Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter One: Wine Like Blood, Blood Like Water

The tip of her longsword carved a channel along the beachhead of Lake Encarthan. She dragged the weapon, held it listlessly in her hand. Hers were dark, dirtied hands that knew the weight of good steel, the heft of a man's heart. She remembered a time when she was clean, though she could not recall the feeling of pristine boot soles, nor of a soul unstained.

The slope of the sands made her stagger. To an observer, she might have appeared a poorly crafted iron golem, a lurching, jerky warrior inside a black-plated shell. As she reached the shoreline, she stumbled to her knees.

Rays of sunlight glinted off the lake. Ripples rolled slow and heavy around her calves. It was too beautiful a sight, too bright a day for what lay behind her, for what she and her squadron had done. But that was the way of Druma, to dress atrocity in finery and call it good business. She supposed the weather should be no different than the Prophets.

The surf whispered over her legs, soaking the padding underneath through the gaps in her armor. She stayed there as though in supplication to the lake, but did not pray to any god. For a servant of the Kalistocrats, there was no god above the High Prophet, and no one who cared to hear her pleas.

She breathed evenly to slow the thrum of her heart. The air tasted of fish and copper and death. It lay thick on her tongue like bad wine, but Brea drank it down, allowed it to fill her.

"I did this," she said.

The water washed the blood from her greaves. Tendrils of red slipped through the blue, snaking away from her like streamers in one of her lord's parades.

Her lord, Prophet Deagan Callimedes, would be home now, toiling behind his desk. She imagined Deagan's smooth, tawny cheek lifted in a grin. His wide-set eyes, bright as winter's sky and just as cold. White-gloved hands cupping her face, twined in her hair. The smell of jasmine and rose petals. The faint taste of blackberry wine. His mouth.

Brea unbuckled her mail. Each section splashed as it fell. The sword—forgotten by her busy fingers—sank at her side like an offering to a wishing well. When only the arming doublet remained, she slumped forward on her hands and watched the blood stain the rhythmic tide. The lives she had taken danced in the water's reflection. Her victim's pain echoed in the bruises yellowing her olive skin, in the burn of her muscles.

They'd overridden the so-called brigands at first light. Her heavy cavalry had crushed bone and spirit before she called the dismount and began the slaughter. She swung her sword like an automaton, slicing through meager armor and severing frail limbs. When her arms had wearied, Brea used her armored body as a weapon, trampling any in her path.

Segments of that mail lingered around her now. The black cuirass still glowed a pale gold with the dying embers of magic.

It, too, had started clean, gleaming fiercely with her lord's blessings. When she'd received her promotion to Captain, Brea had been honored to receive his gift. The cuirass comforted her, protected her. Through it, Deagan had finally demonstrated his love for her.

It was her blackjacket. Her albatross.

"I did this for you," she told the lake in place of her lord.

Behind her, a man cleared his throat. "Captain?"

Brea recognized Farnick's gruff voice. He had been her lieutenant since the Goblinblood Wars, where he lost an ear saving her life. Older than her by two score and half her height, Farnick was the only dwarf in her squadron and likely her only friend.

"He'll be pleased, sir." His round face drew down despite his words, and the ruddy stubble coating his jaw only darkened his expression. In spite of his heritage, Farnick kept his head and face shaved. Those whiskers were a testament to their hard march to Lake Encarthan.

"He is never pleased," she said.

Farnick grunted. "We're fortunate then, to focus on battle and damned the results. We'll be receiving his ire either way."

A slow smile fought its way to her lips. "How are the troops?"

For Deagan Callimedes, no god is above the High Prophet.

"Soltez was wounded, bucked from his horse by his own idiocy. He'll live. The rest are uninjured and gathering a pyre."

"Morale?" she asked.

He hesitated and shifted the helm he carried from one arm to the other. "As well as can be expected, sir. We've never run down peasants before, think they're not taking well to the idea."

"They're not alone." She pulled herself to her feet and stood before him, drenched and drained of will. They exchanged a look that said they understood one another as only those who have spilled blood together might. "I will speak to Lord Callimedes."

Farnick grunted again. "No, then I doubt he'll be pleased."

Brea nodded. Remaining in her soaked doublet and riding boots, she strode from the water toward her squadron, toward the silent dead. She did not witness the final magic fade from her blackjacket, nor hear the sorrowful sigh of its passing, but in her bones she felt it die among the waves.

∗ ∗ ∗

They arrived to silence, not fanfare. The procession of her bedraggled squadron was nothing for the citizens of Deagan's Hold to celebrate, for the dark armor of the Mercenary League heralded only death. Above them, the guards manning the battlements nodded in greeting. They, too, knew the cold will and hot lash her lord favored. Only the scent of baker's morning bread comforted Brea as she led her soldiers home.

"I'll handle the squadron," Farnick told her as they rode. He had gathered her discarded armor, dried it by the pyre, and strapped it securely to Brea's horse. Though the thought of wearing the blackjacket again didn't make her happy, she knew it was for the best.

Deagan would not tolerate such a disregard for his gifts.

"Have Etrim see to the horses," she said. "She has a way with them."

"Aye. The lass will make a fine trooper one day."

Brea unhooked her belt pouch and tossed it at Farnick. "Have both the soldiers and horses fed well tonight."

He weighed the pouch in his hand, then reached in to withdraw a single coin. It was perfectly round and stamped on the front with the profile of their lord.

"He looks nicer in gold," Farnick said. "Softer, almost motherly, aye?"

She laughed, but said nothing in response. He slipped the coin in the bag and stuck it under his breastplate.

"I swear I'll only buy a bit of ale, sir," he said. "For the horses, of course."

They rode the rest of the way in companionable quiet, only the clack of horseshoes sounding over the cobblestone street. When they neared the barracks, Brea split from her squadron and turned toward her lord's keep. She was dirty with grime, her doublet still damp and smelling of mildew. Her boots left muddy footprints on priceless rugs as she walked, uncontested, to Deagan's office.

He did not look up from his desk as she entered, but said, "Is it done?"

A strange sadness colored his voice. He stared intently at the stack of papers before him, but Brea noted a rim of red around his eyes.

"It is, my lord," she said.

His head lifted as she spoke, and for a moment an emotion she could not name flickered across his expression. Then a mask smoothed over his face, cold and calm and always assured.

"Brea," he said on a sigh. "Tell me."

She stood stock straight as she gave her report. "The brigands were found and dispatched. They were but ragged men and women, a few families. The wagon taken from your caravan has been returned, but its cargo is rotten. Food, my lord. They stole only food."

"Only food." He rose from his desk. "It is food that feeds my citizens; its sale pays my soldiers. Only food bought you that armor. Only food keeps my hold profitable."

She remained motionless as he approached. He touched her shoulder briefly and inspected his hand. The white glove showed wet and dirty fingertips. His mouth formed a hard line, which only made his beauty more severe.

"What would you suggest, Captain?" he asked. "That I let thieves pillage freely if they are hungry? Let them take what is rightfully mine out of pity?"

"They didn't need to die."

He raised a single dark brow. "I did not kill them, soldier. You did."

Brea closed her eyes, her chin dropping. The screams of the brigands echoed through her mind. They would not suffer the loss of their goods, spoiled or not, nor would they be taken under arrest. A man had shouted that the dungeons were a worse death than the sword. His face was clear in Brea's memory, thinned by starvation yet too stubborn to die. It was he who had drawn the first blade, incited his fellows, but it was her longsword that sank deep in his chest.

"We were under orders," she said to the floor.

"And if you do not like my orders, then violate your contract and leave."

Her heart lurched, her head rising to meet his pale gaze. No love lay in his eyes now, no indication that he had ever looked upon her with more than disdain. Then, he sighed and rested his hands on either side of her face.

"Brea," he whispered as his expression relaxed, the hard planes of his face softening into the features of the man she knew, not the Prophet she served.

"My lord?"

He wiped the soot and blood from her cheeks, ruining his gloves. "You are the best of my Blackjackets. My most loyal soldier."

Instinctively, she tilted into his touch. These were the moments she craved, the rare times when he reminded her of why she loved him. She said nothing, too afraid a word from her might freeze his sudden warmth.

"I shouldn't tolerate your insolence," he said without rancor. "But you are my weakness, you do know that? Your heart will be my undoing."

He kissed her slow, tasting of rich wine and promises he could not keep. She lost herself for a moment, forgot the blood staining her fingernails and the sweat of battle still clinging to her. When he pushed her gently away, she was unsurprised. He went to his desk again and opened a drawer. From it he lifted a gorget, black as her breastplate but too large for her by half. When he placed it around her neck and whispered a word, the armor shrank. It fit snugly against her skin.

"For you," he said. "To keep you safe when you leave in the morning for the Five Kings Mountains."

Brea caressed the sleek steel of the gorget, her brow furrowing. "My squadron's only just returned."

"And they should have a good night's rest before setting out at dawn." He moved away from her, placed his hands on his desk's marble top, and leaned over his papers once more. "There have been reports of goblin settlements. The Five Kings are too close to my territory for us to sit idly and do nothing. My caravans may be at risk."

"Of course, my lord, but there've been no instances of goblins living near our borders for years."

Deagan stared at her. The man disappeared, leaving only the Prophet in his white robes. "I suggest you clean up, sleep, and do not test my generosity again this day."

He dismissed her with a wave, and Brea wandered out of his keep. It was not her place to question, she knew, but she could taste blackberry wine on her tongue and feel the heat of his hands against her skin. She reached for the gorget and unclasped it. It fell open in her palms, still sized perfectly to her, and clean, so much cleaner than the hands that cradled it.

She walked toward the barracks, toward her troopers and the news that there would not be time to recover. They would march at dawn, and she would discover if this new gorget was another way for her lord to show his true affections for her—or if it was little more than a slave's collar.

Coming Next Week: Love and betrayal in Chapter Two of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Two: My Brother, My Blade

Farnick rode at her side, the squadron of troopers behind them. His head was cleanly shaved. No trace of stubble lined his chin. Brea's armor hung heavy on her shoulders, the gorget tight against her throat. All was as it should be.

"Goblins," Farnick spat. "There be no goblins this close to Prophet's Home and dwarven lands."

"Let us hope not," Brea said.

"I pray there are. My steel's sharp and overdue for a taste of goblin blood."

She smiled, remembering the moment their friendship was forged during the war. In truth, she had thought him mad when he dived in front of a blow that would have killed her and, instead, shattered his helm and left his ear a tattered mess. A stranger and a dwarf, willing to give his life for no other reason than she was his superior officer, and he'd been assigned to her command. Several days later, Brea had offered a daring tactic to route the enemy, and Farnick was the first to volunteer. His trust in her and her bold strategies had saved them both more times than she could recall.

There was no warrior she would rather have at her side.

"Eager for glory, old friend?" she asked.

"Aye, sir, been too little glory in recent years."

"Peace times are not the place for glory."

He frowned. "Nor soldiers, I fear."

The land was hilly and thick with scrubgrass. Mountains loomed before them like great shadows on the horizon. The closer they traveled to the Five Kings, the more the ground dipped and rose. She'd ordered a loose formation and doubled the eyes along either side of her squadron.

Brea had sent Soltez ahead of the group; despite his lingering injury he was her best scout. He would not need his sword arm if he remained unseen. And in truth, she had never needed his sword, considering how unskilled he was in battle, but his eyes were sharp and his intellect honed finer than any blade. She knew he moved somewhere in the distance, though she saw only the occasional wave of high grasses, which might have been the wind.

Thus far there had been no sign of unusual goblin activity. There were always some greenies, prowling in packs for wayward travelers. But no goblin warband would attack an armed squadron like Brea's. Goblins were crazy, but not entirely stupid.

"Will we see greenies today, Captain?" Etrim spoke from behind her. The eagerness in the younger woman's voice made Brea feel ancient.

"Perhaps," she said.

The fresh leather of Etrim's saddle creaked. She held the reigns of Soltez's horse and guided it alongside of her.

"It will be an honor to fight at your side," Etrim said.

Farnick chuckled. "Glory and honor both, then. ’Tis a good day for dreams."

Brea said nothing. Her glory had faded with the end of the war, and she'd sacrificed any honor she once had the moment she laid her heart bare for her lord.

The grasses beside her stirred. She reached for her longsword and had almost unsheathed it when she noticed the unmistakable cap of dark curls that belonged to Soltez.

"One or two leagues north." Soltez paused to salute her, almost as an afterthought. "A settlement in the clearing of some trees. Seemed empty to me."

"Seemed empty or is empty?" Brea asked.

"Is, sir. Abandoned."

She nodded and motioned to the extra horse that Etrim led. "Mount up, soldier. You've done well."

Brea knows all too well the price of royalty.

Soltez struggled to seat his horse one-handed, and Etrim paused to help him. They fell back in the formation, two other troopers seamlessly taking their places.

The scrubgrass gave way to thick underbrush and tall trees. Brea was about to call for a dismount to hack a suitable path for the horses, but Soltez assured her the clearing was just ahead. They picked their way carefully through the brush, mindful of the horses' footing. Then the trees parted like a lover’s welcoming arms.

"This is no settlement," Brea murmured as she passed a lonely, cold campfire. A few logs and thatches of leaves were scattered nearby that could have been the remains of crude shelters. But those had fallen ages ago.

"’Tis quiet, sir," Farnick whispered beside her.

She took a breath and let her ears register what was missing. The wind had died, and no birds chirped in the trees. Something foul and familiar drifted in the still air, the rank stench of an old enemy.

"Goblins," she said, drawing her longsword. "Ambush! To arms! Ambush!"

From the dark depths of the trees, the creatures emerged.

∗ ∗ ∗

They were losing. Brea could sense it in the ebb and flow of battle. They'd been caught unawares and had no time to form a defensive line. Blackjackets collapsed around her. For every trooper that died, several enemies went with him. Still, the hobgoblins poured from the shadows, seemingly endless in their numbers.

She spotted not a single goblin among the ranks, only hobs. Scarred, gray-skinned beings that stood of a height to her and fought with a brutal single-mindedness. Their arms and armor were not the scavenged mish-mash their shorter cousins preferred, but as finely made as those of any regiment of soldiers.

Of all the vile creatures in the world, Brea hated and feared hobgoblins the most.

To her left, she heard Farnick grunt as he cut down another hob, only to have a new one take its place. The rest of her troopers were scattered throughout the clearing, lost in the blur of battle.

"To me!" she called, slicing a hobgoblin in front of her across the throat and urging her horse to trample the next. "Form rank!"

Horses screamed and toppled, throwing troopers to the ground. Metal clanged, and soldiers wailed. The stink of hobgoblins and death filled the air.

One hob lunged at Brea's mare, and she batted his sword aside. The creature growled, cursing in its native tongue, and leaped. It caught hold of her horse's mane, attempting to swing itself at Brea and dismount her. She kicked it in the chest, but that only gave the hobgoblin pause. Her mount bucked, and she struggled to keep the mare under control as the hob wrenched the poor thing’s neck with one hand, while the other raised a sword to strike.

The hob’s blade descended toward Brea’s face. Unable to bring her sword up quickly enough to block, she managed only to shift her weight. The sword missed her face by a breath and landed squarely upon her throat.

The gorget sang with the screech of steel scraping steel. A spark hit her chin and sizzled. But the blade turned. Her head rattled from the impact, though it remained attached to her shoulders.

Brea rotated her too-slow parry into a slash and stuck the hob in the side. Blood splattered both her and her mare. The hob’s grip slackened, and the creature tumbled to the ground.

She didn't have time to check the gorget for damage or to murmur thanks to Deagan for his well-considered gift. Her old friend appeared at her side, a comforting presence as her troopers finally made their way toward her.

"Just like the old days, sir," Farnick shouted over the chaos. He laughed as he blocked a blow and kicked a hobgoblin in the head, sending the creature sprawling under his horse's hooves.

Other troopers gathered slowly in a loose crown formation with Brea. Surrounded by her brothers, she could think of no better way to die.

The hobgoblin swarm blocked them in, swiping at their horses. It was not the first time she and Farnick had been outnumbered by goblin infantry, and she smiled as a plan formed.

"Farnick, do you remember the battle along the Keld?" she yelled.

"Which one, sir?"

"The one we rode away from, rather than crawled."

A knowing grin spread across his face. He gave a whoop and spurred his horse. Though smaller than the other warhorses in Brea's squadron, Farnick's mare barreled through the hobs, parting them like water. Without hesitation, she followed in his wake, the other troopers behind her. They sliced a path through their enemy. Even a swarm of hobgoblins was no match for heavy cavalry.

When they reached the end of the hobs, they turned at the tree line. Farnick fanned to the left, and Brea went opposite. Another swath of creatures fell under their horse's hooves.

Finally, a horn sounded. It bleated for the hobgoblins’ retreat.

"Ride them down!" Brea ordered her squadron. Still, a few hobs managed to disappear into the woods.

When it was over, she counted her remaining people.

"Nine," she said. "Nine of thirty."

Farnick limped over to her, his horse lost among the carnage. Aside from the gouge across his thigh, he seemed unharmed.

"Three score of hobs, I'd wager," he said. He stepped on a body, and it grunted. He raised his sword to strike. "An ugly one here, still breathing."

"Wait." Brea dismounted and stood over the hobgoblin. Both of his legs were broken, and a jagged wound across his brow wept blood. She crouched before his hideous face, studying it.

"Is you," the creature said in guttural Common.

"Do you know me?" Brea asked.

The hobgoblin laughed, his eyes black pinpricks in a bulbous face. "The female captain. Said you would come. Said you were fierce."

She inclined her head, suppressing her surprise. "Who said?"

He grew quiet. Only his labored breathing and the movements of her soldiers as they gathered the dead echoed through the clearing.

Brea grabbed a broken leg and squeezed. The hobgoblin howled.

"You were waiting for us," she said. "Who sent you?"

"Gold man," the hob wailed. He reached for his belt, and Brea leaned on his leg.

"Stay still," she said and grabbed the pouch near his hand. She handed it to Farnick so she could keep her attention on the hob.

"Gold man," he repeated. "Please."

"Captain?" Farnick held out his hand.

A flash of gold drew her eye, and Brea turned to see bloody coins in her friend's palm. The face she knew too well, the lines she had traced with her lips and fingertips, stared back at her in mockery. Stamped clearly on each coin was the stoic profile of her lord, Deagan Callimedes, stained with her brothers' lives.

Coming Next Week: A room with a view in Chapter Three of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Three: There Lies the Gallows

The pyre burned for hours. Its flames seemed to lick the sky, and Brea turned her horse and troopers away from the carnage. They rode for home, though she wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Smoke rose behind them, a dark reminder of her lord's betrayal.

Twenty-one cuirasses dangled along the flanks of the remaining horses. They would carry those and the blackjackets of their fallen to Deagan's Hold, a hollow shell of the soldiers who had died in their lord's service. The armor clanked and rattled like a discordant dirge.

"He betrayed me," she whispered to Farnick. "He betrayed us all."

Her friend grunted and shifted his weight atop his borrowed horse. "One hob's word and a few coins won't be enough."

"What will it take?"

"You speak of mutiny, sir," he said. "A clear violation of contract be needed for treachery."

"Yet the Prophets can be as perfidious as they like."

He was silent a moment, then said, "And now you speak blasphemy."

Brea sighed. "You won't help me."

It wasn't a question, and Farnick did not grace her with a response.

"How long then, how long until you brand me a traitor, old friend?" she asked.

"You have done nothing yet, sir. And when you do, I'll give you a day and a night to seek your proof." His voice was flat, but she read the sadness in the slump of his shoulders.

She didn’t know why Deagan had stooped so low as to hire hobgoblins. Was it to be rid of her? He would consider the deaths of her troopers acceptable losses, so long as his goals were achieved. She had witnessed her lord sacrifice soldiers and citizens in pursuit of a few leagues of land for his hold. To Deagan, they were but resources for him to manipulate, control, and do away with at his whim.

She had thought she was an exception.

"Why didn't he just have me hanged? Concoct some story. Why the deception?" she asked, almost absently.

Farnick shrugged. "I don't claim to understand the ways of Kalistocrats, but your squadron is loyal to you. I'm not the only one who remembers your deeds in the Goblinblood Wars, and many have served years under your command, sir. We would follow you."

"But not in mutiny."

"Aye." He paused, and then added, “Not yet."

She smiled at him and nodded her understanding. She would need to acquire proof beyond any doubt that Deagan had violated their contract. And considering how meticulous her lord was with his recordkeeping, she knew there would be something in his office. Some ledger or receipt of payment. Some scrap of paper where he signed away her squadron's lives.

The clatter of Blackjackets heralded their arrival. Soldiers on the battlements saw the empty cuirasses and nodded a sorrowful greeting. Citizens going about their daily chores stopped to stare. Brea's remaining troopers marched like a funeral procession. Nine of thirty: the numbers resounded in her mind alongside the faces of the fallen.

They rode straight to her lord’s keep and collected a crowd of onlookers who followed their bedraggled band. The commotion drew citizen and soldier alike, and Brea led them to the square below Deagan's balcony.

"My lord Callimedes," she called, loud enough for all to hear. She wasn't sure if Deagan would respond. Perhaps he might be too shocked that she yet lived. Perhaps he was too cowardly to face her in such a public display. Perhaps her audacity would see her hanged, her love be damned.

Two Blackjackets, whom Brea recognized as her lord's personal guards, stepped onto the balcony. They peered around and squinted knowingly at Brea below them.

After a moment, Lord Deagan Callimedes slid into view between his Blackjackets. Gold embroidery lined his elegant robes and sparkled in the afternoon sun. Jewels at his throat and fingers glittered. Though he seemed a bright star hovering above Brea's gloomy procession, she saw the dark cast of his features, the anger that hardened his eyes to chips of ice. Deagan's white-gloved hands gripped the balustrade tight enough she heard the wood creak.

Still, her breath caught at the sight of him, her heart giving a painful lurch.

"Captain." His voice rang across the square.

"An ambush, my lord. Twenty-one of your finest troopers taken at the hands of hobgoblins." She wanted all of the Mercenary League to hear of the dead, to know of their fallen brothers. Once she had proof, what was left of her squadron would not be enough. She needed every Blackjacket in Deagan's Hold to turn against him.

Her lord was silent a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, and Brea couldn't tell if the gentleness there was for her or for show.

"Then we mourn tonight," he said, "but we also celebrate the safe return of those who live to serve Kalistrade another day. Come, give your report Captain, and let us prepare a memorial for my fallen Blackjackets."

With that he turned and disappeared into his keep.

For Farnick, duty rises above all.

Brea sighed and dismounted her horse. She nodded to Farnick and whispered, "A day and a night, old friend."

He inclined his head, saying nothing. He led her soldiers toward the barracks, while she climbed the steps toward her lord once more and wondered if that would be the last she saw of Farnick. If in the morning he would brand her a traitor and hunt her down.

Perhaps, she thought, it was no more than she deserved.

∗ ∗ ∗

Hot water soothed her battered body. A page had intercepted her and instructed that she should make herself presentable. It seemed no one was too happy with the muddy bootprints she'd left on her last visit, least of all her lord. He'd lent her use of his own bathing chambers, though she'd seen no sign of the man himself since her arrival.

She relaxed against the porcelain tub. Every once in a while, a page would enter, remove a bucket of stale water, and pour fresh, steaming water into her bath. Jasmine and white rose petals floated on the surface, scenting the air along with her skin. A decanter of chilled wine and a glass were placed on a table nearby.

"It's good to be a Prophet," she mused.

Though she avoided the wine for fear of poison, least of all a dulling of her wits, she delighted in the comfort of Deagan’s chambers. If he intended to manipulate her before killing her, she might as well enjoy herself. And if she planned to peruse his office for proof of his treachery, then she would need to employ the same cleverness and subtlety of a Kalistocrat. She would need to use whatever love he once had for her as a weapon. He had said her heart would be his undoing, and Brea needed to make that prophecy come true.

When her olive skin turned pink from scrubbing, she wrapped herself in a robe and padded to the door that led to Deagan's office. She paused to listen and, hearing no one on the other side, opened it.

Leather-bound books and papers were stacked with care atop his desk. Gold trinkets and statuettes carved from ivory decorated his shelves. A tapestry woven with the Prophecies of Kalistrade hung above the hearth. They had once laughed with devilish delight at that tapestry, tangled together below it before the hearth.

Now the fireplace stood empty and cold. Not even the plush carpets warmed her bare feet as she moved to his desk.

Dates marked the binding of each ledger. Every paper was labeled in his intricate script. Deagan was a man who enjoyed details. He memorized the annual harvests of each province in the same meticulous way his fingers knew the delicate slope of her jaw, the column of her throat, and the slow curve of her hips.

She opened the newest ledger and scanned row upon row of transactions. Most of the accounts were lost on her, but she knew enough to understand Deagan's wealth was far greater than she'd expected. If he was conducting the amount and volume of sales the ledger indicated, then he was amassing enough power to draw the eyes of other Prophets, perhaps even the High Prophet himself.

If any of the Kalistocrats looked too closely, they would discover her relationship with Deagan. Because it was a violation of the Prophecies for a Kalistocrat to have liaisons that might result in illegitimate heirs, they would strip her of her blackjacket and Deagan of his title. It was a risk she and Deagan had known, but his hold had been beneath the notice of his betters, a small keep on the border of dwarven territory. Inconsequential, until now.

His efforts to stamp her out of existence suddenly made all too much sense.

She flipped pages, seeking anything that might indicate the hiring of hobgoblins or his attempt to remove her without sullying his own hands. She found nothing.

"Looking for something, Captain?" Deagan's voice sounded from the bathing chambers. He leaned against the doorframe, swirling a glass of wine.

Brea had no answer for him, no clever excuse that would spare her. She longed for the clarity of war and a simple sword in her hand, for an opponent whose eyes she could meet, for whom her heart did not ache. In that moment, she feared her lord more than any murderous hobgoblin.

"Come, I wish to show you something," he said and turned his back to her.

She had no blade hidden in her robe, and even if she did, she wasn't sure she could use it on her lord. She followed him into his chambers, her heart dying a little with every step.

He motioned to the foot of his bed, where her armor lay atop her doublet and clothes. It had been cleaned and polished, oiled to a fine shine that reflected the evening sun that blazed through his chamber's window. The gold etchings seemed brilliant on the dark armor, and she wondered if the magical blessings had also been restored. Her new gorget had been scrubbed. The scratch where it had turned the hobgoblin's blade and saved her life was no more than a dimple she had to feel with her fingers to sense.

"You'll want to be clean and in full regalia for the memorial service," he said. "Go on."

Brea had never been shy, not during the months in battlefield encampments surrounded by hardened soldiers, nor in the presence of her lord. Shyness was a trait for noble ladies and their handmaidens, of which she was neither. But now when she grasped the cinch of her robe, she hesitated.

"What game is this?" she asked, the words leaving her throat before she could stop them.

He shook his head and sipped from his glass. "Dress, Captain."

As she removed her robe, Deagan went to his window and stared at the setting sun. Brea slipped on her clothing and pulled her arming doublet over her head. When she began strapping down the plate armor, her lord came to her.

"Allow me," he said and knelt before her. His elegant hands fastened the buckles of her greaves with ease. As he rose to assist with her gorget, she met his bloodshot eyes.

"Why?" she whispered.

He did not answer. Leaving her gauntlets on the bed, he took her hand and led her toward the window.

"There is talk of mutiny in your squadron, Captain," he said.

So he knew, had known before he caught her snooping in his study. For the first time, Brea considered the possibility of a spy among her ranks. Someone new whom Deagan had paid to report on her. She didn't want to believe in such a betrayal, but if her lord could break her heart, one of her brothers could easily break her trust.

"Some believe I have violated my contract with the Mercenary League," he continued, standing behind her as she faced the square below. A gallows had been erected, and townsfolk were gathering around it.

"So this is it then," she said, thankful that at least he had allowed her to dress as a soldier. The weight of the armor that had long protected her would now drag her to a quicker death.

"I cannot have betrayal in my ranks, Captain. It must be dealt with swiftly."

"Did you ever love me?"

His breath warmed the shell of her ear. A black-masked executioner stepped onto the gallows, tying the rope securely between the uprights. Brea saw her troopers interspersed with the crowd, Etrim's blond head next to Soltez's dark curls. Both were young and stupid enough to be her lord's lap dog. They came to watch her die.

"An example must be made," Deagan said. "Your squadron must know I do not tolerate treachery in my officers."

She nodded. "I would have died for you on the field. This will only be a little different."

"Watch. And then you must go...go far away." His breathing was labored now, and he took a step back from her.

She furrowed her brow and did as her lord ordered.

From the keep strode two of Deagan's personal Blackjackets carrying a short, struggling figure between them. The bald head and missing ear of her old friend were unmistakable.

"Farnick?" She whirled on Deagan, her stomach roiling with sickness. "No, it's me you want. Hang me."

His eyes glimmered, his face lined with pain. "You understand nothing."

She lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. Her hands clamped on his shoulders and rapped his head against the floor. "Release Farnick!"

Her lord whispered a single word, and the gorget closed around her throat. She let him go to fumble at the clasp, but it would not open.

Staggering to his feet, Deagan coughed and said, "Someone must be responsible for the threat of mutiny. Someone must pay. But not you..."

Brea rolled on the ground, fighting for air. The world around her became fuzzy and disjointed.

"I'd hoped you would violate your contract,” he continued, “and leave after the brigands...and when you didn’t, I steeled myself and sent you to the hobs to die. But didn’t die, and I knew couldn't bear to go through it all again, to see you swinging from a rope." He laughed. "You keep coming back. My weakness. My albatross."

He crouched before her. Spots colored her vision, but she could see tears streaking his beautiful face. From the square below, she heard the crowd murmur before going silent.

Farnick's gruff voice boomed with his final words. "'Tis been my honor to serve with the finest soldiers, the finest Captain, I have known."

A crack sounded as the trapdoor under his feet opened and the crossbeam bore his weight.

Brea felt her own tears roll down her face, felt Deagan catch one with a gentle fingertip. Then the world disappeared.

Coming Next Week: A friend in need in Chapter Four of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Four: No Love Like Gold

Sunlight dripped from a tiny window into her cell. Brea lay on her doublet atop the cold ground and tried to remember how many days had passed. Four? Seven? A dozen or more? She had seen no one, heard only the moans of distant neighbors, and received no nourishment of any kind. The dungeons of Deagan's Hold were not a place to keep prisoners for questioning or before a trial, but a place to forget they had ever existed.

The brigand's face flashed in Brea's mind. His words that the dungeon offered a death worse than a sword lingered in her ears. His hollow cheeks lifted in laughter, his sunken eyes watching over her. She could not shake his image nor the inescapable knowledge that without food or water, she would lose her mind shortly before she died.

But Brea had taken precautions. Months in encampments with limited supplies had taught her how to survive. And in his arrogance, Deagan had left her fully armored. Her cuirass lay against the wall of her cell, its curve deep enough to catch a dribble of water that snaked down the stone. Those few drops of moisture had kept her alive, hoping that an opportunity to escape might present itself. She'd stayed quiet and calm, tried to conserve as much energy as possible, but another sunset slipped below the window and nothing changed.

Hope became a fleeting, foolish memory. Like love.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Brea lifted her head as torchlight flickered along the dank dungeon walls. The light grew closer, and she squinted. The resounding steps stopped in front of her cell.

"It's me, Captain," Etrim whispered and settled her torch in a nearby sconce.

Brea pushed herself to her feet. She wobbled, but steadied herself against the wall.

"I brought food and water, sir," Etrim said and shoved a hunk of bread through the barred window of the door. "And keys, most importantly, I have the gaoler's keys."

Brea considered it might be a trap. Etrim might have been the traitor in her own ranks, reporting to Deagan on her plan to stage a coup. But the lure of food and water made Brea’s stomach grumble in protest to her thoughts, and she accepted the bread.

"How's that?" she asked. The bread made her mouth water with what little moisture remained in her body. She took a tentative bite, chewed, and tore into the rest with all the ferocity of a starving animal.

Etrim fumbled with the keys, testing each one on the heavy gaoler's loop, and cursing under her breath as each failed to turn the lock. "Things have been bad, Captain, ever since Lieutenant..."

Her words died as she peered through the small window, meeting Brea's eyes. Farnick was truly dead then. Her old friend, hanged by her lover. The bread turned heavy in her stomach.

"The squadron," Etrim continued, "it's mutiny, sir. The lieutenant's death was a clear violation of our contract. No trial. Not even the slightest evidence. There."

The lock clicked. She pulled the door open with a creak, and Brea stumbled out.

"Let me, sir." Etrim slung Brea's arm over her shoulder and grabbed her torch.

"Thank you."

Etrim managed to smile the same overeager grin she'd always had. Only now, in this wretched place, Brea found it comforting.

"So who planned my rescue?" Brea asked.

Etrim blushed. "I couldn't let you rot down here, Captain."

Brea squeezed the younger woman's shoulder as Etrim led them up and into Deagan's keep.

The great hall, which normally bustled with servants, sat empty save for the Blackjackets guarding the doors. They straightened as they saw Brea and saluted.

"Sir," one of them said, "Lord Callimedes has barricaded himself in his office with his personal guard."

Etrim helped Brea into a chair at a long, wooden table. A meager plate of jerky and parsnips was laid before her.

"How many?" Brea asked and reached for Etrim's waterskin.

"Four or five."

She nodded, nibbling on a bit of jerky. "And how many have taken arms against our lord?"

The man shrugged. "Maybe twice that. Most are staying out of it, sticking to the barracks or taverns until they see who wins."

"No doubt Deagan has sought outside help. He must realize he can't quell his soldiers on his own," she said.

"We've stopped any messengers from coming or going, sir."

Etrim's steafast loyalty outweighs her inexperience.

Brea considered as she finished her first meal in so many days. "He'll find a way, if he hasn't already. I need to deal with him quickly."

She struggled to stand, and Etrim helped her to her feet.

"Captain," Etrim started, but didn't need to finish.

Brea knew she was too weak to face him. And perhaps she had always been, too weak and blinded by feelings she should never have possessed. None of that mattered now. She would finish this.

Something in her eyes must have told Etrim that her Captain would not back down today, for the young trooper nodded and said, "I'll get your sword and armor, sir."

"No," Brea said. "Leave the armor in the dungeon where it belongs. My sword will be enough. I will no longer bear the blackjacket."

∗ ∗ ∗

The climb up the stairs to Deagan's office was longer and more arduous than Brea remembered, even lacking the weight of her armor. Her legs ached nearly as much as her heart.

Etrim and two other Blackjackets flanked her. They carried a portable battering ram, but Brea paused outside the double-doors to knock. It seemed ridiculous, to announce herself before breaking in, but she wanted to hear what her former lord had to say.

"Deagan," she called. "Open the doors and surrender. Your troops might yet spare you."

Silence greeted her.

She sighed and nodded to her soldiers. "Break it down."

The slam of the ram pounded in time with her heart. Whatever affection she had for Deagan had died with Farnick and rotted in that cell, but there was a sadness there, a remorse over losing the possibility of something better. When the doors finally gave way, the tearing of timber became the scream Brea could not herself release.

She stepped over the threshold. Deagan stood with his back to the window from which he'd watched Farnick swing. Four Blackjackets formed a semicircle in front of him, their swords drawn. Among them stood Soltez, sword in hand despite his injury.

Brea frowned. She wondered if his injury had been staged, purposeful so he might scout ahead and lead them to the hobgoblin trap instead of remaining among her ranks.

"It's over," she said. "Don't risk your lives for a lord who has used your brothers like fodder for a few coins. Lay down your weapons."

She approached warily, her sword held before her. The men guarding Deagan hesitated a fraction at her words. Their posture turned unsure.

For his part, Prophet Deagan Callimedes looked regal in his white robes and jewels. He also appeared shocked and scared. In all their time together, Brea had never seen him lose his composure. Now he seemed an arrogant child, unwilling to admit defeat.

"Kill her," he ordered his men. Their hesitation disappeared, and they charged.

Brea moved faster without the weight of her armor, but she was also exposed and weary from her time in the dungeon. She sidestepped the blow and twisted awkwardly to dodge another. She caught sight of Etrim and the others who’d accompanied her from the corner of her eye. They danced with their own opponents.

Brea lifted her sword to parry as Soltez advanced on her. The block was well timed, and the clash of steel rang down her arms. She didn't want to kill him, this brother who’d abandoned her to remain loyal to his lord. Her reservations and weakened state would cost her, she knew.

As she spun to avoid another thrust and place herself behind Soltez, pain flared hot and violent across her hip. He’d caught her, but it was shallow enough for her to ignore. She brought the pommel of her sword down on the back of his head.

Soltez staggered.

“Don’t do this,” she said.

The scout turned to face her, too slow by half. He swung his sword awkwardly, and Brea easily parried it.

“Our lord has betrayed us,” she said. She kept a low guard, waiting for the inexperienced soldier to make his decision.

“You’re the traitor.” Soltez’s words were slurred. He touched the back of his head with one hand as if to slow the dizziness her blow had delivered him. “The High Prophet will come, and he will reward my loyalty.”

Brea sighed. She almost admired his devotion. Years ago, she had been just like him, fanatical in her loyalty to the Kalistocrats. But war and sacrifice, love and betrayal had changed her. The Prophets were but men and women, nestled atop their piles of gold, sending their soldiers to die for scraps of power. They hid their bloodstained hands inside white gloves. Soltez was now part of their machinations, and his actions had caused her friend’s execution.

Soltez lunged at her. She stepped away with ease and drove her blade cleanly through the gap between his armor and lagging sword arm. It was precise, deep, and killed him instantly.

“I’m sorry, brother,” she said as he crumpled to the floor.

The other Blackjackets were occupied among themselves. She scanned the room for Deagan.

She would not have noticed him if it wasn't for the flash of golden embroidery trailing from under his desk. The hem of his robe peeked at her, beckoning her.

She marched around the desk and lifted his cowering form by his bejeweled lapels.

"Coward," she said, dragging him to face her.

He squirmed and tried to push her away. His hands were familiar, almost comforting, but his eyes shone with a cold fury.

"I am your lord," he said. "You can’t do this."

"You lost that title when you murdered my friend." She shoved him against the wall. The tapestry of the Prophecies draped overhead.

"You should have hanged me. If you couldn’t love me, you should have let me go," she said. “Instead you killed an innocent man. A good man.”

Something in his eyes softened. The sounds of battle around them melted. Deagan smiled, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"I did," he said. “For you. Had you but left then instead of attacking your lord...”

His voice drew her closer, the pain in his expression weakening her further. She could barely lift her longsword, and her muscles quivered with exhaustion.

"I loved you despite everything." He reached for her face.

A white-gloved hand cupped her cheek. She let herself fall into it, close her eyes, and sigh. In that moment, she realized he was telling to truth.

Brea turned her grip and thrust her longsword up through her lord's body.

"I loved Farnick like a brother," she said, watching his eyes widen in shock then empty of life. She followed him to the floor, slumping next to him and laying her head against his shoulder. His freehand released the dagger he'd palmed, and she watched it splatter into the pool of blood gathering around them.

Her hip throbbed. Her head swam from blood loss and exhaustion. But she could no more lie down and die now than she could've in her cell. She would survive.

"Captain?" Etrim stood over her, her hand extended in offering.

Brea grasped the young warrior’s bloodstained hand and staggered to her feet.

"No longer," Brea said. "I need to leave."

"I don't understand, sir?"

"Take what you can from his holdings and distribute it among our soldiers. Other Kalistocrats and their Blackjackets will arrive soon, and they'll claim whatever remains."

"Where will you go?" Etrim asked.

"I am a traitor. They’ll hunt me across Druma, and you will let them," she said, meeting Etrim’s gaze.

Hope glimmered in the young woman’s eyes. She recognized it from her own reflection, before Deagan, before the Goblinblood Wars.

"For all of this,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “I am to blame. I’ll run until they find me, or I become too expensive to chase."

"I could go with you."

Brea smiled and shook her head. "I need you here, Etrim, to set things right. You're a fine trooper, and you'll make a fine Captain."

Even smeared in the blood of her fellow soldiers, Etrim's armor seemed clean. There were no golden etchings in the black, no magic from a lord to sully it. She wore her blackjacket with pride, and Brea hoped she would always keep her body armored, as well as her heart.

Coming Soon: An unexpected knight in an all-new Pathfinder Tales serial by Dylan Birtolo.

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.