Reassured that Stevan would remain firmly alive, Neila rose from their bed and undressed, leaving her clothes in a pile on the marbled floor. Then she took up her sword and used it to cut away at Stevan’s. She threw the remains atop of her own clothing, creating a dirty, dark mound against the clean white of the floor tiles. Then she placed the sword onto the nightstand beside the bed.

  She stared at Stevan, admiring his body. Though the hairs on his chest were a mottled grey once more, the contours of his muscles cut sharp lines from his neck to his stomach. The stains on the comforter surrounded him like a smokey aura, radiating from him in waves. She ran her fingers down his chest, tracing the curves. They left smudged streaks across his skin like a charcoal drawing.

  His skin quivered beneath her touch. She hated covering him up, but she pulled up the comforter to keep him warm. Then she snuggled in beside him, adding her body heat to his own. Head on his chest, she listening to his heartbeat as she drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke to kisses in the night. The light of the moon drifted in from the balcony windows, giving the room a silver glow. Stevan’s face was a patch of darkness in the light, but she could feel the warmth of his gaze. She returned his kisses.

  Then Neila wrapped her arms around him, and with a shove forced him onto his back. She straddled his body as she kissed him again. She could feel him stir beneath her. Neila pressed her body against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, letting her know her own need. He slid gently into her.

  Neila moaned softly in the dark. Moving her hips slowly, she rode him, hands on his chest for support as he thrust, the down mattress lightening each move into soft caresses. They made love tenderly, unhurried, until both climaxed in the darkness, each of their gasps echoing the other.

  Their breathing was heavy in the otherwise still air. She kissed Stevan deeply before dismounting, then reached out to find her sword. Grasping the hilt, she knelt over him and offered it with both hands.

  "This be for you," she said to him softly.

  "I don’t understand." His voice was the old, familiar rasp of their first meeting. It sounded of sex and desire.

  "I be wanting you to have it. You’ll need it. For me."

  Touching her hand gently, he took the hilt from her. He held the blade between then, letting the metal reflect the glow of the moonlight from room’s windows. Stevan’s eyes shined as they looked up at her.

  “Did you know,” he said softly, “that this sword has a name? It’s called the Blood of War. I can’t accept this. It doesn’t belong to me.”

  Neila smiled. “Did you know,” she said, “that in the brothels of Orphir, there be copies of those same statues of Kurn and Hir? Just like the ones here, but not so big. And before Kurn knelt to me, of course. They be just inside the front doors, so every man sees them when they come in. Kurn always faces Hir, holding out his sword to her. It had a name there too. It be called Desire. ”

  Holding her hand over his, she guided the edge of that sword toward her throat. It was so sharp she barely felt the cut, but the warm wetness of blood flowed down her chest.

  He put the blade aside and hugged her to him, covering her wound with his mouth. He drank deeply, making her shiver with delight. She held his head to her, moaning as he took her into himself.

  ###

  He was till asleep when she woke. The covers had been tossed aside in their lovemaking, allowing her to marvel at his beauty, now further framed by a browning stain of blood and the return of his golden hair against the pillows. She ran her hands through his hair, delighting in the smoothness of it against her fingertips.

  This wakened him. He gazed up at her with soft, dark eyes.

  "Morning," she said to him in a whisper.

  "Morning."

  "You be well again."

  He brought up one of his hands to examine it. The roughness of his skin was gone, having become smooth and supple once more. The feel of him against Neila had changed from sand to silk.

  He nodded. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

  "We should be up. Your men say they be knowing the direction your Lord Defender went. I’ll send Gregor to find him." She moved to leave the bed, but Stevan grasped her wrist to keep her from going.

  "I should go. I failed you."

  "No." She yanked her arm from him, pulling away.

  "Why?"

  "Because…" She was unsure how to answer him. She got off the bed and moved to the windows. She looked out at the trees that grew in the courtyard. A light breeze rustled through them, sending dappled shadows into the room.

  "You said your mother was a whore, and you talked about the brothels like you knew them well." His voice was smoother now, though still low and masculine. Despite the pleasantness of his voice, the words stung her.

  "Yes, that be so."

  "Were you a whore too?"

  This enraged her. She turned to face him, teeth bared in defiance. "Yes. That bother you?"

  "No," he said softly. He looked sad, taking the thunder out of her rage. Her fury guttered out and was gone as quickly as it had come. Confused, she crossed her arms against her chest. She felt vulnerable as memories of a past life flitted through her mind like crows to a carcass.

  He rose from the bed and came to her. She watched the muscles of his hips ripple as he walked, the lines of his body cutting deeper with returned youth. She did not move as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her.

  "You may be a god, Neila. I think you really might be. But I also see a lonely woman. I can’t judge you, Neila, no one can. Gods know I’ve done my own share of hard things. Terrible things. Distasteful things. But nobody deserves to be alone."

  Her anger returned. She tried to pull away, but he held her tightly. Failing to release herself, she scratched at his arms, her nails biting into his skin. Yet he refused to let go. Like herself, every cut healed quickly, his skin returning to silken smoothness. He took the cuts and held on until her fury was spent.

  Then she broke down into tears. He continued to hold her until the tears passed. Then it was her holding on to him, clinging in desperation. "I can’t be letting you go again," she mumbled into his chest. "You’ll be needing to stay close or you’ll die."

  He was quiet for a time before answering. "Alright. I’ll stay. With you."

  Stevan relaxed his arms, allowing her a little freedom to move. Neila looked up into his eyes, tears still dribbling from the corners of her own. "I still be hating you, you know."

  "Yes, I know. But please don’t hate yourself." Stevan reached down and lifted her off her feet. Bringing her up until her face level with his own, he kissed her. She returned it, feeling the urge to throw him back to the bed, if only her feet could touch the floor.

  Then a knock at the door interrupted her thought.

  "Go away," she called out.

  "I’m sorry, my lady," she heard Mital say through the door. "I’ve been told to fetch you. There are armed men at the east gate. A thousand of them, I’m told."

  "Oh," said Neila In annoyance. With a sigh, Stevan dropped her to the floor.

  Both of them scrambled to find clothes before heading out. Mital had had the forethought to fill the wardrobe with clothes for her. Neila put on fitted white silk breeches and a tunic cut long like Elahner robes. Calf high boots and a wide leather belt completed the ensemble.

  Dressing Stevan was more difficult. At Neila’s request, Mital brought clothing from elsewhere in the mansion. Mital’s tastes shown clearly, though the look did not displease her. Stevan was now in a white silk doublet with black velvet trim around the collar and cuffs, his pants of soft calf’s leather.

  She offered him Kurn’s sword once more. She slid it into a scabbard borrowed from one of the mansion’s guards, and was ready hook it onto his belt with a silver chain when he held up a hand to stop her.

  “No, I told you. I can’t take it.”

  “When I be saying it is yours,” Neila said forcefully, “I meant it.”

  Stevan pursed his lips. “Then just for now. Those at the gate should see you wearing it. It proves who are.”

  Neila sighed, reluctantly agreeing. She hung it from her own belt, the weight of it making her belt droop off her hip.

  From there, Mital guided them out of the mansion to one of the city’s walls, climbing stairs to the top of the eastern gate. From the battlements she had a clear view of the road outside the sealed gates. Gregor was already there in his traditional Elahner clothing, ready for battle. His helmet sat on the stones of the parapet should he need it. He looked over the wall, the lines of his face locked in a scowl.

  Neila looked out between two crenellations. As Mital had said, a large group of men awaited outside. They were organized in columns starting just beyond bowshot of the front gate, the lines stretching out around a curve in the path. She could not see the end of them. Their armor was of the southern style, with glints of light reflecting off studs in overlapping leather plates. Men with banners headed each column, each a variation of black and crimson with the sigil of High Lord Ulan in the center. In front was a small group of men on horseback, presumably the leaders of this small army.

  "It would take a week for this many to travel from Surof," said Stevan. She knew little of geography, but had heard of the capital city of the Southland before.

  "Yes," said Gregor. Despite the obvious distaste in his voice, Gregor spoke with Stevan as he would to any other fellow soldier. "It has been barely a week since we took the city. No time for word to reach the High Lord let alone march north with so many."

  "It’s been over two weeks since Tristan and I left Surof, and nine days since we reached Lavignal. Perhaps one of my men had escaped from your ambush at the fortress." Stevan said it with a hint of smugness.

  Both Neila and Gregor looked at him in wary curiosity. Neila did not like the idea of betrayal from Stevan.

  He shrugged. "I do not train my men to be stupid. One man on horse could make it with a few days of hard riding. Considering what happened, the High Lord may have seen fit to come himself, though he would have needed to push his men to make the time. That would be very unlike him. The High Lord is anything but hasty."

  As they talked, Neila noted one of the riders breaking out from the group in front. Strapped to his back was a pole with the banner of the High Lord himself stirring with each step of his horse. His armor did not glint in the morning sun like some others in the lead group. This was just messenger.

  When the standard bearer reached the gate, he yelled up, his voice ringing clearly in the morning air. "High Lord Ulan grows impatient! Give us your response or open these gates immediately."

  This reminded Neila of the arrival of the Lord Defender at Lavignal. It had not gone well for Tristan de’Dassir. She did not think this would be any different for High Lord Ulan.

  "We had scouts placed around the hillsides,” said Gregor. “When we received word of their coming, we had the gates closed and barred. They did not care for being denied entrance. I told them it was on orders and that we awaited your arrival."

  "That be very thoughtful, Gregor." Putting a finger to her lower lip, Neila debated what to do. She had not anticipated a response so quickly. They had no men beyond the walls, and though they had incorporated some of the city guard into her own troops, she doubted they had enough to defend the city. Still, a city wall was a good defense. They could probably keep the small army at bay for awhile. But a long battle was not something Neila wished.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "What would you be doing, my sweet?" she asked Stevan. Gregor’s face grew clouded at including Stevan in the discussion, but Neila could see him bite his tongue. Her previous lessons had sunk in. Gregor looked back over the wall, brooding.

  Stevan thought it. "Once, I would have said to hold here. The city has been neutral since the beginning of the Empire, but before that no army had taken it until the coming of the first Emperor. By divine intervention, according to the stories. We have well water and food stores. Unless Vor himself appears, we have the resources to hold them off for some time. But now," he paused, looking carefully at Neila, "we have you."

  "Meaning what?" she asked, but she found herself smiling in anticipation of what he was about to suggest.

  "Now we have our own divine intervention. Not long ago someone told me that if we need to get through a door, maybe we should knock and see what happens."

  He looked back over the wall, scratching at his beard. Stevan did not have the chance to trim it this morning, giving him a rough, rugged look. "I say we offer the High Lord a meeting with the new Lord of Nassir. Out there in front of the gate. Ask for leave to set up a tent and speak with him under a banner of truce. Take Mital with you as mediator. It will make them feel safer."

  "And you will be coming with, I think. Go be making the offer, Gregor."

  Gregor yelled her words down to the standard bearer, sending him back to confer with his High Lord. Neila could see the leaders arguing among themselves for a time, but their acceptance was soon given.

  The High Priest was ushered away to prepare for his role, and a large canopy tent was found for the negotiations. Both sides looked on nervously as the gates were cracked open to allow a handful of servants to run out and set it up. Neila could see the opposition leaders nervously talking with one another as they waited. She silently laughed at their discomfort.

  In short order the tent was prepared. A table and chairs were then brought out. As per the agreement, three from either side would join in negotiations. Neila, Stevan, and Mital walked out first to show their good faith. They calmly settled themselves into their chairs. Though the tent was within bowshot of the walls, Stevan hoped their presence was enough to convince Ulan of his safety. Who would dare fire arrows at their own leaders? Neila laughed at the thought.

  Once they were settled, the High Lord and his entourage came forward. Ulan and another lord strode toward the tent with standard bearer in two.

  “That’s Lord Fenal,” said Stevan to Neila, letting her know the identity of their third guest. “He’s the High Lord’s second and an accomplished swordsman. Only de’Dassir could challenge him.” He said it wistfully, thinking of his old commander.

  “Thank you for allowing me to attend, my Lady” said High Priest Mital. “I’m so honored to be here for this historic occasion.” His voice quavered with nervousness.

  Neila did not answer him. She seriously doubted he would have much of a role in their discussion, but she did not have the patience to tell him otherwise.

  "Make it good, and maybe we’ll place you as Neila’s High Priest," Stevan suggested. He looked to Neila for approval. She shrugged. The idea of having her own High Priest was appealing, but thought she could do better than this simpering man.

  "Yes, I would be most honored. I am your humble servant, of course,” said Mital, bowing obsequiously. The silk of his black, gold embroidered robes made a rough, scraping sound as they rubbed together. The hairs on Neila’s neck stood on end every time he fidgeted.

  Brushing away her annoyance at their prattling, Neila kept an eye on the High Lord as he approached. She noted that the lines of men behind him shifted. Archers were brought forward, kneeling with bows out to protect their commander if needed. Just as the tent was within bowshot of the walls, it was also in range of the High Lord’s archers. An easy target from both sides.

  She spared a glance at High Priest Mital. For a moment she felt sorry for him. He did not understand that his life stood on the edge of a cliff over which Neila would not hesitate to jump, and would happily and drag him along with her.

  High Lord Ulan was not an impressive man. He was shorter than either of his companions, but his ornate, gilded armor of blackened steel and copper let her know who was in charge. He held his helmet under one arm, his wrinkled face and sagging jowls rising from the collar of his armor like the head of an overgrown turtle. To Neila he looked ridiculous. She had heard he was a competent military commander, having once served as General Supreme to Emperor Orpheon himself. Looking at him now, she found it hard to take him seriously.

  As the High Lord came into the tent, the standard bearer stopped short, remaining a few steps behind. Though the young man’s face showed no emotion, appearing stern in his red leather armor, the sweat dripping from his temple betrayed his fear.

  The third in their entourage remained at Ulan’s side. Lord Fenal wore armor only slightly less ornate than the High Lord himself, with a silver dyed scarf draped around his neck. The man grinned mockingly at her from beneath an oversized nose.

  Stevan and Mital rose to their feet, but Neila remained seated. She cared nothing for formalities. Stevan looked at her as if in reprimand, but she thought she saw the hint of a smile. The standard bearer hesitated at this break in formality, offended by her lack of courtesy, but Ulan cut him off before he could say anything.

  "What is the meaning of this, Stevan?” the High Lord’s said angrily. “Why are you here? Where is Tristan?"

  Stevan bowed. "I am sorry to inform you, sir, that Lord de’Dassir was defeated at the fortress of Lavignal. Many of our men fell, and Tristan was wounded. He fled the field and remains unaccounted for."

  "But that does not explain why you are here."

  Stevan briefly glanced again at Neila, nervously licking his lips before answering. "I am sorry sir. I failed the Lord Defender, and I failed you. I have decided to resign my commission. I have found a new Lord now."

  "With this?" He gestured at Neila as he placed his helmet on the table. Ulan remained standing, as did his companion, but he put his clenched fists on the back of one of the chairs as if his fury required support.

  Stevan nodded. "May I introduce The Lady Neila, Overlord of Nassir, chosen of Kurn the Destroyer, bearer of Kurn’s blade the Blood of War. And Desire.” He added the last in a quieter voice, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.

  Neila looked up at him, startled. She was not sure whether to be pleased or embarrassed. She could feel her own face heat up in response, her heart beating faster at his words. Then her feelings were replaced by shame. She felt like a fraud, a little girl playing dress-up with her mother, or worse, a love-struck girl wanting to impress her lover.

  Her anger flared. She was not some blushing girl playing princess. She was the chosen of Kurn. She used her rage to rise to her feet and acknowledge Stevan’s greeting as her birthright.

  Both Ulan and big nose laughed. "You must be kidding,” said Lord Fenal. “This little thing?" He tugged at his scarf, absently smoothing out a stray fold. "She is only a child. What game do you play, Stevan? Was Lavignal your doing? Did you think you could betray the Lord Defender and take his place?"

  The veins on Stevan’s forehead puffed up as he clenched his jaw. "I would never do such a thing, Lord Fenal…" Stevan whispered, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

  "High Lord Ulan, if I may explain," said High Priest Mital solicitously. "You know me, your lordship. I have served in service of Vor and the Empire for more than twenty summers. I oversaw your placement as High Lord of the South at Emperor Orpheon’s bidding. Stevan speaks truly of her lady. The great statue of Kurn moved to bow before her, its stone bending to greet her and offer his sword. In his own holy temple, before many witnesses. I have seen her power, as has his Lordship Stevan. He had no choice but to change his allegiance. As have I.”

  Ulan frowned. "Forgive me for doubting, High Priest, but I find it hard to believe. Especially for this little girl. I need more proof.”

  Ulan turned toward Neila, looking her up and down like a butcher inspecting a prime cut of meat. "Does the chosen of Kurn the Destroyer have a voice, or is she only for show."

  "I be having a voice. More than you have manners, I think." she said.

  He smirked. "The vixen speaks. With the accent of a street rat, too. So, my lady," he said sarcastically, "maybe you can tell me why Stevan serves you? And what makes you think you have the right to rule over Nassir? Even if Kurn kissed your feet, this city is under my protection. You have no rights to it. Tell me why I should not have you executed."

  Neila laughed. "Think yourself more important than a god, do you? I have every right to be taking what I want. Nassir be mine, and Stevan too. If you are having a problem with this, then know your Lord Defender couldn't win against me sword for sword. So you should be telling me why you think you have a say here. If a god be kneeling to me, then you should too."

  This time Lord Fenal laughed. "You beat Tristan in personal combat? I have never seen him defeated. Not even by me. It must have been an ambush. Trickery and deceit will not get you anywhere today."

  Neila pursed her lips, repressing her desire to crawl across the table and strangle him . "Guess I’ll be needing to show you. But first I’ll be asking a question. Why be you here? Word of me could not have reached the south so quick."

  "A dream,” The High Lord answered softly. “About six days past. I saw Vor here in his temple, asking me to come. It felt like a true dream, a vision from the god himself, so we came as quickly as we could."

  "Vor, my Lord?” asked High Priest Mital. “What did he tell you exactly?"

  "He told me that Desire had come to take his place. That I must come and defend him."

  Mital looked down at the table in shame. "You are too late, my Lord. Vor is no more. The Lady Neila had his great statue destroyed. She now sits on his throne."

  Ulan’s eyes went wide. "How dare you!" His hand went for his sword.

  “No, my Lord.” Fenal held out his hand to stop him. “We will get justice for Vor, but we are under the flag of truce. And if the great statue of Kurn knelt for her, then this not a battle between men, but gods. We must listen first before we judge.”

  Ulan stopped, but his hands trembled with anger.

  Neila put her hand on the hilt of her own sword. “I dare, my Lord. And now I be showing you why.” She paused, smiling. “I’ll be taking out Kurn’s sword, so don’t be getting ahead of yourself if you can be helping it.”

  She drew the blade out slowly so as not to startle anyone. Ulan kept his hand on his own sword hilt, as did Lord Fenal, but both weapons remained in their scabbards. They watched her intently, examining her every movement for threats. Once drawn, she laid the sword on the table.

  “This is the same sword the statue held? I think not. I’ve seen it before, and this is too small,” quipped Lord Fenal.

  “I assure you it is one and the same,” Stevan said. “It changed size when Kurn offered it to her. To better fit her hand.”

  “This proves nothing.” Ulan shook his head in disbelief. “It could be a replica.”

  “Kurn still kneels,” said Neila. “I’d show you, but then I’d have to take you into the city. And I doubt you’ll let us.”

  Ulan laughed. “No, I won’t. And it does not matter. Nassir belongs to the Empire. Order your people to leave the city and give yourself up. Then you can state your case when I drag you before the Emperor.”

  Neila looked at Stevan. He nodded to her, understanding what she was thinking. “I think not. But I be having one more thing to show.” She reached for the sword again. Before Ulan and Fenal could protest again, she added “If I’m a stupid little girl, as you say, then there be nothing to worry about. I can’t be knowing anything about swords, after all. I might do something stupid, like cut myself.”

  She turned the sword over in her hand, pointing it down like a dagger, and placed her other on the table in front of her.

  “You be wanting to know what gives me the right to take this city? This be why.” With a quick, stabbing motion, she drove the blade through her hand, impaling it on the wooden surface.

  Their standard bearer reflexively stepped back, but Ulan and Fenel were too startled to move. They watched in fascination as the flesh of her hand boiled around the blade. Joy roiled through her arm, wanting to carry her away in waves of pleasure, but she resisted the pull. She forced herself to remain present, clinging to her anger. She allowed herself to smile, however, as she watched the blood drain from the High Lord’s face.

  Then she pulled her hand from the table with a quick yank. Her flesh parted around the sword with a sickening slurp, splitting it in half.

  She held up her torn flesh to show the two Lords. The cut had divided her hand from the wrist, separating her ring and middle fingers from each other. Neila gleefully waggling her fingers as the flesh knitted itself back together. In moments her hand was whole again.

  "That be how I dare. This be how I beat your Lord Defender and how I took Nassir." She smiled at Ulan. "I don’t be caring about you, or your men, or your swords, and I won’t be needing my people to take what I want. I’m not even needing this sword. If you value your lives, you will be kneeling before me and swear to me and Kurn. Or you can die by my hand. This hand.” She wiggled her fingers again, her blood still dripping down her palm. “How do you choose?"

  "But protect me," gasped Lord Fenal. He held a hand to his mouth to keep from vomiting. The standard bearer did likewise, but failed to keep control of his stomach. His breakfast leaked through his fingers to drip onto the dusty ground.

  Ulan shoved himself away from the table and drew his sword "Back. Back!" Ulan yelled to those behind him. He and Fenal turned and ran, leaving the standard bearer behind as the man worked desperately to stop the heaving of his stomach.

  The High Lord yelled to his men. The archers raised their bows in reply.

  "Vor forgive me…" said Mital as dozens of arrows shot upward in an arc. His words were cut short as the volley ripped through the tent. One arrow pierced him through the throat. He gurgled as he dropped to his knees. Then two more found his breast and belly. He toppled over and went silent.

  Neila just stood there. Four of the shafts went through her, one entering her temple with a crack of bone. Her thoughts became muddled, leaving only mindless joy. She could feel her blood boil in her head like water in a kettle, the arrow’s shaft jiggling back and forth as if moved by the roiling bubbles.

  In moments her thoughts came rushing back, allowing her to reach up and remove the arrow from her head. She held it in her palm to look at it, admiring the source of such delight. She had never felt such pureness of sensation before without the taint of thought behind it.

  Neila turned to Stevan, who was removing a shaft from his own cheek. He spit blood onto the table as the gap in his face sealed itself. Two more arrows, feathers still quivering, stood out from either side of his chest. She was pleased to see he was unbothered by his injuries.

  Neila tossed aside the arrow in her hand. She ignored the ones jutting from her right breast and left shoulder, but was momentarily stopped by another that had torn through the edge of the table to enter her hip.

  With a swipe of her hand she broke the shaft. Then she strolled around the table to walk toward the High Lord’s troops. She watched as the archers reloaded, aimed, and released. This time all arrows were aimed at her.

  Her right eye went blind, but that did not stop her. She continued to walk despite the waves of ecstasy pouring through her skull and body, slowing only to pull the arrow from her face.

  The world moved from darkness, to blur, to bright clarity, revealing eight more shafts protruding from her. She ignored them, keeping an eye on Ulan as she went. The finger thin spikes of woods pointed the way to her destination.

  Like waves parting before a rock, the bowmen fell back, running in horror as she advanced. The rest of the High Lord’s entourage fell apart as well, fleeing in every direction. Lord Fenel abandoned his master, leaving Ulan alone in the road, his knees shaking too much to run any longer. Urine dripped from the seams around his codpiece.

  She walked up to him and gloated. "I be thinking, my dear Lord,” she told him, “that you made a bad choice." Neila pulled another arrow from her chest, and with a quick thrust drove it through Ulan’s left eye.

  She swooned as his pain held her in its loving arms. Unfortunately the sensation faded, then left as quickly as it had come. Ulan fell, his eye socket tearing the shaft from her grip. He toppled into a lifeless heap at her feet.

  She looked around to see what was left of the High Lord’s army. Most had scattered, running down the road or into the trees. Stevan, however, had advanced as well, managing to catch Lord Fenal before he could escape. Her lover forced the man to his knees, holding him by his scarf like a noose.

  "Please!" he cried. "Please, I swear to you my life! Please spare me. Everything I am, everything I have is yours!" Tears streamed down his face, dripping around his large nose like a waterfall.

  "Yes," Neila said. "Yes, that be the right choice."