The threat of the lone archer was something Bennett did not need adding to all his other worries for the uncertain future. The episode was not helping the morale within his small camp. Even though he had banished Aran to certain death, he found new reason to curse the man every day for bringing this trouble to their door. In all the years they had inhabited this place they had never had anyone locate them and target them in this fashion. Now everyone had been forced to maintain a diligent watch, and with so few men left even Bennett felt he must do so, setting the perks of his leadership aside.

The nights were especially bitter, and if the wind came up, even more unbearable. The watches had been broken into periods of two hours. It was all he and his men could stand. They could not allow the woman with her deadly arrows to breach their defenses again, soon she must falter and someone would get her, and then they could go back to more relaxed ways.

Bennett had other ulterior motives for taking his turn at the watch. Even though he led here without question he was still squeamish about his sexual orientation and did not flaunt it in front of his men. All knew of his predilections for men and young boys, but it was never spoken of. In a way, his differences made him more fearsome to the men he led, yet created barriers as well.

All his life he had been told his desires were wrong, though powerful and feared, the stigma of what he was had stayed with him. The words of his homophobic father and the beatings he had taken as a teenager are still vivid in his memory. His hard father from who he had learned his trade in fear, every bit as tough and callous as he was, had left an indelible mark on him, and probably the only man he had ever truly feared.

With the cold and the lack of privacy his hut used to offer in warmer days, Wesley Bennett had to resort to sating his desires swiftly and out of view of the others. This was no easy task. Hence this evening he had taken Nathan with him on his two-hour vigil, he had wanted to bring Carlos but his prize slave was still fighting the remnants of a chest infection. It would have been foolhardy to bring him out here in this cold, and there remained some pleasures Carlos would not readily satisfy.

Nathan had reveled in the attention Carlos' illness had afforded him, at last, he was being noticed again and he meant to fully capitalize on his rival's misfortune. He would not be relegated to obscurity again, and the endless, mindless, hours spent on a length of chain, cold and unwanted.

Bennett sat scanning the far horizon, eyes observing no movement in the inky black. His hand resting ready on the cold, comforting, steel of the Sig .45 in its holster. The night was thankfully still and he could detect no other presence but his and Nathan's. He should be undisturbed here and could enjoy his slave's young body in any way he desired.

He knew the woman if she appeared expected someone to be on duty here. Hence he did not have the luxury of a fire, the less illumination the better. It was imperative that Bennett saw her first, it was as simple as that, get the first shot on her and remove the constant, dogged threat, once and for all.

He beckoned Nathan to him, body already tense and aching for the long-awaited release. The slight youth did his bidding swiftly and eagerly, without question as he always had. Bennett shrouded the two of them in the large gray blanket he had brought for just such a purpose. Nathan's eager mouth felt delicious on his hardness, though Bennett found himself wishing at that moment he had spared the boy his tongue. Still after many days of nothing and watching his men fornicate at will before him in the great cave, this was a sweet release.

The immense battle-scarred leader leaned back against the tall standing stone. He was in such a blissful place even the cold ceased to nag at him. The slight boy warm between his thighs performing this forbidden act, Bennett was lost in the moment. His eyes were closed, fast nearing the precipice of his release; Nathan seemed to pause and abruptly pull away. This was most uncharacteristic of him.

The big man's ice-blue eyes opened, and he raised his large hand to strike the boy for his misbehavior. Instead of cringing from the intended blow, Nathan sunk backward to the cold sand ever so slowly, his body spasming, green eyes locked onto his master in sightless pain. It was then Bennett felt the warm, slick, blood, it was not his own, but that of his slave boy. Even in the bad light, he could make out the shaft of the arrow, protruding from Nathan's back, fletched in the characteristic black raven's feathers.

Aurianne had not intended to hit the innocent boy, she had no idea he was even there in the murky dark beneath the blanket. The fact she had shot an innocent completely unnerved her, and she hesitated way too long before nocking her second arrow. Her original mark was already on his feet and drawing his weapon. In an act of desperate vengeance, and being none too careful with her aim she let the shaft fly, it missed Bennett by inches and fell impotently to the sand. Shaken she turned to flee, the only option she now had. Fearing a repeat of the last failed attempt she had left Isabou much further away than she had on previous occasions, and to reach her trusty mare she ran like never before.

Bennett always the warrior, wasted little sympathy on his slave, as he leapt over the fallen boy drawing his weapon. He saw the arrow poorly aimed pass him by, the archer's face frozen in a pale mask of fear, her beauty framed in her wild red hair had no effect on him as it did on most men. She was a threat to be exterminated, nothing more. The woman was fleet-footed and darted behind the standing ironstone monoliths that littered the landscape to avoid being targeted. Bennett pursued his wily quarry with everything he had. This time he was determined she would not escape.

However, Aurianne was much faster than he, powerful Bennett was but he could not close the gap between them. He saw her reach the waiting horse and vault effortlessly into the saddle, making a split-second decision he would have to fire or risk losing her completely. The pistol discharged shattering the silence of the oppressive night, seeming to reverberate off the heavy cloud cover that had become a constant.

Bennett did not spare his precious ammunition, he emptied the full clip after her departing form, in the vague hope just one bullet would find its mark. However, he was not sure if he had been successful or not, again the elusive archer galloped away into the murky dark.

Pursuit was futile, there were no horses here up to the task. Bennett was most angry with himself for letting passion get in the way of his mission. He made his way back to the watch post uttering a string of profanities under his breath. Nathan lay still and cold on the hard earth, unresponsive, ghostly pale. Bennett bent over the boy, he could feel a faint pulse and detect the shallowest of breathing.

He knew the others would have heard the shots and they would come running shortly. There was nothing more to do than get Nathan to the warmth of the fireside, and Raissa's restorative skills. He picked up the frail sixteen-year-old boy easily cradling him in the blanket and began the descent to his valley.

All the occupants of the valley except Gareth who had resumed the watch, crowded about in a tight knot faces solemn, further demoralized to see yet another of their number fall victim to the vengeful archer, even if he was only a slave. Nathan lay unmoving like a broken doll, his already pale skin even whiter than it usually appeared. Bennett standing above him strong arms crossed, expression impassive as Raissa and Will expertly removed the arrow under his watchful gaze. The nervous slave girl assured her taciturn leader in quiet words that no vital organs appeared to be damaged.

Bennett hoped with warmth, rest, and quiet his slave would recover, but Raissa's hesitancy and Will's prudent silence betrayed Nathan's slim chances to all.

*****

Aurianne sped away saved by the darkness yet again clutching Isabou's wildly flying mane. The strong chestnut mare was warm and reassuring beneath her, hooves pounding. Her shoulder burned with white-hot fire, she had taken a bullet and she fretted at the extent of the damage as she clung on tightly, wanting nothing more than for her wild ride to end, and to seek the sanctity and safety of her hideout.

*****

These frequent attacks by a mere woman had sown the seeds of discontent in the once cohesive encampment. There were murmurings of going south, of abandoning this camp and seeking to find a place where perhaps the remnants of Bennett's tribe could join others and live better lives in a larger settlement.

The men bickered more than usual and were prone to erupting into dangerous violence, set off by little things like a disputed gambling wager, or a claim over a portion of the best meat. Those who had were the targets of those who did not have. The underlings amongst them were no longer content to just sit by while the higher-ranking warriors indulged freely. Bennett had his work cut out keeping the peace, his men were few, those he trusted even less, but the hate and the violence ever simmered below the surface, creating a dangerous climate.

Nathan had lain in a deep coma for many days, running a high fever one moment and shivering the next. The usually hard leader despite his own troubles had spent many hours by the ailing boy's bedside. He was sure that soon the infection without the luxury of medicines they did not possess would take him. He had witnessed far stronger men die this way than this frail youth.

The fire was warm and felt good, and the men were quiet, of that Bennett was glad, the task of constantly reigning them in was beginning to take a toll on him. They bickered and fought amongst themselves like a pack of hyenas, anything and everything seemed to start a fight. He craved rest and a quiet moment.

Nathan moaned and his eyes fluttered open, the boy looked straight at his Master, forgetting completely his lack of speech he tried to mouth words that would not come.

"Be still," Bennett reassured him with a quiet command, his large hand on Nathan's chest reinforcing his order.

Nathan lay back quietly his eyes never leaving his Master's face. He could smell the intoxicating scent of the big man, leather and bodily scent mingling into one, it was reassuring to be close to him. Nathan felt protected and safe. He was remembering now, the haze of his disjointed dreaming was lifting and he took in the fact he was in his Master's bed and the man was watching over him. Crystallized in that moment's realization, Nathan had concluded for right or wrong that this man cared. He had saved him and valued him as his property, the boy conveniently forgetting all the crimes this man had done against him. At last, he had worth, and he was not going to let his Master down.

*****

Aran rode many days bolstered by his short stay in "John'stown" and his meeting with its odd inhabitants. Though as the cold days stretched endlessly into one another, and his diet reverted to the odd occasional scavenging bird of prey or poor rabbit, the warrior again began to rue his decision of pressing south.

Most of the settlements he encountered had been long vacated, their telltale remainders spoke of mass bloodshed, or they had been re-colonized by the sub-human ones. The few approachable villages he did pass through were less than welcoming, filled with rag-tag populations of the desperate for the most part, barely higher in human elevation than the sub-human ones he shunned. Aran asked after the elusive woman but none gave him the recognition he needed, and as the days passed he began to believe he had misconstrued the archer's motives and direction completely.

After yet another long fruitless day in the saddle being eyed by wary strangers and sent on his way, Aran camped alone as he always did out on the relative safety of the sweeping cold plains. With only the howling wind for company and his lame horse by his side, he sat stoically by his small fire that sputtered and spewed sparks into the strong wind. The sky was inky black, with only the vaguest hint of light where the sunset might have been, if not for the ensuing heavy blanket of clouds. Slowly he fed the hungry orange flames the dry, cold wood, drawing comfort from the fire's warmth, his fur cape that regrettably no longer smelled of Maya pulled tightly about his broad shoulders.

Satisfied the fire was now large enough to cook on, he set the large brown hawk he had bagged today in the coals. Aran was hungry and as always the meager food he had found took far too long to cook. He settled back against his saddle to wait, looking over at his gelding. The animal had stumbled today in the treacherous sands and was now lame. He sighed, looking at the miserable animal who stood in his usual pose, backside into the wind, head down looking tired and forlorn. He hoped if he was careful on his mount over the next few days it would recover. However he was not blind to the other signs, the gaunt hindquarters, and even the beast's demeanor revealed the animal was in decline. Mulling over these problems and what would be his best course of action consumed the warrior's mind this evening. Things had begun to look as bleak as the landscape he occupied.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Aran's attention was suddenly torn from his focus on the ever-changing flames, and his problems, as a man emerged from the darkness with a stout mule trailing behind him. The warrior was on his feet in an instant, broadsword drawn and poised at the throat of the intruder. The sharp blade did not waver in his solid one-handed grasp. The man froze, the brown mule coming to an obedient stop just behind his master seemingly unaffected by his owner's fear.

"I did not mean to disturb you. I mean no harm. I......I saw the fire, that was all, just hoping for a little camaraderie on the trail......Nothing more." The small man countered swiftly, fearing he would be run through at any moment.

Aran eyed the newcomer over the length of his blue-black sword, unmoving, his green eyes glinting beneath his bushy blond brow with all the ferocity of a predator. The man leaned backward away from the hungry blade.

"I'm Jhary Brannon, but people just call me the Bard... Music and stories is my go."

Aran still did not answer but examined the man closely. He was about the same age as himself. Fair of skin and blond-haired, with lively brown eyes that despite his fear still sparkled with mischief. He was short of stature and slight of build, certainly no fighting man. His clothing was simple and unadorned, handmade for the most part, and he wore very little jewelry but a hoop earring in his left ear, and a simple gold wedding band on his finger. He did not seem to have any other weapon but a small utility knife tucked into a leather scabbard on his belt.

Aran lowered his sword slowly, Jhary's eyes following the tip of the great blade, never leaving it as the golden warrior returned it to its scabbard. Aran could see the man was most relieved to see the weapon put away.

This man seemed harmless enough, perhaps his company might even be found pleasing on this frigid night. Aran had been solo a long time and for that reason, his words came slowly. "I am Aran Sorensen, mercenary." He replied. There was silence for a time only the sound of the wind prevailed.

"Pleased to meet you," Jhary replied with hesitancy, though he seemed sincere. He let go of his mule and made to sit by the welcoming fire with his newfound companion of the road.

The two men sat in silence for a time, each assessing the other. Aran pretended to be more interested in the bird that was by now beginning to smell rather good to him, than the vibrant young man who sat opposite.

"Forgive me," said Jhary, rising slowly, still mindful of his barbarous companion. "I have some food and wine. I am sure you may wish to share in return for your warm fire and company." The man divested his mule of some well-made latigo saddle bags, laying out some bread, cheese, and a sizable flask of wine. "Here my friend, help yourself.

Aran's mouth was watering at the sight of the food but he did not entirely trust this man or his offer of friendship, he had learned to be suspicious and very cautious of anything good given so freely.

"After you," Aran responded.

Jhary merely smiled at his companion of few words. He could fathom the warrior's suspicions and did not hesitate to break the crusty loaf of bread and take a bite of it himself, followed by the cheese and wine. Aran followed suit trying to appear less hungry than he truly was. Jhary just smiled his winsome smile which rarely left his features, and the two men enjoyed the meal in mutual silence.

"So tell me what are you out here for?" Jhary inquired, breaking the quiet. Aran put down the flask of wine wiping his lips.

"I'm looking for a woman."

"Aren't we all?" Jhary shot back, the gleam of mischief in his eye and joy in his voice. "I'm wondering if I should congratulate her, or send her my commiserations?"

Aran stared back, his vivid eyes set on this jovial stranger by the fireside. "No, it's not like that at all." He continued flatly. "I'm looking for her head so to speak."

"Oh..." Jhary exclaimed, unsure how to continue, but wanting to he forged on. "Well, as for myself I'm just a wandering musician and storyteller. Not much to it really I just travel and entertain. If people like what I do they give me a little something for the road. That's my life really, not much else to it."

"I see," Aran answered. Again an uncomfortable silence ensued. Jhary could see he was not going to get much conversation out of this blunt mercenary, this night. Feeling tired from his long day of travel, and satisfied with a full stomach, he elected to make himself comfortable, placing his head on his saddlebags and fishing out a warm blanket.

Through half-closed eyes, he watched his savage companion who sat shrouded in his warm enveloping cape prodding at the fire with a stick. Now this is what I call protection Jhary thought, I wonder if he will tolerate me tagging along for a while? I don't think anyone would care to attack me with him about, and for the first time in many evenings Jhary Brannon, bard and storyteller, slept well.

*****

That which was to follow became a strange, symbiotic relationship. The mercenary of few words and bloody deeds, who instilled fear and suspicion in all those who crossed his path, and the bard, lighthearted and always quick with a disarming remark, who could charm his way through any door.

Aran found it strange the lively little man trailed him, never did it occur to him he favored the protection Aran's presence offered. Jhary Brannon seemed to have no pressing agendas of his own, he spoke often and seemed perpetually cheerful no matter what the circumstance. Jhary's presence made entering a strange, suspicious, village easy. He would simply sit in the center of the dwellings and begin his song.

All were eager to hear his stories and musical prowess. The man was talented and played many tunes from memory on his precious acoustic, twelve-string guitar. He could sing beautifully as well. Aran shook his head at the women who surrounded the diminutive little man, Jhary was never short on tempting female company in his bed. It seemed everyone wanted a piece of this lively, spontaneous man.

Life became easier for Aran, the company of his newfound accomplice ensured he was well-fed, and spent fewer nights out in the open. Still, the warrior missed his warlike companions and their bloodthirsty ways, and he was eyed by all with suspicion and great wariness; always the outsider. Through village after village they traveled, large and small, Jhary plying his trade and Aran asking his questions, but he found no one who had seen the object of his relentless hunt, not one soul. It appeared the beautiful archer Aurianne had never traveled this way at all.

Aran had taken to walking the majority between the villages rather than riding, hoping the break from his weight would help his gelding mend. However, the animal appeared chronically lame.

Jhary rarely rode, he seemed to view his sturdy, placid, mule as a carrier of his many precious possessions and not a mode of transport.

The bard would talk constantly as they journeyed, Aran answered sometimes, and sometimes not. The musician seemed unaffected by a lack of response or a very minimal one and almost carried on a one-sided conversation with himself.

"What do you think about this nuclear winter? Do you really think it is one?" Jhary questioned.

"I dunno," Aran replied stonily. He had never thought about it all that much and knew no amount of dwelling on the subject would change its outcome. Besides, in his mind if it was a nuclear winter would they not have all weakened and died of radiation sickness, or regressed like the sub-human ones? At least that's what his brother had often told him.

The warrior felt just fine, perhaps, it was just that the humans had finally ruined the world, disturbing its balance with all the war and strife. All he could do was try and do the best with what the future afforded him.

"What I wouldn't give to see the sun again?" Jhary said wistfully, emitting a long drawn-out sigh. Aran just nodded and trudged on, his horse again stumbling on its sore leg. In his mind, he wished the same thing too. Yes, he had many wishes at this moment and none of them were yet fulfilled.

The unlikely duo had continued traveling in this fashion for many days. However, this day would be different. Jhary sensed the big man's mounting restlessness, and he was beginning to veer away from the scattered populations that were Bard's usual routes as he plied his trade.

"We are heading north, is there a reason?" Jhary dared to inquire, sounding surprised and unusually hesitant.

Aran took his time to answer. The big man resolutely walked before him, his immense back covered in the fur cape, the wind blowing the tawny fur in multiple directions, the large two-handed sword slung across his back.

"This horse of mine is not going to last much longer. I need to get a new one, and the woman I seek has not come this way."

Jhary just sighed and trudged on behind, it was a practical answer but one he was not sure he wanted to hear. There was nothing north, nothing for a bard. The towns and villages thinned out and only warlike bands and self-proclaimed despots ruled there from their fortified towns. It was the kind of place that bred men like the mercenary before him, and he was not sure he wanted to set foot there under any circumstance.

*****

Days passed and Nathan made a slow but steady recovery. His young body somehow miraculously fought the infection aside, and he grew steadily strong again. Raissa tended him daily, nervously, under Bennett's ever watchful eye, amid the sometimes very heated discussions about going south, the sub-human ones, and the likelihood of prosperous survival.

Bennett had not been blind to the dissension slowly creeping into his camp. It bothered him immensely but he was unsure what he could do constructively about it, other than rule with fear. However, it would appear even that hard line of justice was failing him.

There was little to do on these days of intense cold, besides the endless feeding of wood to the fire which had begun to rule all activities, like some self-appointed deity. The last of the cart horses had perished, and although the supplies still held it was evident the eventual lack of fuel to feed the ever-hungry fire would be the reason that they must finally vacate this stronghold. The stockpile was still high, it would be some time yet, and Bennett hoped the weather would break before this dreaded event would occur.

It was quiet this day and not as bitterly cold as it had been. The promise of the sun in the sky was still a far-fetched dream. However, most of the cave's inhabitants, at least those free to do so, had taken up activities outside the shelter of the overhang on this afternoon.

Bennett sat alone, motionless, brooding, head propped up on his black-gloved fist. A formidable figure he cut in his customary black leathers and steel, immense waist girded in weapons and ammunition, with a shaven head, and eyes of ice that most could not meet.

Nathan now up and about brought his Master a drink. He sat patiently holding the tankard waiting to be acknowledged. Bennett took the cold cup, and as he did so he noted the boy had written something on the sand in his very neat script.

'I love you, Master, I can be your eyes and ears.' Bennett pondered the scrawling on the sand for some moments before looking at his slave boy. Nathan looked at him squarely, with an open honesty Bennett rarely encountered in anyone, even his own men. Nathan rubbed out his first writing and commenced to write more.

'You saved me, my life is yours.' Again Bennett stared at the teenage boy at his feet and he continued to write trying to explain himself. 'People talk all the time in front of me. Because I cannot talk they mistake me for stupid. I hear many things. Master I can be your eyes and ears.'

Bennett looked at Nathan and smiled, a smile many were afraid of, the same smile many saw in their last torture-filled moments. However boy appeared unafraid, he knew his Master had sanctioned and understood all he said. They belonged together, they were two of a kind. Even as Bennett erased the telltale writings from the sand he knew the boy to be unfalteringly loyal to his cause, and he would use him to make doubly sure he was completely in control.

*****

Aurianne picked up her longbow fondling the smooth wood, stretching her arm and her heavily wrapped shoulder gingerly. The pain was there but manageable, the tight bandages seemed to help. It is only a graze she assured herself as she nocked an arrow. Sighting a target far in the distance and pulling back her bow. She gasped, the weapon clattered to the ground as a sheet of intense pain ripped through her.

Tears welled in her storm-colored eyes, part frustration and part grief, without her bow she was almost defenseless, and an easy target for anyone who wished to take what they wanted. This fact was a blow to her independence and her pride and robbed her of the only motive that propelled her in the face of her losses... Vengeance.