Anarra, wrapped in a cloak for modesty, followed Corya barefoot out of the prison—for some reason, the scarlet-haired woman expected rows and rows of dark, foreboding cells, buried deep below the earth. But instead, the prison had only four cells, and it was a short stone hall and a single locked iron-and-wood door out into the inner courtyard of the fort.
The fort itself, nestled so deep in the olden forest, was in a state of disrepair. The stone walls were coated thick in moss and ivy, and trees had grown tall in the unkempt central courtyard. Each of the walls had breaches and breaks, though some had been repaired in poor fashion—wooden boards and old worked stone haphazardly used to barricade the openings. But some of the courtyard had been cleared, and the repairs worked well enough to allow only one entrance, from the north. It wasn’t a large fort, by any means, but she imagined the small keep set into the southern wall could house a few dozen comfortably.
“The Steel Raven’s home, Fort Orric,” Corya gestured broadly, arms raised as she turned about in a circle, facing all the broken stone walls of the old fort. “Used to belong to the Talarac Kingdom, so I’m told. Kept the border between it and Vuienne, ‘til the Long Peace. I’m a Vuienne woman, through-and-through. Bless Queen Eadgifu the Unbowed, and her big, blonde tits,”
“Bless the Queen and her tits!” a voice called out from the eastern battlement of the fort.
Corya shot a glance towards the voice. “Keep your eyes on the road, Gamon.”
“Aye, ma’am!”
“Ignore him,” Corya said, waving Anarra to follow.
The woman with magic in her blood followed her eagerly. “Charming. But I want to be changed, and given what’s mine. Now,” she said, more firmly than intended.
“Mmm. Yes, Lady Deimos.”
Anarra said nothing, taken aback by the honorific, and the almost deferential tone Corya had spoken with. She watched closely as the bandit leader walked with a hurried step, as if to take Anarra swiftly to her destination. She was no longer certain if this bandit woman was trying to manipulate her, or if her words of prior were genuine.
Corya opened a door in the eastern stone wall, leading Anarra inside. The plain stone hall was dark, the torches in the iron-wrought scones unlit. They continued to walk, with Anarra minding her step across the cold stone, until the hall opened into a long chamber. Broken open arrow slits along the outer wall let in enough light, and there was a large crack where a giant dead tree had smashed into the stone and knocked enough of them loose to let more light in. On the far end, a decaying wooden staircase lead to a second floor.
Scattered about the long chamber were piles of clothes, opened wooden crates, leather trunks, broken barrels, tack and equipment for horse-riding, random torn bags, faded paintings, books and scrolls, even a few odd weapons among the knick-knacks and old belongings.
“We’d ransack carriages—try to take everything, and sell it. But some things, they don’t sell easy. Take what you want—consider it a gift from the Ravens, beautiful,” Corya said, winking. “There’s a small river a short ways out the front gate, to the east, if you need to wash up. You’re free to go, if you wish. But you’d do good with us. We both know that.”
Anarra gave her a simple nod, and turned her eyes to the piles and scattered items. “I’ll give your cloak back when I’m finished,” she said. She regarded it now: simple and dyed black, with a few feathers on one shoulder, and a strap to keep on one’s shoulder.
“Keep it,” Corya said, smiling as she walked back down the hall.
◆
Anarra spent more time than she thought she would, searching through the piles of clothes. The first step was sorting out the clothing for women, and the second, finding that which fit her well. That was harder than she thought: a good deal of it was impractical, either gaudy dresses or plain, heavy cotton ones, neither of which would serve her well in a battle. Much of the breeches and pants were either too on her thighs, or could not fit around her ass, or were far too loose about her hips. Most of the shirts and tops could be made to fit, with some tying or cutting. She was grateful to find a few brassieres that fit her breasts well enough, for most were too tight.
After she found a decent set of clothes, and picked up a few other useful belongings, she made her way to the river that Corya had described. None of the Steel Ravens bothered her as she left through the front gate. Where once stood a mighty iron-barred wooden gate, there now stood only the stone skeleton of the gatehouse. She walked a few paces down the overgrown, almost vanished road and then turned towards the forest. The dirt and grass felt good under her bare feet, and the path was dotted bluebells and primroses and the twisting roots of might trees. She heard the river before she saw it. The so-called river turned out to be more a creek, but it would do for her purposes. The river was cool and clear, and she set her pile of clothing and equipment aside, along with her cloak, and laid naked in the creek, closing her eyes, the water pleasantly caressing her bruised form. She gathered the water in her hands, and ran them along her body, groaning in satisfaction as she bathed, washing herself head to toe.
In the piles of forgotten loot, she had found a grooming kit full of finely-sharpened instruments, and she took her time; before long, she was hairless below the neck, her skin soft and smooth. She used the blades of the kit to trim her hair, which had grown long and split at the ends, cutting until those long red tresses stopped at the middle of her back. She remained kneeling in the creek, feeling the water across her legs, and the smoothness between them, and she sighed, running her fingers down her bare breasts.
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Then, she dried herself and changed. First, came a black thong and matched brassiere; not of the same make exactly, but they fit well enough together. She enjoyed the soft snugness of the undergarments, and she lingered a moment, running a hand along her ass. She had lived a life of poor, itchy rags—this felt soft, and tight, and sexy. Then, she continued: black leather leggings that clung tightly to her body, accentuating every curve, then a pair of simple black socks, and a set of knee-high, metal-adorned black boots with rather impressive heels. Another pair she had found had no heels, and were somewhat more comfortable, but these were beautiful and finely-crafted. She buckled her belt on, and tugged on a tight, long-sleeved red shirt that revealed much of her midriff. Finally, she slipped on fine black leather gloves, and a black leather bolero that fit her shoulders and arms snugly. She took a long moment, admiring herself, the way the leather gleamed and clung to her figure, how different she felt in it, how… beautiful, it all was.
There was no jewelry of any sort in that collection of misfit items. She had hoped to find something—she had always wanted jewelry, after all—but this would do for now. What she had found was a good-size satchel she could carry on the low of her back, a scrollcase, the aforementioned grooming kit, a small mirror, a tinderbox, a few candles, a blank leather-bound book, and a small set of writing supplies. Anarra was far from illiterate, but she was poorly practiced, and hoped to address that weakness. The priests of the Sacred Eye had hoped to teach her verse and prayer, to ‘redeem her malevolent soul,’ but she had resisted the lessons every step of the way.
“Hey there, beautiful,” a familiar voice said from behind her. “Oh, by the gods, your butt looks great in those.”
She turned on heel. It was Corya.
“For a moment,” the bandit leader continued, “I thought you had run off. Taking your time, I see?”
“How long was I?” Anarra said defensively.
Corya raised her arms, as if to say it was no big concern. “At least a few hours,” she said, walking closer. Her eyes roamed up and down Anarra’s figure. She whistled. “I see why you took so long. Mm, very nice. Black leather suits you. And… nice boots.”
“Where are my—” Anarra started, but Corya came up to her and set her hands on Anarra’s hips, squeezing affectionately, her touch wandering across the woman’s leather-clad thighs and waist. The redhead sighed softly at the touch, losing her train of thought, one of her own hands resting atop one of Corya’s.
“Some of my men aren’t pleased fighting alongside a woman who killed their comrades. Particularly a woman with magic in her blood,” the scarred bandit leader said. “You’ll have to watch your back, and earn your keep.”
“My knife. The coins—”
“Was any of that truly yours? Picked off our dead friends.”
Anarra’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Then I earned it, didn’t I?”
“Come now. It’s a handful of copper. You’ll earn more than that on your first raid. As for the knife, well—maybe. Think how the others might react if they see you walking around, their dead friend’s blade on your gorgeous hips.”
That explanation mollified her. “You can burn, or get rid of the rest of my old belongings. I’ve no interested in those rags,” she said, more than a hint of venom in her words.
Corya nodded, squeezing Anarra’s hips. “You should ask Deros for some proper fighting lessons. He can teach you to use a blade. He’s the bearded fellow who tied you up. Could have slit your throat, if he wanted—but he’s a good man, by our standards.”
Anarra nodded, but a flash of fury appeared in her eyes. “The test should mind themselves, unless they want to join their dead friends.”
“I admire your attitude, Hellcat. But mind the pride and temper. Killing everyone you meet won’t get you very far.”
First ‘Lady Deimos,’ and now ‘Hellcat.’ This woman had a penchant for granting her names. “Fine. But they best not test me. That includes you, as well.”
Corya’s response came slow; it was clear the woman recognized she was being tested, and had to choose her response carefully. “Yes, Lady Deimos,” she said quietly. Anarra then guided Corya’s hands off her body, and the dark-haired woman reluctantly complied. Then she glanced down the path to Fort Orric. “Come, we should head back. The others should meet you before nightfall.”
I’m the one making her obedient, now. She thought she could play me with sweetened words—now, beneath my heel she goes, step-by-step. I wonder if she thinks me possessed of noble blood? Does she know something of my name, that I do not?
The two walked, side-by-side, back through the forest. Corya was right: the sun was setting, the falling rays casting ragged shadows along the grassy floor.
“I know of a Gamon, and now, a Deros. What can you tell me of your merry band?”
Corya smirked. “You and I are the only women in camp. I lead them, and they see me as one of the boys, so to speak. But you? Some will want you dead, for killing three of their brothers-in-arms. Some will want to take you to bed, make that ass of yours bounce, and no more. And the rest won’t cause much of a problem.”
“You said Deros was a good man?” Anarra said, listening intently as she walked over a knot of tree roots.
“He’ll respect you, won’t cause problems. He saw what you could do. Gamon is a drunk fool, but he’s never been a problem. You wouldn’t be the first we’ve recruited, who has killed one of our own,” Corya said as she moved through the forest. “The archer you faced is Tannin. If anything, he seems to fear you after your… fireworks.”
“These, I imagine, are the ones who will cause me no problem. Now what of the harder men?”
“You killed Jeric, Thommin, and Carris. We’ve a man by the name of Elrin, he sometimes shared a bed with Jeric. He won’t be happy that the bitch who killed Jeric walks among us. He’s a man with a temper, but yours burns brighter. Then there’s the twins—Varlin and Demtri. Tough, brutal men, and they were friends of Thommin and Carris. They’ll push you, test you, for certain. May even try to kill you if they see an opening, but they’re more greedy than vengeful. Tide it over, you’ll be fine.”
The pair came now to the gate, but Anarra slowed, hands on her hips as she looked over at Corya expectantly. “That all of them?”
“No, there’s Kem. He’s harder to figure out. Religious man—prays to a few the divines, spends many nights alone in the woods. Pours out bottles of good wine in their names. I can’t tell if he’ll want to slit your throat for a ritual, or worship you, thinking you an emissary of some other force.”
Anarra sported a smug smile. “Let us hope he has the sense to kneel and kiss my boots.”
For a moment, Corya seemed at a lost for words, her eyes darting between Anarra’s blue eyes, and her shiny black heeled boots. Then, finally, she rather flatly said, “the rest of the Steel Ravens should be gathered in the courtyard by now.”
The redhead gathered her wits and stared through the open gate, seeing the motley crew around an open fire. Corya walked in first. Anarra steeled herself, and followed after. They will know to fear me. Then, they will learn to worship me.