Garvin Blaithin stood atop the tower of Udlaidrim and reflected on his life. Though a bard, good looking, reasonably gifted and only twenty three years old, he was bound to the tower by birth and marriage.

His mother, Rowena Blaithin, was the steward at Udlaidrim, though behind that fancy title stood really the duties of a cook, washerwoman and dry nurse for the children. When she birthed Garvin she had been twenty and Lady Elia Talvinyr, sixteen at the time, had been childless. Who Garvin's father was, his mother could not say with certainty, though she never had any other children after him.

They had been the three adults at Udlaidrim, now reduced to two. Garvin's mother had joined the stream of fleeing peasants to Honingen into the doubtful custody of old Countess Franka Salva Galahan, who was renowned as much for her wit as for her cold temperament. For his mother's sake, as well as that of Elvar and Eara, his two beautiful children, he sincerely hoped that they would find shelter there. He only wished that his lady wife might have allowed him to join them, might have come with them herself.

But Lady Elia Talvinyr of Udlaidrim was nothing if not stubborn. She was with Garvin, atop the tower keep, sharpening and oiling her sword for the fifth time today.

'Oh marry the maid of the tower, and join her on stations so high. For a roof and a hearth, for a regular bath, and a place at her heart and her thigh.'

His fingers scraped across the wood of the crossbow in his hands as he sang softly in his mind.

His harp was leaning nearby on a crenel, but if he picked it up, his wife would scold him and tell him to oil his crossbow for a fifth time too. It wasn't even a winch crossbow that required oiling to function properly, but a regular, simple one that was cocked with a metal crowfoot before it could be loaded with a quarrel.

Since the crossbow was ill-reputed as an un-Rondrian weapon, his wife looked down upon it. She had tried to teach him the way of the sword, but Garvin could never learn. His talent was with the harp and with his voice. The crossbow was the only thing he had when his wife was not at home and he had to defend the place against scoundrels.

Elia Talvinyr was very knightly, even though she was female. But even at that she was not hard to look upon. Her features were comely, her hair stunning, brown locks and her smile wonderfully wicked when she wanted to. The only drawback was her left ear, on account of it being missing. Instead, there was a red scar that she sometimes remembered to hide from the world and at other times all but forgot about.

She was thirty six and ruled her tower, her fief and her young husband equally without room for compromise or objections. She gave protection, order and stability but demanded a doggish loyalty in turn. That had been wonderfully wicked too, in the beginning, but Garvin had found it stressful and restraining to live under in the long term.

'Be glad she took you!' His mother would tell him all the time. 'Your children will inherit a castle, and you sit here and pout because you cannot lead a beggar's life!'

His lady wife's small folk seemed to have felt the same as him, though, losing no time to grab what little they had and running off at the first word of giant monsters at Winhall. He prayed they would not come this way, the monsters. And maybe if they did, Iaun Cyll would still hold them back. The word was that there were still knights, real knights, men, holding out at the Castle of Weyringen further downriver.

It was the second day and past noon now. Surely that meant the monsters would not come. They were said to be a hundred meters tall. Had they been coming here, surely he would be seeing them by now, would have seen them yesterday.

“May...” As always he had to muster his courage before uttering a suggestion with his wife. “May we go inside? I think they are not coming.”

The whetstone scraped noisily over the steel as his wife scowled at him: “No! Oil your crossbow again! We may well have need of your coward's weapon today!”

'Now my wife wears skirts made of chain mail, and keeps in her strong fists a sword. For a hearth and a bath, I gave her the word, now a prisoner here at her court.'

It wasn't as though he didn't love her. They had two children together after all. It was only that she was so demanding, so stubborn and so much older than him. She never gave him the feeling of being a husband, or that she even cared what he thought, how he felt. She liked his songs well enough, sometimes, but when he tried to reach her through them she turned dark and closed up the gates to her ears as well as her heart. She was also no stranger to chastising him violently when she thought he was behaving in a way that she did not approve of.

He wasted no time getting the oily rag in his hand again and polishing his weapon until it gleamed.

“Do you think our sweet Elvar and Eara have reached Honingen by now?” He asked timidly after another while.

The silence atop the tower had become unbearable. Also, he did worry about his children. They were so little and had only his mother to protect them.

His wife gave him a look that suggested she was contemplating whether to give him a clout in the ear or just another scolding.

“You think I should have gone with them.” She flared. “Ha, very well, and who would protect my family's last holdfast from the monsters then, huh?! You?! Pah!”

Udlaidrim, a singular round tower atop a lonely hill surrounded by old wooden stakes that had been put here during the Red Curse, was truly the House of Talvinyr's last possession. To it belonged lands encompassing the village of Eriansfield, three kilometers down the road. It was worth keeping, certainly, but certainly not at the cost of one's own life. The other few Talvinyrs did not reside at Udlaidrim either, having long since resolved to lead untitled lives in service of others, more befitting to their family's meagre means.

At Garvin's begging, his wife had grudgingly consented to hiring two sellswords for a time. They could barely afford them but the world was full of outlaws and bandits who thought an ill-defended tower keep ought to bear some riches they could carry off. The sellswords had both left after a fortnight, however, refusing to be subjected to Elia's moods. When she wanted, she could make any man's life miserable, even for not holding on to one's arms and shield and standing still at all times while on guard.

“And if we die? Would we make orphans of our children?” Garvin dared ask after mustering as much courage as he had.

His wife leapt to her feet and dealt him a stinging slap that broke his lower lip.

“If I die, I do so undefeated!” She roared, staring spitefully at him before sitting back down when he whimpered.

Those were her words, of sorts. Garvin was too young to know if she really was undefeated, indeed. The nameless man who had cut her ear off during the battles of the Red Curse had died for it, that much he knew.

Elia's father had died twenty three years ago, while she was hedging, already thinking herself a knight. The following year, Muriadh Albenblood of Niamor-Jasalin had instated her in her father's seat. Female knights and warriors were a fancy frowned upon by most, which was why she could not find a husband of noble station. That was why she ultimately had to settle on Garvin for a husband. Maybe none other than the mad, cadaverous Muriadh Albenbood would have given an unmarried maiden her father's estates, treating her as though she was as much a knight as she fancied herself to be. Garvin was not sure about it.

During the time of the Red Curse he had been a squalling babe and a little child, too young to remember. He did not even know what his mother had been doing during that time.

Meanwhile, at Udlaidrim, grim fighting had taken place preceded by other, more sinister things. The flora had turned a bloody red in those days and the fauna beastly, even does and fawns baring their teeth and attacking travellers on the road like packs of wolves.

It turned out that connected to this Red Curse was none other than Muriadh Albenblood of Niamor-Jasalin, whose mother had lost greatly in a recent rebellion. After her unexpected but natural death, he took over her lands and began to bleed his small folk dry, transferring every clipped copper he could press from them into the secret raising of an army. There were all sorts of power games and confusion going on as there always were. Queen Invher ni Bennain at some point started another rebellion during this time too.

Muriadh's wife, ultimately appalled with his doings, betrayed him, and revealed that he had succumbed to a dark fairy who was the source of the spreading corruption of the land.

Garvin wasn't versed in the intricacies of the battles that followed, or where exactly they took place. He suspected there might have been fighting and bloodshed all over the place. Muriadh and his men were finally caught up at Feyrenwall Castle, the next castle south of Udlaidrim, and would have been defeated there had not Nordmarken marched its troops into Albernia.

That was where Muriadh's story turned patently absurd, so much so that there was not even a single good song about it.

The Nordmarkeners took Muriadh captive and he was not successful in his attempts to ingratiate himself with them. But, being Nordmarkeners, they were fretful of this talk of fairies, the red forests and such. The Fenwasians, Muraidh's former bannerlords but staunch Farindel fanatics, would have executed him for his shenanigans with the dark fairy.

That brought into play the Praois Church's holy inquisition. Muriadh was put on trial and condemned for heresy. In the same breath did the Church show unprecedented leniency, however, and declared that to atone for his crimes he now had to drive the ungodly worship of fairies from the Albernian lands. Such worship, needless to say, had long been a thorn in the churches' pious flesh.

The following war between Muraidh and the Fenwasians was inevitable and ended three long years later when Bragon Fenwasian took Feyrenwall Castle by force. Muriadh was captured and they ended his life on a chopping block, outside the gates of Iaun Cyll soon after. That was eight years ago, now.

Through all this, and more, Elia Talvinyr had lived, fought and survived. Maybe that was why she was so stubborn, or else she had been able to get through all of it because she was so stubborn. Either way, there was little Garvin could ever do to change her mind.

Invher ni Bennain's rebellion against the Garethian throne had failed as well, even though Havena unaccountably became the Horasian's from one day to the next. The rebellion of the Sword King against the Albernian throne had failed shortly thereafter.

'Or was it the other way around.' Garvin thought painfully.

In Albernia, it was easy to lose track of betrayals, wars and rebellions. Jast Irian Crumold had rebelled against King Finnian not too long ago, and the house had lost Bredenhag to the Stepahans as a result. Garvin tried to recall if there had been a more recent event. If there wasn't, it was about time for someone to betray someone again. Perhaps Havena counted, given that it had been supposedly a Phexian feat to steal it out from Horas' clutches, rather than a Rondrian one.

While mentally absent, he dabbed at his bleeding lip with the oil cloth. The sharp, stinging pain made him wince. His wife was sharpening her sword for the sixth time but looked up at his sudden movement.

“Watch!” She commanded brusquely, more bark than speech. “What are you staring at your crossbow for?!”

If she thought he meant to loose it at her then she was wrong. He loved her. They had two children together after all. Besides, if he loaded it unaccountably she would know something was off and that would anger her. And if he somehow got to loose a quarrel at her, and even if it went through her mail, which he doubted, then it would still not be enough to stop her and she would gut him with her sword in an instant.

Solemnly, he looked up, seeking the far and beyond horizon. A wad of Farindel's mists had been creeping over the road perhaps two kilometres up the road, the last time he had been looking. Maybe it would bar his view now, for a time.

But when he looked, he did not see the wad of mist. He did not see the horizon either, not truly. Instead, he saw her and his bladder let go in an instant. He felt like falling, and then he saw only sky.

“What are you...” His wife started before her eyes went wide.

Garvin wanted to stand but what he had seen robbed him of feeling and command over his very own arms and legs. She was naked, a young girl perhaps. Her skin was burnt brown like that of peasant women in summer, when they laboured often in the sun. Her hair was a dark brown, her eyes large and open. And yet, she was no she at all, but rather an it, for she was huge. How huge he could not have said while he watched her trample on toward him, crushing the very road under feet.

'So quick.' He thought numbly. 'How can something so huge move so quick.'

Living as a travelling bard for a time before his marriage, he had often had to run from outlaws or large animals such as bears. But the larger an attacker was, the slower he was too, or so had been his general rule of thumb until now. Bears could sprint quite fast but otherwise moved like lumbering oxen.

'Horses are quick and large.' He remembered. 'Ha, you fool! Horses!'

“Why are you laughing?! Get up! Get your crossbow!” His wife screamed at him.

She did not sound very afraid. Alarmed, yes, but not afraid. She was brave. Garvin did not feel very afraid either, just overwhelmed and cynical. But when his wits came back to him, his stomach turned and he had to pull himself over to retch.

“Aren't you an odd couple.” The voice of a female goddess observed from the sky.

The lonely hill of Udlaidrim stood perhaps thirty steps tall at the most. The tower added another fifteen. If his wife had thought that it might give them protection against the monster that was towering over them, then she had been mistaken.

The voice was young, female and mocking. Worst of all, it was happy.

His wife gave a rasping shout: “I die undefeated!”

She had sword and shield in her hands, he could see, and looked much as ready to die as to fight.

'But what use is a sword, and even more a shield, when her opponent can squish her like a bug?' Garvin wondered.

It wouldn't do, he knew. He had to look. The monster was grinning down at them with a hint of displeasure on her smooth-featured face.

“You're a woman.” She observed, frowning. “Are you a Rondra priestess, per chance? You remind me of the Mad Lioness.”

Clearly, she did not like the Mad Lioness, and if truth be told, that did not surprise Garvin even a little. The fierce Rondra priestess from Nostria was renowned far and wide as a nuisance to anyone who had power, and this monster was clearly nothing if not powerful. In fancy, she was one and akin with his wife, and their number did not stop at two.

'Two,' he suddenly racelled, 'two!'

Fretting, Garvin leapt up and looked around, but he could not see the other monster they had heard of. There were two of them, supposedly, with enormous physical and magical powers, able to grow wings and breathe fire when they wanted. Some even said the monsters had lain waste to the vast lands inhabited by the Thorwalsh, the raiding, drinking and pirating people of the north west.

The talk of ogres had been bad enough for Garvin. A male one had supposedly robbed sheep from a village downstream, not a fortnight past, before vanishing in the Farindel. Way down south, in the foothills of the Windhag Canyons, a whole clan of huge, monstrous ogresses was said to have settled recently as well. A bard always took care not to miss any gossip. Next to his songs, the tales of news were his currency while he travelled from place to place, depending on the good graces of his hosts.

But for the tales of these huge ones and their deeds in Nostria, Andergast and Thorwal Garvin had prayed to be untrue. He could see now, that his prayers had not been answered.

“Garvin, get behind me! Load you crossbow!” Elia snarled through teeth clenched shut.

The monster raised an eyebrow at him: “Are you sure you want to do this, little guy?”

Garvin knew he did not want to antagonize this mean-eating enormity and stayed well away from his weapon. That created a conflict with his wife, but even if Elia beat him him bloody, it was preferable over being eaten alive.

“So, here we are.” The giantess grinned happily. “This is the castle of Udlaidrim, is it not? You are Elia Talvinyr? Then you must be her husband. They warned me you two were a bit queer. But to be honest I didn't expect a woman in chain mail and a man in leggings, at that.”

She must have recognized the sigil on his wife's shield, Garvin thought, a white tree encompassed by a white moon on a dark blue field. As for his wife's garb, she spoke true. It was most uncommon. He did not know what the monsters found objectionable about his garb, however. He wore tights of dark green, a white linen shirt, a brown doe skin jerkin and a black, fluffy hat, as was befitting for a man of his profession.

“This is the place where you will die!” Elia screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her knees jerked as though she meant to jump off the tower and at the gargantuan monstrosity, but then she must have thought better of it on account of it being suicide.

The beast looked sceptical: “I don't think so. In fact, it might be the place where you will die, if you don't lose that attitude. I'm not gonna lie to you. I left my castle to find some people to smush but I'm in a happy mood and it just so happens that I am in need of allies too. You look like a fighter. How about I crush that little boy toy of yours and take you with me. That way, the both of us get something out of it.”

It was a real suggestion, Garvin realized to his complete and utter horror. She could do it, he had no doubt. She could crush him like a bug. Not even the Horasians had managed to gain as much as a foothold in Thorwal, but this beast, and the other if after all there was one, had just walked all over it, crushing whatever resistance underfoot.

“Over my dead body!” Elia screamed. “I die undefeated!”

She was stubborn and brave, but apparently a little too overwhelmed to make any sensible decisions at this time. That could make matters worse. Elia was one who fought with sword in hand rather than words in her mouth. Had someone asked him to wager, Garvin would have believed that a monster such as the one confronting them would fight mostly with her feet, but apparently she enjoyed a good banter before murdering innocent little bards such as him.

The trade she proposed was also lop-sided, he took note. His wife would only get to stay alive whereas the monster would get a fighting ally and someone she could play her cruel, murderous games with. But with powers came advantages. That was the way of the world. And all too often it was the tranquil soul caught in between the fronts who suffered most.

The monster gave a little belch, probably because she had eaten people.

He felt like he should say something: “A-a-I can fight too!”

He had meant for it to sound valiant, but it came out as a feeble squeak, sounding like something between a little boy and maybe a squirrel.

The giantess laughed heartily: “You? You look like a little girl! I eat soft little things like you for breakfast. Well, I can eat anyone for breakfast, of course. But, you know, soft and weak is my favourite.”

She licked her lips lustily and regarded him as though he was a just a little sweetmeat she meant to place onto her tongue. That stole all the strength from Garvin's knees and he fell down. He wondered how many people had already had to look at her, like this, locking eyes with her before being devoured alive. Likely, quite many.

“Come closer!” Elia was losing her mind, now one foot on the battlements. “I want to hit you with my sword!”

The giant girl frowned again, somehow getting quite aggrieved by the combative demeanour Garvin's wife presented. She extended a giant finger. Elia slashed and the giantess withdrew the monstrous digit lightning quick.

“You know I can just give your tower a shove and then you're both death, right?” She asked, giving the structure a probing nudge below.

Garvin almost felt like he could feel the tower bend. But that was surely an illusion. Udlaidrim was build of stone and stone did not bend, just as much as Elia Talvinyr would apparently not bend, whatever the odds. Absurdly, he started to feel quite grateful toward his lady wife. If not for her, this female monstrosity might have made a morsel of him by now.

She probably would anyway, simply because there was no way outside of divine or perhaps magical or even demonic intervention that could conceivably stop her. All Garvin was glad for was that he had sent his children away. By now, though, he hoped they would not stop at Honingen but go and go and go, way beyond the desert of Khôm and maybe even as far south as Al'Anfa.

The giantess' finger came again and was withdrawn just as quickly. Her face, that might have been called comely, even pretty, had it not been so enormously large, screwed up in annoyance. She knew swords and the damage they could do. And she did not enjoy being challenged.

She gave an angry snort and suddenly Elia was on her back, the huge finger on top of her chest. Then it slid over, pinning her sword arm.

“Let go of it, or I squish your arm to jelly!” The monster growled.

Garvin pissed himself again, but for the moment no one paid him any mind.

As expected, Elia did not yield. It seemed like she meant to make her battle cry a reality and really die undefeated, albeit with only one arm left intact. She shrieked when the giant female monster pushed down. The sword came loose.

While Elia was beating her shield against the ground in an effort to get it off so as to have a free hand for her dagger, the giant finger slid off her and pushed the sword towards the crenel wall. There it seemed the monstrous behemoth could not grasp it, however, and she ended up breaking two merlons and a piece of tower wall to get the blade permanently out of Elia's reach at last.

“Gah!”

Within a heartbeat, Elia was on her feet again, now her dagger in hand. It looked like her arm was still whole, which was as far as good tidings could go at this point. When the giantess saw the dagger, her face turned utterly dark and murderous.

“Put that down!” She grimaced. “I swear I'll pull you limb from limb or I'll...”

She broke off when eyes fell on Garvin, still cowering on the floor. She must have realized that Elia did not care about dying or suffering injuries. The grim logic was so plainly written on her face that Garvin could only shout.

“No!”

'She does not care about me either! Please!'

Whether or not his wife cared about him was a matter he was actually still in dispute with himself over. She seemed to love him, at times, and then at others she seemed to think of him as something between an embarrassment and an affliction.

The other giant had came this time, and directly for him. The thought of jumping off the tower crossed his mind but that would kill him just as certainly as the giant hand would, to be sure. He squirmed, leapt, fell and crawled. He felt the surface of her skin brush over his back for an instant before a force yanked at his sleeve. He tore loose and cowered next to a merlon, hoping against hope that just like the sword she could not grasp him there.

“Off him!” Elia screamed and was there a moment after, plunging her dagger into the giantess' flesh.

“Ow!”

'Such a girlish shriek from something so terrifying.' Garvin thought. 'How absurd!'

She suckled at her finger looking for damage done, before spitting out the dagger over her lower lip as though it was some piece of fish bone.

Garvin's heart sank even deeper. Elia stood, legs spread wide and arms crossed over her chest, unarmed. She gave one look at the crossbow and seemed to dismiss it as she always did.

'So proud.' He thought. 'So stubborn.'

On the giantess' face was a look of bewilderment before she said: “You did not even hurt me.”

That might have been a lie, or not. It made little difference. Her eyes spoke the truth.

'You are mine now' they seemed to say, shining evilly.

Garvin looked at the crossbow and then at the giantess. It was too late. Her hand was coming.

Among singers, as he guessed was the case with most professions, there was a special kind of tale, gossip and lore. Like traders and goods peddlers would converse about prices of different things in the distant or near places they had been, or carpenters would argue over the unequal properties of various kinds of wood, so would singers talk about this lord, or that castle or that winesink and the patrons there.

Since travelling a lot by necessity, road safety was also a common topic of conversation, peppered with acquired wisdoms, some seemingly ages old. And so legend had it, that if confronted with an ogre or an ogress, there were several ways for a clever singer to survive the encounter unscathed. One was gold, or anything bright and shiny. That one usually worked for outlaws and cutthroats as well, except they would kill the singer anyway. The second were little, crafty things, such as wood carvings, which apparently the ogres loved. The third and most obvious was a soothing song. If well performed, so Garvin had heard, an ogress especially would thank the singer, rub him three times against the side of her head and send him on his way.

The wisdom of that tale seemed absurd now, but from where Garvin cowered he determined that his wood harp might give him a greater chance of survival than his crossbow ever could. And if he died, after all, then why not singing.

'What to sing though,' he thought hollowly, his head spinning while fingers thick as tree trunks curled around his stubborn wife to take her away.

He gave the harp a quick stroke, picking the tune of his voice after the instrument and the words just as they flew into his head. He closed his eyes too, hoping to forget the horror.

“I never dreamed, of a castle tall! Never wanted a knightly hall! I want to sing, till in the grave I fall. Udlaidrim! Udlaidrim!”

His voice was off by a long shot but his fingers somehow found the perfect strings to pick. Together they made for a musical lamentation that had something of the howling of wolves at night. The melody soon became that of a bawdy old love song most often played toward the end of feasts when everyone still present was in each others arms, swaying drunkenly and murmuring the decidedly simple verses.

“My lady wife, is a valiant knight! Please forgive her, for she's not bright! I'll miss her dear, for she held me tight! Udlaidrim! Udlaidrim!”

Elia was screaming, he realized. When he opened his eyes he saw her, in the giantess' jaws, just about to be cut in half at the midriff by giant, pearly white teeth. But the teeth, that were about to end the mother of Garvin's children between them, smiled. And two giant brown eyes flaked with gold were looking at him, amused.

“Uh, uh, I guess I'll make, for a better meal!” He forced himself to sing on quickly when he realized the deadly silence all around him. “For, uh, my clothes are not made of steel! Just gulp me down, like a slippery, uh, eel. Udlaidrim! Udlaidrim!”

Out of verses he just repeated the dumb refrain that was made up of twice the same word which would never bloody well rhyme with anything. He was content with the contents of his last verse, however. If it meant that his children would not lose their noble mother, then the monster could bloody well eat him.

She laughed then. That was the last thing he expected, and the last thing he remembered too. When he woke up he found himself in her hand, swaying softly with each of her monumental steps.

“Oh, you woke up!” The giantess stopped and smiled down on him after she felt him squirming.

Garvin was wet all over but his lips tasted like Tommel water which must have meant that she had dunked him into the river in hopes of waking him. He was glad that it was neither sweat, nor piss, nor her spittle in which he was doused, although if she intended to eat him then he would have preferred her doing so while he was not awake.

'If the gods are good they'll take me away again before she does,' he prayed.

His hat was gone from his head but, queerly, he found it wet and drenched in his lap, next to his wood harp. He grasped the instruments and gave the strings a strum. It seemed to have saved his life last time. Why not again?

“Don't have time for another song right now, I think.” The gargantuan face frowned. “Your wife won't stop fighting.”

She lifted her other hand to his view, balled to a fist. In there, presumably, was Elia, still unrelenting. Garvin's heart was racing. He was terrified. It took him a moment that it was him she was speaking to. He gave the strings another strum.

“Is there anything I can say to make her stop fighting?” The giantess asked. “Threatening to kill her or you does not seem to do me any good.”

She grinned sheepishly and continued.

“It's a little embarrassing but killing you little shits is pretty much the only trick I can think of right now.”

“Please don't!” Garvin sang with another strum, thinking desperately of how to turn that feeble sentence into another song.

Singing gave him courage somehow. Not in the sense of some potion, he had to admit to himself, but in the sense that he didn't sound so bloody afraid when he sang.

The giantess gave a giggle that turned into a sigh: “Ah, I should have come with clothes on. It would all be much easier. I didn't think I'd venture very far from my castle, you see. All I have to store your wife is practically my bunghole.”

Her thumb came around to pin him against the palm of her hand, and Garvin found himself clinging to his hat and harp while he was raced around the vast expanse of her naked body and toward her rear. Two cheeks of buttocks loomed over him and he averted his gaze. What lay between them could only be even more terrifying.

If truth be told, the giantess looked his age, twenty odd. Had she not been so colossal, she would have had much more in common with the kind of girl Garvin had wanted to marry. He had heard the tale of two wenches bathing into an alchemist's brew, then growing and now come back to unravel their wanton evil upon the world. If that tale was true the world was unlucky such a young creature had grown. Young girls were often wicked. He did not see any scales on her, or wings or fiery breath. Perhaps she was a wench after all. Perhaps she could be reasoned with.

“Do you want to go in there and see if your wife might like it?” Her mocking voice asked from above.

He strummed and sang again: “Please, no!”

'If Phex is looking on he must be laughing his godly arse off,' he thought bitterly.

Her thick brown hair was braided, he saw when he looked up, and from the front as well when she brought him back around. The hair between her legs was shaved off, as was it in her armpits.

'Rahya save us,' he thought, 'she's a whore.'

What a mocking, demonic disaster for the good world. Of all the folk to whom this might have happened, a whore was the one to grow. But if he was true to himself, the world wasn't all that good and godly anyhow, especially not here where so many worshipped Farindel and other fairies instead, or even side by side with the Twelve. Perhaps a wanton whore grown gigantic was just what the world deserved.

She sighed: “If you don't want me to shove your stupid wife up my ass then you better talk to her. I need a free hand. You are her husband, are you not? At my castle they said Elia Talvinyr had a bard for a husband.”

“A-a-a-I...” He stammered.

It was too much. Too much at once. Too many questions. Too much fear and too much giant whore turned nightmare on legs.

She gave him a sharp look: “Sing it if you can't talk! I was watching my master at arms train my troops earlier and, boy, he stammers god awfully enough for both of you!”

“I...” He gave another strum. “I'm the last whom she might lend her ear, my lady wife, uh, is wild and queer!”

That produced another smile.

“Better.” She declared mightily and lightly all at once. “But that doesn't solve my problem. I want to go to Feyrenwall Castle and crush everyone there. It will be terribly awkward with you two in my fist. If we can't calm her then I'll put you down right here.”

The frown she added foretold that 'putting down' did not mean transferring them to the ground and letting them go. Garvin did not know what to do. He could not control his wife. This giant whore should have seen that at once.

“Does she like King Finnian?” The walking enormity asked strangely.

Garvin had to think. Politics did not interest his wife far as he could tell and being a lady in violation of everything the proud higher nobility held dear she was not often invited for feasts, tourneys or other noble affairs.

“I do not know!” He warbled with a strum of the strings, finding no rhyme in time to continue.

“Meh.” The giantess gave another sigh. “I'm starting to think she's more bother than she's worth. If I open my hand now she's like to jump straight out from it and fall to her stupid, stubborn death.”

Garvin continued warbling: “That sounds like the woman I wed!”

And yet again, another fit of giggling seized the giant face. She seemed to enjoy it when he made up off-hand verses, no matter how bad they turned out. That gave him a little hope at least.

“Aw, little man, I'm lucky I kept you alive.” She smiled evilly. “You can be my fool. Every castle should have a fool, I think. Do you know what I mean? One who dresses in patches and has bells on his hat and so on.”

“A jester, aye!” He warbled along with his harp.

Most of what she said seemed to make no sense whatsoever, the castle and all that. While being a travelling bard, Garvin had known tavern wenches just like that, blabbering nonsensical things all day long. Most of their patrons did not mind. These women worked with their bodies and when they used their mouths during the crucial acts then it was most commonly not for speaking.

The judgement she had cast over him meant that from now on he had best be funny. That prospect shuddered him.

“Couldn't I sing songs of your giant deeds instead?” He sang, hopefully.

She snorted and brought him to her mouth at which his world went dark once more.

-

When she kissed him, the tiny man went limp all over again. Laura rolled her eyes but was not unamused. Once again she held him upside down so he wouldn't drown in his vomit, except this time she made sure to save his hat and harp first.

She was well content, even though her capture of Udlaidrim had turned out much weirder than she had anticipated. People at Iaun Cyll, now Laura Castle as per her decree, had warned her of the odd couple, the woman knight and her singer husband. She had resolved that, if she found them, she could amuse herself with them anyway.

Yesterday, after taking Iaun Cyll, she had had her hair braided, her pubic hairs trimmed, her nails cut and then decided that she rather liked the place. So, she had made it her own, and since then things had turned out quite well. Reo Conchobair's man had been true to his word and arrived that evening again with almost all the remaining strength from Conchobair Castle.

That gave Reo and Branwyn more weight and protection while inside the walls with the two hundred odd peasants. But the peasants had somewhat arranged themselves with the situation as well, even if it was only so that Laura would not crush them. She had watched in awe as Hilmer and Reo attacked a formation of spearmen they trained. The rule was that one spearman could only parry blows to another, not to himself. The result were a many hefty bruises but also more successes than Laura might have dared hope.

She had slept yesterday evening too, inside the castle walls, and no one had bothered her. She counted that another victory for herself. She had also commanded the rubble from the buildings she had crushed removed from the yard. There were still more than ample houses and barracks to house everyone, stables to put the horses, and most importantly plenty of food. The food was so plentiful because the year's harvest had just been brought into the castle, or at least Count Bragon Fenwasian's share of it, which had to be the lion's share for sure.

That was all very good.

The next command Laura had given was that the fire in the bathhouse's cellars was to be lit and everyone, from king and queen to be all the way down to the greenest peasant boy was to take a bath. Bathing pets was a most adorable activity, Laura found. She even got to watch some of the bathing through the enormously high windows of the bath house. Excluded, of course, were those from Conchobair Castle who had been Winhaller men before and pissed on themselves so Laura wouldn't eat them.

She had not killed anyone during all that time, which was why she was where she was now. She just wanted someone she could play with. To learn about Udlaidrim, Feyrenwall and all that, she had talked to Ian Fenwasian who had replied placidly to her questions. He knew what she had done to the former master of his lance, the tall and slender Mathariel Swordsong.

But it turned out that Elia Talvinyr and her husband were just too weird to kill. That was mostly on the husband's count. Laura would have gladly broken Elia's body and soul but she feared that that would alienate the singer. That his songs would amuse her so, she could not have foreseen. If truth be told, she never planned on hearing him sing in the first place.

Now that he was unconscious again she wondered whether or not she should just kill his wife, who was still struggling inside her fist. The parallels to the Mad Lioness were unmistakable and Laura was determined not to make the same mistake twice.

“Listen, Elia,” she told her fist, “I'll open my hand now.”

And so she did, being greeted with yet another angry battle cry. Laura shook her head in disgust. Her stomach was in knots over the woman. It wasn't like the singer was important or that she couldn't have made him bloody well do anything she wanted. But she was entirely enchanted with the romantic idea of having the little guy hop around her castle and sing his jokes which she genuinely liked. There weren't many people around at Laura Castle right now who could make her laugh. Not in a comedic way anyhow.

She just feared that, since the woman was the singer's wife, if she'd break her, she'd break him too, somehow. He sure looked like he'd break easily, which presented a difficulty.

It was all because Laura was naked. Had she had her pants, she might have shoved Elia Talvinyr in a pocket and gone on without trouble. She might have even put her in a back pocket, forgotten about her and declared the whole thing an accident after inadvertently sitting down. But today was a warm day, the sun was shining, and Laura felt so happy with her new castle that she had not wanted to squander any of it. Soon there'd be no warm days any more, she feared, when winter came as it had to. Maybe this was her last chance to go naked for a time.

“What did you do to him!?” The woman shrieked when she saw her husband dangling lifelessly from Laura's other hand.

“I kissed him.” Laura shrugged. “It's not my fault he's such a coward. Ey, I'm open-minded and all that, but maybe you shouldn't take all the manly roles from him? You make it look like you fuck him. No wonder he's such a girl.”

“Keep your filthy mouth away from my husband!” Elia's voice was breaking with hatred.

Laura raised a brow: “Or what?”

She gave the tiny guy another kiss on his body, finding that his clothes were still clammy from the water she had dipped him in to wake him up last time, although that had helped preciously little.

The woman in chainmail was going sheer mad: “Stop it! You do not do that again!”

Laura sensed a weakness, finally. She stopped her walk and crouched so that her legs were spread. Then she got both her captives into position, Elia from where she could watch and the husband in front of her clean-shaven sex.

“No! Don't you dare! I will kill you, I swear it!”

“Stop screeching or I'll put him in.” She threatened. “Maybe that will make him feel like a man, eh? Might drown him, though, not that it would bother you any.”

“Stop it!”

One thing Laura was in a hate-love relationship with was when her creative threats became so tempting that she just had to make them real, even though she had not originally meant to. The result was always sweet for a moment but annoying afterwards because the logical progression of events to follow wound up being changed entirely and often not for the better. Now was such a time.

A moment ago, she had just meant to threaten Elia to get her to calm down. Now she wanted to use the singer for sex, just to spite her. It didn't even bother her that the tiny guy was mercifully unconscious.

She brought her tiny toy closer to her nether lips. Yesterday, she had pulped Sir Mathariel Swordsong in there, like a strawberry in a blender. It would be sad to have to do this to this little singer, just to get back at his wife.

“No! Don't you do it! Don't you!”

The more she went mad and the more her hateful shouts turned to helpless begging, the more Laura wanted to do it. There were less perilous ways, though. She brought the tiny musician up and took him to one of her nipples. It stood straight as a soldier, pink and erect.

“Ahhhh!” Elia was tearing at her hair.

Laura was surprised to see tears running down her face.

“Garvin! My Garvin! Leave him alone, he...he is all I have!”

She sank to her knees and cried, her face buried in her hands. Laura took the singer away from her nipple. She was awkwardly touched by the display of curled-up sadness on her hand.

At the same time though...

“You're a dumb cunt, you know that?!” She scolded the wife who was at least ten years older than her man. “I threaten to kill your husband and you don't bat an eye. When I threaten to fuck your little guy, though, oh! That's cause for a scene!”

From her other her hand, suddenly, came weak singing: “I am awake!”

The warbling was so absurd that Laura had to laugh all over again and forget her anger and feeling. She decided not to give Elia any respite though and pin her down while she was vulnerable.

“Lady Elia Talvinyr, I am asking you to join King Reo and Queen Branwyn of House Bennain.” She made it out as official as she could. “Or, I swear, I will fuck your husband.”

“That would kill me!” Little Garvin sang in immediate reply.

Laura laughed so hard that she fell backwards onto her arse, even though she was trying hard as she could to be angry.

“Shut up! This is serious!” She insisted, chuckling.

It wasn't really, though. It was just too absurd.

She decided to play along, rhyming: “I'll sit down right on top of thee and crush you like a pea! I'll squat right down upon your face and squash it like a mace! See?! I can sing too!”

“Not truly!” Came the warbled reply, sweet, stiff and gay as a peach.

She couldn't hold it any more and fell over sideways, laughing like a maniac.

Laura didn't think Garvin was gay, despite his clothing. It was just medieval clothes were pretty gay in general, those the middle-class types wore, anyway. As far as her singing went, he had it right. It came out more like hip-hop and not the good kind. More like those awkward 'rap battles' without music playing in the background, that always wound up sounding more like slam poetry.

Meanwhile, Elia's look was growing stubborn again. Laura decided that it was no use. She got to her feet and turned on her heel. It were all short walks to her anyhow.

“Garvin.” She told the little bard after he had put his hat back atop his ludicrously medieval hair. It reached to his jaw line and made a half circle all the way around, shining like silk.

He looked up and strummed his harp: “I am at your service!”

Amusing though it had been for a time, now she found it slightly annoying.

“You can talk normal now.” She said. “You'll sing only when I command it, or when I find it funny.”

He turned pale as a stone at that, which Laura found amusing again.

“I'm taking you to my castle.” She went on. “Your wife must go to the dungeons first, I hope you'll understand. I saw you retching earlier, so I think I will have my men prepare you a nice meal. I will then go out again and crush Feyrenwall. It's on my list of chores for today. Maybe I'll go as far as Honingen later, but I don't really know yet.”

The tiny man's hands were shaking and he gave the weakest hint of a nod that was not an insolence. He was so deathly afraid. He had only not stuttered when he was singing and now Laura had taken it away from him.

He swallowed hard before finally speaking normally: “At Feyrenwall...my wife has kin.”

There was next to no emotion in his voice, making the remark hard to place.

“A...Eris...Talvinyr, she...she is steward there...chancellor, I mean.” He went on. “There is...as well...Eradh...Talvinyr, who is a Peraine acolyte and healer.”

Laura chewed on it for a moment. Despite a moment ago, she was feeling gentle and merciful.

“I'll try not to squish them. But only on the condition that you can sing me that song again. The first one you sang, about Udlaidrim.”

He struggled and paled some more, started sweating and fretting but in the end he could.

“I never asked, for a castle tall...”

It was really quite an earworm.

Back at Laura Castle everything seemed in order. Food was being prepared in kitchens somewhere, filling the air with a sweet-salty scent. Men were training in the yard. Hilmer taught sword versus spear and on an improvised archery yard near the wall was Bogai the bow guy, teaching how to shoot arrows. Bogai's real name was Bartuk, but Laura had kept forgetting it, so she changed it. She had even decreed that anyone who called Bogai by his real name would end up in her belly. Ever since doing that, however, she had had no trouble remembering Bogai's real name any more.

Some more of the men already wore Conchobair surcoats, yellow on black. They dyed them straight from the Fenwasian ones which were black on yellow. If those two houses ever came to clash, it would be a terribly confusing battle, Laura thought. The yellow was not quite right as well, but it was the best they had.

Branwyn was no where to be seen but Reo inspected the training and intervened in it from time to time as he had the day before. It was to him that she presented Elia Talvinyr and her husband Garvin. Reo said he had no need of songs but when Garvin suddenly started a stormy sonata about the Swordking's glory he seemed to suddenly change his mind. Elia was dragged off to the dungeons, her head hanging low.

With a look into the sky, Laura decided to get dressed before going back and attacking Feyrenwall. Clouds had arrived and a light breeze was blowing, alas, that wasn't the only thing darkening her mind.

“Where is Branwyn?” She snarled at Reo when she was dressed.

The king-to-be, who as of yet wasn't even a knight, looked up at her with discomfort.

“Eh, she took up residence in Devona Fenwasian's former chambers. She's not, uh...”

“She's not being a queen.” Laura finished bluntly. “I like what you are doing, applying yourself, assuming leadership. She better get going with that or I'll fucking do her the way I did Mathariel Swordsong and make me some other queen.”

He clenched his teeth and raised his arms in defence: “Uh, let's not curse the day ere Praios disk is set, eh? I will speak to her. She'll be queenlier than ever, you will see!”

“She better be.” Laura ended the conversation before she went.

Garvin was sitting near the kitchens at a table some men had brought out for him, picking gingerly at a platter of salt mutton. He didn't look too happy either, although he ought to have rejoiced, seeing as he was still alive.

Laura marched quickly, stopping only briefly to see if anything notable had changed in Ortis, the recently abandoned village or town over which her castle stood. It would be good if she had people to settle in here, she thought. It had walls as well, and towers and everything she needed to imprison people. Ortis' walls weren't too tall, though, which might present a difficulty. She'd have to find some other way to bind people here since the village wasn't as remote as Lauraville had been.

There was a small river, or rather a canal, leading straight through the village and into the larger river, presumably convenient for transporting stone from the nearby quarry. Ortis had walls, aye, but they wouldn't do her any good so long as there were things in there that could be used to build rafts.

During the way onward, she thought about Feyrenwall, the castle she meant to attack. All she knew, she had gotten from her people. It belonged to Ilaen Albenblood who's father had been executed by the Fenwaisans for some black magic shenanigans. When Laura asked if he might be inclined to join her on that account her informers had shrugged, stating only that there was no bad blood between the two houses and that Ilaen reputedly despised his father for what he had done.

Their sigil was still the same the old Albenblood had assumed during his time of mischief, however; three bare-branched, red trees over a river of blood atop a black field. Laura's people had spoken of that sigil with mad terror on their faces, which ought to have meant something, since they were speaking to her.

Not a single soul was in evidence anywhere, before she arrived at the castle. On the way, she found a village that belonged to Udlaidrim, but it was empty and deserted as well, bar a few rats that scattered away from her feet as grey and brown dots when she trampled through.

Somehow, she felt like something big should happen, a battle or something like that. She looked closely at river and road, thinking if maybe scouts would come look for her. But there was no one.

South of Feyrenwall, things would get a little bit tricky. There was Aran, a small town as large as or larger than Ortis, and the city of Honingen behind it, not very far at all. And there were villages and villages and villages. If Laura had thought Thorwal's coastline populous, then Albernia was a veritable beehive, alas so far without so many bees.

They had all fled from her, which should be fine since she was faster than them. Her decision to settle into Iaun Cyll of course had complicated things. She had wasted a whole day by now, but still thought it was the right move.

She was she, and she needed a base from which to operate. Rushing through, squashing everything and moving on would not be an option here, most of all because Janna wasn't with her.

The fleeing tinies probably wouldn't run too far anyway, likely hiding in Honingen where a woman called Franka Salva Galahan would certainly form them all into one big army that Laura would have to fight soon. That was what everyone at her castle believed and it made a little knot in Laura's belly when she thought about it too much.

Feyrenwall castle, when she saw it, turned out much smaller than Iaun Cyll, but also somehow much more castle-like. Iaun Cyll with its huge walls and everything looked at though it had been built by Germans, near perfectly rectangular, not matter whether the ground allowed it and favoured it or not. The inside was well structured and orderly, barracks with stables and assembly yards, two smithies, several granaries, kitchens and then the lordly part with the garden, the bathhouse and all that.

In contrast, Feyrenwall was perched atop a much higher, steeper rock over the river, and built according to the ground beneath it. Its walls weren't as high, but it had two rings, or rather one main part and then a half circle of wall toward where a serpentine track led up to the gates from the south. The bergfried was easily identifiable, the biggest and largest tower, the farthest from the gates, overlooking the river.

The river had been the real reason the castle had been built, she knew, as protection against raiders, probably Thorwalsh. The great hall was great and simply made into a part of the outer wall to the north.

The Albenblood banner was flying from the towers, she saw. Otherwise, there did not seem to be all that much to the place. It was just lots of space with walls around it, save for a few buildings with thatched roofs she could barely see over the walls.

She would have to climb this one, unless a better opportunity presented itself.

Before she could, though, horns were blown and she heard the whinnying of horses echoing from inside. Steel flashed on the towers and walls and she saw bowmen making ready to greet her.

The tall round tower at the north-west end of the fortress was closest to her and it was from there that she heard the first speech. With the rock on which it stood it was so tall that she could barely see the man yelling, though.

“Have no fear, men! This is but a peasant wench fallen into an alchemist's tub!”

A single quavery shout from the wall below his tower answered him: “But why's her legs so blue, milord, and her feet, I see red there!”

“That's her garb, you fool!” The first voice hollered back. “Aye, alchemists' tricks do that!”

That seemed to settle the issue. Laura could see him now, looking down at her from the tower between two merlons. He wore no helmet and had a face that reminded her somewhat of Reo's, although this one looked at least five years younger which would have placed him at around thirty two.

Maybe that was why Branwyn was so withdrawn, Laura thought in the back of her mind. Marrying a sixteen or seventeen year old girl to a thirty seven year old man was obviously somewhat icky for the former, medieval nobility or no. She had seemed so enthusiastic, though, at first. Maybe it was Laura's change of pace that had put her off.

“That's close enough now!” The man who presumably was Ilaen Albenblood shouted at her when Laura had marched closer, looking for what the castle would do. “I presume you are scared and afraid that this happened to you! But do not fear! We shall do everything within our power to help you get small again!”

People who were terrified would perhaps actually start to believe the lies they told themselves, Laura reasoned, like a form of Stockholm syndrome. It wasn't the first time people denied the obvious, or the stories they must have heard, when finally confronted with her.

Other than climbing the rock under arrow fire and starting to butcher everyone, she had no better plan than to play along and see what would happen.

“Milord!” She stopped, making herself sound terrified. “I'm so scared!”

“See?!” He called at his men. “Just a frightened child!”

He sounded sportsmanlike, not arrogant, Laura noted. Perhaps he genuinely believed he could help her.

“There is no need to be afraid!” He called to her. “Just stay where you are!”

Laura found that a rather boring suggestion so she took another step: “But my...uh, milord! I...I'm so afraid! Why am I so big, milord? Can I come into the castle, please?”

She was playing the act so fervently that she actually shed a tear, although it might have been from inner laughter.

“No!” He replied sharply. “There are many men...inside this castle and you might...step on them!”

He took a short while before he continued: “Tell me, child, did you step on innocent folk at Winhall?”

So he had heard and remembered that story at least, Laura thought. He ought to have been thinking about what he heard of Thorwal, though, if he had.

“I was so afraid!” She said between ragged breaths. “Please, milord, I...I need your help!”

“Yes, uh, well...” He turned and called, going to the other side of the tower from where she could only hear the echo of his voice. “Aeneas! Ride out with your lancers and contain this girl! Bring her to my gates!”

Laura stood and awaited them patiently while they made their decent on the serpentine track and then up the road to meet her. They were twenty five men, mounted on swift horses, largely unarmoured and making for quite an absurd bunch. Side arms, if they had any, were not uniform, and neither was their clothing except for their coat of arms which was dark grey and displayed two crossed axes over an absurdly misshapen oak tree.

A knight rode at their helm who must have been two meters tall. He was the only one bearing a shield too, but in his right hand was the same weapon as each and every one of them bore; a ridiculously long, steel-tipped lance.

Aran was a village of woodcutters and someone had spoken to her about a force of more or less professional soldiers there. They were more like a mounted militia, if she remembered correctly, but well reputed for their reckless valour.

The knight stopped his horse and looked up at her. His half-helm was bouncing from his saddle and so Laura could see his fierce yellow beard and chin-long straw-blond hair that was streaked with dark here and there.

“Always with the bloody magics!” He cursed grumblingly. “I hate magics!”

Laura almost laughed and blew her cover. The knight was simple. That was evident enough. But she also sensed a ferocious calm about him, that she immediately liked. Men like him, if she placed him right indeed, were the hardest to convert to any cause, but the most loyal and reliable once on board. If he as truly thus remained to be seen, of course.

“Circle her, boys!” He commanded with obvious displeasure at the task. “She's just as afraid of you as you of her!”

He looked up at her face with his blue-grey eyes. Laura judged him close to forty, older than the lord.

“Don't step anywhere there's horseflesh in the way now!” He grumbled up. “And go slow!”

His men had circled her as best they could and lowered their lances. Had they had momentum, Laura might well have been afraid of them. From her perspective the lances were almost six centimetres long, maybe even longer. That was less than the length of Horaisan pikes, to be sure, but way longer than the average spear she had been confronted with. And these men sat on horses and seemed entirely unafraid of her too.

She marched with absurd little penguin steps while their horses trotted with her. At the serpentine path up the rock they fell in for and aft of her. The going wasn't easy for Laura, since the path on which she had to walk sometimes cracked and broke beneath her weight. That narrowed the way for the retinue behind her and scared the already most uneasy horses nearly to breaking.

By enlarge, though, it was not too hard, and soon she found herself confronted with the first of Feyrenwall's two gates and it's little lord atop it, right in between two, large square towers belonging to the gatehouse. His eyes were a grey-green and his hair short and wild, chestnut-brown. He had a beard too but it was scruffy and of nondescript colour.

“Thank...thank you, milord.” Laura told the leader of the Aran Lancers. “I, um, I never learned your name.”

“His name is Sir Aeneas Albenblood-Iarlaith!” Said Lord Ilaen Albenblood. “And you do well to thank him! I must say, you are even larger from up close!”

Before the wall was a deep, rocky crevasse over which a heavy oaken drawbridge could be lowered, allowing access to the castle. The bridge must have been let down before, for the Aran Lancers to ride out, but it had been drawn up again afterwards. If Laura started trampling people now, the lancers would have nowhere to go. She didn't want that, though. She admired the lancers for their fearlessness and Sir Aeneas had given her no cause for grievance. It showed just how much they underestimated her. Nevertheless, hundreds of crossbows were pointed at Laura and the walls were crawling with fighters.

One bad move and she'd get feathered. That would be painful, she had no doubt, but would not otherwise do her any harm. If it came to it she might even chalk it up as a session of acupuncture, not that she believed such treatment was actually medically viable.

Sir Aeneas gave a hollow laugh: “Believe it or no, milord, she's even larger from down here!”

'Milord', Laura did not fail to note, not 'my lord'. Aeneas was growing more likeable by the minute.

It was quite absurd. She played the little girl, yet stood straight and upright, towering over all and everything like a force of nature.

“Can you help me, milord?” Laura addressed Ilaen Albenblood atop the gate.

The man showed his teeth in a painful grimace. Now that she was up here, he had no bloody idea how to undo anything about her size. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, that much was obvious, although he did seem equally motivated and friendly. His furrowed brow probably meant that he was oft thinking, or at least trying to as best he could.

“Uh, perhaps, er...” His hand was on his stubbles, scratching them. “Hmpf, bring me Eradh, the healer! Might be, he knows how to undo this!”

“Eradh Talvinyr?” Laura asked innocently.

The lord blinked for a moment: “You know him?”

“Ah, she did come by Udlaidrim way, did she not?!” Sir Aeneas grumbled from even further down below. “Is it still standing, I wonder?”

“Uh, yes!” Laura replied hastily. “I spoke to Elia Talvinyr and her husband Garvin. She's so gallant, is she not, and her husband sings so sweetly!”

The leader of the lancers gave a snorting laugh and Ilaen atop the gatehouse frowned again.

“There are more Talvinyrs here, aren't there?” Laura went on. “The, uh, chancellor, they said?”

“Aye!” Ilaen confirmed. “Eris Talvinyr! Her husband fell during the Red Curse, but she does me good service! Her son was taken by druids but he turned out druid as well! He supplies Eris' nephew Eradh with healing herbs and such from the woods! Can't say I hold any grudges against House Talvinyr!”

That was way more information than Laura had asked for and she wasn't really interested in hearing it. What the lord said next turned out interesting, however.

“We got Elia's children here as well, and her mother-in-law, the mother of that singer she married!”

Garvin had not mentioned it which could only mean that he didn't know his mother and children had ended up here. Laura wouldn't harm them, of course, but it got her another idea.

“Whom do you serve, milord?” She asked timidly as if to bate time until the godly man arrived.

“Bragon Fenwasian is my liege!” Ilaen Albenblood replied. “The lord of Iaun Cyll and count of Winhall!”

'Perfect.'

Sir Aeneas was growing suspicious for some reason: “Aye, but what happened at Winhall, anyway? They said they were trampling it! They said there were two of them as well, but I see only one?”

Laura decided that it was time to drop her act. She had everything she needed to take Feyrenwall without a fight. She crouched slowly, so that she was closer to them, and they within her reach, while not raising any alarms just yet.

A moment later, Lord Ilaen Albenblood was dangling upside down from her fingers, sword in hand, slashing uselessly at the air. He screamed and shouted and perhaps as many as two hundred crossbows jerked up at her.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Laura grinned. “You don't want to do that now. You might hit your little lord. Anyway, one of you fools loose at me and your lord becomes my supper.”

She opened her mouth and lifted him just to show how easily he would fit inside while on the ground below, she felt a faintest prick. When she looked, she saw a young lad on a horse, trying to ram his lance into the soft fabric above the rubber rim of her Chucks. Their eyes locked for an instant before she jerked her foot and squashed horse and rider to pulp.

“What are you doing?!” Sir Aeneas shouted in alarm. “Let his Lordship down, girl!”

“Why?” Laura asked, still grinning. “I'm his liege. I hold Iaun Cyll and if anyone says I don't hold Winhall as well they can come and take it up with me. The county isn't worth so much any more, I fear, since my friend and I flattened the city. I even tore down the Hall of the Swordking. It's all gone.”

The moment of eerie realization was epic.

“Now,” Laura turned her attention back towards the walls, “if you love your lord, lower those crossbows. Tell me, does Lord Ilaen have a wife? Does he have children?”

Some fool atop the wall nodded and that was that.

“If so, bring them here.” She went on. “I will slowly bend his lordship's back until they are here before me. Better hurry.”

She shook Ilaen until he lost hold of his sword. Then she grasped his torso and shoulders with her left hand, his hips and pelvis with her right and gave him a little forced yoga session.

“Aaaaah!” He started screaming much to early, when she was only beginning to bend him backwards, just meaning to threaten, not to hurt.

The Aran Lancers on the ground were the only ones with something of an escape but they only stared up at her in stupid disbelief.

“Let him down!” A thirty year old damsel in a red-white gown demanded through her tears, soon after.

She was dissolving with terror while also trying to console her bawling children, a boy of six and a daughter of only three years old. Laura would not hurt them. She did not want to hurt anybody in this, only capture the castle of Feyrenwall in an effective, sustainable fashion. The damsel had brown hair, much darker than Ilaen's and was a tiny woman by any standard.

In the meantime, Eradh Talvinyr, the Peraine acolyte had also arrived, but it was much too late for his services.

“What's your name?” Laura asked the woman calmly.

“I am Moraine of Draustone!” The tiny damsel shouted back through tears, snot and the cries of her offspring. “Let my husband go, please!”

Laura just wanted to double check her name against any she already knew. She couldn't place hers, but that was fine all the same.

“I'll trade you.” She offered. “You and your kids get onto my hand, and I let little Ilaen go.”

“Don't do it!” The lord of Feyrenwall interrupted his screaming to shout. “Hide! Hide, Moraine, get the children, aaargh!”

Laura bent him some more before he could thwart her plans. So far, everything was falling into place quite nicely.

“Actually,” She let go of Ilaen with her left hand and simply took Moraine and her children gingerly from the wall, “I have you all now. Tough luck.”

The men atop the walls were gnashing their teeth and exchanging most nervous glances with each other, though none of them moved to flee. Moraine found herself on Laura's palm and broke down sobbing, clutching onto her children who just as terrified as she was. It was an ugly scene, but necessary.

“I can eat you all now, if I want.” Laura gave the family a breeze from her nostrils. “But I don't want that.”

True to her word, she set Ilaen down back on the gatehouse from where she had taken him.

“Let them go!” Now he shouted, disarmed and desperate.

“I won't.” Laura replied matter-of-factly. “They are my hostages to keep you loyal. I'll take them with me to my castle. I'm gathering all sorts of nobles there. I will not put children in my dungeon or rob them of their mother, so all three of them shall have comfortable apartments, enough food and also my protection. What I ask in return is simple. You are now my bannerman. That's it.”

He looked aghast, reaching for his sword and finding his scabbard empty.

“What if I refuse?!” He asked stupidly, as if it wasn't clear as sunrise what would happen then, although Laura had very strong grudges against it.

She made her lips purse and looked at Ilaen's wife and children in her hand: “Well, I'd hate to, but...I am a monster, after all.”

Ilaen Albenblood lowered his head then and gave the command to have his men lower their weapons.

“Do you yield the castle to me?” Laura inquired, giving him a glimpse of his tiny family in her hand.

“I do!” He proclaimed, and looked as though someone had just upended a pale of water over his head.

On the ground, Aeneas Albenblood-Iarlaith spat: “Riders, retreat! Kick your horses, boys!”

It didn't come wholly unexpected and Laura had only to make one step to block the only escape route they had, which was back the serpentine way down the rock. She was in their way already, before they had even turned their horses' heads.

Sir Aeneas spat again and looked toward the edge of the steep crest, seemingly considering whether he should try running his horse down that way.

“Will you yield too or can your fucking horses fly, Sir?” Laura asked innocently from above.

“Pah!” He cursed and flung down his lance in disgust. “Bloody magics!”

Laura dreaded what had to happen now, but she had to do it all the same. Feyrenwall needed sorting out. She ordered the drawbridge lowered and ushered the Aran lancers inside. The bridge hung upon two heavy chains that she then ripped straight out of the wall with her free hand. Subsequently, she tore the entire bridge out, a small wooden board to her, and placed it aside for later use. It was quite convenient and the drop below was deep and rocky enough to prevent any tiny people from escaping.

There were hundreds of them, considerably more than at her own castle. She ordered everyone to clear the outer ring which was really only more serpentine path and a few unimportant buildings. It was a defensive measure and, like the drawbridge, quite impressive. Any attackers who might have somehow gotten over the drawbridge would find themselves in the crossfire here, with arrows and crossbow bolts harassing them from two sides at once.

Laura really liked this castle, its style and defensive effectiveness she could see. Regrettably, it was a little too small for her purposes. She could sit in the main yard but if she laid down in it her feet would kick straight through the thick, grey walls.

“How many men do you have?” She asked Lord Ilaen while he mounted his horse at the bottom of the gatehouse.

He looked up uncertainly: “Uh, hundreds! Five or six hundred, I should say.”

Next to his white horse was a tiny brown mule. On it sat, sideways, a tall stalk of a woman with short grey hair, wearing a black woollen gown. Upon feeling called upon she got off and stood, straight as an arrow.

“Five hundred and sixty eight souls, my lord.” She advised him stiffly. “Your household guard counts twenty. Amongst the levies we gave out two hundred crossbows, forty nine bows, one hundred and eighty seven spears, seventy four axes, forty seven other weapons and two hundred shields.”

“Uh, the woman knows numbers better than I do.” Ilaen gave her a curt nod. “As I said. She does me good service.”

“You are Eris Talvinyr,” Laura nodded at the woman as well, “the chancellor.”

The spoken to looked awkward, unsure how to handle the praise in Laura's voice.

“How much gold is there in the castle's, mh, treasury at the moment?” Laura continued without bothering to help her out.

“There are at present one hundred and ten golden ducats, two hundred and fourty nine thalers silver, and some nine hundred copper hellers in Niamor's coffers. The fiefdom is, however, in debt with his Countship Bragon Fenwasian to the extent of five hundred golden ducats at this time.”

The way she said it made it clear that she did not appreciate this state of affairs at all.

“There was talk of ogres and I had to buy heavy crossbows.” Lord Ilaen defended himself grimly. “The bowyers wouldn't give them to me just for asking.”

Laura considered for a moment: “What's Niamor?”

They looked surprised and it was Eris Talvinyr who answered: “This fief.”

Laura felt her face redden. She had captured the place before even knowing what it was called. The castle was called Feyrenwall but the fief was Niamor, meaning the lands all around. There were simply too many names to keep up with at this point. She would have to make a point of learning by heart again the counties that comprised the Kingdom of Albernia, and the fiefs, cities and castles that made up the counties in turn.

“Well, if it is any solace to you, as your new liege lord I am forgiving your debt in its entirety.” She said bluntly.

Gold was useful for the war effort, she had no doubt, but right now the loyalty of Feyrenwall was more near and dear to her than some dubious sell sword band she might hire in the future, if it would ever come to that. Curiously, she had not encountered very many mercenaries thus far, or else she and Janna had turned them to minced meat without even knowing whom they were squashing.

“My debt is to Count Bragon!” Ilaen insisted. “I will not stunt him on this account!”

Eris Talvinyr gave him a weary look and pressed her lips together.

“That would be treason.” Laura informed him with a smile, giving her hand a slight shake to make Moraine of Draustone shriek.

Unfortunately, that sent the children to bawling again, so Laura regretted it immediately.

When everyone was within the yard she closed the heavy, iron-studded gates with her fingers and followed inside. It was crowded and everyone was gnashing their teeth over what might happen to them. Laura wasn't in the mood for slaughter, however.

“I don't want to harm any of you.” She said. “I just want you to do what you do for me from now on. In turn, I will protect you. From Nordmarken, King Finnian, Gareth, whoever might wish you ill, I shall stand in their way.”

With Lord Ilaen disarmed on account of Laura's hostages the duty of sticking up for the status quo fell to Sir Aeneas Albenblood-Larlaith, the knight from Aran and commander of the Aran Lancers. He did not look like a talker but proved surprisingly apt at the task all the same.

“King Finnian has been a strong and just ruler, despite his age!” He growled from atop his mount. “It was by his hand that Havena, our capital, has come over to us once more. He made us whole again! Any man who raises arms against him forswears himself, as Jast Irian Crumold did before him!”

There was way more nodding all around than Laura could welcome. These foolish notions of honour and loyalty might yet get them all killed, if they gave her no other choice. She had already thought of things to say in order to convince them, or at least sway them a little, but now that she was looking at nearly six hundred tiny faces she could hardly remember a single thing.

She sighed and went with the obvious idea first, having to say something, or else they would take her for a ninety-metre-tall idiot all over again.

“I bet he's the perfect ruler. A true saint.” She said, trying to sound unstrained. “I bet he'll rule even better as a flattened corpse stuck to the bottom of my foot?”

“Jast Irian Crumold thought the same!” The knight countered with his deep, rumbling voice. “He had the king in his clutches, yet, where is he now?! Only a scar upon our good king's arm remains of him!”

'That and the fact that all of you fuckers knows his bloody name.'

Laura hadn't paid attention to the name the first time. She thought to recall that the Crumolds ruled Bredenhag, one of the Albernian counties. Yet, who Jast Irian was, she had no idea, although she might have heard that name before at some point. It was all quite a hassle to keep up with, the names especially.

'This is going nowhere.' She thought and resolved to try something else.

“Who is your liege lord. Sir?” She asked, tiredly, thinking that she had not had anything for lunch today and supper still seemed several hours away at this momentum.

Aeneas' eyes narrowed, all but vanishing beneath his coarse, bushy brows: “The Lady Franka Salva Galahan of Honingen!”

“And do you like her?”

He snorted: “Ha! Show me the man who likes her and I will teach my horse to sing more prettily than that girl husband of Elia Talvinyr!”

Where before he had every man present behind him on account of grim conservatism, he now had them with laughter. Laura saw men who had frowned and ground their teeth a moment ago light up in a faint smile.

“She's cunning, though!” He went on amiably. “Hard, aye, and her heart's a block of ice, but a more cunning countess never lived!”

Laura was going to offer to squash her flat, as she had to anyway, but now that road seemed closed as well.

“And what do you make of Count Bragon?” She tried, poking. “What of his Thistle Knights?”

There was a palpable difference between his eyes narrowing and his whole face going dark, as it did at the mention of the knights. Laura knew she had struck a chord even before he replied. Sir Aeneas chewed his tongue, making his fierce beard move around like a mouse hiding in a bushel of straw.

“Not much!” He finally resolved, but everyone present could see that even that was an enormous euphemism.

Laura decided just to look at him for a time and wait if something good would come of it.

“They are solemn, arrogant cunts!” He finally could not hide his contempt any longer, that much of an honest soul was he. “I cannot fault Fenwasian, for I do not know him. But his Thistle Knights...”

His chest heaved. That was even more than Laura had been hoping for.

“They are a scourge upon those they are meant to protect!” He finally growled, earning more oblivious nodding all around. “That pointy-eared scum, Mathariel Swordsong. He is always so quiet and peaceful, singing so sweetly. But when tenants are short on their tax, he rapes their daughters and maims their sons, whether they be armed or no! And that brute, Rondragoras of Wolfstone! Who does Bragon think he is, to keep a Nordmarkener wolf about and let him tear his sheep?!”

A man of the people was popular but had many disadvantages. The most obvious were on display here. His ideals were too easy to see through, too easy to manipulate and bend around an entirely new purpose.

“Well, Mathariel Swordsong will not pester anyone any longer.” She smiled down on everyone at once.

“How so?! Did you kill him?”

Sir Aeneas voice suggested he would find that good.

“Of course she did!” Ilaen Albenblood raised his voice, frowning. “She must have come by Iaun Cyll, no?”

“So I did.” Laura confirmed. “But I didn't butcher the garrison as well I could have. I took the knights and nobles captive and brought everyone else into the service of Reo Conchobair and Branwyn ni Bennain.”

“Conchobair and Branwyn?!” Ilaen's jaw dropped stupidly.

But Sir Aeneas was not satisfied enough to change the subject so soon: “And you killed that wretch, Swordsong, did you say?!”

Laura played with an amused smile on her lips, crouching over them: “Well. Let's just say he got a little more than he bargained for with the last girl he went inside of. I'd tell you the details, but there are little ones present, aren't there.”

She nodded at what had to be Garvin's children, next to his old mother in the yard, and Ilaen's children on her hand besides.

A great smile slowly twisted Sir Aeneas' beard out of shape.

“Oh, and that wolf of Nordmarken is done tearing sheep,” she added lightly, “seeing as he met a bigger beast and got himself ate.”

Aeneas started laughing so hard that spittle flew out of his mouth while Lord Ilaen frowned even more deeply than before.

“I can tell you that I hate Nordmarkeners, just hearing about them.” Laura went on with re-found confidence. “If they come 'round to pay me a visit, then I think I'll make me a nice carpet out of them to wipe my feet on. I can protect you from them. I am probably the only one who can.”

Sir Aeneas laughter died and he looked up at her, eyes sparkling and glinting through the bush of his brows: “And who will protect us from you?”

Laura bit her lip. It was a question with an edge and he had her on that count, sort of. On the other hand could she very much say anything. This was a done thing, in truth. Feyrenwall was hers. She had Ilaen's wife and children in the palm of her hand. What she was bargaining for, what she was trying to accomplish in the discussion, was to make these Albernian's feel good about submitting to her.

“Horas.” She finally said, somewhat truthfully. “I serve them. Any egregious atrocities, it will be them I have to answer to.”

If they had heard about Thorwal, they did not care to ask about it any further. Instead, the conversation seemed done, although the interim result was still uncertain. Laura could press it, of course. All it would take was a question, but it was an uncomfortable one, one that would certainly give rise to strong feelings.

“We will march back to Iaun Cyll today.” She said firmly. “You will join my army there and be trained until further notice. Anyone who tries to make off or slow us by lagging behind will...”

Something caught her eye and she stopped. There was a man, his face pale as milk, pushing his way through the thick of the men while carrying a crossbow with a crank on top of it. What was off, beside the fact that he was obviously going somewhere, was that his crossbow was cocked and loaded as she could tell by its string.

“Will you permit me to leave a garrison here, at least?” Ilaen asked from atop his horse. “It wouldn't do for my castle to be occupied by brigands while I am gone!”

“What?” Laura looked down. “Oh, yes, my lord.”

She checked back to find the man again but it was like a medieval game of Where Is Waldo in this press of black, red and peasant clothing. The look on his pale face had told her that he was up to no good. On the other hand did crossbows fail to frighten her any more. If some mad peasant or soldier or peasant soldier wanted to loose a quarrel at her then that would give her a nice opportunity to show the rest of them what she did to people who displeased her.

“Reodred!” Ilaen called and a tall, leathery man past sixty stepped from the press. “This is my castellan, Reodred Ardwain. He will remain here with a handful of good men to defend the place.”

“Aye, milord!” The castellan answered in a voice that was a leathery as himself.

Something behind him shifted and Laura saw the crossbowman with the pale face once more. The men had formed somewhat of a half circle around her, so as not to end up beneath her by accident. The man came out between two spearmen, pushing out into the open.

'I'll take your quarrel and your little life, you fool,' Laura thought and smiled.

But the man never raised his crossbow at her, as she had hoped.

“Long live King Finnian!” He screeched, and loosed his deadly projectile at Lord Ilaen instead.

“Long may he reign!” Someone from behind seemed to shout in reflex while a soldier more in front yelled: “Traitor!”

There were many gasps, shocked cries and mouths falling agape. With Reodred Ardwain, the castellan, it was the eyes, widening, before the old, leathery man grabbed the sword in his scabbard and drew a cut at the assassin's neck all in one motion.

“Noooo!” Moraine of Draustone screamed, still even before the traitor's severed head hit the ground.

Ilaen Albenblood held his side, then slumped in the saddle and finally fell off his horse. A bubble of men was surrounding him all at once, screaming for the healer. Eradh Talvinyr rushed to the scene while on Laura's hand Moraine was screaming and crying and her children were bawling all over again.

“Calm them!” Laura could only hiss at the lady and ease the process by depositing them atop the nearest tower.

When Laura looked down she saw that Ilaen was already on his feet again, however. They stripped his surcoat, chainmail byrnie and padded jacket over his head according to Eradh's instructions. The thirty-something acolyte of Peraine was calling for his potions, poultices and herbs, as well as clean linen, boiling wine and vinegar.

Blood ran from the gash in Lord Ilaen's ribcage, but the quarrel was already out of him and the wound did not appear to be all that bad after all.

“I will need to clean it, my lord, and make you a bandage.” Eradh explained. “The wound is not too deep, never fear. Are you in pain my lord?”

“I've had worse.” Came the grunted reply.

Laura picked up the beheaded corpse of the traitor and tore it in half, the man's entrails spilling out like pink and purple worms. Then she flicked each half away over the wall in disgust.

“Well protected.” Sir Aeneas grumbled dryly.

He was sitting in his saddle so he could see over the crowd that nursed Lord Ilaen.

Laura felt the need to say something: “I'm sorry, my lord. I thought he was going to shoot at me.”

“Ah, it's nothing!” Ilaen grunted back. “I suppose the fault is with all my men, seeing as he must have loaded his crossbow beforehand.”

The soldiers shrunk back at his words and exchanged glances while others looked at their own feet in shame. Laura sat to rest her legs from crouching.

“Do you suggest a punishment, my lord?” She asked while Eradh poured vinegar over the fresh wound.

“Ahhh!” The lordling wreathed. “Praois have mercy, that hurts!”

She sufficed that to say no, but studied the group of soldiers anyway, looking for those who looked particularly guilty. It was just a mind game, though. She could have crushed any one of them at leisure but that would not have done her any good that she could see.

What she could see, though, were three relatively young damsels in various dresses, huddling by the entrance to the bergfried, the keep that was the largest of the towers and the last line of defence should the castle walls fall.

“You there,” she pointed, “Come here.”

Up at her own castle, it was all quite a sausage fest. Branwyn was practically the only girl around there, next to Laura. It needed some femininity, to be sure. Besides, Laura still loved the idea of playing with noble girls. These ones weren't as pretty as Branwyn, nor quite as young, but they tempted her all the same.

The three came, stricken, making their way through the solemnly parting crowd. The oldest looked near enough to thirty, wearing a white wool gown with something like tiny red flowers emblazoned on it. She was rather plain of face, losing her chance to real beauty on account of number of tiny flaws that were too numerous to point out all by themselves. She wasn't ugly either, really, only standing no chance in comparison to a true beauty like the Princess of Albernia. Likewise, her hair was neither blond nor brown, but some odd mongrel colour in between.

The next girl, prettier but for her absurd pointy chin, looked in the middle of her twenties. Her dress was dark grey, with a sigil embroidered on her chest, a white moon on a black field partially behind a wall of poison green bricks. Her dark blond hair fell freely to her jawline which probably made her look older than she was, since she had such puffy cheeks and was otherwise very haggard, especially her long slender neck.

The last girl looked tastiest of all. She had green eyes and dark brown hair and could not have been a day older than nineteen. She was also the shortest of them and wore the finest garb, a skirt of black and a dark red bodice.

“Are you alright, my lord?” She asked toward Ilaen Albenblood who was being bandaged by Eradh Talvinyr.

“Oh!” He made, surprised as though he had all but forgotten about the three obviously noble ladies in his home.

After some repositioning himself on the ground he grimaced and waved a hand: “May I present, Ceara of Jasalin, Erin Morganyr and our sweet Talia of Albenblood-Lighthouse!”

Ceara was the girl in the white dress with the red flowers, Erin the one with moon and wall upon her chest.

“Albenblood-Lighthouse?” Laura sensed a pattern, beckoning at Sir Aeneas. “He is called Albenblood-Iarlaith. You, my lord, are called Albenblood. What's that all about?”

“Blue blood.” Sir Aeneas answered in Ilaen's stead. “Marriages, adoptions, alliances.”

“If there is a noble marriage between two houses of equal esteem, there must be made decision upon which name their individual branch shall bear.” Eris Talvinyr explained stiffly and in more detail.

Laura nodded, looking at the girls, Talia of Albenblood-Lighthouse in particular: “So your sigil is the red trees on black with the red river?”

“It is halved.” The young maid said shyly and with eyes to the ground. “We have the red trees on black for Albenblood, aye, but the silver swords on green for Lighthouse as well. When our branch was made, Albenblood brought the name and Lighthouse the lands.”

Laura imagined it in her head, thinking that it had to be some mongrel thing, ugly to behold. The girl would make a formidable toy though. She could hardly wait to start playing with her.

Sir Aeneas seemed to sense that, however: “Er, these are Lord Ilaen's honoured guests, taken under his roof with the promise of protection. Surely, you would not take hostage the honoured guests of your own bannerman?”

Laura sighed: “Far as I can tell, Lighthouse, Jasalin and, uh, Morganyr are my enemies. If Lord Ilaen would harbour enemies under his roof without handing them to me I would consider that treason.”

She should have argued employing Reo's and Branwyn's names, she remembered, but they were so small and out of reach.

“Will you then send envoys to allow their families to bend the knee and get them back, safely and unharmed?”

The last two words were daggers in Laura's ears.

“What I do or do not do is no concern of yours, little knight.” She snapped, settling the issue.

On the other hand, if she could outsource the task of securing some more noble families' loyalty then she should welcome it. She was huge but could not be everywhere at once, nor do every little thing on her own.

Talia of Albenblood-Lighthouse broke out with a whimper: “But...but we're a Nordmarkener house! We cannot bend the knee to you and keep our lands!”

Sir Aeneas twisted in his saddle and looked at her. Laura couldn't tell whether it was for pity and incredulous anger. He was a man of the people, but he could not stand up to Laura the way those wretched Thistle Knights could.

She smiled: “Your lands are in the Nordmarken, huh?”

That was all she said, but the threat was obvious for everyone, even if it remained unspoken.

The rest of the whole thing went hurried because Laura feared they would not reach her castle before nightfall if they did not march off as fast as possible. Before her sat the gruelling task of seeing slightly less than six hundred men north, all at the velocity of their pathetic, tiny feet. She had not brought her blanket, and there were too many of them to stuff into her pants.

Wayns were laden with some provisions that might come in handy, also weapons and a chest of Feyrenwall's silver and gold. Laura meant to pay her soldiers rather handsomely, another tiny reason to stay on her side.

“He must rest!” Eradh Talvinyr urged when Ilaen wanted to climb his horse again. “He'll tear the wound open again on the ride! I apologize but I must insist on this!”

'You'll be insisting in my stomach if I don't get something to eat soon!' Laura thought grimly.

She simply solved the problem by having the lordling ride in her hand, with his family. Maybe he could calm his bloody spawn, because Moraine of Draustone was clearly not able to do it. She put the other three ladies on her hand as well, to study them further and maybe letting them help in calming the little ones as well. The Talvinyrs could travel well on their own, although Laura did see to it that Garvin's children could ride in the back of a wayn.

Finally, she put the drawbridge back in its place so everyone could go leave the castle and make their way down the serpentine track and onto the road. That made her realize a whole new problem. The garrison had no way to lock up the castle.

“We can close the portcullis!” Old, leathery castellan Reodred Ardwain waved her concerns away. “And we will make repairs to the drawbridge, starting on the morrow!”

“I think I ripped the chain, though.” Laura frowned.

“Not only that!” She was promptly informed. “There are winches in the gatehouse torn off their trestles as well! Not to fear! I have made sure to have a seasoned builder and a smith in the garrison!”

Laura nodded and wished the man good fortune before she went. Reodred struck her as a soldier, hard, lean, straight forward and always obedient, no matter what was asked of him, and who was asking. Ability and obedience turned him into a tool, and whether he was good or bad then depended on how he was used. She might remember that for the future.

She wished there were more men like him. Aeneas Albenblood-Iarlaith was not that way, which she had initially liked but since having several discussions with him had come to detest quite a bit. The big, bearded knight made it all sound so easy, the right thing to do so obvious, and yet none of it was feasible in war.

It stood to wonder, whether she would still be able to convert him. She needed allies with blue blood and wits about them, to be sure. She had Lord Ilaen on account of the hostages, but he was now wounded and clearly not the sharpest tool in the box.

“Go faster!” She shouted angrily over her column of tiny, armed ants. “Stragglers will get crushed!”