The Lords of the Crimson River Part 6

Blade tiptoed across the rug to the bed, then suddenly jerked the curtains aside. Miera was lying naked on top of the blankets, her face buried in one of the pillows, shaking with laughter. She looked up and gave a squeak of surprise, as he patted her on the rump. Her b.u.t.tocks were nicely turned, firm and warm, strongly tempting his hand to linger. He pulled it back-better not rush things.

"I hope that trouble with the Feathered One didn't bother you too much," he said. "If you'd like me to get rid of Cheeky-"

"Oh, no. You mustn't promise too much on our wedding night. Don't you know that's the one night of his life when a Lord's promises to a woman are sacred? If you promise to send Cheeky away tonight, you'll have to do it. I don't think he would like that. I've seen him when you weren't looking, and he is yours for life if you'll let him stay."

"Whose life?" said Blade with a laugh. "His or mine? His life won't be very long if he frightens you again."

Miera sat up, still naked but with her hands covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and her legs together. "He didn't really frighten me, Richard. I was angry more than frightened, but I think you better try some more discipline-" She mimed turning Cheeky over her knee and spanking him like a baby.

Blade stared. To make this gesture, Miera had to expose her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and they were simply breathtaking. They were perfect cones without the slightest sag, and a creamy white except for a light dusting of freckles and the pink nipples, which were neither too large nor too small.

His hands reached out to cup her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as if his fingers had a will of their own: Miera gave a little gasp as she felt a man's flesh against hers for the first time in her life.

Then she bent forward, so that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed harder into his hands. She reached out with both hands and gripped his shoulders, pulling him toward her as her mouth opened. Blade didn't know if she wanted to say something or to be kissed. He didn't let her speak, because he couldn't have held back from kissing her if there'd been a gun pointed at his head.

Her lips stayed open as they met his. After a little while her tongue also crept out to meet his. Its movements were fumbling, like the movements of her hands. They were also determined. Miera wanted to do her best, even if she wasn't quite sure what that "best" ought to be.

Blade was relieved he wouldn't have to spend hours overcoming her fears. Before long his kisses moved from her lips, down her throat, and onto her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They stayed there for quite a while, as his hands twined themselves in her silky, perfumed hair. At the same time her hands were running up and down over the muscles of his chest, probing the scars, sometimes making little darts down toward his groin. She always drew back before she touched his manhood, as if she were still afraid of being too bold.

It didn't matter. Blade was ready to take her long before he dared think she was ready for him. With a woman like Miera in his arms, a eunuch would have been aroused! He listened to sighs and whimpers of pleasure and watched her tossing her head from side to side for quite a while before he gently rolled her over on her back. Even then he stroked her thighs and belly and the damp red hair between her legs still longer before he raised himself above her.

She cried out at the moment of entry, but at the same time clutched him to her as if he was her only hope of life. Oh, well, at least those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds outside won't be able to say a thing against her virginity! Then Blade set to work to give Miera as much pleasure as he could before his own control ran out.

She was moaning happily by the time that happened. He wasn't sure whether she'd found her own release or not, only knew that afterward she snuggled comfortably against him, as contented as a cream-filled kitten. At last he forced himself to get up and bring warm water to wash her thighs. By then she was awake again.

As he finished was.h.i.+ng her, she pointed at his p.e.n.i.s. "Shouldn't you wash too? After all... " She was too fl.u.s.tered to continue, and instead picked up the bowl and cloth and started was.h.i.+ng his groin. Under the warm water and the warmer fingers, he felt himself stiffening again.

"Oh, my," she said, contemplating her work. "Oh, my." Then she bent over and kissed the tip of Blade's p.e.n.i.s. Her lips trembled against his flesh for a moment, as if she wanted to do more. Then she drew back, gripping his hands to pull him after her.

This time she gasped instead of crying out when he entered. This time also there was no doubt she'd found her own release. Her happy scream must have been heard all over the keep as she arched her body against her husband's. She was half-stunned and more than half-limp when he poured himself into her. By the time he could fold her in his arms, she was sound asleep.

The smile hadn't deceived Blade. The sensuality was there in Miera, all right. It just required a little care to bring it out into the open, for his pleasure and hers.

Chapter 13.

Making Blade Captain of the Duke's Guardsmen went more smoothly than his wedding night. It helped that Cheeky was kept firmly out of the way until the oathtaking ceremony was finished. It also helped that most of the hundred Guardsmen were perfectly happy to serve under him. The previous captain was a tough, hard man, who knew how to fight but not how to make friends or win the hearts of his men. Most of them hoped he would live and recover from his wounds, but no one particularly missed him.

Blade also came recommended by Lord Gennar and Lord Eba.s.s. Gennar had the reputation of a man who would be burned alive rather than tell a lie, and Lord Eba.s.s was one of the toughest fighters in Nainan. Most Guardsmen were ready to think well of any man who came recommended by those two.

"Some will still have their doubts about an outlander," said Alsin. "But they will also doubt the wisdom of challenging the man who slew Orric. His Grace does not make Guardsmen out of fools."

"Good," said Blade. "Do you know if he's made Guardsmen out of any of Orric's friends who might carry a grudge against his killer?"

Alsin's forehead wrinkled in concentration. "There are none in the Guards bound to Orric by ties of blood, public oath, or battle comrades.h.i.+p," he said slowly. "As to those who may consider themselves bound in other ways-I cannot swear one way or the other."

"I won't expect you to," said Blade. "Just help me watch my back, though. We may find them where and when we don't expect it."

"My hand on that," said the Marshal, and they made the four-handed shake of sworn comrades. Alsin might have harsh manners, especially toward women, but he also had more than his share of common sense. A man like Duke Cyron would hardly have made him Marshal otherwise, b.a.s.t.a.r.d son or not.

The worst problem Blade had to face in leading the Guardsmen was his inexperience in using the lance from horseback. This was a specialized technique of fighting which he knew he could hardly expect to master in a few weeks. It was also considered the most honorable way of fighting among the Lords of the Crimson River, although a few wise heads would admit that it wasn't always the most useful in war.

Blade won over the Guardsmen with an exhausting demonstration of everything else he could do on a horse. He could use sword, mace, morningstar, and the Guards' short throwing spear. He also had an excellent seat on a horse, and several Lords failed to knock him out of the saddle with their lances. So the Guardsmen knew their new Captain wouldn't make a fool of himself on horseback, and that was enough.

Between winning over the Guardsmen and keeping Miera happy, Blade was a busy man for some days. The moment he was free, Duke Cyron summoned him to another private meeting. There the Englishman learned more about the weaknesses of the Dukes of the Crimson River than he'd ever expected to know.

"If I had to choose which Duke to strike first, I'd choose Duke Padro of Gualdar," said Blade, after listening to Cyron and Alsin.

"Why?" said the two Lords in unison. If those two don't have a telepathic link, I'd like to know what they do have, Blade said to himself. To the others he said, "He's the youngest. That makes him the most likely to accept another Duke's leaders.h.i.+p. He's the poorest, which means he's the one who can least afford a long war. Finally, his big vice is gambling on duels of Feathered Ones. That's a vice we can easily exploit."

"It seems as if you already have a plan for Duke Padro," said Cyron. "Could you tell us a little more?"

"I have a plan," said Blade carefully, "but I have to be sure of a few more details before it will be worth discussing. If I can have-"

"What sort of details?" said Alsin sharply, before Cyron could silence him.

"If they don't work out, my plan won't be worth talking about. If they do, you'll know everything as soon as I know it myself." He looked at Alsin. "You can be sure I'm not going to lead you by the nose into this, the way you led me into the duel with Orric."

Alsin glared, but Duke Cyron chuckled. "Point to Lord Blade, I think. Now-you were about to ask for something, to complete your plan?"

"Yes. Two or three days' time. If I'm not successful by then, I don't think I will be. At least not in time to help you in dealing with Duke Padro."

"Very well, Lord Blade. You have those three days. I wish you good fortune."

Blade thanked the Duke and left. He went straight back to his room in the keep, hoping he hadn't promised what he couldn't hope to perform. A large part of his reputation with the Duke now depended on Cheeky. However, if he succeeded, he'd be offering the quickest and cheapest way of dealing with Duke Padro. That would save time, gold, and fighting men, all of which would probably be needed for dealing with the other three hostile Dukes.

It was too bad they couldn't call on the two friendly Dukes for aid now, but it couldn't be helped. The two Dukes holding the pa.s.ses to the East and West Kingdoms would need all their strength to continue to do just that. Otherwise, either Kingdom could invade at will, before Duke Cyron could finish his work.

There was also the need for secrecy. The more people helping with Duke Cyron's plans, the more who would have to know of it. Blade remembered the old saying of the Russian anarchists of the nineteenth century: "When four men sit down to plan revolution, three are fools and one is a police spy." The Duke was certainly planning a revolution, even if it was from the top down. He didn't have to worry about a Czar's secret police, but he certainly had to worry about many other enemies. The late Lord Orric's friends would be only one kind of enemy, and probably not the most dangerous.

These sober thoughts carried Blade all the way back to his room. It looked empty. He knew that Miera was still down in the hall with her maids, embroidering a pennant for him, and Cheeky was probably hiding as usual. The feather-monkey could hide himself in places Blade would have sworn weren't big enough for a c.o.c.kroach, let alone twenty pounds of muscle and feathers.

He poured himself some beer, then got out a plate of Cheeky's favorite candied fruit. Before he'd taken two swallows, the feather-monkey popped out from under the stand holding the chamber pot. He squealed in delight as he saw the fruit, sat down in front of the bowl, and started stuffing himself with both hands.

Blade watched him with wry affection. He was getting quite fond of the little beast, in spite of his maddening pranks, and hoped his plan wouldn't involve too much danger for Cheeky-but knew he could only hope. There was no way of telling in advance what the feather-monkey would be facing.

One thing was certain-right now Cheeky looked too healthy for Blade's plan. He was still thin, but his plucked-out feathers were growing back. He no longer looked like the ragged misfit he'd been when Blade found him. They'd have to do something about that, and that would mean finding out once and for all about this telepathy business.

He sat down on the bed and beckoned. The feather-monkey came slowly, holding out the empty fruit bowl. "No. No more. We have to talk."

"Yeeecckkk!" Cheeky sounded disgusted.

Blade used Yoga techniques to slow his breathing and relax his muscles. Then he started forming a clear mental image: Cheeky plucked and ragged again. It took him several tries before he could not only form the image but hold it for more than a few seconds. In between tries he cursed the bad luck which made the Wizard of Rentoro die in returning from Dimension X with him. That man had forgotten more about the powers of the mind than everybody in Home Dimension put together had learned! If he'd been able to teach a fraction of it, Blade's reaching Cheeky mentally could have been child's play!

At last he had the picture in his mind as clearly as if he'd been seeing it with his eyes. Cheeky was now sitting in front of him, staring curiously. What sort of funny trick was his master up to now? Blade wanted to hold his breath, but knew that would make his concentration weaker instead of stronger. The silence in the room was almost deafening. He hoped Miera wouldn't walk in now.

Cheeky gave a sharp squeal of pure rage, and jumped three feet into the air. Then he started racing around the room like a mad thing, practically bouncing off the walls. Suddenly into Blade's mind came an image just as clear as the plucked Cheeky-his own dead body, lying on its funeral pyre.

He knew now that telepathy was indeed possible between himself and Cheeky. He also knew just what the feather monkey was telling him: "If you pluck my feathers, I'll see you dead somehow!"

Blade suspected he'd made a mistake in choosing his first image. He'd wanted something vivid, certain to catch Cheeky's attention if the Feathered One had any survival instincts at all. Had he overdone things a little? If he had, that was a mistake he'd have to correct right now!

Blade started changing the image in his mind. It took fewer tries than the first time before he had the right picture under control. Now he had a picture of a plucked Cheeky, wearing a gold chain and embroidered gloves, sitting in front of bowls holding all his favorite foods, with a silver dagger and a jewel-tipped spear resting on silk cus.h.i.+ons beside him. After a minute of that image Cheeky stopped bouncing off the walls. Another minute and he stopped broadcasting the angry picture of a dead Blade. Instead the man got the distinct feeling he was being asked some sort of question.

"What do you want me to do, that's worth having my feathers plucked again?" At least that seemed a good guess about what Cheeky would be saying if he was speaking in any sort of human words. Blade suspected there were going to be a lot more of these "good guesses" before he established any sort of reliable communication with the animal. It might take days and it would certainly take many hours.

He changed the image again, this time showing Cheeky sitting quietly at the foot of the bed. Blade was able to form this image on the first try and hold it on the second. Was telepathy something which became easier once you'd made the initial breakthrough? He hoped so.

"Yip?" Cheeky's call had an unmistakable questioning note.

Blade repeated the image of Cheeky sitting. This time Cheeky sat, too. Blade took out parchment and pen and wrote a short note to Miera, telling her to stay out of their room until after dinner. He could only say that he was "on important business for the Duke"--a servant who could read might easily get a glimpse of the message on its way to Miera.

When the messenger was gone, he turned back to the Feathered One who was still sitting quietly. For the first time Blade began to feel almost triumphant. He'd reached Cheeky with telepathy, proving both its existence and his ability to use it!

He sobered quickly, however. He'd made a good beginning, but nothing more. He still had to find ways of sending and receiving telepathic messages without taking so much time and attention. If he tried to concentrate like this in the middle of a battle, he'd be making himself an easy victim.

Could Cheeky understand messages sent in words, or would he need images? And once they'd worked out a common language of some sort, would Cheeky be interested in his master's plan? That was the biggest question of all. If he said "No," Blade's whole victory in establis.h.i.+ng telepathic contact would be only theoretically interesting. No doubt Lord Leighton would still be fascinated when he heard the story, but Duke Cyron needed practical results. Would he get any?

Blade knew it was much too soon to answer that question. Cheeky, he suspected, was going to be stubborn about putting his life on the line, no matter what the reward. He remembered the time he'd been a.s.signed to persuade a certain industrial espionage expert to work for MI6A. That was one of the most frustrating jobs J had ever dumped on him!

Blade poured himself some more beer, then filled Cheeky's bowl, and handed it to him. They both drank, then settled down to their "talk."

Talking Cheeky into cooperation was literally a headache for Blade. By the time he and the Feathered One shook hands on their bargain, the man felt as if he had the worst hangover of his life. He lurched to his feet and went over to the window.

No wonder he was tired and hungry! It was well after dark, and he'd sat down with Cheeky just after noon! He summoned more servants, and sent them both for dinner and Miera.

Blade yawned and signaled to Cheeky, who jumped up on his shoulder. As he scratched the Feathered One's back, he could almost feel the waves of pleasure he radiated. Cheeky was definitely going to be a "him" from now on. The Feathered One had too much intelligence to be called "it."

How did the Feathered Ones get that intelligence? The old question repeated itself. This time he felt more confident of getting close to the answer. Romiss the Breeder knew more about the Feathered Ones than he'd told any Lord. Blade was sure of that.

Romiss would talk to him, though. Blade would start by demonstrating telepathic links with Cheeky. Even if Romiss wasn't impressed, his men would be. He'd have to talk with Blade, to keep them quiet. Besides, the Breeder might be curious himself.

If this wasn't enough, there was always gold. Right now he didn't have much more than his clothes, weapons, and furniture, but if his plans worked out, that would soon change. After Cheeky finished with whatever opponent Duke Padro sent him, Blade would have enough gold to buy any man's secrets.

Chapter 14.

They invited Duke Padro of Gualdar to match his best Feathered One against the chosen champion of Nainan. He accepted, and appeared before Castle Ranit only a few days later. So did Duke Garon of Ney and Duke Raskod of Issos. Instead of one hostile Duke, Cyron found himself playing host to three at once.

"It's a breach of custom and manners for them to be here at all without warning or invitation," fumed Alsin. He looked angry enough to call up Nainan's fighting Lards and chase the uninvited guests home.

"So it is," said Duke Cyron calmly. "I won't forget it, either. But I won't have a word said to either Garon or Raskod now. They hardly have enough men to put us in any danger, as long as we are alert and they are outside the castle. Nor will they enter it. Show a little respect for my judgment in war, Alsin."

"Yes, Your Grace." The tough Marshal swallowed. "We may even get some good from this," the Duke added. "Knowing the other Dukes are watching could make Padro even bolder than usual. If Garon says the wrong word, Padro may throw all caution to the winds!"

Blade found that the prospect of trying his plan under the eyes of three hostile Dukes didn't make him feel bolder. Failure would now be twice as public, twice as embarra.s.sing, and twice as likely to ruin Cyron's hopes. There was no turning back, either, when the duel was going to be tomorrow!

He mentally gritted his teeth, determined to let no doubts show on his face. He'd laid his plans as carefully as he could and worked out all the details with Cheeky. It wasn't his fault or the Feathered One's that the stakes were suddenly so much higher. Blade still wondered if he really might be losing the proper balance between caution and-boldness? Even worse, was he losing it where other people besides himself might be the victims? He'd have to talk to J about this when he returned to Home Dimension.

Blade might have slept better that night if his window hadn't given him a view of the camps of all three visiting Dukes. He could see the torches of the sentries, the cooking fires, the lanterns hanging from the tent doors. He could also see more torches lighting the work of the men smoothing down the game field for the monkey duel tomorrow.

Miera knew that something was bothering her husband, and did her best to make him forget it. Unfortunately she wasn't yet quite experienced enough in bed to succeed. Blade was able to give her all she wanted, but he himself lay awake for quite a while afterward.

He was still out of bed before dawn, walking through the camps of the three Dukes to get a firsthand picture of the enemy. He didn't quite trust Duke Cyron and Marshal Alsin enough to take their word on anything he could check for himself. Even if he'd trusted them more, he'd have made the tour of the camps. The most accurate information from someone else still wasn't quite the same as what you saw and heard yourself.

Duke Padro of Gualdar was in his early twenties, slim, dark, mustached, and good-looking in a rather effeminate fas.h.i.+on. Blade wasn't surprised to see a number of painted and perfumed young men drifting around his camp. Most of them wore swords, but they also wore such extravagant outfits of lace and ruffles, embroidery and gilded b.u.t.tons, that Blade doubted that they'd be much good in a fight. They'd be too worried about getting spots on their clothing.

Padro's fops shared their luxurious tent with a dozen gigantic men in steel and leather. They roamed the Duke's camp, hard eyes searching every pa.s.sing face, and scarred brown hands never far from the hilts of swords or throwing spears. Duke Padro's Master of the Feathers had a similarly efficient staff, and the tent which housed his Feathered Ones was the largest in his camp. It was also the best guarded.

Duke Garon of Ney was supposed to be the best jouster of any Duke for the last three generations. He certainly looked it-chunky, hard-muscled, bowlegged, and obviously hard as iron in spite of the gray in his hair. His men were nothing remarkable, but his horses were the finest Blade had seen in this Dimension. Finest of all was his chestnut war charger, Kanglo. Unlike Cyron or Padro, Duke Garon had plenty of heirs-four sons, as a matter of fact. None of the four was on good terms with any of the others, and much of Garon's time was spent keeping the peace among them. Wisely enough, he hadn't brought any of them with him.

Duke Raskod of Issos also had heirs, two sons and a daughter. One of the sons was feeble-witted, and neither of them was with him at Castle Ranit. Instead he'd brought his famous harem, or at least part of it. Blade counted six good-looking young women taking the air outside a closely guarded tent. Duke Raskod himself was nowhere in sight, but this didn't surprise Blade. The Duke was known all over the Crimson River lands for his laziness. He wouldn't be up much before breakfast unless his camp caught fire.

The thought of breakfast made Blade aware that he'd worked up an appet.i.te touring the camps. He mounted his horse and rode back to the castle. On the way he saw a man walking alone beside the road. From a distance he looked so much like Chenosh that he drew rein.

"Lord Chenos.h.!.+ May I offer you-oh, sorry." The man wore a merchant's garb, covered with dust and patches. He also stooped slightly, and his mustached face was much darker than Chenosh's. Blade rode on.

Blade ate an immense breakfast, alone except for Chenosh, who came in as he was nearly finished. Chenosh was freshly bathed, impressively dressed, and generally looking more like a Duke's heir than Blade had ever seen him. At least he would have looked this role if he hadn't been so obviously nervous. He ate little, drank less, kept looking everywhere except at Blade, and nearly jumped out of his seat at every unexpected noise. Blade was glad to see that someone else in Castle Ranit was also on edge!

As Chenosh finished eating, the trumpets and drums sounded to summon everyone to the dueling field.

Duke Padro's numerous enemies all admitted that he had at least one skill. He was an expert with the Feathered Ones, so much so that he hardly needed a Master of the Feathers. It was Duke Padro of Gualdar himself who strode forward onto the dueling field, carrying Gualdar's chosen champion. His Master of the Feathers followed at a respectful distance.

Padro set down the silk-covered cage, removed the cover, and let out Gualdar's champion, Posa.s.s. Posa.s.s was smaller than Cheeky, but beautifully groomed, with a silk vest and a belt of gold links. He was sleek and almost fat compared to Cheeky, but he moved well. Blade could also pick out the scars under the elegant feathers. Posa.s.s hadn't become the champion of a demanding master by sitting in his cage.

Now Blade strode forward, Cheeky riding casually on his shoulder. When they reached the center of the field, the monkey jumped down.

Duke Padro pulled at his mustache and stared at him.

"That is your champion?"

"Do you doubt the word of Duke Cyron of Nainan?" said Blade.

"No, I-" Padro's olive skin turned darker. "This isn't a joke?"

"No, it's a Feathered One," said Blade. Padro's confusion was understandable. Cheeky's feathers looked even worse than they had when Blade found him, and skilled makeup by Chenosh made him look not only half-starved but diseased. He sat quietly at his master's feet, listlessly picking at a bald spot just above one knee.

"As you wish," said Padro. "But if there is any joke today, it will not be one the men of Nainan will find amusing. I want to double the Duke's wager, and give odds of three to one."