-I- To Make a Warrior
-II- The Other Side of the Window
-III- Fugutive
-IV- The Hunter
-V- Almost Home
-VI- A New Altar
-VII- Grey Sands of Tortage Beach
-VIII- Voices Within
-IX- A Fateful Visitor
-X- The Rogue Thorn
-XI- A Thousand Fears of Villiany
-XII- Reckoning
-XIII- Treason On The Wind
-XIV- Night Life
-XV- Resignation
- A blossom growing throughout Hyboria that lulls its victims to sleep.
- In the utopian afterlife of the Elysian Fields, the just desserts of those who lived a virtuous life.
((Ixion = Fishawao Irloka))
Aduro's voice cracked like a whip in Asphodel’s ears.
Via! Hup! Via! Hup!
Her feet shifted skillfully, her blades flashed and her body spun, as she had so often done. Before her, her brother Staetis, two years younger but heavier of girth, perspired from his brow as he followed the instructor's commands and he pressed his unrelenting assault until her feet ran out of room, the rough track of the training circle at her heels. For a moment she instinctively dropped to one knee, right foot forward, her poniard reaching underneath for a quick strike. Then she checked herself, pausing to accept Staetis's hard-earned killing stroke, Aduro's applause on its heels.
Aduro was no ordinary trainer, but a knight of the Black Legion, a veteran of dozens of battles. Asphodel’s father, Baron Angustus, had handpicked and handsomely paid him to prepare Staetis for his military duties as the next Baron of Lor. But as she looked over at the powerfully built warrior, she thought she saw something resembling amusement at her.
"I've seen the best trained knights disappear in the chaos of a battle", he began. "As you master the arts of war, you must learn to seize every advantage, no matter what the handbook says."
No doubt that time, he was looking at her now. The pride drained from Staetis's face as he ambled from the sparring-hall. Though he had spent months mastering Aduro's unique fighting style, he understood that only his sister's guised restraint had allowed him to complete the drills. But he also knew that he had performed every move correctly. A quiet hatred of the older man was burning in his heart, though he did not understand why.
Unfastening her ill-fit trainers' armor, Asphodel slinked behind him, but as she touched the door latch a stern voice behind her caught her attention.
"You think you are helping him, I fancy? By letting him beat you?"
She avoided Aduro's penetrating gaze as she had so often. "You fancy you help him by riding with Conan tomorrow." No one had told her, all her life she had been around knights, and she knew instinctively that he was preparing himself for a great battle.
Asphodel felt his hand on her waist, and she turned, trembling, fear creeping over her. This time it was not her usual fear that she quietly craved, that of being discovered by the bailiff of the manor, as they were still in the sparring hall. Asphodel felt as much guilt as a caged bird feels for picking at the bolt, it was the Bailiff’s responsibility to guard her virtue, not her own.
He started in, his hands eagerly fumbling to free her from her armor as he had done so many times before. He seemed to feed on the fear coursing through her as her wanton breasts rose and fell in the moonlit training hall. "If you are worried about my technique-"
"Your technique is all flash ... If your enemy is not duped into moving backwards -" Uneasily she felt her back touch a stone pillar as her words ended in a gasp.
Aduro's roughened face grazed her cheek as he whispered, "They always are."
Her fingers traced his muscular body, the only sound remaining her soft moans daring the still night to listen. The sound of forbidden pleasure and sorrow, for as he crushed her in his arms, she knew he would not be coming back.
To Make a Warrior
"I needed a drink, while you were out playing harlot." Staetis offered, handing her the empty flask.
She jumped to face him, her torn clothing still hanging from her limbs, leaving nothing to imagination. Coins fell from the unlikeliest crevices of her garments, as she quipped, "Actually, I was prize fighting most of last night. The loser was such a gentleman I felt it was necessary to treat his wounds …"
"Azura, Mitra, and Bori!!!" he interrupted, grasping her arms and wrenching her around to see her back. "What the hell happened to you?" For her back was riddled with many red lines, from her playful lashing deep in the night.
"So just tell the bailiff on me, so he can have his turn. I can appreciate a good spanking." Her lips twisted into a smile, and something about her manner was provocative in a way that made Staetis uneasy.
He clumsily began to question her, marveling at how routinely she tossed her proper attire on as she rebraided her blonde hair. "So what is it you do on the other side of the window?" She stood up and faced him, her blue eyes sparkling. "You really want to know?"
Something in her excited tone convinced him that he did not want to know at all.
The Other Side of the Window
It had been five days, two stolen horses, and one night's sleep since Asphodel had felt the silken sheets of her own bed. She knew she could never go back, not for the punishment, but for the realization that her family, now aware of her desire to escape, would not let her slip away again should she return.
Asphodel was keenly aware she had been followed for two days, as her hunter grew nearer she found more often her fingers stroking her sword hilt or feeling for her dagger. She was well outside the dominion of Lor, but she knew that once her absence was discovered, she would be pursued to the very edges of Hyboria.
Her going had been rough, and her body ached from the frantic journey, but Asphodel savored every moment of it as if it were her last. For the first time she could remember, she was free, no one would be looking over her shoulder to chasten her every move.
At a crossroad her horse saw a carriage passing and stopped abruptly, sending her headlong into the mud, the other driver rushing chivalrously to her aid. Laughing she had gripped the outstretched hand and pulled him into the muck behind her, drinking in the horrified faces of his passengers, as they drove off, leaving her still playing alone in the mud.
After some minutes, a young, sturdily-built cottager waded into the mud and looked down at her. “Are you from around here?”
Asphodel laughed, realizing his intent. In Aquilonia it was punishable to hire a prostitute from among the local girls. After 5 days on the road, it wasn’t obvious to anyone that she was even a Lorian.
She shook her head, playfully flicking the mud towards him with her fingers. He continued, “I suppose you are not interested in a place to wash up?” She looked him over and teased, “Are you offering to bathe me?”
The cottager was not a man of many words, but he proved creative, binding Asphodel on her back, legs and arms spread wide, on a cot in his cellar, before he had his fill of her. Then, without explanation, he left the cellar and ascended through the trap-door that led to his cottage, locking it behind him. Still bound to the cot, she began to realize she was not going to be leaving anytime soon. Not that she considered herself unfortunate, for as distasteful as his uncouth ways seemed to her, she preferred the homemade galley underneath his cottage to the plush provisions of her prison in Lor.
Three times he came back, each time more violent than the last, his lust and rage seeking a response from her, but Asphodel gave none, even when he finally came into the cellar and she felt a red-hot iron sizzle against her bare ass, marking her as one would a foreign captive.
She finally slept, how long she could not tell, until her captor rushed into the basement, his face white as a sheet.
“Who are you, tell me now!” he demanded.
Asphodel had all too newly tasted the free air to let go of it now. “I’m just a prostitute from Corinthia!”
“And how many men have you pleasured? I don’t suppose you are licensed in these parts.”
She stopped, thinking hard for a convincing answer.
He read her intent, and slapped her full across the face. “You lying bitch! You’re from central Aquilonia, and you have brought ruin on me! A Stygian ranger was here minutes ago, asking about your whereabouts.”
She felt fear for the first time since he had taken her in. “You can’t let him find me!” There was desperation in her voice. She had decided she would never be returned to Lor alive.
He sat down, the realization of his situation upon him. “I must return you to your family, and beg for mercy. But you have to agree to not speak of anything that happened here.”
Asphodel whispered an oath that could only have been sincere, swearing to never tell anyone what he had done to her. Her arms hung limp as he took her dagger and cut the cords from her wrists and feet, calling on Mitra in strange oaths for his deliverance.
“Wait!” she whispered, sitting up and caressing his thighs. “Give me one more thing …”
He was already giving it, she gently pushed him back onto the cot. He looked at her voluptuous body, intoxicated with his desire, as she crouched like a tigress over him and began kissing his neck softly. He grasped her hips to take more of her, and as he did she kissed his lips apologetically as the poniard slid along his throat, cutting short his breath.
Fugitive
Behind the cottage was a small stream and Asphodel seized a fresh horse from a nearby barn and began following it towards its source. Her horse walked just inside the water’s edge so as not to leave tracks. Knowing what floodplain she was in, she knew she would eventually reach Zingara if she followed the water to the end. Even as she was starting out the stream emptied into a much larger river.
Presently she heard a horse snort in exhaustion somewhere upstream and she realized she was being followed. She quickened her pace, working reeds in her hands to fashion caltrops, which she placed inconspicuously in the riverbed, hoping to slow her pursuer. She came to a place where the river grew flat and wide, where she crossed it, climbed a hill on the other side, and watched her path to see who the mysterious tracker was.
Scarcely twenty minutes passed before Ixion came into view. He was dark of skin, powerfully built, and wore traditional Stygian hunting garb. A huge longbow was hanging over his back, and Asphodel was surprised to see that he wasn’t watching the trail for tracks, but looking at the sky, as if for direction. As the fugitive puzzled over this, her horse shook his mane. A thrush, hiding in a nearby tree, fluttered into the sky. The Stygian saw it immediately, and knelt opposite the river from her, studying her position. Whether he sensed a trap, or lost her trail altogether, Asphodel did not know, but after a few seconds, he continued down the other side of the river.
Asphodel shuddered as he disappeared around a bend; this pursuer was not like the Aquilonian huntsmen whose ways she understood. His horse walked freely beside him with no lead. She supposed he was an excellent archer, since he carried no weapon other than his bow. Even if she had a bow, she would have stood no chance, though she had known no life but that of military training, she had never had patience for her archery lessons.
A red hue painted the sky, and Asphodel dared not continue downstream, she had to figure out a way to bring the lone stranger in close where his bow would not match her sword and poniard. He was almost certain to be disallowed to kill her. She had heard of the sleeping darts of the Stygians and figured he would not use them on her in the water. She traced the river upstream until she found a small secluded inlet.
Asphodel tied her horse beside the water and began to remove her stolen clothing. She left her sword in full view on her horse, only carrying her poniard. She placed her toe into the small lagoon, and drew it back, for some reason this water was much colder than the river, as if fed by some underground spring. She trembled and slipped inch by inch into the sparkling water, and floated on her back, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The cottager’s clothes had smelled unpleasantly like the man himself, and basking in her freedom, Asphodel almost forgot the menace lurking in the woods.
Nervously Asphodel felt eyes on her, and she began singing quietly a lullaby from her childhood. She wondered if the Stygian was going to wait for her to go to shore before he appeared, and she resolved to float in the water until she were forced to do otherwise. The cold water made her nipples harden and her skin tingle, and she suddenly felt something brush her leg and stood up.
He had approached her underwater, and now held her fast from behind, her arms unable to move. “I won’t go back!” she screamed, and the struggle that followed was desperate and wild. He had underestimated her strength, yet his grip was stronger. Still, she was the stronger swimmer, and she pulled them both underwater and found something to hold on to, and gripped it with all her strength, holding her breath while he held his. Minutes seemed to pass, certainly she could outlast him ...
Asphodel blinked, lights swam in her head, and she realized she was reviving from sleep. Her senses came back slowly, but she could see her hunter’s eyes lingering over her firm, pink nipples before he met her gaze.
“Miss, please tell me something.” Ixion spoke in the Aquilonian tongue, with no trace of an accent. Why is it you want to run away?”
Asphodel ignored the question, grasping for a reason instead. An idea hit her. “You can’t take me back.”
“And why is that?” Ixion puzzled.
“I killed the cottager when he tried to take me back. If you return me I will stand trial for it.”
Ixion laughed at the suggestion. “You won’t face the Kings’ court. It is far more likely that the murder will be blamed on me, no matter what you say.”
“Then why do you hunt me then? What is there in it for you? I can pay you what they would if you set me free.”
“I’m a hunter.” he retorted, almost as if he were reminding himself of his own career.
Nevertheless, Ixion felt secure in his choice. After following this girl for a week, he had seen for himself why she needed to be confined within the walls of a manor. She had a greater appetite for lust than he had ever seen in a woman before. Not that it couldn’t be a result of her being sheltered so long, but it scared him for her. He shuddered at the thought of what she would do to herself if left to her own devices.
The slower journey back to Lor would begin the next day.
The Hunter
That day three unfortunate bandits had descended on their caravan, their arms were strewn about the camp where Ixion had attempted to clean them, doubtless to sell them.
The Stygian sat shirtless, indulging from a wineskin, feeling sorrow with the thought of returning her. Even before joining her company, he had already become more attached to her than he should have. He passed her the wineskin and she drank greedily from it, not wasting a drop of the coveted taste. She felt the wine warm her body, and let Ixion’s cloak slip down her bare shoulders. Ixion looked unflinchingly over the girl, and he felt a need he hadn’t in a great while. He had longed to touch her soft skin since the moment he first saw her, but restrained himself in the name of duty. The path of a ranger was a lonely one, he had been warmed by her company, to the point where he didn’t want to be without it, as difficult as she was. He closed his eyes, trying to drown out his thoughts. He opened them again when he heard a familiar click.
Asphodel stood in front of him, her blue eyes blazing wildly, a crossbow pointed at his heart. This was it, then, as desperate as she was; he knew he was to die here alone in a camp far from home.
“What are you going to do?” His voice showed no fear, only puzzlement that she hadn’t fired yet.
Her face grew pale, as she stammered, “Let me go and you can live.” Her fingers tightened on the trigger.
Ixion looked back into the wild eyes, and something stirred in him, at once he knew what it was he was seeking. “So long as I live, I will never let you go. My lady, I am yours alone now!” he whispered.
Asphodel read the truth in his eyes, he looked at her in a way no other man had, not with mere lust, but something more. She trembled with a yearning for Ixion, like none other before him, and deep inside her heart, she began to feel a new fear.
Her hands trembled, her eyesight blurred, her gaze no less fierce, but without the grim determination of a killer. He stood up before her and confessed, “I don’t think I could ever have taken you back home.”
Asphodel dropped the crossbow and fell backwards as he took her into his strong arms, his burning warmth seeming greater than that of the fire. As he explored every inch of her body with a tenderness she had never known before, she returned his embrace and whispered, “I am home.”
Almost Home
“Baron Angustus has sent others, and he will send more still if he realizes that I am aiding you, to track us both down.”
Asphodel marveled at the gravity of the word “us”. What had been her personal struggle was now shared. She liked having a shoulder to lean on, but she had never dared to trust anyone save herself.
Ixion continued, “We both have to enter new lives far from the influence of Lor, or else we will never stop being fugitives.”
Ixion pulled Asphodel close to him as they entered a tavern. They began to mingle, he talking to people and she sampling the drinks. Eavesdropping to pass the time, Asphodel overheard two patrons discussing a new city still in planning. Though she was not one given to trusting the gods, instinctively she knew they had found their new lives.
The city planners of the Grey Order talked in hushed whispers, planning their devices in the quiet of the Aquilonian wild. In their camp, far removed from the ancient tradition of Lor, the baron’s daughter lay in the arms of a Stygian ranger.
As Ixion whispered words of love to her, she whispered the words “Nova Ara” as she drifted into the kind of peaceful sleep that those who are born into Aquilonian privilege rarely see.
A New Altar
A rowboat slid onto the sand, not an uncommon event on the shores of White Sands, only unusual for the unlikely crew that it carried, a scouting group of Grey Order.
First one, then another of the boats' occupants stepped out, each in some way uncomfortable with the company they kept. Two assassins, a ranger, a Stygian priestess, and a master of necromantic arts, accompanied the wayfaring runaway.
But unknown to them, their approach to the beach had not gone unnoticed.
As the men tied the boat, Asphodel and Nakasha, the Scioness of Set, strode ahead, nude save for their sandals and Asphodel's blades, one strapped to each thigh.
What happened next was confusing in Asphodel's mind, but as the ambush unfolded, her companions had heard her battlecry and rushed to her aid, finding a dozen armed men around her, her face buried in the sand. Nakasha had been caught from underneath by a warrioress with a blunt mace, her body thrown somewhere nearby.
Asphodel hung limp as one mercenary pressed his heel behind her neck, others striking her body with a light mace, and delighting in her muffled cries. All faded to darkness ...
Asphodel sensed she was dead, she began to see hallucinations of her body being lifted by a god, slithering about her she felt a mocking evil pick her up. She blinked, and about her was a melee of the most desperate nature.
Asphodel had heard tales about the priests of Set, and in Nakasha's eyes burned a horror none could look upon. The dark marks of Set, once black on her olive skin, burned red on her breasts. As her strange chants and oaths echoed from the sky, the beach in broad daylight seemed to darken. Her necromantic companion Blur, had called spirits of the dead which he chased to and fro across the beach, shouting at them as they ran amok. Asphodel had seen Necromantic summonings in circuses, and from salesmen, and if the undead minions were awkward then, they were no less now. Amidst the confusion, the two assassins, Kaindor and Tahmid, cut apart the mercenaries into ribbons, seeming to bathe in their grim task, and in Nakasha's dark magic. Ixion's arrows landed with such a frequency, it seemed as if a hundred archers were behind them.
Filled with courage, Asphodel shrieked a battlecry and, though she had been unconscious during her handling, an inner hate seized her, as she blindly cut down first one, and then another of her attackers, Ixion's arrows whizzing by her so close they seemed to touch her skin. Bathing in their blood, she heard curses from her mouth, she did not know if they were hers, or inspired by the snake-god which had lifted her from the sand. The birds circling overhead seemed to stand still in the sky, as the mercenaries, in terror and disbelief, fled the beach where the immortals had been sent to ruin them.
Back on the beach, one assailant remained. Nakasha seemed to rise above the sand, chanting as her eyes went dark, more alive than the living, the power and fury of Set thick in the air. Before her, facing Asphodel, the barbaric woman who had struck her first, held in place by a swirl of darkness, her face white as a ghost. Her body seemed to be crushing in some mysterious unseen grip, as her eyes met Asphodel's, the once-conqueror felt something flutter like pity in her heart.
An unspeakable hate seemed to seize Asphodel, and she lunged, her blade passing through her victim's body, low enough that she could still scream in agony. Asphodel spun around, her own shout deafening as her other blade silenced the scream, cutting her head clean from her shoulders.
As darkness fell over the blood-stained beach, Nakasha and Asphodel sat silently on the boat, their store of skins packed underneath. Nakasha was calm again, with the sweet sense of priestly devotion about her. Asphodel, on the other hand, was trembling, washing her stained hands in the surf, trying to understand how she could have become so savage in the heat of battle. It was like the realization of an orphaned she-wolf, raised and nurtured by doves, that she was a monster, intent on devouring them all.
She lay back in the surf, her burden was hers to bear. So it was true then, that the gods offered warriors far more than mere power. Those who forsake, are doomed to bear the burden of free will, and the weight of the evil that is of their own making.
Such thoughts are the convenience of those who succeed in battle, and live on to deal with the next ones. But they had not long to reflect, for the wind was rising, and by the next dawn, both of the assassins and also Nakasha, the devout servant of Set, would sink beneath the waves, still in sight of Tortage Beach.
Grey Sands
of
Tortage Beach
Through the woods, the most unlikely of travelers stumbled towards the sound. Stricken with grief from the loss of all who she held dear, the waylorn onetime battlemaster trudged wearily through the swamp, determined to seek the source of the sound. Her hatred of the gods burning like a fire in her breast, she had sought the most forsaken place in Hyboria, where she could be free of the gods' demands.
The humming sound grew complex and harmonic as she followed it, something in her instincts kept her following it, as if her entire purpose were to arrest the sound, or else fall victim to it.
As it grew louder it also seemed to be coming from above, so she caught the twisted trunk of an old Sagetree, and climbed towards the leafy roof of the tightly packed jungle. After a climb that seemed like days, she saw a light.
Five robed figures knelt before her, in a circle and a glow of warmth seemed suspended between them. No denying that they were the source of the humming she sought.
A laughing noise seemed to emanate from one, though his lips did not move.
She seized a dagger from her left thigh, her moment upon her, and spoke aloud.
"Tell me what god you serve, that dwells in this accursed place!"
Not one flinched, but Asphodel's mind seemed to imagine, that one of the silent figures was talking to her. "Listen to your inner voices, if you want to find peace, Asphodel."
Startled by her usually resolute conqueror's mind, she asked again, in a fierce voice, "Tell me!"
Again, she could not help but fantasize, that he spoke to her. "Voices within are calling you."
The tall stranger looked up from his trance and smiled at her.
Surely the gods were punishing her for her flight. She seized another dagger from her right thigh and pounced, the force of strength in her seemed to be stronger from the sounds she had followed for weeks among the lotus blooms. Surely, there was no god in all the world who would dare stand in her way.
Somehow, her mind was distracted by the thought of a man, calmly prying her daggers from her fingers. She shook her head and lunged, but she found her hands empty. The eyes of each of the tranced strangers raised to meet hers, as she stood before them. In her mind she imagined them saying in unison, "We've been expecting you."
Voices
Within
The music which had led her to this place grew more beautiful, and no longer did it change when she moved from place to place. It was astonishing to her the day she learned, that she was the source of the sound all along. Unlike the other members of the cult that called themselves only by "Cursed", she would not sit motionless, but stretch herself out before them, drunk with the companionship of her inner voice.
In her trances she would play out the most wild and erotic fantasies, so hedonistic was her lust that even the cultists seemed to take part. Or at least, she imagined that they did. So often did she lie among them and bathe in the rich pleasure of lovemaking, she sometimes fancied herself a captive of their devices.
Though she was nearly motionless, when she moved about she discovered that her arms, though of delicate appearance, were irrationally strong. More than once, she found a boulder or limb to be weightless, as she tossed it out of her way.
On one occasion, she came upon a tribe of Darfari, which surprised her, as most of them would flee as she came near, thinking her some wood nymph, unclothed and accompanied by strange sounds. But this time, her voices were pressing her to follow them, and as she came upon them she heard shouts, the kind that soldiers release in pitched battles.
A lone Aquilonian warrior stood defiantly on the remains of his comrades, whipping two maces about beating back tribesman after tribesman as they circled him, spears stabbing in vain to cut him. Asphodel felt no emotion, she had so distanced herself from the goings on of her homeland she cared not whether the tribesmen or the intruder prevailed. Something in his desperation caught her attention, as she slipped closer to the fracas. Instinctively she recognized, that this was not the desperate last stand of a man cornered, this was the defiant lashing of a man unwilling to yield. Something within her caught fire, much as a match bursts into flames when sparked.
Finally he was down, no, back up again, struck by rocks he was struggling to stand up. The Darfari were not well armed, but they knew how to make do with what they had.
Asphodel strode into the open, wearing only a leafy tiara that flowed from her braids, and a small dagger strapped about her thigh. The attacking savages started as if seeing a ghost, but the two nearest her rushed her, spears held high as they closed in. The first spear was thrown from too far out, Asphodel judged its direction and swayed her body ever so softly, the spear grazing her hip as it drove into the ground.
Asphodel felt a savage lust come over her suddenly, like a cat she mounted the shaft, pulling it from its place and tripping the second spearman with the dull end, sending him tumbling to her feet. She pounced over his body, drawing his machete, and looked up at the first spearman like a tigress guarding her prey. He had lept as if to tackle her, but stopped midflight, leaning over her, the cold blade of his companion's machete feeling like ice in his heart.
The remaining Darfari crept closer, wary of this etherial creature who had interrupted them, and was now straddling one of their own. The conqueror looked over the Darfari spearman still thrashing between her thighs, licking her lips as she fondled her dagger. As the Darfari looked on in horror, she threw her head back and drove the dagger into his breast, sounding a carnal battlecry like nothing they had ever heard, laced with defiance and pleasure. As she regained her senses and looked about her, not one Darfari remained, only a battered Aquilonian captain, finally collapsing to the ground.
Asphodel rolled the stranger over in a nearby riverbed and began to wash his wounds with her hair, holding him close to warm his body against hers. He was still conscious, but his strength had not yet returned, and she attended to him, in the only way she knew how. As she washed the blood from his shoulder, she saw a mark that she instantly recognized, tatooed to his arm. It was the mark of a soldier of the Lion Guard, and she stirred. The Lion Guard, outnumbered and betrayed, had fought a battle of courage and defiance, the tales of valor were still passed among the Aquilonians.
As she bound him to the remains of his wagon, the man blinked his eyes open, muttering a greeting.
"Libertas Ara Amplus!"
Asphodel remembered knights from her childhood, marching proudly back into Lor, sweat dripping from their blood-stained armor. Years of war had thinned their numbers, here she knew, she was caring for one of the last giants of a dying age, still clinging to a code of honor all but forgotten. She looked back into the swamp, as if playing one last melody to the secret places, in the only place she had ever freely chosen as her home.
"Libertas Ara Amplus." she replied, as the horse began to carry them both back to Aquilonia.
A
Fateful
Visitor
She had left Aquilonia in a time of courage, when the strength of a kingdom was in its pride, and in the courage of its knights.
But no longer, for years of war had stripped the bravest from the ranks, and out of necessity even those unprepared for military service had taken up arms.
As she approached the bastion of Libertas, flags streaming from the towers, she could feel the pride of an era all but gone, her fingers twitching as they passed over her hilts.
The gate lowered and in the courtyard, armor-clad soldiers trained in neat lines, exchanging parry and thrust in uniform strokes.
Asphodel could not help but survey the soldiers before her. Most were untested by battle, reminding her of younger soldiers whom she had trained in Lor so many years ago. She saw courage in many, and by exchanging glances with the older knights she could easily distinguish the faces whose courage and sacrifice had bought them this last bastion, of what was once the Lion Guard.
The soldiers in pristine, glistening armor turned to see their commander, still bandaged and marked with the black soil of the swamp where Asphodel had come to his aid. A hearty cheer of "Libertas Ara Amplus" rung out from the ranks, and even in his cheerless appearance, his battleworn armor seemed to shine.
The
Rogue
Thorn
It began to dawn on her that the city was at peace.
At one end of the courtyard, mounted on a rooftop, was an old monument, that bore the mark of the Lion Guard on it. Scaling the walls without her armor, she balanced herself as she began to chisel tarnish from its inscription.
I am the pursuer of freedom and I am the stalwart last stand of an ideal.She heard the commander's voice, and spun around, marveling at how he should so stealthily scale the rooftops in full armor. "I know what you expected, but those days are long gone, Asphodel. Warriors are not what they once were, you cannot bring those days back."
It was the first time anyone had addressed her by her birth name, since she ran away from Lor. Her secret was out then.
Amused over her uneasiness, at hearing her most carefully guarded secret, the General continued. "Aquilonia is changed. Our morale here in Libertas is high, but it cannot withstand the full wrath of Nemedia."
Asphodel looked into the commander's eyes, with a fierceness she knew made him uneasy. Stepping backwards she dropped her swords from the roof, then stepping off herself, landing in the courtyard below, where two rows of armored soldiers gaped at the sight of a barely clothed woman, braids swaying about, drawing her blades from the earth.
She summoned the commander of the brigade, a sturdy man whose skill in the unit was unmatched.
Asphodel called out to him, "Train with me!".
The soldier approached her, Asphodel brandishing her poinard, then striking with the flat of her larger, offhand blade, full across the face of the Captain, who had never seen such a move before.
He fell to his knees, and Asphodel kicked him squarely in his chest, felling him backwards with a metallic clang.
He flipped his dented visor up and shouted up at her, "What was that for? I thought this was training!"
"Get up!" the conqueror shouted, and the startled captain complied, cautiously picking up his mace.
Asphodel laughed aloud, and the soldiers thought her mad. Suddenly she flung her poinard and it pierced the ground between the soldier's legs, infuriating him, and he lunged forward with a curse. Just as he reached her, she flung a handful of sand into his face, sidestepping and tripping him as he ran past, falling face down.
The horror on the faces of the unweathered soldiers was intoxicating to her, it was exactly what she had sought.
One by one, she used every underhanded trick she knew, as she mercilessly taught each of the soldiers to fight with purpose. They had skill enough, but none of the shameless brutality and lust for blood that fills the heart of a true conqueror.
Asphodel didn't doubt the warriors for a second. If these soldiers were willing to join the legacy of the Lion Guard, that was enough for her. All that remained was to be tested.
There were no more routine drills, no more worrying about appearances. As each of them tasted the might of fresh defiance, Asphodel knew war would soon come to them.
A
Thousand Fears
of
Villiany
Once the General had declared Independence Day, and the Nemedians dispatched the legion of Eximos to destroy them, the fate of Libertas seemed certain. Its end had been accepted by not only the Nemedians, and all the warriors of the time who had thought themselves knowledgeable, but also most of the defenders themselves. Asphodel, listening only to her inner voices, believed in their ultimate success, yet it stirred her that these chosen fighters were willing to accept extinction rather than yielding to an overwhelming force. To her, her faith in the pride of the unit had already been proven, regardless of the outcome of the battle.
Through the night reinforcements had arrived, from the oppressed baronys of Aquilonia, Asphodel had seen among them General Booms, the old infantry captain of Lor, and he had recognized her, with a smile and a salute. He was not clad in the regal armor she had remembered, but in battle-tempered plates that revealed to her, even her former home had not been spared the cost of war.
And now the burning walls of Libertas seemed to groan under the strain of battle, Asphodel herself was the last standing fighter of her unit, and as she fell, she saw, rising above the smoke and squalor, the grey silhouette of a lion, on which she had first read the inscription. The words pierced her soul sharper than any Nemedian blade.
I am the elusive difficulty that will never be overcome.Asphodel's eyes flashed coldness like Death, she cast her armor aside, and spun and evaded as she had so often in training. As her blades struck first one enemy then another, they flashed icy blue, as her attackers seemed to freeze before her, covered in a satin layer of hoarfrost. She wheeled, parting the frosted veils with her blades, and though not one member of her company stood, she heard herself cursing them, commanding them, "Get Up!" Not in her own voice, but some fearsome and terrible voice that seemed to come from her own rage.
First one, and then another of her company stumbled to their feet, some carrying wounds it seemed none could withstand. Asphodel's savage cries urged them onward, and the Nemedians, their confidence broken by courage unlike any they had ever seen, began to pull back from inside the still-burning walls.
As the attackers pulled back in humiliation, the warriors slew those who were left behind, and the priests of Libertas began to call on their gods to revive the fallen.
Asphodel turned with a quiet sneer, mocking the gods who only felt inclined to resurrect the victors, after a battle had already been decided by mortal hands.
A cold wind blew out of the North, and Asphodel seemed to receive it, her blades still glistening like ice in her hands.
As the fires extinguished, the defenders looked about them. Asphodel saw a change, and she knew they could see it too.
Though far from their regal beginnings, the battered walls of Libertas seemed to stand taller then any they had ever seen.
Reckoning
The gates of the city were ordered opened, and the many farmers in the lands surrounding Libertas (who the city defenders referred to as "Adepts") were welcomed to the city as if it were their own, exchanging salutes with the battered knights as equal sharers in their blood-bought fortune.
As more knights of Libertas were called up by King Conan to fight in wars far away, their numbers at home dwindled. In this time of peace, the farmers grew in number, their caravans no longer threatened by the greedy Nemedians.
Asphodel herself refused every call to march, her passion and purpose went no further than the cold stone walls of the city, and she would stand for hours alone, overlooking the blood-stained courtyard, every corner to her a sacred reminder of a soldier who fell defending it.
It was on such a day, when dusk was setting in, that the conqueress smelled treason on the wind.
She drew a mace, and drove it into a warning bell, one that was used only when an approaching enemy was spotted.
None of the knights rose from their sleep, save for the commander, who heard the intent in the ring, that this was more than one of Asphodel's surprise bedtime drills.
Steps were heard ascending the tower and a door flew open. "Why did you sound the warning bell? That is -" The commander caught his breath, for standing atop the wall, the conqueress who had known neither fear nor defeat wore the agony across her face that only those who have been betrayed by a friend can ever understand.
A faint breeze blew, and the scent that only had one meaning to a tempered soldier passed about them. It was the unmistakeable scent of molten lead, used by trebuchets as a counterweight to lob rocks.
Across the farming village beneath the castle, hung an eerie darkness that sent chills up the spines of the two observers. Not a candlelight flickered. The commander's face grim, he siezed a torch and threw it into the distress beacon, the flames climbing high into the night sky. Snarling, the commander quipped, "Gather every strong arm we have left. We will defend her to the very last."
There was no time to understand why. Scarcely twenty soldiers scrambled to ready ballistas and put together a last stand. Within an hour the lofty machines of war made their appearance against the night sky. Not merely the Adepts, but warriors of the dark legions of Sin'Reth, Cimmerians of the Snowhawk Clan, and disciples of Set, gathered on the plains before the gates of Libertas, torches burning in bright lines.
Asphodel saw defeat in the faces of the guardians of Libertas, and she fought hard against her own fear, wiping away secret tears for the fall of all she held dear, and her fleeting hope that Honor would prevail in the end.
Asphodel trusted not the gods, but fate would have her way yet. At intervals there were hails from beyond the east gate, as friends began to answer the call of the fiery beacon. Aged knights of the OTG Legion, infantry of the Know Thyself command, and the Imperium guard of Old Tarantia filed in to the fortress. Asphodel embraced each captain as they approached the gate, every arrival lifted the spirits of the defenders, who held out hope that honor had not forsaken them.
The last defenders were no less surprising. Ixion, whom Asphodel had thought dead after the battle at Tortage Beach, arrived, bearing a team of seasoned archers.
Asphodel met him at the gate, he was much changed from the days they had spent together as fugitives, but she could see in his eyes he lacked for none of his spirit. He was taken aback to see her glowing in her new role as a battlefield commander, yet it did not stop her from running out and greeting him with a warm embrace.
A shattering crash came from the main gate, as the attackers began their assault.
Asphodel climbed to a tower, and as the attackers poured into the courtyard, she fired volley after volley from her ballista into the makeshift army, in their inexperience unaware of the source of the disruption. Through the night, to the outmatched defenders it seemed as if dawn would never come. They had faced desperate fights before, but were unprepared for the agonizing task of drawing swords against so many they had considered friends.
The final charge of the Adepts came just before dawn, amid a desperate, bloody struggle in the very center of the city. Friend fought against friend, amidst the carnage Asphodel felt a determined fury for the fratricide her soldiers were forced to carry out. Mercilessly she slew her dearest friends with a passion not even her enemies had known, carving a bitter work of slaughter as the final wave of attackers broke.
The defenders looked about themselves, barely able to stomach the ruin that was the cost of their own survival.
Asphodel knelt on the hill where Libertas lay bent but not broken, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the blood of her fallen friends on her cheeks.
She heard footsteps behind her but did not turn to face them. She already knew from the walk it was Ixion.
The ranger sat beside her and put his arm around her, and the welcome edge of the sun peeked above the horizon, flooding the hillside with its rays.
Not one attacker remained.
Now wearing the insignia of the Guardians, Ixion handed her his flask and she drank deeply of the wine, as shouts of "Libertas Ara Amplus" rang from behind her.
She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes at last.
Treason
On
The Wind
The wars had been demanding, and she had relentlessly pursued victory, neglecting her darkest desires for too long.
At once she felt a chill come over her, and realized she was no longer the runaway who could blend into the crowd without interrupting the fracas.
Asphodel had run away from Aquilonia, to escape the bonds of civilized life, which had all but disappeared in her absence. But she had loved the night-life, when secret clubs and brothels opened their doors, and all forms of wicked pleasures ran wild.
At one time, Asphodel would see someone she recognized, in a place that shamed them both, so that neither of them would ever speak of it in daylight. But Aquilonia had developed its own subculture, where dignitaries who saluted and bowed by daylight would meet in secret places at night, to discard every trace of dignity in drinking, gambling, prize-fighting, and promiscuity.
And now the hubbub seemed to die down at her approach, soldiers stopped drinking as if she were going to arrest them, whores still dangling in their laps.
In a dark corner of the pub rested one of the attackers she recognized, whom she had fought visciously earlier that same day. She would have let him be, yet with the eyes of the brothel fixed on her, she moved towards him with a new intent.
"What are you doing here, bastard?" she exclaimed, picking him up by his great harness from which his bow normally hung.
The mercenary awoke from his sleep and tried to regain his footing, but his aggressor was faster, and suddenly he lay pinned to the bartop, Asphodel's lithe legs straddled about his waist. He seemed unable to produce any answer to the question. The only sound in the tavern was an overturned drink dripping onto the floor.
He looked back up at her trembling, watching her lick her lips salaciously as she had done so many times before slaying one of his company.
Asphodel's military rank glistened, pinned to her hauberk. In a stroke she ripped her hauberk from her bare breasts, tossing it over one of many hooks on the wall, where hung the pants and tassets of the room's occupants.
As her victim gaped at her breasts in a stupefied trance, she drew a dagger from under her thigh, and pressed it to his cheek. The crowded room inched forward, as if smelling the inevitable spill of blood. Asphodel could feel their breath closing in about her.
Abruptly the terrified mercenary gasped, but it was not the gasp of death. Before the astonished crowd, the soft hips of the conqueror met those of her conquest. Her blade still pressed against his cheek, she began to ride him, feeling his muscular body between her thighs. The mercenary's hands eagerly slid up her body until they found her smooth breasts, and her blade fell to the floor, as she drank of the pleasure of her own carnal release.
The tavern sprung back to life with a shout. Anticipation gave way to raucous cheers as the onetime runaway rode back into her place, in the wild night life of Aquilonia.
Night Life
She draws a quill pen, dipping it into a vial of ink, and begins to inscribe great letters across the paper, the icy wind lifting a corner of the parchment with each gust.
To The Guardians of Libertas
When I first came to your still unfinished walls, I knew that before me lay the last stand of an ideal.
Since then, the journey we have shared has left an enduring mark on every corner of Hyboria. What we have achieved together will never be forgotten.
We have met the armies of oppression and tyranny, and none have yet broken our spirit.
As the wars raged on, The Guardians stood up to challenges thought insurmountable, and defeated evil both in battle and by their conduct outside of battle.
I have seen trust, honor, and strength of the kind that goes beyond blades and arrows.
I have seen valor that surpasses all that I thought was dead long ago.
I thank you all for restoring in me the faith that courage and honor are not dead. Every day Libertas stands is a rebuttal to those who would claim otherwise.
Of late, my fight against the armies of darkness has earned me contempt from the greener recruits, who hear my battlecries from a distance, and feel that my unique path is a slight to their own.
But I shall forever maintain vigilance as a protector because that is my vocation.
Where evil exists, there you will find me, riding the edge of a blade and teetering into the depths of peril, the torch of honor held high before me.
I am saddened that I must resign from The Guardians to continue to do so.
My blades serve to bring the enemies of the just to their knees.
I am one of many.
Affectionately,
Asphodel
The Conqueress looks out over the courtyard of Libertas, torches burning powerfully against the cold wind.
Wiping away a burning tear, Asphodel descends onto the allure, walking down the wall until she comes to the gate, pausing to kiss the breastwork softly before jumping onto her waiting horse below.
She unpins the emblem of The Guardians from her sash, and using it to fasten her letter to the main gate, she rides off in a thunderous gallop.
Lurking in the darkness behind her, slinks the silouhette of Ixion, tracking her as he always had. Dismounting from his horse as he crosses the first river, he pauses to drop his own emblem into the water, and quickens his pace.
Resignation
Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson