Liana stood leaning over the stone railing above the training field, watching the soldiers spar with each other. They laid waste to little stuffed men, bits of straw flying into the air and catching halos from the morning sun. She watched and envied them their grace, the sheer spare violence of it all. They were beautiful, they were deadly. She wanted to be down there with them.
Rowan watched her watch the men. What was she thinking? He walked up behind her, careful to make enough noise that she wouldn't startle. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he cocked his head and inquired, "What are you thinking?"
Liana turned and looked at him, pale with excitement and blue eyes steely, forcing herself to act like she didn't care if she was being unladylike. "I want to learn that."
He pretended ignorance. "Want to learn what?"
She pointed to the training soldiers below. "That."
Rowan smiled, pleased beyond measure. "That can be arranged. Have you ever done swordplay before?"
She shook her head. "I took kendo for a bit, ninjutsu, and my friends and I played with bokken and shinai, but nothing with a real blade."
The sentence brought a blank look in return.
"Practice swords of rounded oak, a heavy dense wood, and bound slats of another, very very light, wood we call bamboo. Kendo is sword-based combat, and ninjutsu is mostly hand-to-hand, at least what I was taught, although that wasn't much."
He looked relieved.
"Good. You'd be starting out with practice swords anyhow – we don't put live steel in the hands of anyone but experienced soldiers. You knew that though." He paused in thought. "I'll give you to Master Harridan. He's a much better trainer than I could ever be. Come on, we'll get you started now if you want..." Rowan didn't have time to finish the sentence before Liana, elated, had grabbed him by the hand and was dragging him down toward the barracks, coppery curls bouncing behind her. Rowan smiled to himself at the thought of the freckled little woman sparring with his commander, imagining her pointed little chin raised high, jaw set and eyes narrowed.
Watching her as she picked up her wooden sword, he was not disappointed. The sweet curves of her body were like a bowstring held taut, ready to snap into a blur of speed. Even in a skirt and tunic, she kept her balance and even grace as she held her own before the most respected swordsman in Rowan's lands.
Two hours later, Liana found herself sweaty and bruised and loving every wince. They had started her out with something close to her favored shinai, thin slats of something much like maple bound together with sinew and capped with leather. It had one hell of a sting. Every swat she took brought a hiss and a broader smile. They'd partnered her with Rowan's manservant, and she was starting to like him. A lot. And more with every time he got through her guard. It was absurd, but oh well, the man was good with a sword... they danced. Turning and stepping, parry and dodge and advance, she was out of breath and euphoric. He'd gone easy on her, she knew, but her whole body was thrilling with the rush of swordplay. She never wanted to stop. Finally, somewhere her petite size was to her advantage... They kept dueling until their hands were numb, faces frozen in half a smile, half a narrow-eyed fighter's scowl as the evening drew slowly down, late-afternoon sunlight pouring honey over the keep and fields.
After her fighting, Liana found herself flushed and exhausted but euphoric, and she walked back to her room, coasting on a runner's high. She collapsed onto her bed without even undressing and never remembered her head hitting the pillow.
Later, when the night had deepened, a party of men rode into the keep, silent as mice and deadly as merlin. They split silently and crept into the moon-dappled room. They took her by the hair and with one great blow to the side of her head, silenced any protests. The largest of them, the captain, tied her across the saddle of the spare horse they'd brought, her skirt riding up about her waist, legs tied apart in a cruel spread-eagle. They swung up onto their own mounts, and just like that, they were gone, leaving her narrow little bed cooling in the weak moonlight.
In the courtyard, however, there was brighter light. The other division of the band the Unseelie Court had sent had departed at the castle gates, scaling the wall and descending upon the stables, the kitchens, the armory, the homes. They brought flint and steel, they brought torch and pitch, and at the whistle from the men who had taken captive their objective, they set the vitals of Rockwall Keep afire and then vanished into the quickly retreating night.
Dawn broke upon the riders and their captive, still headed for the South and the Court waiting there. More than once the crew had grumbled about a break, about the pace, but their words fell on their captain's deaf ears. Finally, in passing a huge lone elm in the middle of a shorn wheatfield, the leader wheeled his horse and vaulted off. The others skidded to a halt, curiously watching their commander. He smiled broadly, displaying broken, yellowed teeth, and spread his hands wide.
"Gentlemen," he called, "here be your midday's rest. Eat, drink and have merry..." He gestured to the unconscious woman still tied over her horse. "That is, with her." They all gave obscene smiles. "Ye'll not fight over the lass, and ye'll not break her – our lord would be most displeased. Otherwise... have yerselves a grand time, there. We will pitch here for the night." The captain undid her bonds, all except those on her wrists, and slit the laces to her dress in lieu of untying her to pull it off, then retying the ropes. He laid her on the ground and pointedly walked off. Then the soldiers closed in.
Liana floated back to consciousness in a dizzying whirl of pain. A lancing, liquid pain between her legs and the smell of fetid breath on her face made her cringe and writhe against the ropes tying her down. Her mouth was crammed full of something dry, probably cloth – she bit down; yes, cloth – a gag. Her hands were bound behind her back; they were numb, the pain starting at the forearm. She opened her eyes and saw a huge, scruffy brute atop her, thrusting into her and enjoying it heartily. His hands crushed her breasts in a vicious parody of a lover's caress. She tried to scream but the sound was choked off by the gag.
The brute laughed.
The heat in his growling voice reminded her of something. What could it have been? She knew that feeling.
Oh yes. The spiraling, tugging, melting warmth in her belly.
Her eyes flew open wide, shocked. No! Oh shit, this was rape! She shouldn't be – the thought was cut off by a strangled sound in her throat, wrung from her as the soldier thrust deep into her at a different angle, liquefying her spine. She realized in a fog of shame that he was one of the largest men she'd ever seen, and he was... well, he was proportionate... In reality, she was stretched taut around the soldier's thick shaft. She groaned and dug her nails into her palms, railing against the shuddering waves rolling through her body. Her nipples were beaded tightly against her assailant's callused hands – he pinched them and she squeaked. He rolled them between his fingers and she moaned and twitched, muscles in her side contracting and arching her, an obscene joke made of the throes of passion. Then he dipped a hand down between their bodies, using his thumb to stroke her, tease her.
She squeaked and tried to cry out, managing only a string of moans as he deftly stroked her, her body arching and writhing, muscles inside her tensing and tightening. She twisted beneath him, brittle and trembling, eyes shut tight, panting and confused. He slid deeper and deeper into her, the tightness eased by her own silky wetness.
This isn't right! she thought. Then thought ceased and the soldier bent to suckle at her breasts, and the pull of his lips on that tender flesh sent her into another dizzying spiral, throwing her toward climax. It's not fair, she shrieked to herself, he shouldn't know what he's doing! Her words faded into echo and absence of breath and she arched convulsively, throwing her head back, crying out in disgust and rapture. Distantly, she tasted blood.
Above her, the soldier let out a shuddering groan and spilled himself into her with one last desperate lunge. His sweat was slick between their bodies, her neck marred with two reddening bite marks. He lay atop her for too long, then heaved off and closed his braies. He rasped out "Next!" in a thick accent. Liana's eyes widened in horror as the next one approached, a skinny weasely fellow with greasy, stringy hair and crooked fingers. Without preamble, he took her by the ropes and flung her onto her stomach, hitching her up so her bare bottom was exposed to the world. His nails dug into her hips, and with one violent thrust, it all began again. She choked in one more breath and then fell back into the darkness.
She awoke sometime late afternoon with soldiers leering at her. She was lying on her side curled into fetal position, sore in places she didn't know she had. Her insides felt like lead jelly. Between her thighs was a grinding, burning ache. She was slick and sticky and throbbing and horrified at herself.
One of the men laughed. "Round two."
