The road was void of people and littered with horse dung from hundreds if not thousands of horses. This was the way the Nordmarker army had come the last time, and it was surely the way it would come again.

Laura had come on this road as well, but not gone, and she seemed to have cared not to render the road useless by crushing it with her weight. But even where she had trodden upon it did the Bospharan art of construction hold surprisingly well. 

Dari’s horse was a Tulamidian breed from Countess Franka’s own stables. What Dari had been hoping for was a messenger horse, well trained and accustomed to travelling long distances. What she got was something else. Franka Salva Galahan committed to horse breeding as a pastime. It was a most noble occupation, to be sure, and she had her own racing track for horses outside her city.

Dari beat the animal beneath her at a pace that would have counted as murderous to other horses, but still this one just wouldn’t tire, even though she frequently broke into gallops just because she enjoyed them. It couldn’t have been any better.

And the weather held, at least for what little was left of the first day. Franka Salva Galahan had predicted heavy rain and the sky did indeed grow darker and darker. Dari’s disguise was well stored, though, and for herself she had extra acquired a carman’s coat made of thick, heavy leather as well as a hat. Nevertheless, she feared having to sleep in her woollen sleeping bag under the open sky.

When her horse finally tired and she was well past done for the day she came upon a settlement. This was Andoain, the first and only Albernian village between Honingen and the Nordmarkener border, approximately thirty kilometres away from the city.

It would be home to several hundred, she judged from afar, defended by stockade walls that seemed more defence against animals rather than two-legged foes. The houses were decorated, but why that was Dari could not have said.

On a hill next to the village stood a palace with glass windows glowing with light in the dusk. That was a little odd. There was much light coming from the village as well, too much for any place that had not something big and remarkable going on.

‘Could they be preparing for siege?’ She wondered.

That seemed pointless, given how large the approaching Nordmarkener host would have to be. No windows were smashed upon the palace and the village had clearly not been razed the last time the Nordmarkers came through, though two rooftops she saw were burned.

She had a queasy feeling in her tummy and contemplated passing the village by, riding around it. That would deny her the comfort of cooked food and a bed tonight however, and she felt like she had earned that after her ordeal.

If truth be told, she was looking to get drunk, and very much so.

So, she decided to put on her armour, just in case.

She had no plate or mail to garb herself in. Her beauty was her armour. That was such a vain thought it made her cringe.

Putting on the gown behind the shadow of a tree wasn’t easy alone. Lacing up one’s own bodice was a skill in and off itself, and nine and ninety out of a hundred ladies could not even attempt to do it. If one wanted to wear gowns one had to have servants or be completely flexible.

Countess Franka couldn’t have known that Dari was, and given her the gown anyway. That raised the question whether or not the old lady might have overlooked it, a thing she might be forgiven for, which in turn was not quite true for Dari. She managed, regardless, and refreshed on the alchemical substances that enhanced her beauty as well.

Wearing a gown meant riding sideways, awkward and impractical, but the splendid horse made it easy.

“Woe!” A group of spearmen halted Dari at the entrance to the village, an armoured sergeant putting up his hand. “What’s a lady doing alone so late out on the Imperial Road?”

She pulled the reigns gently and the horse responded perfectly, even without stirrups or spurs.

“Traveling!” She replied. “I’d like to stay in your inn tonight if you’ll permit me!”

She was hopelessly overdressed for travelling, but her carter’s cloak and leather hat helped to conceal that so long as no one thought to peer too close.

The armoured sergeant grasped a torch from a greybeard soldier and raised it: “You’re a pretty lass, eh. Where are you coming from and where are you going?”

It was odd that they would be posted here, she judged, and so many of them at that. But it was war, so perhaps this wasn’t unusual. Unusual, certainly, were the whips that some of the men carried, however.

She thought quickly, trying to decide what place would give her the least need for explanation. If she named Witzichen Hill, the next and first Nordmarkener village along this road, then perhaps they would just wave her through without any trouble. Something was off here, though, she could see it on their faces.

She wondered if they could fault her for wanting to travel to Nordmarken, given the war and all. Perhaps she should choose something more neutral.

 “I’m coming from Honingen, travelling back to Gareth, from whence I hail.” She therefore lied, already expecting the inevitable rebuke.  

“You’re on the wrong road then.” He said immediately. “You should’ve gone north via Gratenstone and Angbar.”

A cleverer lie would have saved her the embarrassment, but Dari didn’t care.

“Oh, truly?” She pouted like spoiled child. “Phex, but can’t I turn north to Gratenstone further on this road?”

He shook his head firmly, even though she perfectly knew that was wrong: “Best you turn back to Honingen. May the Twelve watch over you and your horse.”

“And a fine horse that is!” The greybeard remarked amiably, edging forward.

That was queer.

Dari pushed a little to get out of this entirely unnecessary exchange: “You do not expect me, a woman alone, to ride back to Honingen at night, do you? Let me sleep at your inn and I will go on the morrow. I have coin to pay.”

“She’s right.” The greybeard said before the sergeant could answer, coming closer, step after step after step, all friendly smiles. “It would be cruel, denying shelter to this woman in distress. Let’s put her horse into the stable and see her off on her way by sunrise, she and her…Galahan horse.”

He had arrived at the spot from where he could see the burn mark on the mare’s hindquarters, three weasels one over the other. A large step later and he was next to her mount where her feet were, one hand on her reigns and the other on her leg.

“How do you come by a Galahan horse?” The sergeant asked pointedly. “The old countess would marry her steeds if she could, why did she part with this one?”

“I am a friend of hers, unhand me!” Dari lied quickly, no time to come up with anything better.

This was a stupid misunderstanding, she was still on Albernian soil, after all. Nordmarken might have been trouble, but not Andoain.

The greybeard and the sergeant exchanged a look, then the sergeant said: “No need to be frightened. No one will do you any harm. You must just needs come with us to our lord. He’ll know what’s to be done with you.”

The owner of the palace would have to be cleverer than this lot, Dari supposed, so this would all clear itself up. The greybeard yanked her off her horse and threw her over his shoulder but the sergeant took mercy with her objections and finally allowed her to walk on her own.

They took her through the village, decorated in Albernian and local colours, green and white. They even passed by the inn, a three-story, jetty-built wood house that looked lit-up and inviting, busy with preparations for something.

She could smell meat roasting.

A garden of hedges surrounded the palace in stark contrast to the animal pens and vegetable gardens in the village. This lord had to be rich, she somehow thought, a baron or something of that nature, controlling a border region with much trade coming through in peace time.

It was war, though, calling into question why there were preparations for festivities being made.

At the gates to the yard, they came upon a reception in progress, a staggering number of horses, knights, banners and all that, and Dari still thought that these were Albernian troops somehow meant to oppose the host from Nordmarken.

When she saw the silver bass on blue and green, she understood that something else was transpiring, however. The soldiers pushed through the knights awkwardly but found that their business had to wait on something more important.

“Your Highness.” A lordly-looking, portly man with grey hair and whiskers said from one knee, surrounded on his side by servants and household guards, whereas the other side was made up of Nordmarker knights.

The spoken to was a tall, burly fellow in silvery armour, a mass of tangled black hair upon his head and face.

He slapped his armoured belly and rowed with his arms, roaring amiably: “Ordhan, ha, ha! Bet you did not think to see me again so soon, eh? Aha, ha! Rise, rise, there’s no need for pomp! Ale and women, ha, ha, that will suffice for me!”

The other pushed himself up: “Were you victorious in the lists, Your Highness?”

Only then did Dari realize who the black-haired, burly man was. It was Duke Hagrobald, the ruler of Nordmarken. This had to be his vanguard, raced ahead of his main force. She looked around to see if maybe her target was with them, spying a tall, scowling man dressed and armoured in white and gold with white hair and whiskers. Even his boots were white, and still, somehow, he looked dark.

He had a sun sceptre, this was Praiodan of Whiterock, or Dari would be damned.

Duke Hagrobald’s face turned dark as well: “There was no tourney. It was all a ruse! When I find the man who spread that rumour I will strangle him!”

For the nonce he strangled an invisible one in front of him, savagely twisting his armoured fists.

“I have a feeling that it was a woman.” The lord of Andoain replied, without a hint of emotion.

Hagrobald snapped: “That old harridan?! Well, then this time I will not sit idly by while she bides in her castle, the scheming crone!”

“She is under protection of the giant queen who now resides at Honingen.” The other said in turn.

The whole thing was oddly long for a reception and had gotten all too soon all too specific for what Dari knew about events like this. It were more usually flat, common courtesies that were exchanged. One asked how the others’ children were doing, if everyone was of good health and so forth. There was no doubt, however, that these two men knew each other intimately, which was surprising.

“Aren’t they supposed to be enemies?” Dari dared ask her captors.

The sergeant gave her a hiss and a firm yank on the arm, but the greybeard whispered: “Our Lord of Herlogan was in exile during the war. He spent some time at Duke’s Court. Don’t you know anything?”

The sergeant gave a pained look and hit the other on the shoulder to shut him up. Dari felt as though she was witnessing something she wasn’t supposed to.

“That one, ha, ha!” Duke Hagrobald roared. “One foe, but what a foe that was! We met her in battle, and she ran from us like a frightened little girl! We can beat her, old friend, can’t we men?!”

“Aye!” The knights shouted all around.

“Ah, ha, ha!” Hagrobald slapped his steel-clad belly once more. “Yes, we have the Chosen One! Praiodan of Whiterock is his name! Come forth, Chosen One, I believe the two of you are not familiar. Ordhan Herlogan is an old friend of mine. Not much for praying, this one, but no fairy-worshipping fool either.”

“Chosen One!” Ordhan Herlogan nodded and stepped forward, meeting the other whiskered man to bow and kiss his ring.

“We see her footsteps all over this place.” The Chosen One remarked with a nod. “What did she do here?”

There was a dangerous, demanding undertone to his speech that the lord of Andoain did not miss. He met the cleric’s eyes with an iron stare.

“Plunder my stores and frighten my smallfolk.” He replied. “I may wish and pray otherwise, but for the nonce I can do naught but take her for my queen. She could’ve killed me at a whim and was not loath to tell me so to my face. If you mean to end her reign of terror then the place of honour shall be yours tonight, Chosen One. Come, you must be weary from the road.”

Herlogan began ushering everybody into his hall. Praiodan of Whiterock went, scowling, but Duke Hagrobald remained by his friend’s side.

Dari might have tried to yank free and fly at her target when he was entering, but in a gown amidst so many foes she would never have gotten out. Her tummy was in knots over the situation she found herself in. It would be all she could do to lie her way out and then see where she was.

The knights were entering, which took a deal of time because there were so many of them. Dari’s captor pushed her closer to their lord.

“Do you really reckon you will kill her?” Ordhan Herlogan asked of the Duke, not very loudly.

The other pursed his lips: “If we can catch her. Last time Praios blinded her, but unless we can tie her feet together, she will run from us again. Hah, with a bit of Phex’s good graces she will run all the way to the Horasians and crush them, the dastards! Have you heard they are said to be in league with these beasts?” He shook his head in disapproval. “Ever the power-hungry schemers they always were, ever lurking in our shadow, conspiring with evil demons and calling their rulers gods! Raul should never have let them exist in the first place.”

His friend weighed his head, seemingly not entirely in agreement, but left unsaid whatever he was thinking. The palace was more Horasian in style, Dari noted. It wouldn’t surprise her to hear that Ordhan Herlogan had lived in the Horasian Empire once as well.

Unmentioned went also the Duke’s distinct flaw of reasoning. If Laura was in league with the Horasians, one could hardly expect her to trample them after running there, as he hoped.

“My lord,” the sergeant next to Dari cleared his throat, “we found this woman on the road, riding a Galahan steed. She looks noble, says it’s Gareth she’s going. We do not know what’s to be done with her.”

Both the Baron and the Duke turned to face Dari, and someone shoved a torch in her face so they could get a better look.

Hagrobald spoke first, chortling: “Oh, ho, ho, is that a special gift, Ordhan? Found her on the road, eh? I’ve been on that road as oft as any man, but I have never seen something near as pretty cross my path, ha!”

His eyes were deep brown and large, shining in the torchlight. They crawled over Dari like spiders, but that was still better than the way Ordhan Herlogan was looking at her.

The lord of Andoain grimaced briefly, as though he had discovered a problem he needed to solve. That could not mean anything good. His mouth opened and closed, inconclusively.

Finally, he said: “Bring her to a room.”

That was all, but the implication of torture was so palpable that Dari relived the horrors of the inquisition a second time before her inner eye, all in one heartbeat. She felt like fainting, or screaming, or running or cutting her own throat. She couldn’t do it, she was certain.

‘A lie!’ She thought frantically. ‘A lie, I need a lie!’

The courtesan disguise had gone to the Netherhells the moment they had discovered her horse. It was another thing Franka Salva Galahan had overlooked, again, for which she could be forgiven, but Dari should have noticed it. She had been out of the game for too long. This was horrible. She felt like she was putting her foot in it again and again, like a bloody amateur.

“My lord!” She croaked, her mouth dry.

She had to swallow.

“Oi…” Hagrobald’s face grew dark with disappointment. “What do you mean, a room?”

“I will have to ask her a few questions.” Ordhan replied. “We need to determine who she is and why she is here. You understand. Hosting you in mine own home might put me at a certain impasse with my betters at Honingen.”

For a moment, the Duke of Nordmarken looked like a giant boy who’s toy knight had dropped into the well. Then his black temper flared.

“It’s Gareth she says she’s going, didn’t you hear!?” He growled. “There’s weeks of road ahead of her!”

Why he jumped to her rescue, Dari couldn’t have said, but she wanted to kiss him for it.

“This is a delicate matter.” Ordhan Herlogan objected too vaguely for the stubborn Duke to understand. “We must proceed with caution in this. No common girl would come to ride a Galahan horse. Like as not, she’s lying.”

Dari needed to say something to explain away the horse. So, she made something up, dropping to her knees and raising her hands, pleading.

“It is no lie, my lord!” She pleaded. “I am Alrika Woolworth, the daughter of Alrik Woolworth, from Gareth! My family, we make our trade in wool and I came to Honingen to look upon the fleeces my father purchased in advance from the countess! The giant…monster, the giantess, she had crushed the sheep, and all the old countess gave me for recompense was the horse! It is no lie, my lord, I swear!”

It was surprisingly good for something she made up on the spot, Dari thought, and she managed to squeeze a few tears from her eyes as well. The Woolworths were moneyed people in Gareth, not noble but ambitious, rich but not so rich as that everybody would know them, like the Stoerrebrandts.

“See?” Hagrobald gestured before turning to her with a smile. “I am oft in Gareth at council, and I bought me a pair of woollen undertunics from your father once! Scratchier than most, I am sad to say, so you and I might have to discuss about a bargain.”

He gave her wink that almost made her laugh. Ordhan Herlogan did not believe a word she had said, however, but he was overruled by his guest. Doubt was written firmly on his face but it was for Duke Hagrobald to decide how they would proceed.

“Ah, don’t be a frog, Ordhan!” He chuckled and slapped his friend upon the shoulder. “Give her a place below the salt and let her beauty light up your hall for us! You’ve always been a niggard with the torches. Eh?! Ha, ha!”

That was not what Dari had hoped for, but at least she would be in one room with her target. The trouble was that there were somewhere between two and three hundred knights in there as well, all getting drunk, and the servants were already carrying out benches for their retinue.

Perhaps she could catch the Chosen One on a visit to the privy. How she would get out after that, she had no idea. Something told her that Ordhan Herlogan was not yet done with her either, and neither was Hagrobald Guntwin of the Big River, judging from his smile.

-

A canopy of cloth was spanned over Franka Salva Galahan’s litter when she emerged in the pummelling rain. Laura was huddling underneath her blanket, which was thankfully waterproof or else she would have had an even more terrible morning. The rain was so heavy that she could hardly see the ground, only grey shapes and the hints of colours unless she crouched and leaned close.

Janna had woken briefly and closed her sleeping bag up around herself, like some homeless person. That was precisely how Laura felt, less like a queen.

“Ay, ay, ay!” The countess shook her head at the weather, having to speak loudly to be heard. “Your Grace, under these circumstances your court will have to be postponed, lest we will all drown out there!”

It was torrential and cold, not as cold as before, but the wetness that crept into everything made it feel that way all the same. This was not a day to be awake, Laura decided.

“Aye!” She agreed.

She did not want her first court to be one where she looked soaked and bedraggled like a wet dog. The evening before, she and Janna had taken another meal together. It had not been raining then.

The prospect of twenty thousand enemies coming their way seemed to be a moral conundrum for Janna’s newfound convictions, which Laura had been quite pleased to see. It didn’t do them any good to be a goody toe-shoes. Maybe in the beginning, before all the world had learned that they were murderous, but that train had long left the station.

The fact that the Nordmarkers had temporarily blinded Laura seemed less to rattle Janna, as it should have, rather than to make her act smug.

“Yes.” She had nodded. “It was only a question of time before they figured out a way to fuck with us, other than…you know. We had this coming. The way we behaved was just beyond any comparison, Laura.”

There had not been a hug, nor a kiss or a caress, not even so much as a gentle touch. There seemed to be spite between them, somehow, and Laura did not understand where it was coming from.

As to the question what to do about the mighty host coming their way, Janna seemed torn.

“They’d kill us if we gave them any chance.” Laura said. “We have a right to defend ourselves. Isn’t that what Darwinism is all about?”

“No.” Janna had shaken her head. “Not at all. And if you apply Darwin at the interhuman level you’ll end up like Hitler did.”

That was wrong, Laura knew in turn. Hitler had denounced Darwin and embraced Lamarck, the guy who roughly said giraffes had long necks because they were stretching them all the time, thus making the notion that Charles Darwin’s discoveries had in any way led to the holocaust an erroneous one. But she said nothing.

“Isn’t there some way we can just make them turn around?” Janna had asked.

Laura had not replied to that either, eating her cheese and drinking her mulled wine in silence. If the Nordmarkers were smart they would turn heel after The Chosen one was murdered. Laura sensed, however, that the assassination of such a high-calibre person was not some easy feat she could brazenly rely upon to succeed with any certainty.

Not to mention, the Nordmarkers were led by Duke Hagrobald Guntwin of the Big River, who was not smart at all. And he had smelled blood.

If Laura had been smart, she would have tried to blindly smash the Chosen One with her hands before running away. But she had been too terrified. Now there was only hoping that Dari succeeded.

“Was there any news from the Nordmarkers?” She asked the countess below.

“Not as yet!” Franka replied, shouting up to her. “But you should rest assured that all will be well!”

That was strange and served only to worsen Laura’s unease. It sounded like something someone might say to a total loser so as not having to deal with them at length.

“Now, pray, excuse me!” The countess said. “This cold is ruinous to my health and I’d rather have my prunes inside by a fire! I do not envy you, child. Not today.”

A giant roof such as Laura and Janna would require was probably out of the question to build. Any building materials simply would not carry. So, Laura could do nothing better but to take a stroll while she waited for Janna to wake up.

Inside Honingen, the water cascaded off the knee-high roofs in the wealthier part of the city. Pools accumulated on the cobbles, and only some men and women were about, carrying buckets of murky water from cellars drowned.

“It’s raining pitchforks, Your Grace!” Some man greeted her, screaming. “Efferd means it rather too well with us today!”

Was it another divine intervention, like that flash? Would Efferd let it rain until all Laura had been trying to build was swept away?

A woman shouted: “Please watch your step, Your Grace, there are folk beneath you!”

‘Ha, here’s a sentence no queen before me ever had to hear.’

Janna was right about it being wrong to be monsters. Being a monster meant not being able to settle down and having to, like a swarm of locusts, move from place to place to eat bare.

Laura took care she did not crush anyone.

In the strangest twist of events, a fire broke out in one of the houses. A bell was rung continuously, but its monotonous clanger did not reach very far.

“My son is still inside!” A woman screeched and coughed on the ground at men who had arrived to help. “My son! Someone, help him!”

 ‘This is the worst superhero movie, ever.’ Laura thought when she approached and called to make way for her feet.

There was a veritable crowd forming, and more and more occupants of the building moving outside. A building held many more people per square meter in medieval times, she knew, especially large buildings such as these. Whole families often even slept in one bed together.

“Where is he?!” She asked the woman, pointing at the smoking windows, glowing with the blaze inside.

“That one, she said!” A man hollered in the woman’s stead and pointed at a window that was smoking but not yet glowing with fire.

‘He could’ve been smart enough to move to the window at least.’ Laura thought angrily as she shouted to make more room and began to pry the wall apart which led to dropping bits of it onto the street.

It was relatively easy, like tearing old gingerbread, and the window gave her an easy point to start from. Inside, she saw only wads of smoke coming from a door at the bottom of which the flames were already licking through.

‘Now, where would I hide?’

She tried a table next to the door, but there was no one beneath it. Under the bed which she utterly destroyed in the process of picking it up, she finally found a little boy, frightenedly cowering on the ground.

She couldn’t well pick him up the same way she had done the bed, so she pushed him with her finger over the floor before giving him a gentle flick that sent him tumbling out the hole she had made and into her waiting palm.

The people cheered when the tiny child was united with his mother once again.

After that, Laura pushed in the roof and an as yet unaffected floor above the flames, to let the rain quench them. Her blanket had fallen off and she was wet on her shoulders and back, but when she picked it back up she saw that it had knocked off a couple of roof tiles on the houses it had fallen onto.  

Of course, these tiles had fallen straight down, right onto where people had huddled against the wall to avoid her feet. It was stupid.

“See to them.” She sighed. “I told you to make way!”

That was what they had done, nevertheless. Only the wrong way, not far enough from danger.

“He’s dead, Your Grace!” A woman cradling an older man cried up to her.

He was bleeding from the temple, half his face smeared with it. It wasn’t Laura’s fault, the way she saw it, but the plentiful eyes on the ground seemed to blame her all the same.

“I’m not in the mood!” She snapped at once as she felt the anger boiling at the back of her throat.

Her foot shot out right onto the two and buried half another person in the bargain.

Blood exploded out from under the tip of her shoe, smearing a scene of modern art onto the whitewashed wall, quickly turning pink with the water. The cobbles were less forgiving than dirt, and when she removed her foot there was an even grizzlier scene to deal with.

She was fuming and wanted to take her leave, but now people panicked all around her, screaming and crying like the tiny, worthless bugs that they were.

“When I say to make way, I mean you to make way, so this shit doesn’t happen!” She shouted angrily.

She pounded her foot onto the one she had left half-squashed, then proceeded to crush the other three and a man who meant to make off with an unconscious, elderly woman.

It was so easy. She had almost forgotten that, despite the scores of peasants the day before. This came from always being immersed in the tiny world, she reflected. It wasn’t the first time this happened.

Another person, she could hardly see it, stood in her way when she turned to leave. She stomped that one as well.

“What in Horas’ name is she doing?!” Leonidas Hatchet’s voice asked somewhere near her feet after the first step since the latest murder.

Laura froze.

There were people huddling in the shadow of a stone house with beautiful ornamentations on its red brick front. One figure was standing, rain running in rivers off a heavy leather mantle and pointy hat. The standing person was smoking.

“You have become privy to Laura’s infamous wroth, Signor. She must be displeased her court had to be postponed.”

It was Furio, speaking about her, only there was no way they were unaware she was standing over them.

“I’m in no mood to be scolded, Furio.” She told him, pulling the blanket tighter around her face. “And it’s this damn rain that’s unnerving me, not that court thing.”

Leonidas Hatchet stood up, his fur cloak drenched and heavy on his shoulders: “You killed these people because of the rain?!”

He sounded like there was a deal more he wished to add to that, but it appeared he stopped himself for fear.

“Telling me how to run my kingdom, huh, Governor?” She made the word a course.

She didn’t like any meddling, and she certainly didn’t need this little worm to tell her that crushing her own people was wrong.

She felt like she had to bring the point home so she bent, picked him up off the ground and took him up with her. The surrounding people made a run for it, and she was almost tempted to squelch them out of spite.

“You look a little scrawny.” She told the screaming man as she regarded him in between her fingers all the while suggestively licking her lips. “But don’t think I won’t eat you just because Scalia said you get to assist me here.”

“Oh, no!” He screamed, trying to wriggle free. “Please don’t, I am your loyalist servant, I swear!”

Laura had not known what to make of him before. What she found now was rather disappointing. It was unfair, though. One could hardly call it a person’s true self when confronted with being devoured alive.

On the other hand, she quite enjoyed the game.

“Oh, I deserve your loyalty.” She said. “The unquestioning kind. Is that understood? Meh, best not take any chances.”

She lifted him above her mouth and opened it, letting him struggle there. The rain had made him slippery and she could only really apply pressure to his cloak or else she might crush him. There was a palpable danger he might come loose.

She licked her lips again: “You know, struggling like that is dangerous when you will fall into my mouth once you are free. If you do, I will swallow you without a second thought. That will be the end of Governor Leonidas Hatchet.”

He hadn’t even looked down before, she noted, even if his demeanour had suggested that. Now he grasped her finger like a little monkey and clung there for dear life. Laura was more tempted than ever just to eat him.

She withdrew her thumb, leaving him to his own devices on her index finger. If he fell, then that was it for him. She was serious about that.

“Do you have anything that’s of use to me?” She asked.

“Yes, I have!” He cried. “I have to tell you of the different kinds of dragons, and there is another thing, a possible spy from the ogre queen!”

Playing with the man had somehow awoken the want in between Laura’s legs. She didn’t know why. These things were sometimes unpredictable. Perhaps she had played with young women too much before, so she needed something else. Whatever it was, she was so captivated with the feeling that she had hardly understood what he had said.

“Laura, this is important knowledge you had best heed!” Furio called up from below.

He knew better than to demand anything outright. Furio was a good man, the kind who by enlarge were too few in number. Signor Hatchet on the other hand had need of some harsh conditioning.

“Ever pleased a woman with your mouth?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m going to put you in my undergarments. If you are smart you will know what to do so I’ll let you out.”

She pulled her jeans and panties away from her belly and dumped him inside, biting her lip when she felt him arrive and struggle there, which only resulted in him arriving a little further.

“Laura, this is most unwise!” Furio called up. “Signor Hatchet is…”

She chuckled over him: “Going to make me very, very happy. I’ll let him out when I’m finished and I will listen to all he has to say, I swear. Now, pray, excuse me.”

She left the smoking wizard with a laugh, freezing momentarily after her first step toward the city walls. She had just displayed to the entirety of Honingen what she had wanted nobody to know.

‘Damnit.’

But there was nothing she could do about it now. It was almost as if she was an old man who had to act quickly upon every hint of arousal when it came.

‘I’m not a man, though, and I’m not old at all. And why do I keep thinking this nonsense?!’

It was almost a tad schizophrenic.

Below, Signor Hatchet seemed to have found his bearings and started to get with the game. He was apparently no stranger to female parts either.

Laura made her way out of the city and back to Galahan Palace, next to which she finally zipped the grey blanket up into a sleeping bag again. She discarded her shoes underneath some old trees. They were wet anyway, as were her socks. Once in the sleeping bag she wriggled out of her jeans too, pushing them down with her feet so they would stay dry.

The tiny man in her panties was trapped in darkness. He had become shaken off her clitoris and when she laid down he ended up somewhere near the crack of her butt.

With a smile she knew was evil she toyed with the idea of using him anally, but nothing would be more likely to kill him. So, she had to sit up again to allow him to finally finish his job.

He went back to it quite slow which she liked at first. She wasn’t extremely aroused in the beginning. Tenderly, she felt his hands and mouth work her. She had made the right bet, taking the Horasians for wicked little southerners, contrary to the dull, northern Andergastians who had no notions of these things.

Her breathing quickened eventually. Oh, what she would give for some proper cock. Her dildo was still at Iaun Cyll, she realized. They had been so terrified that day of dragons and the Red Curse that she hadn’t even thought to take it with her.

Leonidas Hatchet remained at his pace. He had to be a cuddly, underwhelming lover, or else he was taking the whole thing a tad too cautiously. In any event, beyond a certain level, Laura got bored with his performance.

Determined to get off, she finally slipped her hand into her panties, found him and pressed him against her sex. It had to be humiliating for a guy, she thought as she rubbed herself with him quicker and quicker, to be so ineffectual and small that a woman had to take him in between her fingers and use his whole body as a prop in order to get any pleasure out of him.

He would never forget this, whereas Laura would likely not even think about it in an hour’s time.

Thinking about how terrible she must have made him feel drove her over the edge.

“Yah! Yah! Yah!” She cried three times before a final, releasing squeal echoed from her mouth.

“Yah, what?” Janna grumbled, scowling at her from a small opening in her sleeping bag.

Laura sat with her head in the rain, her hair increasingly wet with it, breathing heavily while she crushed the tiny man against her clitoris.

“Leonidas Hatchet.” She breathed. “Wanna try him? He’s great.”

She fished him out and presented him on her palm. He looked like a wet poodle, his cloak gone and ponytail dissolved, long black hair clinging to his head slimy with Laura’s arousal.

He wiped his hand across his face and flicked what he gathered off his wrist.

“Fuck off.” Janna moaned. “Did you just…rape him?”

“Rape?!” Laura chuckled. “I think per legal definition that would still involve some sort of penetration. I got myself off with him.”

She gave a shrug to signify that it wasn’t a very big deal.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She decided to act first when Janna wanted to scold her. “I didn’t kill him! You don’t get to speak anyway, after how many tiny people you’ve literally fucked flat.”

Laura would love nothing more than to see Janna do it again, in truth. Just the thought made her want to go another time.

“It is alright, Janna.” Signor Hatchet spoke through his teeth and bowed on Laura’s hand. “I have learned my lesson. I hope Her Grace was…pleased with me?”

It was surprising, but not unwelcome, and Laura found it just the cutest thing how crushed and humiliated he sounded when he spoke.

Janna groaned, then turned and zipped herself up in her sleeping bag once again.

Laura giggled: “I did, Signor. Didn’t you hear me? Almost makes me want to go again.”

She lowered him playfully, just a few meters, but he was already terrified.

He answered like a shot: “Aaa-I wouldn’t begrudge it if Her Grace used someone more professional than myself for this kind of service!”

Whores, Laura thought. Honingen surely had some. Perhaps they could perform well on her. She would make a note of it.

“Don’t be scared, tiny signor.” She chuckled and held a hand over him to shield him from the rain. “Look at the bright side, now you are way too slimy for me to eat.”

He looked up at her face from in between her palms, shoulders slumping: “Thank you.”

“You wanted to tell me something?”

“Aye. What I said was not quite accurate, I am afraid to admit. What we are dealing with is probably not a spy. The truth is, all we have was recognizing a person from Andergast in Honingen, a person whom we believed was somehow in Varg the Impaler’s employ.”

“Right.” Laura chewed on it for a moment. “So, first off, who is we?”

He nodded: “My confidant and I, Dari. We recognized the man.”

She cocked her head, wondering why he would take an assassin under his helm, and for what purpose. Then an even weirder question struck her, which was why Dari had even been at Lauraville at all. From what she remembered of Andergast, it didn’t seem like a place with lots of work for contract killers. Perhaps there was more to that story, and perhaps she should get to the bottom of it eventually.

If only her plate hadn’t been so damn full otherwise.

“So,” she continued, “you are looking for some man in Honingen. Are you certain you haven’t mixed him up? Why didn’t you apprehend and question him?”

“We tried, but he got away.” Signor Hatchet replied. “And it is unmistakably him. He is a fool dressed in blue and white motley with skin as black as the muck in Albernia’s moors.”

She had to chew on that as well, admittedly mostly over the question whether this description of someone was racist or not. She had never cared too much about that side of her college education, but somehow it seemed to have scarred her brain anyhow. It wasn’t racist, though, just a straight-forward description.

“Well, someone should tell him to wash extensively with soap.” She tried to make light of it.

‘Okay, that was racist.’ She had to admit, not to mention that the effort of humour fell flat.

His reply came dryly: “It doesn’t work like that, Your Grace.”

“Right.” She mumbled awkwardly. “So, that kind of person should be easy enough to find, right? Do you have the city guard looking after him?”

‘Good!’ She congratulated herself. ‘Outsource and delegate your problems onto other people. That way, there’s less you have to deal with yourself!’

She really had to start thinking more like a manager.

“The city guard do not know who I am.” He replied sourly. “They laughed at me and chased me away like some drunk madman. I have tried to find the fool myself, unsuccessfully. Master Furio said he found traces of a strange and uncommon magic at the scene where Dari fell prey to the inquisition.”

“Furio could’ve fixed that with the city guard for you, I think.” Laura frowned, still trying to delegate. “And those inquisition people nearly tortured Dari to death, by the way.”

“I did not know that.” He had to admit. “Had I, I would have tried everything to get her out, like as not just as unsuccessfully.”

The accusation was clear and hit so close to the mark that it pricked Laura’s pride like a needle. He was right.

“Well, then let’s change that.” She resolved. “Can you swim, Signor Hatchet?”

He seemed perplexed: “Yes, why, I can…”

“Good.”

She needed her hands free to turn the sleeping bag back into a blanket but wasn’t going to stick him back into her clothes the way he was. He also could not be presented to the city guard all covered in pussy juice, so she tossed him straight into the moat surrounding Galahan Palace.

He went screaming and plunged in head first. It had been quite high, but the lake there was deep enough for him to survive it, judging by its colour. Nonetheless, Laura made a little breather when he emerged spitting water from his mouth like a fountain.

She had to share some power, she resolved. She did it with Turon Taladan, Franka Galahan and ultimately even with tiny lords and barons such as Ordhan Herlogan for that matter. Having Leonidas Hatchet in a more official capacity might help solve some of her long list of problems.

And if he turned out to be a pain in the ass, she could always still shove him up hers and leave him there.

-

The hailstones hammered on Dari’s leather hat like a million drums. She was wine-sick, hungry, tired, sore. It was cold, almost unnaturally so. She feared being pursued but that was unreasonable. The Nordmarkener army had different problems now.

Her feet slithered over the ancient cobble stones on the road to Honingen. She was on foot, the marvelous horse somewhere behind her in a stable. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

It felt like a failure, even though her mission had technically been a success.

Flooding rains fell. Already the surrounding fields were under water. The Nordmarkener city of tents had drowned as well, and as if that wasn’t bad enough it was now suddenly freezing. The horses had known, somehow. They had screamed and torn at their lines, keeping their grooms awake all night long. Now, in the hailstorm, it would have to be even worse.

This was some demonic weather.

The knights in Andoain Palace had not been perturbed by that. Situated on a hill and surrounded by solid stone, the feasters had only taken note of the torrential rain as it beat against and ran down their windows. Crammed in a large, tall hall without music, mummers or any such, drink and drunken singing was the only entertainment.

Girls from the village poured wine, ale and mead almost as torrentially as the sky poured water.

Dari had been seated between Wolfhold of Streitzig, a comely, charismatic, pantaloon-wearing Baron from the county of Gratenstone, and Irian of Tandosh, who looked, acted and ate more like a pirate than the noble he was.

Both men took interest in Dari immediately, and she almost feared it would come to blows between them. Such was not tolerable on campaign, however, so the two started duelling with cups instead.

That left Wolfhold of Streitzig soon snoring with his head on the table, and Irian of Tandosh running for the privy, spewing mead.

Dari noted the eyes of Duke Hagrobald and Baron Ordhan constantly and uncomfortably upon her, but she was helplessly at their mercy at that point. Something told her that if she went to the privy, she would never make her way back to her seat before being intercepted.

It was just a question of who among them got hold of her first, and one seemed as unpleasant as the other. Duke Hagrobald ate like a pirate as well, which might have been what was behind the rumour that his house, the Big Rivers, were actually not ancient nobles at all but up-jumped river pirates who had grown mighty even before the Bospharan Empire.

Then, as soon as Irian of Tandosh went running, none other than Duke Hagrobald Guntwin of the Big River claimed his seat. He congratulated Dari for her tactics of getting rid of the two competitors, even though they had done that all on their own, and proceeded to drink with her until the hall was spinning before her eyes.

She did not remember half the things they talked about, only that she ended up liking him more than she would have believed. He was a sow-like eater with a fat gut and an appetite to match, but his heart was in the right place. Furthermore, he was big and strong and seemed like a man who took what he wanted, all the things she had been missing in Léon.

Toward the end of the feast, the hall looked like a veritable battleground with men, food and platters strewn all around. Hagrobald took better to the drink than most, which might have been on account of the enormous amount of fodder he ingested. Dari saw him eat three stuffed and bacon-wrapped pigeons, a dozen eggs, two bowls of porridge, a trout, a turtle, as well as the entirety of what Irian of Tandosh had left of his trencher, lamb stew, gravy and bread until not a crumb remained on the wooden board.

Half of it seemed to have gone into his beard, but she had been too drunk to care about that. After his meal he simply carried her to his room, tossed her on his bed and took her until the morning was shining through their window. It was all she could do to squeal like a little doe every time he thrust himself inside her.

During the act, her bladder broke under his pounding, but he only laughed about that. Then as he finished in her for the first time, her hair piece came off, but he only laughed about that as well, said he liked her that way too and took her again.

Sleeping on his broad, hairy chest would have been the best thing in the world, but Dari had a mission. Only amateurs fell asleep during a mission. And so, that night, did she.

That was even stranger than all the rest until that point. She dreamt that she wasn’t asleep, but still in the room, laying there. She couldn’t get up, though, too tired to move even a limb. Then the door had opened and a man in black robes came inside, carrying an hourglass. It was him.

His hair was grey, his face young, and we walked up to her and leaned right into her face.

“Now, this is slightly awkward.” He had smiled. “I think you have fallen asleep.”

Then she woke, alone with Hagrobald and his snoring.

The hail turned to snow above Dari’s head and the weather seemed to turn even colder. Soon, her hat was stiff with ice and it snowed so much that she could see hardly farther than three steps ahead of herself.

She needed shelter.

The bed had been warm and wonderful. The dungeon less so. No sooner had she slipped from Hagrobald’s bedchamber than she had been apprehended by Ordhan and his men. They held her mouth shut and wrestled her to the dungeons. Her protector whose seed was dripping down her legs was fast asleep.

They strapped her on a rack and pulled the levels until the chains were tight. A hooded man stood by with a large hammer, ready to smash Dari’s hands and limbs should she not answer truthfully. She broke before they even harmed a hair on her head.

“Why are you here?” Ordhan Herlogan had demanded of her, and she had done her best to come up with a lie but only managed to tell the Woolworth tale again.

The man with the hammer stepped forward, and she had told a different tale. Ordhan Herlogan nodded all the way through.

At that point, she only prayed for a quick, painless death. She had not realized that she put him in a quagmire between his giant queen and his mighty Nordmarkener friend. Both deemed him on their side, to some extend anyhow, and he could not cross either of them without running away and vanishing, giving up all that he had.

Strangely enough, they let her go after that, as if never laying eyes on her. All they did was point her to Praiodan of Whiterock, praying in front of an indoor shrine in an unused storage room. It was guarded by two sleeping figures, one a priest in white robes with red wine stains, the other an armoured cultist of the Chosen One’s own.

She slipped through the door without waking them, finding the cleric on his knees in front of the makeshift shrine.

“Are you come to kill me?” He had asked, rising and turning to face her, weapon in hand.

She had not drawn her knife and he seemed surprised to see her, such a young, innocent, minuscule woman before him.

Surprised in turn to find him waiting for an attack, she had squeezed out more tears from her eyes which by then came easy.

“I have sinned!” She grovelled and wept. “I have to confess! I need to get right with the gods, Chosen One, please!”

His face had hardened and he had pointed at the door growling: “Out of my sight with you, wench! The gods do not concern themselves with harlots like you!”

“But…my father will disown me!”

She did not know why she had said it. She remembered wondering what that felt like, to have a father, when she had first told her Woolworth lie.

The Chosen One’s face had softened at that and he had lowered his head: “I was once disowned by mine own sire.”

He was from the Bornlands, she learned, where his father had ruled both family and smallfolk with an iron first, tantric and violent.

“I oft feared he would beat me to death with his own hands.” The Chosen One said during the confession. “Are you guilty of any more than fornication, child?”

His was a hard justice, she sensed. Whatever penance he had in mind for her would have been most unpleasurable. Somehow, she pictured a whip playing a role in it.

“Yes, Chosen One.” She had confessed through tears. “I am a murderer.”

His eyes widened, she saw from the corner of her own with her chin pressed firmly to her chest.

“Wha…who did you kill, child?”

His voice was rougher and less forgiving than before. She looked up.

“You, Chosen One.” She had said, and the knife had eased from her boot into her hand, and from there into his throat with one swift motion.

The Chosen One gave a gurgle, clutching at her hand. Then his own blood drowned him. That had been warm too.

She had stumbled from the chamber unseen and made straight through the hall full of sleeping knights. She stopped only to gather her mantle and hat.

‘He would have been a way.’ She thought bitterly, putting one frozen foot in front of the other.

Laura had feared him so much she had sent someone else to slay him, which had to be most unlikely.

Dari feared having done the wrong thing. She should look into poisons more fervently, once back at Honingen.

But the way things presented themselves now, she would never get there.

A rock by the road had an overhang, near where a rider-less horse had died. There was a frozen fireplace, but as the world was cast in ice she would never get to find dry wood to use it. The outdoors was not her terrain. She hadn’t even thought to bring steel, flint and tinder.

‘Is this my penance?’ She laid down beneath the rock. ‘A death alone and unknown, an unmarked grave by the side of the road for feral dogs to go digging?’

She shuddered, frozen stiff. Her hands could barely grasp the leather mantle to pull it tight around her. It would be days of marching back to Honingen. She’d never make it, she saw that now.

Her mission was complete, though, which gave her a little bit of solace.

‘My last target.’

It still felt like failure, because she had never been able to carry out the deed without Ordhan Herlogan’s lack of action.

‘And here I die, not crushed nor eaten.’

That was at least a small victory. She laughed. Then the singing stopped.

Her head snapped to the road but there was only snow.

A little soul - lay in the forest. So evil - the flowers withered. A little soul – lay in the forest. So cold then, the water – ice.

She had heard the words without noticing them, she realized only now. Not even the queer lute-playing had alerted her.

‘When the flood rains fall, you will know that my words were true,’ Krool the Fool had sung at that inn in Honingen.

She shivered even more than from the cold now.

A shadow was then – over the forest! As the little soul – began to wither. The little soul – was a shadow. A shadow – of our world!

“Ahhh!” Krool’s voice screeched evilly through the falling snow.

A shadow dismounted a minuscule horse before Dari’s eyes.

“Oohhh.” A crunching step. “Heee, whooo, whoo, ha, ha!”

Dari’s fingers fumbled for the knife in her boot but they were too stiff to grasp it. It fell and vanished in the snow. She was shaking.

“Who hides there?” Krool called out in a mocking sing-song voice.

His teeth and eyes were so yellow that Dari could see them now, even before his black face emerged. He wore sheep furs, bundled in them like a babe in swaddling clothes.

He put his hands on his hips: “So fast? He said you would not be this fast!” He raised a finger. “You, you, you, ha, ha!”

Tears were freezing on Dari’s face. She groped for the knife, finally finding it. It was no good, though.

“Oh, put that away, silly.” Krool laughed. “He said you must live. Live!”

For an absurd and terrifying moment she thought he would pull a rock from his back and smash her head with it, but when the bundle hit the snow she heard and saw that it was something softer.

‘Furs.’ She realized, her mind spinning.

He had brought her the same sheep skins that he was wearing too.

“Fur on the inside.” He grinned at her before scowling. “The carrot is for the donkey, not for you!”

Then he turned and left her to her own devices, vanishing in the snowfall as quickly as he had come.

“Wait!” Dari called out when she finally found her voice. “Where are you going?”

It was a stupid question among the many that sprang to mind, and he laughed at her accordingly, already sounding a dozen metres away.

“Why, to where not evil dwells!”

That was the last thing she heard of him.  

-

Laura clenched her teeth and produced another thick wad of white mist with her mouth. The cold was getting to her. Under the blanket it wasn’t so bad, but in her still wet shoes her feet were starting to hurt abominably.

The horrible rain that had ruined her day in the morning had been followed by a drastic plunge in temperatures. First it started to rain ice, covering the world with a thin crust that crunched noisily every time she stepped down. Then the snows started.

Icicles were everywhere, on the trees, the houses, in her hair and even her eyelashes. It had a Siberian feel to it, even though she only knew such from documentaries on the television. She would never have thought to get caught up in something similar herself.

She was taking a stroll, spurned on by Franka Salva Galahan’s notion that the rain would certainly debilitate the Nordmarkener army, bogging it down so that waiting for it would be a feeble affair. Now, the rain had stopped, but what was true for rain might be even truer for ice and snow, so the reasoning went.

Maybe she should just go at them again and see if she couldn’t crush them this time.

If she and Janna could stay in Albernia was being called into question by the cold. If it stayed like this all winter, it just wouldn’t do. Another problem, and an all too familiar one, was that there was a food crisis looming. The rain had flooded many root cellars were vegetables and such were stored in winter. Now everything was frozen.

Nothing would spoil in this state, but if it thawed then it would have to be used immediately, or it would inevitably rot.

Problems upon problems upon problems, one pettier than the next.

There were villages beyond count surrounding Honingen, most not on Laura’s map, many of which she had already come across but not investigated thus far, and others she had never seen until now.

Her objective, so she had decided, was to find a dragon. At Jorilsgrave south of Honingen, they had seen the same as everybody else, and did not know anything to add to it other than stupid superstitions.

Everybody seemed busy removing the damages the weather had done to them anyhow. Ground dwellings were flooded, livestock had frozen to death or drowned. People had begun digging ditches but now ditched their wooden shovels for axes to beat at the ice and carry it out of their villages.

It was all a tad surreal.

One village further south, in Honeyfield, a seven-hundred-soul community of beekeepers, cowherds and a Sir Lothur of Honeyfield with a beehive on his shield, Laura got her first trace of what she was looking for. Supposedly, there was a nameless charburner community to the west of that village where a dragon had been spotted.

“My sister’s seen it, she says!” A middle-aged woman all bundled up in wool gave to account. “Green it is, with monstrous sharp teeth and yellow eyes, and so big it could swallow a cow whole!”

That account terrified Laura, but she still decided to go. For one thing, it was certainly better to take the initiative and find out about these creatures before they found her first. Then there was also the fact that walking warmed her.

“Does it breathe fire?” She asked the woman with a frown.

The answer came a bit meek: “That I couldn’t say, milady, I couldn’t.”

Finding the place was a tad tricky because only a mule path led there, now entirely hidden by the snow and there were no fresh tracks to go by. It was also still snowing heavily, and visibility wasn’t good from ninety metres high. In the end it were the smouldering piles of charcoal that led Laura there, filling the air with the stinging, slightly irritating scent of barbecue, before the meat was put on.

Charcoal was made, so she learned, by burning tightly stacked heaps of wood and covering the whole thing with brushwork and topsoil to keep the air out. Controlling how much air got into the heap was essential so as not to allow the fire to consume the desired product while maintaining enough heat to evaporate water and whatever else was in the wood. There was also something with tar and poking holes and whatnot, but Laura couldn’t place that.

Janna would have known, perhaps, but Laura did not need to know the biology to see that this was an unbelievably messy, dirty, smelly and doubtlessly unhealthy sort of occupation.

The village elder was an Ingerimm priest who looked like a charcoal maker himself, covered in soot from his receding hairline all the way down to the drawstring shoes on his feet.

“Mine own son caught it, Yer Grace!” He declared so proudly that he had to stop and cough for a while. “Cut down the tree it was nesting in, aha, and lo and behold, you know what we found in its hoard? The knife I polished to offer at the shrine, that’s gone missing! That’s been naught but old bloomery iron, though.”

Laura was a little bit perplexed by this. She double-checked by eye-measuring the trees that stood around, but determined that none would be big enough to be home to a creature as large as she expected. He had also clearly said ‘caught’, not ‘killed.’

It was almost awkward.

“Do you meant to say it is still alive?” She asked hesitantly.

If so, these people either had to be mad, or dragons were a lot smaller than she had anticipated. Leonidas Hatchet had gathered information about the dragons to find out whether or not they might be a potential threat, but Laura had used him as a masturbatory prop instead of asking him about the mythical creatures.

“Aye!” The sooty Ingerimm priest beamed. “It’s in the barn over there!”

They rolled it out on a wagon, stuck under a net and with its tiny wings cruelly nailed to the planks by crude iron spikes. It was minuscule, injured from its fall and weak. Laura had to put a hand on the snow and lean in deeply to get all the tiny features of it.

The wingspan was not quite as long as a man was tall, whereas its body was slender and not even quite long as that. It would clearly be able to fly, given the ratio of wings to body mass. Its skin was green, scales or leather, or leathery scales yet.

Other than that, it appeared to be little more than a lizard with wings.

“That’s a dragon?” Laura frowned, gaping through her frozen eyelashes.

It should have been a mesmerizing experience, had the creature not been so utterly pathetic.

“We were thinking to kill it and skin it for its hide, your grace. Would’ve made a handsome vest! Alas, we thought we’d send it to Honingen for you to see, only that bloody rain got in the way of that.”

Laura was not yet entirely convinced: “Surely, though, this is a little baby dragon or something like that, isn’t it?”

“Nothing as big as in them tales.” The village elder admitted. “But long sharp teeth it’s got, and claws and wings, Your Grace. If you are displeased then, uh…”

“No, no.” Laura laughed, at the dragon and the whole silliness of this situation. “I am very pleased. I was worried, but now I see I could squish this little bugger between my fingers. It didn’t breathe fire, did it?”

“Ney!” The village elder sharply shook his head. “By the mercy of the gods, it did not!”

Laura ended up promising to send something nice to the charcoal burner community for their leal service and took the whole wagon back with her to Honingen to show to Janna.

“Holy…” Was all Janna could say, ogling at the thing when she held it. “It doesn’t look too good, though, does it.”

“Yeah, well, it fell.” Laura bit her lip. “And I may or may not have poked it a little bit to see if it would, like, bite me or something.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah.”

That had been as pathetic as the rest of it, though. It felt more like a nibble on Laura’s finger. It was hard to believe that dragons, after all, should be so impotent.

“Because they are not.” Leonidas Hatchet replied when asked that same exact question, after Laura had summoned him for more input on the matter. “Judging by its size, this would be a tree dragon, the smallest among these creatures.”

Real dragons were larger, Laura and Janna soon learned, and they had real hoards instead of nests stuffed with glittery things such as tree dragons built, according to Hatchet’s information.

The size of the largest dragon the Horasian Signor had found mentioning of was not at all terrifying, however. He walked a line in the snow to put it into perspective.

“That would be like a cat or something.” Janna frowned seriously.

Laura felt relieved. Moreover, the fact that there was no evidence of dragons doing anything malicious, or rather anything at all, anywhere, seemed to suggest that they were no threat after all. That was a good thing.

“They breathe fire, though.” Janna cautioned.

And Signor Hatchet added: “And the larger ones are oft well-versed in magic! Be wary of your mind should you encounter one. At all cost!”

Laura would keep that in mind.

For the moment, however, there were no mightier dragons, and this one brought her and Janna closer together again. They sat on Janna’s sleeping bag and huddled under hers, warming each other with their bodies.

“What are you going to do with it?” Janna asked, looking at the poor, tiny thing nailed to the wagon.

Laura shrugged: “I don’t know. Guess I should parade it around or something, but I kinda want to smush it. I could eat it too, see what it tastes like. We can share it if you want.”

Janna shook her head: “Why do you always have to destroy everything? It’s like you can’t experience something unless you consume it in some way.”

“Uh, hello?” Laura scoffed. “Is that really you? You’ve been a total Godzilla ever since Ludwig’s Keep, just like me, and now you’re like…I mean, what the hell happened?!”

Maybe she had been possessed by something, like a demon, like in some horror movie, and Furio had driven it out. That was a scary thought, made even scarier by the fact that on this planet it could absolutely be true.

Janna shook her head again: “I understand things better now. I got a sense of perspective. You on the other hand or behaving like a child on an anthill with a fucking magnifying glass. Have you done anything sensible since we got here, like working how we free Steve and Christina?”

‘That again,’ Laura thought, fuming.

She didn’t want to fight but had to stick up for herself at the same time. She just didn’t really know how, even though all of this sounded familiar enough as though she had been through it before.

She focused on the smaller question to avoid dealing with the bigger one: “I don’t know how we are going to save them. If you have any input on that then shoot.”

That accomplished shutting Janna up easily enough, but it also made her grumpier.

“We have to work together.” Laura tried being the bigger person. “We just have each other, remember?”

“I think this would be easier if they were here with us.” Janna replied.

Her head hung low and Laura could see that she was in pain.

“I’ll have Franka make us some mulled wine, hm?” She suggested. “And, okay, I will not kill the little dragon.”

Leonidas Hatchet was listening to their English exchange helplessly nonplussed and received the task to convey the message gratefully. The cold was worse for the tiny people than it was for Janna and Laura. The weather was most unusual overall, she had meanwhile heard from multiple sources.

“Oh, and by the way,” she piped up happily when she recognized it, “I have confirmed that this is by no means normal winter here, with the ice rain and the temperature drop and all. They get snows, but not this much, normally. And I’ve heard some say it already got a little warmer. That’s something productive, isn’t it? Isn’t that good news?”

“I suppose.” Janna looked up and nodded.

There was reconciliation in her voice but before Laura could capitalize on it, they were disturbed. Franka Salva Galahan’s servants were shivering in the cold, their feet slipping on the snow and ice while struggling with their master’s litter. The countess herself emerged after the cumbersome vehicle was set down in one of Laura’s footprints, clad head to toe in fine-looking fur.

“You have found a dragon?” She inquired immediately, with her usual belittling, mildly perplexed gaze. “May my old eyes see it for themselves if Your Grace permits?”

Laura was feeling uplifted just by being next to Janna again, feeling the warmth of her body and being able to caress her back, so she did not begrudge the old lady the interruption.

“Hm.” The countess made after some ogling, a screeching retreat when the dragon hissed and a careful return to her original position. “That’s a none too big one, I am told, but also that there are larger ones. Why is this one still alive, I wonder?”

Laura chewed her lip. For the little people, it would certainly be customary to slay dangerous beasts, putting into question the charcoal makers’ decision to let it live. If this one got away it could potentially kill someone or at the very least threaten livestock such as sheep, goats and poultry. It was larger than a wolf and could fly. That alone made it dangerous, not to mention its mouth full of yellow teeth, or the claws at the ends of its four legs.

“A live one is even more impressive to look upon than a corpse, don’t you think, Franka?” Laura supposed aloud. “Let’s give the townsfolk something to look upon, have it paraded around the city.”

“It would be better to do so on the morrow, at court, Your Grace.” The countess replied. “It would add a nice touch to the other displays we are putting on. There will be a show of my finest horses, a mummers’ farce, the performance of a singer who was at the battle of Iaun Cyll as well as an Imman game, for your entertainment as well as that of the commons. A dragon will fit right in there, like an arse on a chamber pot, doesn’t Your Grace agree?”

The preparations for holding court were being conducted outside the city, Laura had seen, but thus far there were only a few wooden stands and a huge field that had to constantly be freed from snow. She hoped the weather on the morrow would be better.

“We can do that.” She replied insecurely, ever disarmed when Franka Salva Galahan spoke. “But, pray tell, what’s an Imman game?”

Janna poked her in the ribs: “We’ve seen that at Thorwal, don’t you remember? That violent game with the sticks and the ball and the goals.”

Laura remembered the slightly absurd game only as a blur. Points could be made by batting the ball beneath or over the goal post, whereby a different amount of points was awarded for each. Kicking the ball, like in soccer, was forbidden, as was hitting another player with the stick. Nevertheless, it was a violent game, because punching someone with the fist, or kicking another player, was absolutely allowed so that the games often boiled down to mere brawls.

No wonder the Thorwalsh liked it, she remembered thinking, though she recalled as well that it was supposedly quite popular all over the continent.

“Koshfist Honingen will battle the Honinger Wolves on the morrow.” Countess Franka proclaimed, full of sarcasm. “Rondra knows we haven’t seen that one often enough.”

“Tomorrow will be a busy day then, won’t it?” Laura asked with a frown. “Lot’s of things to take care of?”

If truth be told, she had only little notion as to what she should expect from holding court. Surely, more problems that she had to deal with, but maybe some solutions as well, though the prospect was nevertheless daunting.

“Giant child.” Franka smiled firmly. “You didn’t think being queen meant putting your giant feet upon a trestle and letting others rule in your stead, did you?”

“Why not?” Laura inclined her head. “I can delegate, can’t I? Actually, I have a war to fight.”

“War!” Franka gave a queer snort. “What do you know of war, child? You can trample armies into the dust, but can you feed the mouths that they leave behind? War is like a rat, drawing on death, and it drags a long, ugly tail behind itself.”

“Well,” Laura hesitated, “I’d ask you to tell me what to do, but what do you know of war, exactly?”

The countess gave her one of her most superior, most belittling glances.

“I fought one,” she said flatly, “for Invher ni Bennain. Duke Hagrobald took Honingen from me in those days and chased me out of my palace. He put Rhianna Conchobair in my place. Pah! Do you know what I learned in those days, child? It is that the only good war is a quick war. I also learned to value those who would be my allies, and not to step on them, as it were.”

Laura closed her eyes guiltily. This was about this morning, the people she had killed in the city. She was thankful enough that Franka packaged it in a way that Janna did not comprehend.

“But…” She pressed her lips together. “But what should I do right now?”

“Well.” The countess’ eyes were gleaming. “It’s rather like a game of Imman, isn’t it. If you don’t know where the ball is, you might as well whack your opponent in the snout!”

Laura understood but was confused all the same, ruining what sounded like a perfectly ominous ending to the conversation.

“You mean I should go and crush the Nordmarker host now?” She asked perplexed.

It seemed counterintuitive. For one thing, the snow would make it hard to find the Nordmarkeners in the first place. Then Dari might be somewhere in there by now, and Laura did not want to crush her accidently. At last, there was still the issue of the Chosen One to deal with, whose death was by no means certain, certainly not so soon.

Janna objected before the old lady had even a chance to speak: “What?! No! She’s not going to kill them, it is wrong!”

The thought process playing out behind the countess’ eyes was hard to determine. Perhaps she felt somewhat about Janna’s change in attitude as Laura did. The countess could know Janna only by reputation, however.

“And what do you suggest we do instead, you even more giant child, hm?” She asked superiorly.

Laura felt that this left more than a few things unsaid. Janna’s eyes narrowed and she shrugged ironically.

“Why not give peace a chance, hm?” She mocked. “Killing only spawns more killing, but you are too backwards and underdeveloped to understand that.”

It was a surprisingly good answer, a better one than Laura had hoped. Franka was a veritable master when it came to disarming people with words. It was unclear, however, if Janna’s effective coming from the future would not end up leaving her toothless.

Laura waited anxiously for the countess’ reply.

“Are you aware that these Nordmarkeners would kill you without so much as a second thought, given the chance?” It came after a moment.

It was a tad toothless, Laura had to admit, even though it was perfectly true and accurate.

“Of course.” Janna replied immediately. “I have comported myself like a monster. It is because of my horrible actions that they mean to kill me. Had I not strayed from a civilized path it wouldn’t have come to this.”

Laura bit her lip, even more anxious, but the countess only laughed: “Oh, child, if I were blind I would name your eyes blue. Open them! They would kill you for the power you inhabit by virtue of your size, and you know it. But if you would not kill, then why feed you? Why shall I expend the labour of my people for you? Will you kill us when you grow hungry? Where will your precious ideals be when having to choose betwixt life and death?”

It was a better one, but Janna’s face hardened.

“I’d rather be dead then!” She spat and stomped her foot, frightening the servants. “But I won’t be. Do you care to know why? Because I will put a stop to all this killing! It ends now!”

Silence fell on the three of them. Then the countess laughed, louder and longer than before. She had to hold her belly and a serving man came to steady her for fear she might slip on the icy ground.

“Prove it then, ha, ha!” The countess wiped away a tear. “Go to Nordmarken and tell them off your mind!”

‘This is a shit idea.’ Laura thought, sighing.

“This is a splendid idea!” Janna replied, eying the countess as she must have eyed Hakkan Praiford the day before when she fought with him. “I will go right now and put an end to all this nonsense!”

-

Linbirg Madahild Farnwart was twenty-one years old. She was as yet unmarried, though there had been no lack of suitors. All praised her beauty, though she knew that they must have disliked the shadowy birthmarks upon her cheeks, as well as much of the rest of her. The gods had seen fit to make her baroness long ahead of her time.

The Bordermark was her barony, situated upon the foothills of the Windhag in southern Albernia. The Windhagers were now enemies, so she had been told, but it weren’t them she was riding out to treat with.

They had clad her in mail, her knights of Ailintir and Grindelmoor, which would have to be another thing for her suitors to dislike. Necessity reigned in the Bordermark more than anything. Linbirg was carrying sword and shield as well, although the latter now thankfully hung upon her saddle so she be spared its weight and cumber.

“The path ahead looks clear, my lady.” Red-blond Sir Haldan of Ashspring said next to her. “But never trust these hills. They can hide many foes, even large ones.”

She shivered.

“If they are foes why do they mean to speak with us?” She asked.

He did not answer. Haldan was thirty years old and as gallant as a knight from the Bordermark could be. His coat of arms was yellow, with an ash tree over a blue spring.  It was as pretty as he was, far as sigils went.

On her other side rode Agylwart Mardhûr of Grindelmoor, a six-and-fifty-year-old, grizzled, grim warrior and companion of Linbirg’s father. His colours were different ones as well, an impaled wolf’s head on a spike before a white moon on black.

Did houses of brutal colours breed hard men, and those of pretty colours breed comely ones, she wondered. In that case, she herself must have been a dove, for her family’s colours showed only a white river on green, framed by two white feathers.

She sighed.

“They have annihilated the mountain tribes one by one.” Agylwart said darkly. “They have crushed their warriors, stolen their livestock and only the Netherhells know what they have done with those poor folk they carried off.”

“It might have been Windhagers that did that.” Sir Haldan offered, not helpfully.

Agylwart shook his head: “Windhagers can’t crush a man to gruel. They don’t leave footprints nigh large enough to lie down in neither. These are ogres, Haldan. And we may be walking into their trap.”

Linbirg could see the younger Knight swallow his words at that, or else it was fear moving there, down at the apple of his throat. In case it was a trap they had one hundred spearmen in their tow, as well as the knights. Linbirg, Haldan and Agylwart were at the helm of the column and the rocky path through the hills was only large enough for three to ride abreast.

“Then…” She had to swallow a large gulp of fear herself before speaking. “Then why are we walking, at all? Shouldn’t we…”

Agylwart cut her off: “You are walking because Firmin ui Lôic has ordered you to, my lady. You have as little choice as the men behind us, holding spears.”

That did not make any sense to her.

“What?” She asked. “But I am the baroness! Firmin is my steward, as he was my father’s steward before! He cannot order me?!”

“He can.” Agylwart replied without looking. “You have not sworn your vows yet before the king. The steward rules the Bordermark until such time as you do. Only, if it so came that you died before that time…”

“You cannot mean that, Sir!” Haldan objected at once, halting his horse and thereby the entire column. “That would be treason! What evidence do you have for this accusation?!”

Agylwart stopped his horse and turned, looking at the younger knight through three hundred miles of darkness: “A letter, detailing me to stay inside my castle should the lady pass by on her heroic quest. He is too smart to put the theft to parchment, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what he is wanting.”

Linbirg’s thoughts were spinning. She was not a baroness after all, just some child with a name. The man her father had entrusted with the peskier parts of ruling a barony was trying to steal her inheritance from her, for which he delivered her to monsters who reputedly crushed men and women to pulp.

Twenty five spears he had originally given her for her escort, all levies taken from among landless serfs. They did not even wear armour.

Tears welled up in her eyes when she realized how stupid she was.

“We have to go back!” She sniffed. “We have to set this to rights, going here will only get us killed!”

Sir Haldan of Ashspring put a gloved hand onto her back in consolidation while Agylwart spilled more hard truths.

“You cannot defy him.” He said. “He would lock you in a tower whilst the barony is his. King Finnian is gone. That new giant queen, or whatever the bloody Netherhells we have now, is like as not unaware that you even exist. Who will go to her and plead for you, my lady? No one. Your only chance is to overcome these beasts and live to tell of it.”

He had the column march on and took the reigns from her, forcing her onward.

“But, Sir, why are you here with me if you were ordered to stay behind in your castle?” She asked timidly.

Agylwart starred grimly ahead: “Because I loved your father.”

Linbirg felt a little warmer inside at that, even though the weather was cold. They had had no snows yet, but at this temperature it was only a matter of time. She wiped her tears away.

“If that letter is proof of Firmin ui Lôic’s treason, then turn around is what we should do!” Haldan insisted after a moment.

“No.” The other replied. “All that it is proof of is that Firmin complies with the ogres’ request for parley.”

“Is such a request even in existence?” Haldan countered. “All we have are the frightened babbles of survivors!”

The older knight chuckled: “And how would you expect them to transport such a message, eh, boy? Write you a pretty parchment?”

He cleared his throat noisily and spat against a nearby rock.

“You name me boy, Sir?! The least you could do is look at me when I speak to you!” Haldan replied angrily.

It was feeble, even though it was true. Agylwart seemed to have decided that his eyes were better kept watching the rocky nothing ahead. That was the end of their exchange. Around a few more rocks then, they encountered it, a huge woman, perched on a cliff overhanging the path they were following.

She had been waiting for them, Linbirg had no doubt, but that was only one among the many troubling aspects about her. She was clad in pelts and raw hides where her skin was not bare, which was true for one of her breasts including its nipple. She had to be ten or more steps tall had she been standing upright, and her head was crowned in a brown mane like a mountain lion.

Her huge hands clasped a young, flat-faced woman of flaxen hair, who had to be one of the hill tribes’. Linbirg felt as though she might faint.

“Isenmann!” The terrifying ogress sniffed upon the wind, but what it meant Linbirg could not have said, not even in her worst of nightmares.

“My lady, behind me!” Agylwart bellowed at once. “Men, to the front! Knights, off your horses, they are no good in these hills!”

The ogress mustered him from atop and cocked her head: “Are you the Isenmann?”

Agylwart hefted his boar spear in his hand and hoisted his shield up, roaring defiantly: “I am your death, monster!”

“You are not the Isenmann.” The ogress shook her head after another whiff. “But I can smell him.”

Her brows furrowed. Something angered her. She lifted the frightened woman in her hand and pointed with her accusingly.

“Where is the Isenmann?!” She growled. “We are the Children of Marag! This is our land! We follow only the Isenmann of Loivenshtine!”

Her speech was queer and evil-sounding and Linbirg could not make sense of it.

“What in the bloody Netherhells are you waxing about, you filthy creature?!” Agylwart pointed at her with his spear. “Come down here where I can kill you!”

The ogress stood, scowling down at them all with boiling rage in her eyes. Linbirg had to hold on to her saddle to keep from falling off at once.

The levy men around her were scared onto death as well and reversed their efforts to get to the front of the column, turning to flee instead. It was a disaster.

The ogress lifted her free hand to her mouth and whistled, and suddenly there were more of the frightening beasts emerging over the hilltops all around, all wearing the same pelts and raw hides, carrying human beings with varying degrees of bruising.

It was a nightmare, and they were trapped in the middle of it, surrounded. There had to be a dozen ogresses Linbirg could see, then two dozen and finally three at least. The levies saw that their path of retreat was barred and shrank back, forming a frightened circle that Linbirg found herself in the middle of, enthroned over everyone because she was the only one left in the saddle.

Her heart was beating so fast and hard that she could feel it at the back of her throat.

“The Isenmann of Loivenshtine!” The ogress screamed again but did not make any more sense than she had in the beginning.

“Isenmann. Isenmann. Isenmann.” The ogresses around repeated like a terrifying echo.

Even Agylwart seemed at a loss at this point, helplessly clutching his spear and turning from one gargantuan foe to the other. Linbirg and her petty force of levies would be ground to pulp in between these living hills, she had no doubt. Quietly, she closed her eyes and sent a prayer to Boron, beseeching him to guide her soul to him and give her rest in eternity.

“Isenmann.” A voice by her knee repeated in ponderance.

She opened her eyes. The peasant had mouse-grey hair and a thoughtful expression on his young, not un-comely face. He didn’t look as weathered as the others either, but that was perhaps because the unfortunate hair made him look older than he probably was.

“Iron…man!” He proclaimed after a moment with eyes wide open.

“What?!” Agylwart spun and marched for him. “What did you say?!”

There was deafening silence in between the hills, eerie, robbing Linbirg’s breath. The old knight had apparently decided that he would rather round on the soldier who had dared to speak, instead of facing the foes he and his men stood no chance against.

“Iron man!” The peasant said again, laughing with relief and seemingly oblivious to the righting that might await him at the hand of his commander.

“Speak sense, boy!” Agylwart grasped him by his rough-spun collar and gave him a shake. “What in the Netherhells are you on about?!”

“Isenmann.” The ogresses chanted in unison. “Isenmann. Isenmann.”

“Milord!” The grey-haired youngling beamed. “It’s the old tongue, uh, not unlike the hill tribes’ gibberish! Isen means iron, I know!”

“Do you speak Bospharan with me now, boy?!” The veins in Argylwart’s throat were bulging.

The peasant shook his head: “Milord, no! Older, much older, milord!”

“And what does Loivenshtine mean?!”

The peasant bit his lip: “Lion…stone. Yes!”

“The iron man of Lionstone?!” Agylwart looked at the man as though he meant to throttle him with his hands.

Then, slowly, a glimmer of understanding emerged on his face. Linbirg could not make any sense of it.

“What do they want?” She whispered anxiously to the trusty old knight who had so heroically forsworn his life for her, even though it would all be in vain.

He looked at her, perplexed: “Why, you, my lady.”

‘We are Marga’s Children. This is our land. We follow only the iron man of Lionstone.’

Linbirg breathed and dismounted her horse with hands shaking. Lionstone was her ancestral castle, the one of her father before her and his father before that, generations beyond count. Maragshag and Maragsmoor were the names of the two closest villages to this place. Suddenly, it all made sense, somehow.

The soldiers parted for her in silence. Everyone stared at her as though she were a god.

She stepped forward to the ogress towering over them, screaming with all her might: “I am the iron man of Lionstone!”

The ogress eyed her and crouched again leaning closer. Linbirg could almost see the air her nose took in.

She sniffled like a hunting hound before her eyes went wide: “Isenmann! Isenmann!”

“Isenmann!” The other ogresses echoed her, shuffling excitedly on their giant feet. “Isenmann! Isenmann! Isenmann!”

The whole of Linbirg’s body was shaking when she took a look around. They all looked back at her. Then, one after the other, their giant knees bent and they went down, lowering their heads before her.

“We follow only the Iron Man of Lionstone.” The first ogress rasped with a smile. “We are yours.”