02

CHAPTER 1

Hic sunt dracones -- "Here be dragons." Notation on the Ostrich Egg Globe, 1504.

The legatus came down the stairs, stopping at the first cell. Hawthe didn't speak the Scathian language, so he couldn't question the prisoner in front of him as he'd like. He had just learned that the replacement translator had died on the journey to Anwen Pass. The previous translator had broken his neck falling from a horse. You'd think it was a dangerous profession.

It didn't mean he and his men stopped killing Scathians. Everyone understood that language.

One of the prisoners was dying on a cot. The other had a raised scar across his face and graying hair, an old fighter. The Scathian came close, close enough to reach through the bars with those battered hands. Behind Hawthe, torches sputtered, the flickering light reflected off the shiny mineral surface of the stone walls.

Anwen Citadel was hewn out of the mountain itself, overlooking the pass between great peaks, the entrance to Calthus. There was a constant drip down here, damp, the walls weeping.

The prisoner was bare-chested, his side wrapped from the healer, fresh blood staining the dressing. He faced Hawthe, tilting his chin up the stone stairs, making a chopping motion, his eyes shifting and then returning. Hawthe continued to stare in his direction.

"Night," Hawthe answered in the trade tongue, which was limited, his face impassive. "Food?"

The prisoner nodded, looking him over.

"Hawthe," the legatus said, gesturing briefly to himself. It seemed important to the Scathians that he know their name, and even more important that they know his.

The Scathian nodded. "Borsta," the prisoner said, gesturing to himself, his voice deep.

Hawthe held his hands open, a general offer. Borsta understood him and made a drinking motion. He already had water. Hawthe nodded. The prisoner's mouth twitched. He made a universal curvy motion indicating a woman. Hawthe smiled slowly, shaking his head. The prisoner laughed low and shrugged his shoulders. Nothing else, then.

Nodding to the prisoner, Hawthe left. He went up the stairs from the prison cells, opening and closing the heavy door at the top, and down the hall, taking the cutback to a new set of stairs. Gunn joined him, the walls stone, the ceiling and floor, the stairs, everything made of mountain here.

"Get the Scathian some food and ale," Hawthe said as they climbed. "Let him get drunk if he wants. We execute him tonight."

"Yes, Legatus."

#

Hawthe ignored the door at the top of the stairs. It led to the alcoves where his men slept, small rooms but private, and to the long room with a table where The Fifty ate, the kitchens behind that. He turned to take the next set of stairs. At the top, he opened the door to the residence of the legatus. Gunn followed, closing the door behind them.

The fire was already warm in the parlor, all of it stone, a large table and seating there, tall vaulted ceilings with wood rafters yawning above them. Gunn went and added more fuel. In the same room, there was a small cupboard for temporarily storing food as well as a chair and huge sturdy desk and a sideboard with delicate turned legs.

The walls were hewn from the rock, the floors fieldstone. A huge window looked out over the mountains pass. Standing in front of the window, one could see the only road below, a small scored line winding in all the green far below. Another road twisted down from Anwen Citadel, a steep decline, to join it.

Hawthe walked to his desk, pulling off his gloves. He tossed them aside, sitting. Gunn went to the sideboard and got them both a drink. He walked and handed one to Hawthe, pulling a chair from the table and sitting across from him.

"We'll swear in Neander, the new man, tomorrow," Hawthe said.

"Well, no surprise he can fight. With a name like that, I would have beaten him as a child just on principle," Gunn said. "We'll miss Severis, but I don't suppose it would do for The Fifty to become The Forty-nine."

"What do you think of the new man?"

"Neander? A young fool, like all of them."

"He's seventeen," Hawthe dismissed.

"Well, he's one of The Fifty now," Gunn said, a big barrel-chested man who was skilled with a spear, short brown cropped hair that stuck up in places, his voice always raspy. Gunn was older than the legatus, the eldest of The Fifty and therefore Hawthe's second. Gunn would retire soon, although he'd probably stay to train the new men. Most of The Fifty who made it to old age stayed. Behind the citadel, up a small path, was a place for graves, holding any of The Fifty who died without family to claim the body. This had been Gunn's life, and the man still asked Hawthe the question.

"Do you ever wonder why they choose it?" Gunn said. "To become one of The Fifty?"

Hawthe barely shrugged. The Fifty rarely talked about it, especially the older ones. Their oath was the backdrop behind everything they did. "What was your reason?" Hawthe said to the older man, leaning back.

"Nothing complicated. I was never good at anything but killing, but I was very good at that," Gunn said. "And the youngest legatus in three hundred years? Why did you choose to shelter in this rock?"

Hawthe eyed him. Gunn had never asked him that before. "My father was killed by Scathians in Dewster when I was nine," Hawthe said, looking into his drink. He didn't say how his mother had betrayed his father to a Scathian lover and then left to live in Scatha, the traitorous bitch, leaving Hawthe to be raised by his uncle and everyone knowing. Hawthe didn't talk about his mother.  He looked up to find Gunn's sharp eyes on him.

Gunn took a toothpick from his pocket, popping it in his mouth, rolling it to the other side.

"Nasty business," Gunn said. "Revenge, then."

"I was young and hot," Hawthe said.

"A hothead?" Gunn said, his toothpick migrating to the other side. "You?"

Hawthe sent him a glance. "We'll sweep Anwen Road tomorrow," Hawthe said, "six patrols of three, random searches for contraband."

"And if the sky opens and a piss-storm deluge drops on our heads?" Gunn said, sour.

"Then we'll sweep the road tomorrow, six patrols of three, random searches."

Gunn finished his drink, setting the glass down on the desk with a small clatter. "Yes, Legatus," he said, getting up and turning to leave, opening the door and bending to go under the timbered doorframe, closing it behind himself.

Hawthe rose, taking his drink with him. He walked into his bedchamber, passing a whole wall of print books on his left and a chair in which to read them, as well as a deep tub also hewn out of the rock, a small stove for a fire there to warm the water. His bed was under the window to his right. Facing his wardrobe, he went slightly to the left of it and wound through a tight stone tunnel there, just enough for his body to move through. He unlocked and opened a door at the end, bending to come outside onto a small plateau looking over all of it. It was one of the best things about being legatus, this plateau.

He walked and stood at the edge, not bothered by the rain, a dizzying height, standing practically in the clouds. His plateau was the highest reach of Anwen Citadel. From here, he could look through the pass and see the walled border of Scatha, their enemies, only a wide plain between them.

To his left, in the deep mountains, their jagged peaks, were the Northern Wastes. They fascinated him, tales of their enormous crystal caves, whole shelfs of frozen water and lights in the sky that shimmered in darkness like a night rainbow. You wanted to imagine the silence of a place like that, its stark, foreign beauty. Only animals that were hardy enough to survive harsh cold lived there. Certainly not people.

Directly below him ran a single road, tiny from here, small lights winking along its length. They were lanterns visible in the dusk, a constant stream of people flowing through the mountain pass. Traders and travelers. Behind him, if he could have seen through through solid rock, was Imber, the huge northern Calthusian trade city sheltering in the shadow of the pass, its round walls and brightly colored houses and markets.

The rain cleared, the evening cool. He watched the sun dip behind the mountains, the stark and sheer granite faces reflecting the fading light, shifting through dusky jewel colors, blues and greens splashing on the side of the mountains.

When it was dark but the stars not out yet, Hawthe rose and went back inside and into the parlor, putting more fuel on the fire. He pulled off his wool cloak, the water beading, tossing it over a chair there. He was tall, lean and powerful, with broad shoulders and big scarred hands. Above sweeping brows and intense, dark eyes, his hair was black, falling to his jaw.

He began pulling clothing off in the warmth of the room, his stance wide and his legs planted, a padded coat, worn leather, his vambraces. He had a flax linen shirt under the coat, simple, no collar, tan trousers with the distinctive Calthusian metal press-stud buttons down the outside seam.

He went to the sideboard, delicate turned legs, pouring more amber liquid into his glass. He walked to the window, restless, looking out. It began to rain again. He heard the bell from Imber as it tolled the ninth hour and he tossed his drink back, grabbing his coat. Time to execute the Scathian.

#

The next day, Hawthe returned in early evening with his patrol, bringing contraband they'd confiscated in the pass, moving the items into storage next to the cells, empty now, and doing an inventory. The evening meal was lively, the men playing music, some dancing together, fifty of them crowded into this space.

Hawthe was at the head of the very long table, his chair pushed back and his feet up. The Fifty were arranged along its length by age, the oldest close to the legatus and then getting younger. Hawthe was listening to Gunn tell stories about the previous legatus, who would occasionally take a woman, but who had liked pretty young men the best.

"I was worried about this one when he came all fresh and seventeen," Gunn said, the ale flowing, gesturing to Hawthe and laughing. "He's so pretty, I thought Ferth was going to rape him for sure."

"Fuck's sake," Hawthe said to Gunn. Hawthe didn't say how he'd had to rebuff Ferth at the time, but Ferth had still been a good legatus.

"Sorry, Legatus," Gunn said, laughing again.

"Lots," Hawthe announced when he heard the eighth bell ringing in Imber, the sound of the bells clear up here at the Anwen Citadel and the way they kept the time.

A portion of the men ignored him, but many of them dug into their pockets as Hawthe did, all of them tossing the die they kept there, six sides. On one of the six sides was a red dot, although he knew some of the men carved theirs with obscene images, pussy or tits.

Hawthe was pleased when the red dot came up on his roll, Gunn leaning and looking at it.

"You always get the roll, Legatus," Gunn complained.

"Not always," Hawthe muttered.

"It's weighted, maybe, being the legatus," Stiles teased him, smirking, whose die had come up blank.

Hawthe snatched up the die in front of him and threw it at Stiles, who snatched it out of the air, demonstrating the reflexes that had made him one of The Fifty. Stiles had thrown his to the legatus shortly after the die had left Hawthe's hand. When it arrived, Hawthe caught it and threw it down, Stiles doing the same. The dice rolled, the red dot coming up in front of Hawthe, Stiles coming up empty, his men laughing and crowing as they traded back.

"Look at that," Gunn said in disgust. "Fate's favor, right there."

Hawthe stood up, picking up his gloves, putting his die in his pocket. "Let me know if Scatha invades," he said. "Otherwise, don't fucking bother me."

Hawthe walked up the stairs. He went into his residence, taking everything off but his trousers and boots, his chest bare, broad shoulders and big arms. It had been a long time since the men had teased him about his beauty. It had always been a burden to him, never of any real use. He heard one of his men ring the small bell on the main plateau six times, six single rings and two double, summoning them. Eight of The Fifty had thrown red dots, including himself. The Citadel consorts would arrive soon. Six women and two men, according to the bell.

Before long, she knocked. Hawthe let her in, straight dark hair to her ass and pretty. Hawthe had fucked her before, but he didn't know her name. She didn't know his. They wouldn't speak to one another.

Ten women and five men were kept in a small house at the foot of Anwen Citadel. They were chosen when they were twenty at festival by petition, only the prettiest flesh. Released from the Citadel at thirty years old, they were given a lifelong stipend for their ten years of service that would keep them the rest of their lives. Their health was guarded carefully. They only fucked The Fifty. The competition was fierce, young women and men coming from all over Calthus to compete for the honor.

Hawthe had already thrown the ropes over the rafters. She came in, only a cloak over her. She removed it, setting it aside, his eyes on her body, small breasts and large puffy nipples, a round ass.

He brought her to the place he wanted and tied her hands behind her back. She met his eyes and smiled at him, Hawthe remaining impassive. They didn't kiss. The Mesdame who ran the small house below knew her business, knew his desires, the desires of his men. Sometimes the woman who was sent to Hawthe didn't like what he did and he took her anyway. He had things he didn't like to do in his job either.

He got the rope and wrapped it across her chest, crossing, and then repeated that until it would support her securely. He brought it to her ankles, and then to her thighs, leaving slack. Tossing it over the rafters again, his hands working, he wrapped it across her hips and under her breasts. It took some time. When he was ready, he lifted her with his arm, face down, pulling on the ropes.

He secured them and stepped back.

She was suspended, face-down, her hands behind her back. Her heels were to her butt, her legs spread. He checked her height. Her shoulders and chest were supported, but her head was hanging, the ropes putting tension on her breasts, which jutted to the floor.

He went and checked all the ropes, making sure nothing was too tight and that her weight was evenly distributed. He stripped. When he was naked, he got his crop, a square leather keeper. He tested it in the air. He never permanently marked a woman. What he did here would fade in a few days, during which she would rest and heal before she was given to another. He stood in front of her, waiting. She raised her head, her hair around her face, looking up at him.

He met her eyes, the crop going under her. He brought it up to tap on her nipple gently, going to the other. Her breath drew in sharply as he struck. He watched her small breast jiggle and did it again, walking around her for different angles, sharp snaps on her nipples, every one making her flinch. He felt his cock getting thick as her voice rose. She began to cry out, voicing it, her nipples getting red.

When she was sweaty and sounded desperate, he stopped. His cock was erect, arcing up his belly. She was panting. She let her head hang, her hair brushing the floor. He got in front of her, the best height, and swept her hair aside, grasping it, pulling her head up. He brought the tip of his cock to her mouth. She opened, licking all around the head.

His eyes went to her raised ass. He brought the crop up and began to strike it, hard strikes, every one leaving a blossom of red on her cheeks. She became much more enthusiastic in sucking him. Hawthe was breathing fast, sometimes grunting, his cock pulsing and moving, but he didn't get closer. She kept having to find him again, her mouth seeking. It felt good, and he enjoyed whipping her ass for a time, enjoyed her tongue. His eyes shifted to her mouth taking him, spit everywhere, her movements desperate, trying to suck him closer to herself.

He laughed softly, doubling his efforts, smacking her ass until she was crying out around his cock. He stopped. He pulled his cock from her lips. Her head dipped again, hanging. He came around behind her. His hand came, huge, smacking her ass, already red, a series of hard cracks.

She jiggled and jerked, crying out.

He spread her pussy lips behind her, his fingers gentle. He pressed all around, his touch light on her clitoris, taking his time. She was already wet. She began to swell, her clitoris getting stiff. She was panting for a different reason now, her head still hanging. This particular consort liked his play. When she was very slick, he pushed his thumb deep in her pussy, his fingers reaching to stroke her swollen clitoris, long strokes. She grunted lightly, her head coming up.

When she was close, he pulled his thumb from her and repositioned his hand around and under, his fingers finding her again, stroking her clit lightly. He lined his cock up and slowly penetrated her pussy, enjoying the sensations, enjoying looking at her red ass. He fucked her steadily, his fingers relentless, grunting softly when she came helplessly on his cock, long surges, her pussy pulsing, her voice high again. He liked that, too.

He fucked her until he felt himself tensing, felt his pleasure getting more urgent. He pulled out, not done yet. He looked at her cunt, her clit still swollen, glistening with slick. The crop landed between her legs. She gave a long, delayed cry, her breath choking out. He was excited now. He stopped, coming around the front of her. Her head came up. He brought his cock to her lips.

She opened eagerly as he raised the crop, starting in again on her ass. He pulsed in her mouth as she choked around him, her efforts entirely aided by the fact that she probably knew he wouldn't stop until it didn't feel so good anymore. She tried to push him deep in her throat, soundless now, but he was big. He thrust as she gagged. She pushed him in again, the strikes to her ass harsh as her bottom began to become dark red. She tried very hard after that, which he appreciated, feeling himself getting closer to his pleasure.

He finally tossed the crop aside and grabbed her hair with both hands. He began fucking her throat, deep and long thrusts. She was gagging and heaving for air. He let her breathe and plunged back in again, grunting with pleasure. He was going up, her throat hot and tight and soft, closing all around him. He let her breathe and did it again.

His head dropped back, his hips thrusting fast now, his hands in her hair. He paused again and went in. He was going to come. He gave several deep, vicious thrusts and held there, the pleasure washing through him. He convulsed in her throat. She was struggling, her lips pressed to the hair around the base of his cock, her whole body moving. He released in her throat, surging again, his cock lifting, feeling her swallow around him. He grunted hard.

He pulled out quickly, the woman desperate for air, spit and his cum dripping from her mouth as her head hung. He was breathing fast. He began untying her, supporting her and removing the rest of the ropes. Setting her on her feet, he made sure she was steady.

He stepped back as she got her cloak, putting it around herself. Hawthe walked to his desk, opening a drawer and returning, handing her coins, what she got above what she received from the house.

She took them, her cheeks flushed, nodding her thanks. She put it in the pocket of her cloak and went to the door, closing it behind herself.

#

A few weeks later, in the morning, there was a knock and Gunn came in.

"There's a fool on the third steppe, Legatus," he said.