, with her broad jawline and full lips warming her high cheekbones, her narrow chin. Though she'd been blessed with great beauty there, the real sweetness was in how she wore it—the dignified, regal bearing that she leavened with a wan smile or a warm word, the sideswept bangs that became her aristocratic cheek. 

Her hair was solid onyx, while Katrine's was a lighter brown, wavy where the Queen's was straight. They wore it at similar lengths, as well. Sometimes, Katrine wondered if it wasn't possible that she loved her adopted mother so that she'd grown up to take after her. 

Certainly, it wasn't entirely flattery that there was some commonality in their looks, despite a lack of shared blood. Katrine's face was oval and open with youth, her smile naturally wider than Lona's, innocent and cute where Lona's was knowing, even sultry. And her body was petite where Lona's was statuesque, though their measurements were close enough alike that they had often shared dresses with only minor tailoring. 

The door shut behind Katrine and she was reminded of their real differences. In the midst of her vast, overstuffed bed, the bundle of swathed sheets opened up, Lona's strikingly beautiful face coming up to mete out an icy glare. Then, seeing it was not a retainer disturbing her, she softened.

"I couldn't sleep alone," Katrine said, though she blushed a little. Even in the darkened chamber, she could see what Lona wore with the sheets drawn down. Her basque was only opaque at breasts and crotch. Over her belly, between her teats, it was sheer as thinnest silk, her creamy skin swimming under the shadowy gauze. Her legs and arms were utterly bare.

It was a look far too immodest for Yasminia, but the country Lona hailed from was more permissive, more temperate. In chilly Petrichor, she slept bundled in furs, but also wearing skimpy negligée, the balance struck allowing her to sleep warmly without waking covered in sweat. 

Still, Katrine didn't know how her stepmother was comfortable being so exposed. If a man were to walk in, at an inopportune moment, what he might see…

"Aren't you a little old for this?" Lona asked, her recitation of her adopted country's language chillingly precise, each word enunciated with refined candor. Her smile blunted the words and she nodded for Katrine to join her. "Be a dear and stoke the firebox though, my princess."

Katrine did so diligently, pulling it out from underneath the bed, pouring in a fresh helping of coals, and stirring them up with a poker held on the side of the metal contraption. When she pushed it back beneath the mattress, heat was simmering up from it. She joined Lona, but atop the furs, her mother's arms the only cover she needed in this warm, warm place. On this cold, cold night.

"What troubles you, princess?" Lona asked, petting Katrine's hair. She had learned every follicle whose touch would calm her fostered daughter.

"What doesn’t trouble me?" Katrine replied. "Count Margis. The Jun Horde. As if it weren't bad enough that Father died… they would tear down all the good he did!"

"I won't let that happen," Lona promised her. 

"I know you won't." Despite the warmth of the firebox, of Lona, Katrine felt a shudder go through her. "You'll make a deal with a warlord."

"If I have to."

"And end up accomplishing the same damn thing!" Katrine pulled away from her stepmother, digging her fingers into a fur as if the wolf it had once been was threatening her. And she meant to pull it apart. "Horn is s a butcher, mother! A conqueror without mercy or virtue! If we let him into Yasminia, we set fire to the country!"

"Katrine!" Lona's voice had descended from comforting into outright challenge. She wouldn't foster Katrine's defiance. "He is our only option. Our spies and messengers report that those who struck deals with Horn were treated fairly and with compassion. Those who forced his hand were put to the blade. Count Margis has already rejected an alliance with him. That gives us our only leverage."

"Leverage!" Katrine hugged the wolfskin to her chest. "To live as Horn the Conqueror's lapdogs?"

Lona spat a curse in her native tongue before regaining her composure. "Far better to live as vassals than be put to death so Margis's claim to the throne is unchallenged. And you speak of butchers? You know what the Count has done to our supporters in the countryside. Steadings put to the torch, families cut down. At least with Horn, we have a chance."

"You're inviting the bear into our house to protect us from the wolf."

"The wolf is hungry. The bear isn't. And Horn needs us as much as we need him."

Katrine shook her head. "You've lived here so long—ruled so well—I forget sometimes that you're an outlander. But you are. You don't understand that we are a proud people. We will never accept foreign rule!"

"It will still be me on the throne. As ever."

"But now your throne sits beside Horn's. In his shadow. It's been three days since we saw the torchlights of his army on the horizon. Now they are at our gate and the horizon still fills with his Kuns. They point themselves at our city like a lance that will run us through."

"Or a wall that will keep our enemies at bay." Lona reached out, her warm hand seeking Katrine's, finding it sallow with sweat. "I cannot ask our warriors to die in a fruitless quest to keep us the throne. Even if we could run, I would rather live in exile than that."

"Mother!" Katrine was aghast.

"Running is not an option. Wherever we go, the Count will hunt us. We must have open war and we must win. That is not our choice, it is our fate. But if the rain should fall on dead men, let it fall on the Kun Horde and Count Margis's rebels. Not in those who honor their oaths to us."

Katrine closed her eyes, hiding bitter tears. "Father could not have borne seeing you bend the knee to barbarian scum!"

"He is no longer here to bear it. Only I. And I can, and I shall. As shall you." Lona forced Katrine to face her, had her open her eyes and meet her gaze. She wiped the tears from Katrine's cheeks. "We'll get no more sleep tonight. And as you say, the Kuns are upon us. As well we not keep them waiting."

She rose from the bed, stepping perfectly into a pair of slippers. From there, her steps were a hasty, eloquent stride to her dresser, shedding her negligee as she went. Katrine watched as the last little vestments of her modesty vanished. She could see the swell of Lona's ass without so much as a stitch of fabric to distract from how it curved. Even as the Queen pulled on the proper undergarments, Katrine thought of how wrong she'd been. She'd thought that Lona's body was what all the dresses, all the gowns, all the jewelry was meant for. It wasn't. It was meant to be bare. She was beautiful. Still so beautiful.

Katrine could only hope her stepmother wouldn't be robbed of the long, happy life she deserved, as she was robbed of a loving husband.

***

Katrine finished dressing just as the page Lona had summoned arrive. One of the many dresses they'd traded between each other had been returned to the Widow Queen, but not yet altered back to her measurements. It fit Katrine perfectly—a white gown shot through with the traditional lightning-blue garnishes, clinging to her body from calf to collar, with a lacy white skirt and lacy white shawl softening the vividness of the 'lightning bolts'. 

With nothing better to do—with the knowledge that Lona would want to be alone in contemplation—with part of herself angry at her stepmother for not having been able to undo the string of ill deed and misfortunes that had forced them into this plan—Katrine followed the page at a distance, down in a plunging chair ride to the courtyard. There she separated from the page, as he went to alert the Castle Guard and necessary messengers to her mother's orders. She, instead, went to the rampart.

The guardsmen there stressed the preferable safety of staying within the castle, but she overruled them with ease, only allowing them to save face by extending the fans on their pikes to form an umbrella for her—one particular guardsman whose look she liked shadowing her to keep the rain off her head, though she was already hooded against it.

Katrine looked down to the moat of rushing rainwater—below the surface of dimpling concentric circles there were the sharkers. Almost entirely bears, but for the fin that cleaved out between their shoulder blades, and the telltale torso that jutted out just past the front legs into a shark's gilled, daggering head. The rain-spittled waters obscured their paddling forms, making them ghosts that haunted the moat rather that beasts that lived within it. Well-fed, but not so well-fed as to turn up a meal if the Kuns were to attack. 

If they needed to attack.

She watched as the drawbridge fell, bridging the gap between the inner castle and the parade grounds, the gardens, that circled between it and the city proper. Only now, that respectful distance had become the Horde's camp, sheltered cook-fires and fang-like tents breaking up the pleasing symmetry of its distance. It did not help that instead of rushing the lowered bridge, the Kuns waited patiently for a messenger to come out. He didn't even have to explain his purpose; they took him straight away to their leader.

Katrine shivered despite her shelter from the rain.

Then she heard it. Living in Petrichor, Katrine had heard the sound of rain falling on just about everything. Even things never meant for the rain would eventually meet the storm, for an experiment or as an elaborate attempt at art. She remembered an artist once who had bought a piano, just to take off its top and leave it out in the rain. The sounds of rain drops upon its strings had first been mesmerizing, then sad, as the wood rotted with water, the strings snapping, the little orchestra of piano chords dwindling down to be encompassed by the sound of rain alone.

But then, Katrine had been able to hear the plink of the rain on the ivory keys. It was beautiful, once you'd learned to listen for it.

This was not that. It did not wait to be discovered. It was a resonant, echoing sound, a drumbeat, a gong struck by fingers instead of a hammer. And it was growing louder, the sound of rain on this strange material, until Katrine saw him, piecemeal. Golden armor, laced and backgrounded with black. Bare, hard-muscled arms ending in golden gauntlets. A golden chestplate of the sun, its golder-than-gold rays interspersed with spikes of shadow. Greaves of black, with sun-discs on the knees, slender rays of gold slashing up and down the thigh, the calf, like the light of the North Star. And whatever the armor was made out of, it rung like a bell with the striking of the rain.

He came on and on, riding a black horse, a Friesian with especially shaggy hair at its hooves and neck. Katrine couldn’t bear to see him cross the drawbridge. She headed down instead, back across the walk-way to the bailey, where she descended to the ground floor to greet their lovely new invader. She had resolved to kill him with kindness, for lack of a better way to kill him.

He came through the guardhouse, seemingly ignorant of the vats of boiling oil in the murder-holes above him, the embrasures in the walls beyond which archers had their bows pulled taut, the trapdoor beneath his feet that could drop away to send him falling to his doom. Father might’ve left them, but he had left them well-protected.

Horn hadn’t dismounted. Katrine could see now that the horse has been marked—its hair shaved in intricate patterns form artwork. Chief among these ‘drawings’ was a miniature of the Jun Horde’s flag. A simple depiction of two men, one holding a sword and decapitating the other. Katrine had heard that it was meant to be ambiguous which was the Jun and which was not. If the Jun was the victor, so be it. If he was losing his head, then he found the prospect acceptable enough to wave a flag of it around.

We Do Not Kneel was written underneath the picture, letters as fragrant as splashes of blood on a wall.

The horse shook itself, mane clattering rainwater to the ground, and Katrine came back to herself. She looked up at Horn’s face, though all but the most basic aspects were obscured by the burgonet he wore: its peak formed the ferocious snarl of a lion, with the bronze beast’s teeth casting shadows over his visage. The skull of the helm was embossed with images of sun-gods, burning gold on the black embossed steel.

Katrine faced him. He would tower above her even without the horse. With it, she felt like an acolyte beseeching a god and, irrationally, she resented him for belittling her so. “I am Princess Katrine, Heir to the Throne of Petrichor, Holder of the Seven Rings, Child of the Nearer Moon, Lady Defender of the Rain. I welcome you to Castle Petrichor.”

Horn looked at her from the depths of his helmet. His eyes were blank, but not thoughtless. Rather, they seemed to be consumed with something else, some question he could not solve despite furious concentration, and it was only by the vestigial stirring of some distant nerve that he knew she expected a response.

“You know who I am,” Horn said. His voice was the gravel that filled a fresh grave. Katrine’s eyes wandered, looked down to where his hands held the reins. His gauntlets were strange—golden things of giant pangolin skin, covering his palms but not his fingers, and shining up to his elbows. Above them, on his right arm was the tattoo of his legion. Three circles, two wide bands above and below a thin one. The ink was faded. It was the original, not the more developed one he gave his men. Katrine almost shuddered, the sight reminding her that she was in his presence.

It was as he said. She knew who he was.

“Aren’t you going to dismount?” Katrine asked.

“No.” With a stirring of his reins, Horn set his mount to a gentle trot. Katrine was easily able to keep up with the hooves striking the cobblestone. “Your Queen has kept me standing here for a while. I relish being off my feet now.”

“You can’t just ride a horse into the castle!”

“Oh.” Horn stopped the horse, giving Katrine a look that was almost sheepish until she realized the irony in it. “I’ll have to change that rule, won’t I?”

He flicked the reins again. Katrine dashed ahead of him and took the horse by the bridle. Horn stopped short, regarding her, and behind the walls the bowstrings stretched and above the ceiling the vats began to tip.

“You want to lead?” he tossed her the reins. “Very well. I accept.”

He sat his hands on his knees, holding to his saddle with stance alone as Katrine led the horse down the causeway. The gauntlets, the tattoo, the artwork on his horse—she’d never seen these things before, but she had heard of them. 

Horn’s honor guard stayed behind, holding impartially on the drawbridge, and Katrine knew the portcullis couldn’t close fast enough to keep them out should the alarm be sounded. Them staying outside the boundary was a courtesy on Horn’s part. All of this was a courtesy—his army would’ve broken down the doors if they hadn’t let him in. Knowing it was silly, Katrine nonetheless hated him more for not breaking down the doors.

One man did emerge from the honor guard, keeping pace with the Friesian just as Katrine had. He was not a warrior; indeed, he didn’t look like any of the Juns, with his sallow skin, his wide-eyed look, or his clean robes and well-groomed beard, the tail of it beaded on his chin.

“Lady Defender of the Rain, this is Chaikin,” Horn introduced. “An Iolean. You know his people?”

“One was my tutor as a child. Free thinkers. They travel the land, seeking knowledge and challenging wisdom—I think he put it.”

“Yes. I found him being boiled alive in a stew.”

“Trolls?” Katrine asked, wincing.

“No. People. Chaikin, say hi.”

The man was distracted, taking note of their fortifications in a way that seemed more bemused than analytical. He was fearless in looking through an arrow slit at the hidden archers, then checking the other wall for more. “Hello! Lovely to meet you, princess… always nice when we can settle these things with a good talk. All the blood and killing—no, I much prefer this.”

“A conqueror makes a strange traveling companion for a pacifist,” Katrine said.

“Oh, Horn? He’s a liberator. Or, well, more like—more like a union organizer, really… the blood and the killing really isn’t the point, no, not at all…”

“What’s a union organizer?” Katrine asked Horn, who seemed slightly preferable to Chaikin. She could see where the dislike for Ioleans came from—you always got the feeling they were setting you up for a joke without doing you the courtesy of letting you laugh at it.

“What’s a union organizer? I’m sure he has it written down somewhere.”

Katrine pulled the horse along. It was obviously very well-trained: taking to the strange environs with each, not paying attention to anything but Katrine’s guidance. “Come to think of it—a conqueror makes a strange career choice for a pacifist. You are Narcosian, right? They don’t believe in violence.”

“It seems to happen, whether they believe in it or not.” Horn leaned forward, making Katrine feel his eyes on her back. When she looked back, it was into his steady gaze. “Shall we get to know one another, or is my name all you need to know about me?”

“You want to ask me something?”

“Yes.” Horn took off his helmet, Katrine immediately glancing back for a look. 

He had a dark face, heavy-browed, with a square chin, ruddy cheeks, and prominent nose that was now crooked and flattened with violence. It was a handsome face, but a hard one. His hair, pure black, was cut short, his beard sheared down to bristles. Scars dotted his lips, the space between his eyes, the orbit of his left eye, and one truly prominent one cut from temple to scalp, the hair over the red flesh a line of white. Katrine didn’t know how he could’ve survived that.

It was odd—his hair and beard were trimmed short enough for polite society, technically, but he still struck her as wrong somehow. Perhaps it was just knowing who he was, what he was, but the sight of him had had a visceral reaction: a feeling of danger and power. 

Perhaps it was the eyes. They flashed vacant, then present—wandering to deeper thoughts, then returning to skewer whatever drew his attention. They were softer than she would’ve thought. Not the doll’s eyes of a born killer, but—

He wasn’t tame. It didn’t make sense, but that was her answer. As short as his hair was, as new and furnished as his armor may be, he was not tame. He was a wild animal that’d been cleaned and trimmed, and though he was not attacking at the moment, when he grew hungry…

Katrine realized she’d let the conversation trail off again, looking at him. She focused on the causeway ahead of her. Guards lined the walls, some bold enough to rest their hands on their hilted swords. 

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“When you built your city here—did you know it always fucking rained?” Katrine looked back at him in surprise. His mien was utterly serious. “I’m not criticizing. I’m just asking, how long did it take for you to realize it always fucking rains? You’d think it would happen before you finished building the city…”

“Legend has it that our forebears were stalked by invisible beasts from the mountains. The rain let us see them and defend ourselves.”

Horn nodded. “I knew there had to be a reason,” Chaikin said. 

“What about you?” Katrine asked.

“I’d build a city where it only rains some of the time.”

“No—you’re a Narcosian?”

“Since I was born.”

“But they don’t approve of warfare. How can you be waging a war of conquest and call yourself a Narcosian?”

“I didn’t. You did.”

“So what are you?”

“I was Narcosian. Now I’m something else.”

“What?”

“Your countryman.” Horn flexed his legs, bringing the horse to a stop. Katrine got the feeling it wouldn’t move again if she pulled on its leads with all her might.

He dismounted, taking the leads from Katrine and tying them to a sconce on the wall. He took a moment to examine their lighting—not a lantern, not a torch, not even an enchanted orb of illumination, but what appeared to be a cloud when it passed in front of the sun, radiating light to the immediate vicinity. 

With a whistle, Horn drew Chaikin near. He took in the novel illumination with an intake of breath, then drew a calfskin journal from the folds of his robe and began writing in it. Katrine almost craned her head for a look at his pen. It seemed to require no inkwell.

“Lanterns,” Katrine said. “We put cotton baling around ever-burning candles, encased in glass of course, then hang them. It puts us at ease.”

“Ingenious,” Horn said, and he sounded very sincere. “Do you trade them?”

“What’s to trade? They’re just lights. A candle is just as good.”

“A candle only lights. This pleases. I should like to buy some.” He nodded to Chaikin, who jotted down something that had to be a notation to that effect.

While he dallied, a phalanx of guards waited at the double doors to the throne room. They continued to wait as he approached, tense, but too disciplined to show it. Horn stopped in front of them, unstrapping his sword-belt and wordlessly holding it out to them.

The captain of the guards took it, but looked unimpressed. “Your brutality precedes you, Horn. You think I believe this is the only way you can bring harm to my lady?”

“I’m a guest. I won’t be bringing harm to anyone.”

The captain ignored him. “Holtz, Stricker, search him.”

Horn fixed the two with such a look that they refrained from breaking rank. “I won’t be pawed at like a thief about to be tossed into jail. Let me through.”

“No one will approach my lady in full armor, unexamined.”

“So be it.” Horn pulled the gauntlets from his arms—Katrine could see another tattooed band across his wrist—dropped them to the ground. He loosened the ties on his chestplate, pulling it over his head. And so it went, Horn shedding armor and under-layers until, almost before Katrine knew it, he was nude. It happened so fast, Katrine didn’t even have time to look away—she told herself. 

Horn’s chest was thick with hair, his back burgeoning with muscles. An ugly bruise marred his side. Thick scars carved into his flesh: faint whip-marks adorned his shoulders, the ones that lingered after dozens of others had faded. A brand sat high on his chest; glossy burn scars splotched over his belly. And under his breast, a flat black line marked where a sword had entered. A line of the same length was in the same place on his back. Six claw trails slanted from his throat to his pectoral. The man seemed to have spent so much time on the battlefield that his body had become one.

And between his legs…

Now Katrine managed to look away.

“Am I to have this entire negotiation at your back?” he asked her. “What a shame—you have a lovely smile. I saw it just before you turned away…”

She almost turned around to rebut him before remembering his state. She then resolutely crossed her arms, back still turned, as Horn turned his attention to the captain of the guard.

“I hope there’s nowhere else you want to check for a weapon.”

The captain jerked his head to Chaikin. “What about him?”

Chaikin had taken a box from the horse’s saddle bag. 

“A gift for your lady.”

“A weapon he’ll try to slip to you?”

“If he gets near me, shoot him.”

“Excuse me?” Chaikin cried.

The captain looked over Horn once more—decided he’d been exacting enough. He stepped out of the way and his men opened up behind him. The last two opened the doors to the throne room.

***

All rivers flowed to the throne of Petrichor.

This was not a saying, but a statement of fact. From the highest point in the land, Queen Lona’s tower, gutters collected the rainwater. It was said they caught the first rain after every dry spell. And that water ran downward through pipes, like they were the roots to the tower’s tree, and those pipes delivered that rarefied water to the throne room. There, it was further refined. Ancient magicks had their way with it. The ever so slightly more impure half flowed down the marble walls, endlessly polishing them to a glassy sheen, water as wallpaper. In a dirty world, the throne room was forever clean.

The music was the point of it, of course. Deep inside the castle, where even the sound of the outside couldn’t penetrate, a world without raindrops would be too silent to contemplate. The Petrichor-born would find it odd, unsettling, just as those born outside the walls often found the constant drumbeat too unnerving to stay for long. So, the flowing walls imitated the sound with delicious refinement. It was a lone, angelic voice standing in for a symphony, a solo out from an orchestra. The sound flowed and flowed and flowed…

The rest of the water, the very purest of it, liquid crystal, was piped to the center of the room. There, it was spun around a circular aperture which released it as it whirled, forming a disc-shaped curtain of falling water around the throne which flowed so smoothly, it was translucent as glass. Putting a barrier between the queen’s throne, her dais, and the rest of the court. At present, the collection of chairs fanned out before the throne, Lona’s closest advisers seated there like schoolchildren before their teacher. They turned gently in their seats as they heard the doors boom open, admitting Horn and his escorts.

Along the walls, the retainers buzzed in interest. In Petrichor, as in most throne rooms, the wildly fashionable attire of visitors was almost as important as what they came to convey. Seeing Horn nude—his scars and genitalia bared—was almost more shocking for the lack of a statement than for his naked body.

“My Queen!” General Varnis, commander of Petrichor’s militia, barked as he leapt up from his seat. “The man appears before us defenseless! Strike him down now—“

“And every living thing, down to the smallest pup, will be put to the blade.” Horn offered him a smile that was mocking in how ingratiating it was. “Don’t you like dogs?”

“Without him, the Jun Horde will fall to ruin!”

“No,” Horn said simply. He had not broken stride and now he passed directly by the general, approaching Lona unabated. “But if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. And you can deal with Count Margis without me. Or my army.”

“Sit down, Varnis,” Lona said firmly. “He is our guest.”

“He bares his throat to us!” Varnis argued.

“Is that what you’re looking at?” Horn asked.

“Varnis, be seated!” Lona ordered.

Varnis could not obey. His chest heaving to pump out the lungfuls of wounded pride he’d been forced to breathe, he drew his sword. 

Now Horn stopped.

"You threaten us with invasion and tyranny!" Varnis accused, leveling his blade at the man’s back.

“Don't take it personally, I'm doing that to everyone.”

Horn’s casual conversation infuriated Varnis far more than bandied words or threats of death. With a bellow, he arced his sword up and then down in an overhanded swing that would split Horn in two.

If it had landed.

Horn clapped his hands together, catching the blade neatly, almost fastidiously, between his palms. Varnis strained to budge the sword. It was as steady as it would be within a vise. Horn examined the blade curiously, noting his reflection in the well-polished flat of the blade. Then, with a twitch of muscle that could be seen stirring through his entire body—as a fish’s passage might be noticed under the surface of dark waters—he propelled the sword backward, the edge intersecting Varnis’s face just as he had intended to do to Horn. It was lodged firmly in his skull before Horn relented in his pressure, now opening his hands, the gesture becoming an almost apologetic shrug as Varnis fell, dying and bleeding, to the stainless marble of the throne room’s floor. 

“Well, at least that's two of us with balls,” Horn said, stepping back as the spreading blood approached his bare feet. 

He walked over the leg of the corpse, going to what was clearly the audience space of the throne room, where he picked up Varnis’s chair and dragged it with him to the raining water of Lona’s throne. The guards gripped hilts and notched arrows, but with a raised hand, Lona dissuaded them. And after what had happened to their general, none were eager to try their luck.

Horn stepped easily through the water, planted the chair across from Lona’s throne on the dais, and sat down opposite her. “I hope your general’s attitude on hosting died with him.”

He did not cross his legs. 

Lona would not allow herself to be intimidated or impressed. She openly looked Horn over, from his impressive musculature, even more becoming with his form wettened by the water he had passed through, to his cock. There, she raised an eyebrow in open acknowledgment of the sight. It dangled rigidly. Shockingly long and thick, his endowment stiffened visibly, threateningly, under her stare. By Zor, how big would it be when erect? The size of her forearm?

She looked up to Horn, her eyes chiding, but playfully so—a slight quirk of her lips adding irony to her gaze. As Queen, her face was often her most effective weapon. 

Horn grinned back at her—open challenge. “Apologies if my reaction to you is insufficient. You are dressed rather modestly. Perhaps if you were to pose a little…”

“Warlord, you are in my household. You can’t very well… rebuke poor Varnis there for being a poor host while you make yourself an equally poor guest.” 

Horn’s smile faltered. He inclined his head slightly, in apparent agreement with her paralleling of attempted murder with his ribald joking. “I’m sorry—truly. I had thought this a more informal meeting.”

“We are here to discuss business,” Lona said, not giving an inch. Until a flash of teeth appeared between her lips. “Not any other subjects that might arise.”

Again, Horn bowed his head, this time noticeably deeper, as if in grateful deference. “And thank you for having me. There are those who will not even hear my terms. And so I must send my soldiers to their deaths, kill their soldiers, and risk my own life. It is the way of the world, yes—but it is not so bad a thing to forego when possible.”

“I have heard of these… ingrates?” Lona’s face was a mask. Her head tilted briefly to the side. “I have seen their heads borne before your forces.”

“They condemn those they lead to death rather than parting with power. Should I then spare them the same fate they apparently find so acceptable?”

As Horn spoke, half-lost in considering his words. Lona’s eyes glanced down for just the slightest instant. She yanked them back up immediately; it had just been one brief glance. “Some would say those men and women are of royal blood, and should not be put to the sword like a common soldier.”

He couldn’t have even noticed. She just had to get used to his nudity—to how much of him there was to be nude—and then she would stop looking. 

“I could not say, my lady. I’ve never met a common soldier.” He had caught that fleeting motion of her eyes! And there was only one place for her to be looking. His eyes seemed to alight. “I have spilled a good deal of blood. It seems to me the royal is much the same as the rest.”

“A fair point. I myself would choose to avoid death, for myself as well as my countrymen. How do you propose this be managed?”

Horn leaned forward, the simple motion causing his manhood to shift, bringing it back to Lona’s attention. She nearly gasped. And though she prevented that, her eyebrows still rose in surprise. It had gotten bigger. Unbeknownst to all others in the throne room, his phallus stood red and quivering, very noticeable against his hairy thighs. Its length easily exceeded a full hand-span. 

Almost with a physical effort, Lona tore her eyes from his endowment, meeting his gaze instead. She saw a cocky look in his eyes that she could do nothing to dissuade. She had looked, as he’d known she would, and though perhaps it meant nothing to their negotiations, suddenly she felt at a disadvantage. Vulnerable.

Naked.

“My terms are simple,” Horn said, his voice slightly louder, more confident than the casual, cultured tone he had previously adopted. “They are inviolate and are issued to your kingdom just as they have been to all before yours and all to come. You surrender to me, completely and without reservation. Your army is disbanded, with those who may wish it free to join my legions. Your resources are mine, to be used as I see fit. You will remain in power, your kingdom my vassal-state, your authority answerable only to me. But answer to me you will.”

Lona looked down again, her attention now riveted to his loins, drawn by the massive presence that seemed to demand her gaze with even more force than its possessor. It was now obvious he had the largest maleness she had seen on a man, possibly of any species. There were horses that were lacking in comparison. 

“There are a few other matters. I find, as emperor, that there are certain policies which cause unrest to ferment and spread weakness across my keepings. This is unacceptable. The prohibitions of certain religions, one subjugating another. The keeping of slaves, or of indentured workers held in tyrannical debt and put to savage work. The drafting of men and women to serve against their will, whether as whore or as soldier. These are, of course, not issues in your just and fair kingdom. Which means the only thing you really must do is give me your daughter, the Princess Katrine, to bear me an heir and unite our bloodlines.”

Lona did not dare look to Katrine, who she knew was among the milling throng of onlookers, unhearing of this quiet conversation. She did not think she could bear to see that sweet, innocent child, even though they’d known this was of the offer that Horn gave all his conquests, even though Katrine had been raised expecting that some treaty or alliance would be sealed with her hand in marriage and she was now a young lady of a most beautiful and fertile age.

But to a prince! A princess! A duchess, duke, lord, baron, even a simple lady or knight! Not to a man who killed so easily, and bared himself with still greater ease.

“I am told you are already married,” Lona said weakly, as if she could make Horn admit that this was some mistake, some jest, and withdraw this demand from an otherwise hospitable contract.

“Yes,” Horn agreed readily. “My people take many wives, and I myself have kept this custom exuberantly.” He smiled at her. Lona did not look down, but felt a flush at her breast knowing that it was still there, hard and ready at the thought, prepared to deflower her daughter then and there. “They’ve all come to enjoy their new… duty. You may question them, if you like. I bring some with me, even upon the dusty road.” His smile widened. Lona could smell his precum upon his cockhead. “It’s never a bad time to work toward an heir.”

“And Count Margis?” Lona argued. A part of her hoped that would be enough to sour this deal. If it were not her fault that this agreement fell through, she thought she could live with that. It just could not be her to condemn her people to war, or her daughter to take such a monstrous thing inside her… to be ruined for all other men, as such an endowment surely would do… to perhaps even be enslaved to the pleasures it gave, as she had heard some of the Fair Folk did when taking human lovers. 

Horn barked a harsh laugh. “You do get the better of me. I promised no further boon to you than what I have offered any of my other conquests. Yet, as soon as your daughter bears my ring upon her finger, your kingdom becomes mine, your weights now upon my back. And so, the Count being as much a malcontent to I as he is to you, I would turn my fury upon him.”

“As soon as I agree?”

His eyes were returning her exploration—moving with great care over her long legs, her slender waist, her proud breasts. A dark dress covered her completely, but for a cut down the cleavage in the shape of a lightning bolt, jaggedly moving down her torso to glimpse her bare skin, its strike hitting, stopping, just at her pubis. Horn’s gaze stirred her exposed belly button. “The moment your daughter’s hand is in my grasp.”

Lona thought furiously. This question had already weighted upon her mind, tumbling within her skull to be considered from all angles. She was no closer to its solution, but all the arguments were well-remembered, every consideration an old friend and a bitter enemy. The loudest ones, the ones she knew were true, burned in her heart. 

She could agree to this. And Horn could go after Count Margis’s rebellion, riding at the head of his army as he always did… and if he were to die in battle, Katrine would be safe. The kingdom would be spared. Were she truly blessed, Margis and Horn might slay one another entire. It was a long shot; a considerably dubious prospect. But it was the only way she could live with herself, both as queen and as mother. She would have to accept the offer, and pray Horn did not survive delivering to Lona her dowry.

She rose, gathering herself to her full impressive height before bowing deeply. “I accept your generous offer, Horn of the Horde. You may wed my daughter as soon as you offer proof of your goodwill.”

Horn returned her bow. “I thank you for your wise and courteous decision. My bride?”

Lona beckoned. Katrine attended her, walking at a slow stride, knowing what this meant. Duty compelled her not to miss a step, to take each one even as she seemed on the verge of swooning. She recovered, though, and by the time a vane had opened in the ceiling to allow her a dry passage onto the dais, she was moving at a smooth, even gait.

“My daughter,” Lona said, not a note of apology in her voice—it was all in her eyes. “You are promised to Horn, to serve him as a woman serves a man, and to be cared for as a man cares for a woman. Take from him proof of his intent.”

Horn took from about his neck an amulet. The chain he easily tore away, leaving a slender ring. He showed it to Katrine, and his manner was now surprisingly gracious, putting her at ease as a farrier might approach a horse. “Alexandrite,” he told her, displaying the stone in its setting. By the light of a nearby cloud-light, Lona could see it was emerald… only when Horn put his hand between the light and the crystal, it turned to ruby. Lona gasped, hands suddenly upon her mouth.

Horn took his hand away and once more it was green. “Emerald by day, ruby by night. Because of its composition, the gem absorbs the yellow that is mixed into all light. Light generated by magic takes after the sun, the sun’s light is mainly green. Thus it appears. But light from a flame is mainly red, so without the yellow, the gem appears red.”

Katrine reached out to take it from him, drawing her hand back quickly from the proximity of his quivering erection, so big, so hard, so close.

“Wherever you are,” Horn continued, “you can look upon the gem and see that whatever form it takes, it is still precious. As are you.”

“Then you consider me precious, whether as sex slave or as breeder?”

“Daughter!” Lona cried, but Horn silenced her with a glance.

“And would your people accept me as king without your hand in marriage? My heirs as legitimate without your blood in their veins?”

“I will never love you!” Katrine spat.

Horn reached out and ran his hand down one of her bangs, Katrine’s mouth gaping open as she realized she was being touched. “You will love what I do to you. That will be enough.” Katrine turned and fled. Horn watched her go.

His open hand was empty. Katrine had taken the ring with her.

“Was it so different for you, Duchess Lona?” Horn asked her, feeling her judging eyes upon him.

“My groom fulfilled his promises to me. Perhaps before you judge the princess so harshly, you should show her you are worthy of her trust.”

“An excellent notion.” Horn clapped his hands. “Chaikin! I am affianced! Bring my new mother her gift!”  

Chaikin bent low, setting down the box he carried with a haste that Lona now saw to be gratefulness. He threw the latch on the box and opened the lid. As it swung on its hinges, Lona could not measure how she felt—both hope and dread filled her in infinite quantities, far beyond any emotion she had ever before been asked to feel.

There, staring out of the box, was the head of Count Margis. It was pale, the open eyes vacant, but undoubtedly him—the expression was still frozen in the same smug expression, that of a man basking in his own self-proclaimed brilliance, that Margis most often sported. His death had apparently changed it not one whit, and Lona could only imagine the whiplash speed with which Horn had landed the killing blow, making the stroke before Margis had even seen it aborning. One look at Horn and she knew the blow had been struck in honorable combat; he wouldn’t present it so proudly unless he had come about that severed head in a fair fight. And Margis was renowned as an excellent duelist…

“Count Margis sends his regrets on not being able to attend your daughter’s wedding,” Horn quipped.

Lona was repelled by the gory sight, but at the same time excited. An end to the warfare. An end to the danger. She was hard-pressed to care how Horn had done this, what strategic masterstroke had collected the Count’s head and then allowed him to make his way to Petrichor in advance of the news reaching her through spymaster or messenger, even a carrier pigeon. She supposed Count Margis’s forces would be reluctant to admit to such a costly loss for fear of the chaos that would break out, but she was equally certain Horn had a stake all picked out to make it painfully obvious that Margis was no longer a viable contender for the throne.

And yet, her relief and even her grisly pleasure at Margis’s richly deserved fate could not be separated by her awareness of what it meant for her and her daughter. Horn had outmaneuvered her with precision, deftly backing her into a corner with Lona none the wiser until her shoulder blades were pressed to the wall. She would not renege on the bargain she had just made; it would ruin her for her retainers and vassals to doubt her word, even for an instant. But it was hard for her not to wish she had refused. Margis would be just as dead, but Horn would have no reward for his efforts. He had played her. She felt as if she had made a deal with the Devil, and the Devil had gotten the better end of it.

“If that concludes negotiations,” Horn said, rising, his smile slightly consoling as he saw the import of the sight register through cracks in Lona’s façade. “The wedding will be tonight. That cathedral at the northern end of your castle should suffice for the ceremony, and the ballroom will make for an excellent… I’m not quite sure of the word in your tongue… afterparty?”

“You cannot possibly expect me to prepare a royal wedding in a single day!” Lona replied automatically, her voice becoming shrill. It was a sharp reminder for her to retake control of herself.

“Why not? It’s not like you have a war to fight.” Horn retorted. “Chaikin will coordinate with your people. Some of my men will be joining in the festivities; I’ll be providing drink to them and boons to the people.”

“Boons?” 

“Margis’s coffers were quite full, my lady. I’d keep it for myself, but my forces travel light. My men will either shed the gold in your city’s many willing… receptacles, or pour it out in the canals to wash up where it’s needed.”

“You’re quite the alchemist,” Lona said. “You rinse off your bloody hands and the water turns to gold.”

Horn smiled at her. “It’s a pity you’re only the princess’s stepmother. Your blood would make an excellent addition to my line.”

Horn turned to leave, traveling through the curtain of rain surround the dais again. It doused him with cold water that did nothing to soften the rigid erectness swinging between his legs. Lona could see it from behind, hear the meaty slap it made as it smacked against his thigh like the truncheon of the prison guard making his rounds.

Shaking herself out of the stupor of her stare, she signaled to the head of the Castle Guard. He came to her, extending the folding canopy from the neck of his spear to keep himself dry as he passed underneath the rainwater, then standing at her side, giving the momentary impression of a man sheltering his woman from the rain.

“That errand I discussed with you earlier,” she said to him. “I’ll need you to go about it immediately.”

***

The guardsman, Gilgim, was an unusual example of his breed. As a young man, he had foiled an assassination attempt on the king. While the act had left him with a pronounced limp, since then he’d gained a reputation as a trusted executor of the Crown’s will. The same wit that had let him spot the oncoming attack was held in high esteem to do the Queen’s bidding: quietly, subtly, and intelligently.

Having changed out of his armor and into simple clothes—a tunic, leggings, a head-scarf, and a dark cloak to conceal him both from the rain and from curious eyes—he now made his way to the Fool’s Quarter of Petrichor. A warren of illicit activities, the Fool’s Quarter was downstream of most of the city. The rainwater that gathered higher up the mountain almost all flowed through the district’s endless series of gutters, canals, and pipes, making it the perfect place for finding and losing things that the authorities would object to.

Gilgim clutched his staff tightly and the lapels of his tunic even tighter, walking under the sprawling network of looming, twisting rooftops that staggered the rain, making it bedraggled and sputtering when it wasn’t rushing underfoot. He wasn’t as familiar with the Fool’s Quarter as some, and the narrow walkways and construction like overgrown jungle made it even more confusing.

He ducked under a ledge to consult his map, the sound of rainfall becoming an unpleasing staccato when he heard a strong, emphatic ringing of heels upon the cobblestone. Following the noise, Gilgim peered around the corner, seeing a set of black, high-heeled boots thundering down the walkway. Above them, long, bare legs, flashing tawny gold, leg to the shortened hem of a raincoat. Although the raincoats of Petrichor came in many colors, this one was almost translucent, allowing him to see through it to the fine, supple flesh inside. Were it not for the raindrops adhering to the clear material, he could make out the details instead of the broad strokes, but the slicker was tight enough for him to perceive that it wasn’t hiding imperfections, merely the full scope of perfection.

His eyes went up the long, lean body to see the woman’s face—a lovely face, but with hard, dark eyes and a smile that insinuated far more than it expressed, while her hair was piled high with curls but cut short at the back and sides, the look of a woman who spent most of her days indoors and, by implication, in bed. A whore, in other words, advertising her wares.

Those hard eyes scanned him, Gilgim trying hard to look harmless and not having to try very hard at all to look interested. Finished, the eyes softened and met his. He gave a nod. The whore smiled and looked around; here? Gilgim shook his head and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. At her brothel. In confirmation, the whore pulled the skirt of her slicker aside, showing her inner thigh, bare except for the tattoo of her house—an hourglass. And, skillfully, the wrist of her hand as she drew the raincoat open hid the cunt she exposed. All but a promisingly hairless stretch of skin, silken and warm and hidden from the rain for only him.

Gilgim gave another nod, before catching himself and—nodding again.

Turning with a sweep of her raincoat that flashed bare buttocks before it settled against the backs of her thighs, she led him deeper into the Fool’s Quarter. The ecology of the place fascinated Gilgim, or at least made for better thinking than the sight of the whore’s backside as he kept up with her. He knew there were cutthroats and slit-purses aplenty in this area of the city, but no one would interfere with a girl of the Hourglass, or a paying customer. It’d be bad for business. The coin he offered to her would filter through these rogues’ dealings like a raindrop fell from a cloud then through a gutter. 

And besides: judging from the number of Kun warriors on the streets, all of them seemingly haggling or flashing purses, there was no need to undo a local. One way or another, the outlanders would find their coin freed from their pockets.

The path the whore followed was not an easy one. They flitted through alleys, across pouring rainspouts, even cutting through vacant houses at some points. Gilgim felt relieved on behalf of the Kun Horde. If they had invaded Petrichor, they would’ve been better off finding a separate peace with the Fool’s Quarter.

In the twists and turns of the journey, he lost sight of the whore, but still heard the echoing clatter of her heels strutting from cobblestone to cobblestone, the almost irritating ping of raindrops on her transparent slicker—under it, the sensual sound of the rain hitting her bare legs, prompting a voluptuous thought of removing the slicker and hearing the rain all over her naked body. He’d heard talk that the whores of the Hourglass could use their raincoats as bedding, and conduct business under the gods’ weeping gaze…

The heels stopped. Hurrying after the last note struck by them, Gilgim emerged into an open space like a clearing in a dense wood. There before him stood a glass pyramid the size of a merchant’s manor house, its point shooting up to forty feet above him—only hidden from view before from the crowded tangle of the other, lesser buildings slumming and sagging all around it.

At the capstone of the pyramid, the inward progress of the angles involved reversed themselves, growing up and outward in an upside-down pyramid open to the sky, its tip seemingly balanced on end against its brother—though Gilgim could see glass pillars at the corners of the conjoined pyramids, surely holding them together where simple physics would insist otherwise.

The rain collected in the reversed, open-ended pyramid, whirling down to the balancing tip where the maelstrom upended itself and ran down the outer surfaces of the pyramid in sheets of cascading water like liquid glass. Through that obscuring flow of motion, Gilgim could see bodies just beyond the walls: cavorting limbs, opening mouths, breasts and buttocks pressed flush against the glass, a visual cacophony of sexual frenzy, hidden right in plain sight.

Doubtless the whore had shed the small censorship of her slicker and joined her brethren behind the larger protection, to both eyesight and touch, of the Hourglass—the finest house of pleasures in all of Petrichor.

Reaching down to his belt and checking that his coin-purse still hung securely at his hip, Gilgim approached the pyramid. Proximity did little to improve the view, but he could make out almost prophetically what it was he wasn’t seeing. Legs bowed and bent, hands lost between open thighs, shared caresses between feminine outlines—it was a sumptuous feast laid out for lustful appetites, with blurred tones of flesh in all colors, from deepest brown to lightest green, appealing to all palates. He could see silhouettes slim and slender, or full and voluptuous, athletic and muscular, displayed as temptingly as the wares in a market, but with an air of mystery as befitted their femininity. Securing his staff in the crook of his elbow, Gilgim leaned up close to the slanting wall, cupping his hands over his head to obstruct the flow of water and allow himself a clear glimpse inside…

But as if in response to the pressure of his hands upon the glass, the Hourglass shifted, a rectangle of glass sliding off out of his way right where he had touched as if it had been a portal all along. Gilgim could now see inside, step inside the Hourglass…

But, so doing, it was a question of whether he would ever be able to leave…