Seven men were gathered around the courtyard bonfire, the flames casting shadows across the trees that fenced them in. Seven men drank watered-down ale, cheap wine, and tore chunks off old, stale bread as they passed around a plate of warmed, dried meats. Seven men hollered and laugh among themselves, but all went silent on the approach of Corya and Anarra.

At once, their eyes fell heavy on the redhead. There were scornful looks, glares of rage, quick glances and averted eyes. Some held no anger, only curiosity. And some even smiled, or wet their lips, their eyes roaming up and along her body. The bearded man that had captured her, Deros, stared into her eyes. She held the gaze, and after a long moment, he nodded his head, approvingly.

“We don’t want no uppity bitch in the Ravens,” a bald, tattooed man said, spitting to the side.

“Then you should leave, bitch,” Anarra cut-in sharply.

The man rose suddenly, but a similar-looking man sitting beside him pulled him back down.

Corya glared, first at Anarra, then the man. “Silence, Demtri. That’s not up to you. We’ll talk first.”

Anarra recalled that Demtri and Varlin were twins, and that neither had a fondness for her; the death of Thommin and Carris at the bridge had guaranteed that animosity. Demtri had ornate black-and-blue tattoos along his burly arms, his head shaved clean. That meant the identical man beside him, who had pulled him back down, was Varlin. He had a similar, muscled build and shaven pate, but sported no such tattoos. While Demtri’s eyes glittered with fresh hate, she noticed Varlin seemed far less emotional—he was looking away, stealing glances at her, his eyes lingering, more curious than furious.

“We know how I’ve run the Steel Ravens this past year,” Corya started, walking up to the roaring flame, pacing around it as she spoke, her shadow draping along the seated men. The light of the bright fire made the scars of her face stand out. “Smart choices. Hard choices. Sacrifices. This wouldn’t be the first time we’ve lost a man, and gained another. Has Gamon not earned his keep?” she said, gesturing to a man with a short beard, his blond hair cut short, his skin tan from the sun. He awkwardly rubbed his jaw. Corya continued, “sure, he drinks far too much, but his keen eyes have spared us troubles more than once.”

“Aye, but this is different,” a man interrupted. He rose up, a finely groomed, heavy-set fellow with dark skin in a heavy smith’s apron. “This miserable bitch killed three of our own. Jeric among them—he’s been with us since the start.”

Corya crossed her arms. “You aren’t wrong, Elrin. All the more reason to ask us what she can do as part of the Ravens, if she managed to kill three of us and walk away.”

“Let us not forget,” another man cut-in, who Anarra recognized as Deros, the bearded man who had tied her up, “that Jeric was on bridge duty for a reason. He got sloppy, got one of us killed. Have we forgotten Theddeus so readily?”

Deros has already made up his mind. Did he speak with Corya, or did he come to this conclusion himself? Anarra then noticed how Deros kept looking back at her as he spoke, as if entranced.

Elrin, sitting by the fire, grit his teeth, his big fingers digging into his thighs. “Mistakes or not, we stand by our brothers. He was a Steel Raven, through-and-through!” he shouted, nearly barking the words out.

“We know yer thoughts plenty well on Jeric,” Gamon said with a smirk, taking another gulp of ale.

Elrin snatched his mug and threw it at Gamon, narrowly missing his head. Some of the men burst into laughter, but the heavy-set man rose up and marched towards Gamon, a look of raw anger on his dark face.

Deros was swift, stepping between the two. “That’s enough. No more of that. It’s stupid, sloppy, wasteful,” he said, turning back to Gamon. “And no more quips out of you, either.”

She noticed the two that hadn’t spoken yet: a man in makeshift robes, a hood hiding his face, a large mace strapped to his back. And beside him was the archer that had helped capture her, Tannin, she recalled. She knew the robed man must be Kem, the devout fellow—there was no way to understand what he might be thinking. But Tannin looked just as Corya described him, tense and suspicious. But his eyes tracked Deros, and he was listening intently to what the bearded man was saying. He’ll fall in with Deros, more than likely. He might not trust me, but he won’t disobey those in charge.

Anarra’s instincts told her this was settled before it had ever begun. Corya had made up her mind, but more than that, the bulk of the men here would accept her. Corya was merely seeking to head off any tensions, see who had a problem that needed to be dealt with.

“We give her a run. See if she lasts. All in favor?” Corya said, gesturing to her men.

“Aye,” Deros said, without hesitation. His eyes stayed on Anarra.

“Aye,” Gamon answered, raising his mug.

Varlin, the much calmer twin, looked at Demtri. The tattooed Demtri rose in disgust, scowling at his still-seated brother. Varlin shook his head. “Grudges get you killed, brother. That’s an aye from me.”

“True enough. Aye, then,” Tannin softly added.

“That’s an aye from me as well,” Corya then finished. “That’s five ayes. Elrin, Demtri, Kem?”

The heavy-set man ground his jaw. “Nay.”

Demtri, standing with his arms crossed, shook his head. “Nay as well.”

“Kem?” Demos said. Both he and Corya looked expectantly at the man.

After a long silence, he rose his head, and simply said, “I abstain.”

“Very well. The ayes have it. Anarra joins the Ravens. If she proves herself, she stays,” Corya said, a smile on her scarred lip. She walked over and squeezed the woman’s shoulder. Demtri and Elrin marched off in disgust, the two grumbling at one another as they disappeared into the shadows of the fort.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Varlin walked around the fire to Anarra, his shoulders tensed, fists squeezed tight, as if to strike her, but he stopped and stood calmly before her instead. He stuck his hand out, and she hesitantly took it in kind, shooting him a curious look. He shook her hand firmly. “Well met, Anarra,” he said simply, then turned, leaving towards the keep.

Tannin did not come up to her, but merely nodded, trying not to meet her eyes, and made for the keep in the rear of the fort, where the other three had gone. So he does fear me—that, I can use.

Gamon rose, stumbling, laughing as he came up to her, gripping his mug of ale. He lifted it to the sky. “Here’s to Anarra, may the gods bless redheads, bless em’, bless em’ and their tits and ass,” he slurred-shouted, falling over a wood log used for sitting, spilling his drink.

“Damn drunk fool,” Deros said, palming his face in disgust.

A few eyes fell on Anarra, as if to gauge her response. She turned her chin up and smirked. “Nothing holy about this body, unless there’s a god of tits and ass.”

Deros and Corya laughed at that, but it was a laugh that betrayed their shared interest; both had a craving for Anarra, though Corya was far, far more blunt about her desires.

Corya turned to the bearded Deros. “You’ll be showing our newest member the ropes. I need to have a word with Elrin and Demtri. Show her to her quarters, if you would,” the leader said. “And welcome to the Steel Ravens, Anarra.” Corya then nodded at the both of them and made for the fort’s keep.

Deros stood close to Anarra, and kept his voice low. “Apologies for the rest. They’ve been getting sloppy these past few days,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ll learn plenty fast, I can tell. It takes a capable woman to down three of us, as you did. More than that to escape the Sacred Eye.” His well-groomed beard, short dark hair, and thick eyebrows framed sharp blue eyes. He was a smart man, that much she could tell, and he saw similar in her.

“So you know,” she said, tensing.

“I keep my ear to the ground. I know this land well, maybe better than even Corya. Worry not, your secret is kept. Does Corya know?”

Anarra rose a brow at that. She nodded a silent ‘yes’ at Deros. They both know the truth, but have chosen to keep it to themselves. He’s a loyal second—so he likes to appear?

She cleared her throat. “I’d enjoy learning what you know. And not just how to use a sword. Too much of this world is a mystery to me.”

“I imagine so. You’ve been locked there a long time, if the rumors are true.”

“I have known no other world than the innards of that monastery.”

Deros took her gloved hands in his. He rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles, softly. Then, he leaned low, and kissed them. “Then let us make sure your fate remains your own, and no other’s, Anarra.” Then, he rose, bowed his head once more, and made to turn away.

“Deros,” she said. He paused, and turned to her once more. “I prefer Lady Deimos.”

He stood there quietly, eyes darting about, as he thought over what she had said. His words suggest a rift between him, and Corya. And he speaks as if he seeks a new master.

“Of course, Lady Deimos,” he said. He had thought it over, she could tell, and he had decided that her push for authority was to be respected. Good. “I’ll be waiting inside the fort to lead you to your quarters. I need to be sure Corya has handled the other two. Will that be all… mistress?”

He had hesitated on that last word, as if to see if it pleased her. She rather did like the ring of that. “I had nothing to drink at this gathering. If you’ve a bottle of wine—and more—that would be rather lovely. And… Mistress Deimos is fine as well.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” he added. “See you shortly, Mistress Deimos.” She noticed the confidence in calling her that, as if he grew more comfortable each time he had addressed her that way. She watched Deros walk into the lighted keep. The Steel Ravens may not last forever. Does he see me as a next step?

The fire had burnt down to a smoldering heap of ash, and the stars had come out. The smell of it, the remaining flickers of flame—it reminded her of the Monastery of the Sacred Eye, and her baptism by fire. She made for the keep.

“Mistress Deimos,” a whispering voice said, the accent thick, one she did not recognize.

Kem? He was seated so still by the smoking ashes of the fire that she had forgotten he was ever here.

“You must be Kem. The man of faith.”

The robed man nodded. Anarra walked up to him, leisurely so, her hips rolling with freshly-born confidence.

“You abstained. Explain yourself,” she asked sharply.

He remained silent, for a long time. “My yea, or my nay, would have no weight. The decision was made, long ago.”

She gave him a curious look.

“You are a daughter of sin. Fury; lust; sadism. There is no mark of the makers within you; there is only blackness in your soul. Endless black, and no light.”

A rage boiled in her, and she dug her fingers into her palms. “You speak like the clergy.”

“No. They judged. I do not.”

“You call me the daughter of sin.”

“Are you not hate and vanity? Do you not revel in the death you deal? I judge not your past nor predict your future. I ask you what you are now, what you decide to be.”

Anarra Deimos stood before him, hands on her hips. She let her eyes linger of her body, down into her own cleavage, her half-open unbuttoned shirt, the bruises on her abdomen, the leather across her legs. Then, finally, at her gloved palm. She tightened her hand into a fist. She remembered the dying light of the man on the bridge, and the burnt corpses of the clergy, and the feeling of holding those copper coins, and bathing in the cool creek as she groomed herself.

“I am a hateful, arrogant, vain bitch. And I long to hurt everyone around me. I want them all to bow down and serve me.”

Kem drew back his hood, revealing a hairless visage: a bald head, no brow, no beard. Tattoos of a faith she knew not adorned his pate, and runes were tattooed down his cheeks, below his eyes. “You know yourself well. That is your strength. That is your legacy. You will bleed this land, and more, if none can stop you.”

Kem rose, and walked to her. His heavy robes swayed, and the various necklaces and pendants he wore jingled and clacked together. “I hold to many faiths, many divines. There is room among the divines for chaos and order, for hate and serenity, for vanity and humility,” he said as he pulled out a cloth pouch. From it, he took out a pair of slender silver bracelets, with an ornate runic design on them, interlocked with scrollwork. They jingled pleasantly against one another as he held them.

“Long ago, a woman called Echia sought power. To this end, she gathered artifacts of grand majesty, and learned the ancient art of arc arcana. She wished to become a goddess. And that, she did—but the spell grew unstable, and scorched the lands of Styinia into an ashen wasteland. Though she perished a half-goddess, many are those who worship her—for she is a woman of ambition, of drive, and desire. Make no mistake: you are not her, so your path is your own. But your path is not so lonely, Mistress Deimos.”

Anarra took the bracelets, and looked them over. She slid them both onto her left wrist. She examined them, twisting her wrist about, the metal jingling. “This… tribute, is most appreciated.”

“Tribute it is,” Kem said, drawing his hood back up. “A twin set of bracelets that depict her journey. Wear them well, and with pride, as you are wont to do, Mistress Deimos.”

He continued. “I leave soon. My deed is done. Long have I wondered why I was called here. You are the reason, I now realize.”

“There is more I wish to ask you,” Anarra quickly said.

“Yes. In time, of course. For many days yet I remain, and there is much you must learn. I bid you a night of peaceful dreams, Mistress Deimos,” he said, bowing his head deep. Then, he turned, though he made not for the keep, but one of the open breaks in a side wall.

Anarra, alone, stared up at the starry night sky. Then, she knelt by the smoldering ashes of the bonfire, and gathered a handful. She admired the burning motes within the ash, the fineness of it, and blew hard, scattering the ash to the cool night breeze. For she is a woman of ambition, of drive, and desire. Well, Echia—I’ll go further than you ever dared.