Chapter the Sixth: Dreams
#6 of A Stage of Destinies
Brodry sighed deeply as he lay restlessly in the cool inn bed. He always was a little uneasy in these rooms. The locks were never secure, and you never know what manner of parasites the previous tenants may have left for you. A taper flickered on a small lacquered table by the bedside opposite himself, and his companion lay on his side reading some thick-bound tome that was as incomprehensible to the young tiger as the yipping of an animal. He sighed deeply, and looked over at the older male's back as he turned another page with slow care.
"What's on your mind, cub?" he said affectionately as the leaf fell to rest on its brethren. Brodry mused at how the older tiger could always tell when someone was watching him.
"I was thinking about something you said earlier" he commented as he turned over, and placed his arm around his loves strong shoulder. "If you're a king, why have you never gone home to retake your position? Why should you have to scrape by doing knife-work for rich merchants and foppish rulers of lesser races when you deserve much better?"
Couric sighed softly, and carefully closed the book on a green ribbon that marked his place. He had been waiting for two days for this conversation, and had somewhat dreaded it. His love was still much younger than he, and still prone to the fancy of youth. A thousand golden possibilities had been rolling through his head for days since their awakening at the confession of his strange Sherftii companion.
"That was a long time ago" he said, and placed his hand on the youth's forearm hoping to get his point across quickly. "My uncle is a ruthless, horrible man. He won't give me the throne, and if he does I'll sit in waiting for an assassin. Have you ever heard it said 'heavy rests the head that wears the crown?' Well they mean that in a manifold expression. Better to live simply, if not hard. The crown seat of the Sherftii is an opportunity that could only be purchased with gallons of blood, and the risk of all I have managed to save over the years." He turned over and placed his hand gently on his mate's cheek, and gazed longingly into his eyes. A smile crossed his face as he saw the confusion, and fancy that rested behind them. There was a time when he dreamed, but that was years and years earlier. "Besides, knife-work is preferable to the work I did for them before I was old enough for it."
Couric's smile faded slowly as he saw no sign of his love's acceptance of his words. Barely more than a boy, he thought, in spite of his years. He was still enamored of proud royal knights astride their mighty, well bred war mounts, and clad in their shining raiment of adamant armor. Youth burned brightly in his face as a beacon to the world, and Couric felt a bit amazed at how he had lived so long without the darkness of life closing in to snuff it as it had done so in his own child hood.
"Brodry" he continued, "Dreams are nice, but they can be likened to fat, sweet worms. How many fish have met their loathsome ends in our bellies after following such a treat to the hook? That is the seat of the Sherftii nation for me: A baited hook. The fisherman, Razzar sits in his power waiting for me to take it so that I can be caught, scaled, and cooked. Dreams are best confined to slumber where they can do no harm, when we are awake, it is best we simply enjoy what we have, and get by."
The young tiger was still unconvinced. He put his own hand on the back of the paw that rested against his cheek, and lightly kiss Couric on the nose.
"That could be" he said, "But it isn't quite true. Razzar is no fisherman, but a gamer. He is a dice tosser in a casino, or whorehouse who has stolen a great prize from a greater man. He doesn't deserve it, and all the gods know this. How then could you fail?"
"Stop it" the old tiger interjected, "I'll hear no more of this. I've said my peace, and your silly notions of wealth and easy living are foolish and out of place. Let it go or I'll put you on the floor for the night." The smaller of the two turned over to his taper, and retrieved his book.
"It his isn't for me!" he exclaimed, as he leaned over and pushed Couric's book closed. The young warrior grabbed his muzzle, and pulled him onto his back. "I don't care if you leave me on the street, just so long as I can see you in your proper place! You deserve better than this, you deserve everything that you've never had, and Razzar deserves nothing but maybe death!" Couric was amazed, his mate had never spoken to him so forcefully before. This was true manhood in him. A stir of pride and love welled in the older tiger, and his eyes softened a bit.
"Oh now, you pay attention!" Brodry barked and rapt his mate on the nose. Couric let out a sound of shock, and irritation, and the younger of the pair, clamored on top of him, and pinned him down. "You deserve better! Everything! Don't you see it? Don't you understand what you could be? I have to look at you wasting your life every day, and it has grown to be like a dull throbbing pain that I can't ever balm!" His face grew a bit calmer, and his expression became sad. "I know what will happen if you become king. I know that you'll have to take a wife and father an heir. I..." he paused for a moment, "I'm ok with that. Even if I can't be with you, I'd be happier knowing that you were set in your RIGHTFUL place seeing that justice had been served."
Couric was amazed. He knew Brodry inside and out, and he could tell that there was no falsehood in anything that he said, and the fact that he had raised a hand against him proved that he was utterly convicted in what he spoke. It was true, he would have to take a wife, and he would have to put a child in her, but that had always been a secret ambition of his in obligation of continuing his father's line. He flipped his shoulders a bit, and effortlessly broke the young fighter's pin on him only to grab Brodry and press his lips firmly against his. He kissed him long and deep, sending the young tiger through a cycle of tensing, then relaxation, then melting acceptance of passion at which point he broke the kiss and glared angrily at the older man.
"No you don't" he said sternly, "You won't go distracting me like that. You keep over there until I am satisfied, only then will I let you satisfy yourself!"
Couric smiled, and leaned his head back baring his throat to the youth. "Not quite" he said, relaxing against the bed, "You've already won. I'll consider what you said, and that is all you can hope for, but in this case you've won the right to satisfy your own needs."
Derek wept quietly in a secluded corner of an esteemed rectory. Around him rested tomes of lore on various subjects, and countless treatises on the nature of god and man's place in god's earthly kingdom. He leaned against a large desk of finely finished maple that showed its fading age in spite of the constant treatments of upkeep and polishing. It was said that much of the furniture in this church had been made for a temple in the capital, and moved here to accommodate the furnishing of Benuith when they grew large enough for a church as baroque as this one. The atmosphere of this old room was ancient and almost oppressive which Derek found quite conductive to his fits of sorrow that he came here to hide with. Tears flowed freely down the little boy's face as he whined pitifully for the loss of his mother.
He had been told many times in his short life that his father was a Beduin, and that he should learn to never cry, or show fear should fortune ever smile on his return but being so young such a thing was largely impossible. The best that he could do was retreating from the chamber of his father's repose to this store house of archaic alliterations for solitude and a chance to vent. No one ever saw him cry here, and while that was a bonus, no one was ever there for him to cry to. The realization made him feel more alone than ever in all the times he could remember. He felt like a solitary shard of a ship's hull adrift following its wreck or sinking, and left environed in an endless sea of nothing. He wiped at his soaked fur but only pined harder for his mother's gentle touch that she might make all of this go away. She could always make things better, but now she was gone forever and nothing could ever be fixed again.
"What could be so bad, little one?" Derek looked up with a start. Through teary eyes the kit took in the form of High Priest Zander standing in the doorway in his casual robes. He held a stack of long-haired volumes that he quickly carried to the desk and deposited. Derek wiped quickly at his face and muzzle and hopped clumsily to his feet in the attempt to look composed, and daring.
"Nothing!" he said in a loud squeak. The old priest smiled at him and collected a few of the books to set about placing on their respective shelves.
"If I didn't know any better" he said looking over his shoulder as he placed a heavy volume on a high shelf, "I would say that there is a little boy hiding in a rectory with a heavy burden on him." He turned around, and sat down cross-legged motioning for the child to come to him. Derek obliged him, and sat down on his knee.
"You're Derek of Beduin Born, aren't you?" he asked, and the kit nodded in ascent. "I've heard a little about your coming here, so I understand why you are so distraught." He put his aged hand on the back of the child's head, and guided it to rest on his sternum. "I know that it is very hard to lose someone as important so young. I'm afraid there is nothing that I can do to lessen the hurt of your loss, but I can tell you that there is nothing wrong with feeling that hurt. Why do you hide in here when your father is only down the hall?"
Derek felt comforted in the old priest's embrace, and the tears started to come again, but he held them back. He wasn't sure what to say. It was out of the question to let his father see him act so weak because he already felt that his mother had spoiled him. A few choked sobs forced there way out, and he soon found himself weeping openly against the wizened cleric's succor.
"There now" he said, "You are a strong boy. This is the strength of your love, and the memory of your mother, not your weakness. Your sire will understand this, or he's no father. I'll help you in any way that I can, but you'll have to learn to reach to him for you haven't any other parent, and you can't stay here when he heals and decides to leave." Derek sobbed and sobbed into the aged canine's chest, and gripped tightly to his robe with his tiny vulpine fists. It felt good to have someone, anyone to reach out to.
Zander held the child until he cried out teh last of his energy and fell into peaceful slumber in his lap. He picked the kit up and carried him to his room. The father of the precious package he laid carefully into its bed twitched fitfully in his own slumber, and the old beagle stood quietly in study of him. He was a warrior there would be no doubt of that, and an orphan of the Beduin wars. Zander had studied his people at length since his coming, and had learned what he hoped was a strong insight into their ways and customs. Much of the information was over a hundred years old as it had been a long time since a missionary of the Shopilites had spent ten years amongst those strange northern foxes and returned with his extensive treatise on their culture. It could only be hoped they still held their traditions into such unchanging regard as the author of those thick volumes had described.
More than anything the minister wondered at the strange circumstances that had led the two of them to this cell of his temple. Why would this boy's mother attempt to murder his father? Some talk from the tavern spoke of a heated argument between the woman, a local tavern-dancer, and the man, a mercenary of exceptionally rude manner and large appetite. Still, an argument shouldn't be enough to put a mated couple in tangle with steel at the other's throat. Shopil's plan in this matter had vexed him so thoroughly that he had come to the conclusion it could be put out of mind until more pieces had appeared. What tormented the poor fox so dreadfully in his dreams? He had only seen someone so rankled in slumber a few times, and always they were driven mad by this age.
A quick motion and a start snapped the priest to attention as the fox' hand shot to his blade. He took a step back, and relaxed as he realized recognition in the warrior's face. Adrian slowly reposed against his bed, and cringed a few times at the pulling of his injuries. He eyed the cleric for a few moments and waited for his sermon. Members of the clergy were always presumptuous and deemed themselves worthy to school even a Beduin Born on his actions and place under god. The fox dreaded whatever he had to say.
"I found your boy in one of our rectories" the old dog said at last. He pulled up a chair next to Adrian's bed, and scratched the bald crest of his head for a moment. A tightened expression came across his face as he settled into the chair, and his repose was announced by a few loudly popping joints.
"I apologize for any mischief" Adrian said feeling relief at the topic, "I'm afraid that between these holes in me and your priest's medications I sleep rather deeply, and often. There is plenty of time for the boy to wander off, and find himself in trouble."
"It's nothing like that" replied Zander, "He caused no harm, or even distraction. The room was empty, and its contents unmolested. I do worry about the nature of his visit however."
Adrian looked over the beagle as he appraised that the priest was doing the same. Clovis why do these wounds have to persist as they do? He wished that he hadn't ever turned his back on the mother of his child in more ways than one, but put it out of his mind. A warrior lives with his actions, and there is not place for regret in the Beduin's heart.
"What would you have me do?" he asked, "I could watch him closer, but to do so I would have to heal slower. That would be a very taxing on the both of us."
"Our priests can watch him" was the ordinary's reply, "I want you to be a father to him. When I found him, he was hiding in the darkened room, and weeping his little anguish into his arms. I did lend him some comfort, and he sobbed till his little body collapsed. I then placed him in his bed as you see here. I tell you this because you are the reason he was hiding. He's afraid you won't respect and love him if he shows you any weakness." Adrian stared back at the priest with his standard expression of warrior resolve.
"He told you all this then?" he posed, and the bald headed beagle nodded to the negative.
"Not with his words anyway" he said as he looked down at the sleeping kit. "People tell me far more with their eyes than they do with their mouths. You, Adrian, have told me that you are tortured in ways I'll never be able to imagine, and that this child is the first thing to bring you happiness in, well, I couldn't tell you how many but years none the less. You have also told me that there is an island of peace you seek through vengeance, and that the only way you can reach it is to build a bridge made of fallen bodies. This worries me for the boy's future, but it isn't my place to step in. All I will tell you is that he needs a parent, and I'd wager you know the burning sting of losing one's mother, especially at a very young age. He needs to know the love you hold for him, because he is not nearly as insightful as I am."
Like a book the old man reads me, Adrian thought, and grimaced a bit. He now wished that the man had simply given him a discourse on the benefits of considering Shopil's ideal strategy in his life. The blond fox hated it when people could divine the close enacts and council's of his hidden heart.
"I hadn't realized" he said, and looked over at his son. A feeling of peace came over him as he watched the child slumber. He looked so pleasant, like nothing ever happened to hurt or wound him in his short life even though his father knew that wasn't true. He ground his teeth a bit when he realized that everything bad that had happened had been a result of his own actions.
"If I'd known, I would have done something" he continued, "I'll make sure he knows better. I haven't been a father to him for five summers it's high time that I started."
Zander smiled. It was all that he could ask of him. "I wish you grace, and peace, Adrian of Beduin Born" he said as he stood up to the sound of a few more cracks, "Shopil's full blessing upon you, and your most likeable son. I will have you in my prayers."
With that he departed leaving Adrian alone to his thoughts, and the sound of his child's soft snoring. He watched his child for a few minutes before sliding himself to the edge of the bed and groaning as he lifted the insurmountable weight of his damaged frame. He collected his sleeping son carefully from child's little bedroll, and returned to his own divan. He settled down into it, and ground his teeth as the sharp, shooting pain of his exertion slowly devolved into a dull throb. His son unconsciously snuggled up against him, and the fox smiled at his tiny curled body with its tightly closed eyes, and thumb in mouth. The blond fox wrapped his thick arm around all that remained of his beloved Riadne, and settled his head against its pillow. Sleep returned quickly as he considered what he would do following his healing, and what course of action would best facilitate the destruction of the Sherftii. His thoughts stopped as merciful slumber took him into quiet rest, and for the first time in five years the dreams did not return.
Couric sat straight up in bed pulling the covers over with him. He almost fell of the edge of the simple inn's divan as he gasped with waking, and felt the cold sweat on his forehead with the realization of consciousness. He looked around the room with a sort of fear, and manic paranoia. The tiger's breathing slowed as he calmed in his awareness, and slowly slid his legs of the edge of the bed. He sat hunched over for a moment coming back to his self and then stood in the hot morning air of the tavern. He crossed the room, and opened the shudders to the window. His eyes closed as he took a deep breath and enjoyed the cool wind as it spread its chilly fingers over his nude body.
The tiger leaned against the lattice resting on his elbows as he looked down over the city of Benuith. The mood of the community was much different now then it had been only a scant few weeks ago. As it turned out the armies of the enemy had bypassed the sleepy civilization and struck directly at the heart of their kingdom. News had poured in from other cities to the east that even Mariath had been sacked. Little concern could be found in the tiger, but the populace was quiet, and somber at hearing that they were cut off from their merchant king's rule by the barbarians of the southern jungles. It was only a matter of time before the hordes of the Mumgatu found their way to the walls of Benuith, and how could they stand to the fiercest warriors ever to lay siege to this nation? Couric chuckled, and mused at how these southerner's would worry if the Sherftii collective ever reached this far.
His mood darkened immediately with that thought. He wondered what his homeland now looked like, and how things had changed under his uncle's rule. A deep, burning desire rose in him as the phantoms that haunted his rest the night before fluttered in his waking mind. It had been a long time since he had thought about his mother, or his sister, and the morning felt like a razor being drawn across some long forgotten scar. Worst of all was the last bit of the dream.
Couric had fled from the angry shades of his family through a nightmare landscape that held no logic, or reason in its forming. His legs were like molasses and even his voice seemed slowed but somehow he had managed to escape them into hiding. He leaned against a wall, and panted out his terror. The ghosts were furious at him for how he had spent his life. "How could I have died to save you?" his mother had shrieked as he lost her to his hiding. Suddenly, he looked up into the chest of a warrior, and followed it over a bleeding, wounded neck. His father's face crested that grim specter, and glared at him with judgmental anger. Couric could read his disdain in those dread, bloodshot eyes, and he knew that he was hovering nearby unable to make his leave to Urcain so long as his brother sat unlawfully on his throne. He opened his mouth to plead with him for forgiveness, but the wraith hand shot forward and gripped his son by the living throat.
"Let not my memory die, though I am dead!" he demanded, and Couric woke with a frightened start. He shook his head, and walked over to a pitcher of lukewarm water. The clear liquid poured slowly into a simple wooden vessel, and he returned to the window. Couric filled his mouth and gargled for a second, then poured what remained over his head. It felt good to cool some of the turmoil just under his skin. Let not my memory die, though I am dead. The words resounded over and over in his head. He sulked darkly over the prospect, and realized that the only way that he could ever be happy is to exact his revenge on Razzar, and his court. The idea crept into his head of his uncle murdering his father on the battlefield as an assassination, and it sounded more and more feasible the more he pondered it. That was that, he thought. He and his beloved mate would be trekking to Sharaf to confront his hated relative, and dethrone him by any means necessary. The only problem is the force he would need to perform the coup. How was he going to raise the resources to accomplish such a feat?
Below him, a long train of refugees poured into the city. Many of them were bound for the now overcrowded, and over worked Temple of Shopil that rested across the street from his tavern. He looked over the arabesque structure, and marveled at its design. He would build a temple of its likeness in Sharaf when he returned. It was such a beautiful structure.
The street became a bit more interesting as a large, colorful wagon train passed by. It was one of the wealthier merchants come from Mariath to escape the siege. Most of the sniveling cowards had fled, and left their citizens to suffer the spears and assaults of the Mumgatu. Disgust filled his heart at the callousness of those fops that would not die in hopeless battle beside their loyal subjects. Disgust turned to bitterness, and hate as another old wound was shorn to bleeding. He recognized the man in charge of that train, even though he hadn't seen him for nearly thirteen years. The man was dressed recognizably fantastic fineries, and appeared from his wagon at the aid of assisting servants and a pair of dead-faced children. The warrior prince mouthed a single word, a name he had forgotten to the passage of time. "Chalmer..."
He looked over his shoulder at his mate, and smiled at him sleeping there. Wave after wave of guilt washed through him as he contemplated a method by which he might be able to raise the necessary army he would need to confront his uncle. He looked back to the street, and dipped his head with self-loathing, but his resolve steeled with purpose as he concluded that this was the work of almighty Dalma. No coincidence had brought this opportunity to him, and he would be damned if he would let it pass. He quickly threw on pants and his weapon-belt and headed down to the front door of the inn with such speed as to catch the middle-aged fox before he disappeared.
Guild Master Chalmer looked disdainfully over the comparatively small city he had fled to. It had been a long, arduous trip for the pampered bureaucrat, and he had hoped the accommodation at the end of the journey would be more amicable to his previous existence. Still, it was better than the poor saps that were unable to leave in time. The warriors of the southern jungles were legendary in both combat prowess, and ruthlessness. He looked back on his ruling policies, and wish he had not spoken out against the Lumber Guild's plans to increase the military. He put it out of mind, and assumed that the barbarians would leave with their slaves and plunder and he could return to help rebuild what was left in their wake. This could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Who knows? Amberith permitting he might come out of this a king.
He sighed deeply as the old scar on his face itched, and he wondered what could possibly have excited the old wound to bother him. He motioned to one of his servant's who approached and ran a cloth damp with cool water over his ruined face, and missing eyes. Replacing the eye patch, the old fox sighed deeply as memories of how he suffered the wound circulated in his head. He had never really gotten over the loss of the arrogant young tiger who had cut him, and no one sense his leaving the Great City had been able to replace what the fox felt when they were together. This was life, he thought, and motioned for one of his attendants to bring him a bottle of wine. A careful few cups of the vintage would always calm him when he suffered loss, and right now he could possibly use a third.
A vessel of fine crystal tilted back as the guild man tipped his second cup of liquid comfort, and his good eye caught sight of an approaching man that shot shocks racing through his spine. The remaining window in his face widened with alarm and the glass fell from his hand to shatter on the cobblestone below. The slender fox stepped back against the wagon, and pressed his body against it finding his self unable to escape. One part of him wanted to rush forward, and take the tall man in an embrace forged by years of longing, but the rest of him remembered the fierce youth's words when last they met. "If I ever see you again" he had said as the fox gripped the bleeding gape on the left side of his countenance, "I'll cut out your heart, and wear your tail as a trophy as is the way of my people!"
He recognized him for sure. Years of growth had transformed him into something entirely different from the angelic appearance of his boyhood, but this was surely his Couric in the body of a man. He looked over the rough scars that showed through the fur of his wide, powerful chest, and followed them down along the finely toned abdomen. The tiger bore a mace at his side, and a pair of hastily donned pants. His arms were thick and carefully sculpted as only a warrior's physique will show. It occurred to Chalmer that should this man hold true to the promise of a boy he could rend the soft limps from the Guild Master's idle body with no challenge, and little effort.
"Hail Guild Master Chalmers!" the tiger said as he approached and held up his hand. The fox breathed heavily with confusion, and slowly relaxed his arms and allowed them to drop to his sides. The man was smiling at him. He returned the smile, and asked his attendants to step back into his carriage. He took an apprehensive step forward, and dipped his head to the prevailing figure before him.
"Good day, sweet Couric" he replied, and looked uneasily up at his face. Still so handsome, he was. The passage of time had stripped him of his Botticellian features, but replaced them with the smooth grace of masculine beauty. "What business today? Fancy my meeting you here."
"Indeed" the tiger replied, and crossed his arms. He smiled warmly at the fox that he had not seen in so long. He expected more from him, because of his youthful memory, but now he looked down at a small, weak, pathetic slip of a fop that posed no imposition, or threat to him. The Guild Master was terrified, and reeked of fear which to Couric was like the sweetest perfume of his mother's collection.
"Fanciful indeed. You look distraught, and I'd wager this Benuith to have some case for it. You surely aren't interested in this church of Shopil, let's us step to a restaurant, for I've a proposition that will make you much happier to be here."
He placed his hand on the fox' shoulder and the middle aged bureaucrat relaxed and smiled. The two of them stepped into his carriage and headed towards the wealthier district of the city.
Adrian stalked quietly through the woods with his bow at the ready. He was wearing a carefully constructed suit that his father had taught him to make for the purpose of hunting. Ahead of him, his keen eyes and sharp nose had found a lizard, and he stalked ever closer to it looking for the range of a kill. He was careful to keep the proud creature in his peripheral so as to avoid alerting it to his presence. Such a fine specimen would surely know when it was being watched. He carefully drew back his bow and lifted his eyes to make the shot that would hopefully bring the beast down, but found his self locked in the position and the arrow didn't fly. The creature was beautiful, it occurred to him. In all of his life he had never seen such a specimen among this breed. In the next instant, the lizard lifted its eyes to him, and bolted deep into the woods. Adrian lowered his bow, and watched the foliage of the creatures passing. He smiled in spite of the loss of his sport. It was decidedly better that such a magnificent creature live to breed, so that he might hopefully become the norm.
The Beduin's eyes widened quite suddenly as a horrible pain shot through his arm and up his shoulder. He turned his face to stare in shock at an arrow shaft that was plunged deep into his arm, and possibly the bone. His eye caught sight of a small imperfection in the foliage, and he launched his own arrow in that direction. Another sharp shaft flew past his head as the assailing archer yelped in pain and fell under Adrian's expert aim.
His eyes darted and around and his ears flashed warning as two more came flying out of the woods to carve him down with machetes. He yelped as his hands gripped the arrow shaft, and snapped it off. A screaming man in a scarecrow mask descended on the young warrior, and he narrowly escaped the blade of his weapon. Adrian's mind exploded in confusion. He darted off into the woods, and turned with his weapon drawn.
His new position afforded him a better look at his attackers and he realized that they were both foxes. He wondered at why bandits would be attacking him with corn-knives, and fear shot through him. Were these stragglers from a crew who were assaulting the home of his family? A rage blistered in his chest and he shot forward with a yell. The raised weapon of the closest assailant paused as his eyes widened in obvious awe and terror of the face of a true warrior. Adrian watched as his expression twisted further in shock and pain as the fox' finely crafted saber plunged into his gut. The machete fell from his hand and he reached for his murderer, but the Beduin twisted his blade, and jerked it to the left. A pitiful sound emanated from under the mask as the young man fell to the ground, disemboweled and dying by the second.
Adrian turned to the other who tarries a few paces away, and was backing up in horror of what he had just witnessed. These are not warriors he thought as he glared into the mortified eyes of the masked fox. Another corn-knife fell to the forest floor as the bandit turned and fled screaming towards the plantation. The Beduin took a step to follow, but a shrieking pain erupted in his leg and he turned his surprise to see that the floored bandit had mustered the strength to stab a knife into his calf. His blade cut a bright arc through the air and its deft stroke cleaved the brave youth's head from his body. Adrian watched it roll to a stop while its absconded body convulsed, and bled out onto the thirsty earth.
The head lay on the ground a few feet from Adrian, and he slowly walked towards it. He reached tentatively towards the sack-cloth mask that still covered it, and pulled it slowly away. His eyes widened with shock and terror as the grim face of his attacker came into view: Euric, son of Samuith. He had just killed his brother in law, but why? Why had he led an attack on the warrior when they were now brothers? Adrian's stomach turned, and he looked away. A sound caught his attention, and he followed it to the body of the boy who put the arrow into him. He had removed his mask, and was crying pitifully. Another of Samuith's sons! He was desperately trying to drag himself across the ground, and the stink of urine and offal wafted up to him. It occurred to Adrian what had happened: his arrow had gone through his gut and pierced his spine. There would be no saving this boy, and it broke Adrian's heart. He walked over and stood beside the young man who was barely more than a child, and glared at him remorsefully.
The boy looked up at Adrian and his eyes trailed over his drawn sword that stood enrobed in crimson garment. "Help?" he said weekly between sobs, and Adrian's stomach turned again.
"There is no helping you now. I would if there was something that could be done. Close your eyes, child, it will make it easier." The boy let out a long dry sob, and clamped his eyes shut in mortal terror. Adrian's blade moved swiftly across the back of his neck, a cut the Beduin called Great Mercy. It killed instantly, and painlessly, though it left the body to dance in its death throe from the shock of losing its brain. Adrian turned from the child's flailing corpse, and lost his stomach onto the ground in front of him. He gripped fruitlessly at some way to make this better, or explain it, but nothing would help. He finally found himself hastily wiping his blade, and running madly to his home.
Riadne heard the door slam, and rushed to see the problem. Adrian stood pausing for breath in the doorway with blood running out an arrow shaft in his arm. Her eyes widened and she rushed towards him, but he held up a paw and shouted 'No'.
"Get everything you can carry, all of our money, blankets, and clothes. I will get what I can, we have to leave now!" Riadne was confused, and terrified. What was happening? Who had hurt her mate? Why did they have to go?
"But, my family" she began, but was cut off as he grabbed her and held her face to his. The smell of fear and blood filled her nostrils, and she felt a panic rising in her.
"Do as I say", he said in a firm, yet loving tone, "and trust in me when I tell you they are fine. I promise, by Clovis' mighty hands that they are fine, now help me! My head is getting faint and we have miles to put under us. I'll explain later."
She complied. Within moments they were on the backs of plow-beasts and racing to the east. She never asked why they had to flee from the farm that had been her home, and joy since she was born, or from her family that she loved deeply without even saying goodbye. She had a feeling that she did not want to know the answers. Adrian didn't offer them voluntarily. Somehow, he knew she understood she was better off without such knowledge. Confusion continued to plague the young man's mind as they sped away, and something in him hardened. Goodbye Samuith, he thought, and your farm. I will miss that life of simplicity, and ease. Clovis, bring us luck, for nothing will ever be the same.
Adrian and Riadne adjusted fairly well to the life of homeless tramps. As long as they had each other all would be ok. They wandered from town to town, and city to city getting work where they could, doing their best to avoid debt, and loving each other very deeply. They rarely had enough to eat, and a roof over their heads had become a luxury, but as long as they had each other they could make it. Adrian longed to make things easier on his beautiful vixen because he could see in her that the life on the road was beginning to take its toll. She deserved better than this, he thought. If Riadne hated the travel, she never let it be known. She soldiered through the worst of it and remained the singularly unique vixen that Adrian had married. That is why it came as such a blow when the last thread of happiness cut from the young fox' heart.
Three years passed in travel across the land and the pair of foxes finally managed to settle in a small city west of Benuith. It was a good bit older, but smaller and poorer than the Dutchy that controlled its government. They were making ends meet by doing all manner of unsavory tasks. Riadne had learned to dance, and used her beautiful assets to lure drunken tavern patrons into gifting her coins to keep her on display while they drank. Adrian disapproved, but they had to pay their rent so he got a job working for the owner of the tavern and gambling house, a crime-lord named Iago.
The bear Iago was a vicious, scheming bastard who had clawed his way to the top of the local gang through years of hard work, brutality, and cunning strategy. He now owned the racket on gambling in a large chunk of the city, and ruled his small empire with a fist of relentless iron. For some time his eye wandered to one of his newer dancers, a remarkably attractive young vixen who had come from the western lands running from god knows what. He had suited her on several occasions to no end. Offers of money, power, and drugs had no impact on the girl, so he finally concocted a means to her end.
"So you are a very beautiful, skilled young dancer" he said after having called her into his chamber to speak privately, "but also very proud. Why haven't you figured out you are no better than the other girls who work in there?" She looked submissively at the floor.
"I can't do what you ask" she said quietly, "It's not about pride, it's duty. I just can't, I'm sorry." The old bear's eyes narrowed and he stood up and walked over to her.
"Duty huh?" he said and spit on the side of her face. "I think I understand. You have that sprat of a fox that guards my door. Is that your duty? Well I own him too, so consider where your loyalty would better lie?" He leered at her for a moment as she shook and closed her eyes. Terror settled over her, and she wished that she had listened to her mate and found a different job.
"I can't" she said, "I'm sorry. Please let me be, you have plenty of other girls, why am I special? I'm nobody!" she pleaded, and gasped as her words were cut off by a slap.
"You miss the point" he said coldly, and grabbed her by the muzzle, "nobody tells Iago no. So guess what? We're going to make a deal whether you would like to or not and something tells me you'll like my terms."
"There is my bed" he said, turning her head towards the silk laden divan, "See it there? Well, that is a gateway. The other is my door" he said turning her head towards the exit. "The difference between these to gates is that one leads to salvation, the other to damnation. Go to my bed, and you will walk out of here none the worse for wear. Walk out my door, and I'll have your kit of a fox-boy killed, and then I'll bury you alive with his skinless corpse. Do you understand?"
Riadne's body shook violently, and her lip quivered in fear, sorrow and rage. There was nothing she could do, now. No matter what she had to do to prevent it she wouldn't let anything happen to her love. He was too important to her to let her chastity stand over his death.
"I'm with child" she said plainly, and her voice quivered with shame, "so no man can come through my womb. If you can wait, I'll do anything you ask of me." The bear smirked in triumph, and amusement.
"Don't worry" he said, and shoved her roughly onto her chest, "There is more than one way that I can be pleased, you just won't like this one as much!" He pulled back the scarves that hid her body from those she danced for, and looked over the smooth curves of her rear, and legs. She gasped in panic, and confusion, and started to crawl away.
"Don't get scared now, we had a deal" he said, and grabbed a hold of her tail at the base. "That is what I love about you foxes" he said with a sneer as he pulled her roughly up onto her knees, "These tails make things so easy to handle. It's like Shopil made you with handles for us better creatures to use when we want them."
Riadne felt the pressure of his thrust and screamed at the top of her lungs in shock, shame, and pain. She quickly buried her mouth in one of his dirty pillows to stifle the sound, and sobbed out screams of agony as he pleasured himself on her. True to his word, though, he never touched her womb.
Adrian noticed a change in his mate, but couldn't put his finger on it. Something was wrong, but she wouldn't say what. Over the next couple of weeks, she grew more and more dispondent, but still his soothing would bring her back into good spirits for at least a little while. It seemed as though something inside her had been lost, and a little of that youthful exuberance he admired in her had finally been killed. He also heard rumors about her earning a little money on the side from Iago, but that couldn't be true...
...could it?
Riadne's face slowly melted into view, and Adrian realized that she was on the verge of death. Her eyes were rolling back in her head and her face was two shades darker than heavy. In the next instant, he realized that his own hands were fixed around her throat, and not in a subduing choke, but rather a killing grip. He let go of her and stepped back as she fell to the floor gasping and coughing. He continued his retreat as he realized where he was. This was his boss, Iago's room, and the old bear was laid out on the ground with Stripe Splitter pinning his throat to the floor boards. The moments before his blackout came rushing into his mind and he stared at Riadne in shock and horror. How could she? His mind flailed helplessly like some poor animal that's neck was just broken by a butcher. His entire body was shaking with a hurt that he couldn't fully comprehend. His mate looked up at him, and her eyes were cast in absolute shame, and self-hatred.
Beduin warrior training broke and melted as he fell to his knees. Something inside the young fox snapped with a resounding report, and he fell with his face in his hands hunched over a kneeling position. His emotion broke furiously through his face as he sobbed with a fury of passion that struck Riadne dumb, and still. She wanted to make it better, but how could she ever erase what her love had just seen? She slowly reached over, and put a hand on his shoulder only to have it roughly batted away. She watched in mute horror at the display of pouring sorrow flowed out of the proud fox in front of her. She had only seen him cry in his sleep, and then it was only a single tear. This was a fit of anguish that she had never seen in anyone, or anything. The vixen's head swooned, and she collapsed onto her face.
Shouts began to ring out through the gambling house, and footsteps approached. Adrian stood up, and removed his weapon from the man that he now hated more than every tiger combined. Something inside him hardened as life killed the last vestige of his youth, and buried it under the weight of a thousand unfulfilled dreams, and toying disappointments. He looked at his mate, and his face hardened into its Beduin Warrior discipline.
"I'm sorry I cut you, girl" he said coldly, "and I'm sorry I insulted you. You can go back to your father's house satisfied now."
Riadne shook with torment but there was nothing she could do. She wanted so badly to explain herself, to make him understand why she had done it. Nothing would happen. Her body was as immutable as a mountain, and refused her every command. She could only watch helplessly as he turned and kicked open the door, cutting down the first guard that stood in the way of himself and freedom.
"Please don't go" she said weekly long after he had disappeared from the hallway, "You...we...our baby..."