The keep of Fort Orric was set into the southernmost wall, opposite the gatehouse. Simple and stout, the fort was three stories tall, with a roof guarded by battlements. It was made of old, discolored gray stone coated in moss and ivy. A tower stood at the rightmost inner corner, a full story taller than the fort itself, though the tower’s wooden roof had collapsed into a mess of broken beams.

The fort had seen better days. Some stones had worn loose, and the mortar was crumbling, but it had held up better than the outer walls and gatehouse. The few open windows along the walls of the fort glowed with the flickering light of torches and lamps. Anarra entered through the open door, and found Deros waiting for her inside, his back to the wall and his burly arms crossed.

He had been watching her approach since she left the dying fire in the courtyard, and he continued to keep his eyes upon her. “Mistress Deimos,” he said, after a long moment, his voice just above a whisper.

Being called that grows on me more and more, she thought. But why did he remain silent so long? The thought of him being too entranced by her beauty to speak was puerile. Weakness, perhaps. He fears he shows a lack of spine in addressing me as such so readily.

“Polite of you to await my arrival,” she said. She looked over the fort’s vestibule. Short halls extended to her left and right, both ending in turns, and a short walk forward lead up a handful of steps to a shut door. A series of barrels was stacked against the wall in the left hall.

“’Tis only natural for me to wait on a woman of your caliber,” he said with a nod.

I like this game he plays. Such flattery.

“Have you a high respect, for women with magic in their blood?”

He rubbed his beard, grinning. “Well. The magic is rightly feared. No, there is a certain air to you, not easily described.”

“It was not too long ago you were wrestling with me on the forest floor, binding my wrists, musing that it might be a good to sell me to slavers for coin,” she said, returning his grin with a wry one of her own.

Deros tensed, as if it hurt to hear his his own words flung back at him. “Aye, I’ll admit I’m a practical man. You’d killed three o’ us, and magic sells well on the markets. I swear you this, you’re a Steel Raven now, and betrayal is not in my nature.”

She recalled that he and Corya had not spoken to one another about the fate of the Monastery of the Sacred Eye, and the fact that Anarra had escaped from its dungeons.

“But where you keep your trust and faith, I imagine, is altogether something else.”

The bearded man’s eyes went wide, but he calmed himself just as quick. “You are a sharp woman,” he said in surprise. “Come then, let me show you your quarters. You won’t be sleeping among the men—Corya and myself think that an horrid idea, though they might complain you’re getting better treatment.”

She was no fool—it was clear he was trying to urge the conversation away from his thoughts on Corya. That all but confirms what I thought—there is a rift here. It is not about me, though, for ‘tis clear both wish me part of the Ravens. So then what?

Deros grasped a burning torch from a sconce, and lead her down the hall to the right. Piled against the wall were moldy, moth-eaten banners. It was hard to tell in the light of the torch, but they were dyed blue and trimmed in silver, though age had faded them.

“The banner of House Bernhart, the royal house of Talarac. Before the Long Peace, forts such as these held the border against Vuienne.”

“Corya said she was a Vuienne woman. Does this land belong to the Kingdom?”

Deros’s brow raised. “You know more than I expected,” he said. He cleared his throat as they walked the hall. “Queen Eadgifu rules these lands, aye. There’s much I can tolerate, but the boys and Corya know I won’t stand for slander or foul words about the Unbowed Queen.”

The two reached the end of the hall, which split to the left and right. The right path lead inside the fort’s tower, the spiral stairs shrouded in darkness. To the left was another short set of stone stairs that lead to the fort’s second floor. One of the worn banners had been hammered into the stone steps like a carpet, to make the walk up more palatable.

“Why do they call her Eadgifu the Unbowed?” asked Anarra.

“Kalarac and Vuienne have warred through the ages, fighting over this land or that,” Deros started, gesturing to the stairs to the second floor. Anarra followed him up, her eyes roaming the stone walls of the keep.

Deros continued. “Eadgifu had been born into the heights of a war long started. She was sixteen when the Kingdom of Kalarac was a mere day from the gates of Vuienne’s capitol, Etteriya. Her eldest brother had died in battle months earlier, and her father as well. Her mother was stricken by illness. The siege had begun, and her last remaining sibling, her youngest brother, rode out to meet the Kalaracian host. He died, too.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I see now. She is the Unbowed, because she did not surrender.”

Deros smirked. “Aye. But she did more than not surrender. Took up her father’s sword, rallied what was left of the Vuienne royal armies, and lead the counter-attack. She routed the Kalaracians, drove them out of Etteriya. But she didn’t stop there. The beautiful dame kept fighting, and kept winning, too. Took three years, but she drove her armies deep into Kalarac, took back her land and far more, ‘til the Kalaracians were left with nothing but their highlands and mountain strongholds. Then came the Long Peace. For about thirty years, there ain’t been a lick of war between the two.”

Anarra shook her head at that. “An inspiring woman. Nevertheless, she should have done it properly—finished Kalarac off, put them to the sword.”

“Many close to the Queen thought she should have, too,” Deros replied, grimly. “And some say she bides her time to do just that. There be unrest in the conquered lands. Kalaracians resistant to adopting the ways of Vuienne are being driven off—killed, if they resist, by the Queen’s own men.”

Anarra imagined Kalaracian families at sword point, and villages burning as the Vuienne banner waved proudly before the fires. Her heart raced, and she felt a quiver of pleasure. “If I was Queen Eadgifu, that is what I would do. And I’d enjoy it, so very, very much,” she said, her voice bordering on a low moan.

Deros was speechless, but he gathered himself. “You are… a harsh, and decisive woman then, Mistress Deimos,” he said, but his tone was ambiguous; she could not tell if he was appalled, or approving. Perhaps he was both. “Many say Vuiennese noblewomen are as dominating as they are beautiful. I know not if you are Vuiennese by blood, but you are certainly one by nature.”

And now it all makes sense, why he treats me so. This might prove quite fruitful for me, if I play this game well.

The pair emerged in the corner of the second floor. A long hall, well-lit, stretched out before them, the full length of the fort. On the right wall of the hall was a handful of open windows, the night breeze gentle on her skin as she walked by them. She could see the forest by night. The wind rustled the leaves, which caught the moonlight, shimmering.

She walked slow, admiring the sight, until she decided to stop at a window, her hands resting on the stone. Deros slotted his torch in a metal sconce nearby, and stood beside her.

“To think,” Deros started, “if I had come moments earlier, I might have died by your magic. Goddess’s luck on my side.”

His eyes settled on her, and roamed; they rested a long while on the curves of her chest, enjoying the way breasts filled that tight red top, how she wore many of the buttons undone, to reveal their gently tanned slopes.

“Be certain you never cross me. Or I will deal with you the same I dealt with your three comrades,” she threatened, a dark impulse in her eyes.

“Without mercy,” he said, his voice wavering.

“Without mercy,” she repeated.

“I will… endeavor not to cross you, Mistress Deimos.”

Corya said she was ‘one of the boys.’ She is loose with them, a comrade-in-arms. Deros does not wish that. He craves a woman he fears and respects.

“Be certain you never do,” she ordered, harsh and grave. Deros’s eyes were wide and dazzled, the whites of them lit up by the torchlight. He nodded softly, and turned from her.

There was a silence between them until they reached the intersection midway down the long hall. “The barracks and armory are here, as well as a study and common chamber. All rather small. But that’s where you’ll find the rest. We passed it on the first floor, but the larder and eating hall are there, if you’re wondering.”

She could hear them through the wall, hollering and laughing, the clink of mugs and of fists pounding on tables. She cared not to speak with them this night; already, plots worked themselves over in her mind. Anarra had not tasted freedom long, but already, she enjoyed the thought of having a servant. Or many.

The two passed the intersection and approached the far side of the long hall, which held another spiral stone stair to the third floor. Deros gestured for her to go first, and she did so. Anarra did not need to glance back at the man to know where he was staring. Undoubtedly, his eyes were fixed on her shiny leather-bound ass cheeks. The thought rather delighted her, and she added a pronounced sway to her hips. When they came to the third floor, she glanced back, at Deros sheepishly averted his eyes, coughing into a fist. Her vanity blossomed pleasantly, well-fed by the attention.

The passages on this floor were more intimate, and laid out in a pattern that suggested four large rooms, in a grid-like fashion. “The third floor is full of narrow archer’s corridors along the walls, and the inner quarters are far more roomy than the barracks. They were once reserved for the high-ranking knights and officers, and other guests, I figure. One of the chambers is split, with a stair to the roof and battlements, and storage and the like. One of them is Corya’s. Another shall be yours.”

“And the last?”

“Meetings, strategy. The more precious valuables. There’s maps and books there, if you wish; it may be useful to get your bearings.”

He walked her now to one of the chambers, and fished out a ring of keys. He unhooked one key and set it in her palm.

“You’ve been quite useful, Deros.”

He lowered his head. “Aye, a pleasure to be in your company.”

“Wake me when you do, and bring me a sword. I wish to get a start on learning. I’d rather not be tackled and tied up again. I’d rather be the one tying others.”

He grinned at that. “Steel is good and reliable. Though if some fool does try to tackle you on a run of ours, I’ll be there to step in the way.”

“As I’d expect,” she said, unwilling to show any gratefulness. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“Aye,” he said quickly. “May the night find you well, Mistress Deimos.”

The door groaned as she opened it. She stepped inside and locked it. The chamber was dark, but the open window faced the moon, lighting up her room. The cross-shaped iron bar across the window split the light, casting bands of shadow through the room. The quarters was far from impressive, but it was quite able in its own right: a dusty armoire stood against one wall, and a desk in similar state, along with a hearth. She saw a series of footprints along the dust-covered floor leading to the bed, which seemed to have been brought in earlier in the day, with fresh if thin woolen sheets. There was a squat, iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed, as well. An empty bookcase with a broken shelf was nearby the bed.

As she sat down on the bed, she felt awfully sore and horribly tired. A wave of exhaustion ran through her, and she fought her boots off, and collapsed into the bed. It dawned on her that this was the first true bed she had slept in that wasn’t within the monastery, and she was the safest she had ever been in her life. Her body felt heavy, numb, and her thoughts faded into darkness as she fell asleep.