The Prince's Pet: Prologue - The King's Herdsmen

This is the one I mentioned in my introduce yourself entry. It's a rewrite of one I outlined (but never published) on Fictionpress.com some years ago under the title "The Slave Princess." I warn the reader that it is not for the timid.

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The first rays of the second sun were breaking over the Western horizon as the first of the king's herdsmen reached the shoulder of Mount Cawgul. Their captain, Dankirk, brought his horse to a halt to wait and survey his men's catch. The hunt had been a fruitful one, he thought with satisfaction as the men herded their quarry up the narrow trail. The headcount wasn't in yet, but the van of the column was already a quarter of the way up the slope while the rear was only just now setting foot upon the trail half an arrow behind. Most of the bucks had been killed subduing the herd and more had been deemed to old to be useful so they were slain as well, but that was becoming a normal occurrence of late. It didn't matter much. The cows were of more value anyway, and there were plenty, as well as an unusual number of kits, Dankirk realized for the first time. Noticing this, Dankirk made a mental note to make a more thorough inspection of the kits when the column made camp for the night. His brother, King Ramagoth, had given special orders to-

“A mighty catch, Milord,” hailed Amon, the recorder as he approached Dankirk, his horse at a leisurely trot. “Seven hundred twenty head, counted and cleared. The surviving bucks number fifty-five, with four hundred seventeen cows, and two hundred fifty-eight kits.”

“Well and good,” Dankirk muttered. “Perhaps the king will finally grant me an estate and leave the stable boy job to someone else.”

If Amon heard the bitterness in his captain's voice, he ignored it. “What's to be done with them, Sire?”
Dankirk raised a hand to stroke his great red beard for a moment and replied “if there're any bucks with some fight left in them, they'll be fodder for the king's drakes in the arena. The other bucks will be castrated and sent to the mines. The male kits with them, I suppose.”

“Can't see many of them lasting long in the mines,” Amon chuckled, tossing his head in a way that made his thick blonde locks wave. “They're not a very sturdy-looking lot.”

Dankirk shrugged. “What's that to me or you?”

Amon nodded. “And the cows, Sir?”

Dankirk huffed mightily. “That, I'm not sure of. Can't remember when there've been so many in one go. The King'll have his pick of them to stock his own stable, but he hasn't fancied keeping many of late. I suppose a few'll be sold to the Saraluks as broodmares, the rest'll be given to the courtsmen as pets. What's it to me?” He hefted the reins of his horse before adding heavily “or you?” and setting his horse to lope along again.

Amon followed behind, hesitating a moment before pressing on. “And, what of the she-kittens, Milord?” Dankirk couldn't see the young man's eyes, but the note of anticipation in his voice had been unmistakable. “Don't get your hopes too high,” he answered bluntly. “The King's taken a fancy to collecting kittens since his wife met the axe. Suppose at his age he seeks company wherever it's to be had. Though, with two hundred fifty-eight, there may be some to spare.” Dankirk paused for a minute. “Which reminds me, I'll need to inspect the kits before we reach Ramsdel.”

Amon's eyebrows furrowed. “Looking for something in particular, Sire?”

“The king is looking,” Dankirk corrected, emphasizing the word 'king.' “I am the eyes through which he looks. And you've more questions than befits your station.” Dankirk glanced at Amon's face to make sure the rebuke had the desired effect, and then went on. “But I'll answer yet one more. Maybe your eyes will be of more use to me than your damnable everlasting mouth is. It's the king's son.”

Amon seemed confused. “Prince Drevin?”

“Does the king have another son, you fool?” Dankirk asked irately. “Yes, Prince Drevin. His sixth year dawns soon, and the king believes it's time for him to have a pet.”

Amon weighed whether or not it would be prudent to ask another question, then decided to press on. “And, what sort of specimen does His Majesty seek for the prince's pet?”

“A she-kitten. It needs to be a cute one obviously,” Dankirk spoke plainly, “but it should have the signs of good breeding. One with what passes for a decent pedigree among the wild ones.”

Amon nodded. “I believe I know one suitable, Sire.”

“Do tell.”

“It's at the front of the column,” Amon answered, gesturing forward with his hand. “Sired by their alpha.” He snorted. “Well, if 'alpha' is really a term you can use with these creatures. The bucks and the cows are so alike in look and manner that it's a wonder they ever breed.”

“Blessed'll be the day when they don't,” came Dankirk's rumbling reply. “So, the Alpha sired a she-kitten then?”

“Yes Sire.”

“And you're certain it's by the Alpha?”

“Unquestionably certain, Sire. By the alpha and out of his mate,” Amon affirmed. His voice took on an undisguised note of pride as he continued, “I know because it was my sword that slew the alpha, my torch what set their warren ablaze, and my arm what collared his cow and kit.”

“Oh, laud and praise upon you lad,” Dankirk replied in a mocking sing-song with a fierce roll of his eyes. “You've got the makings of a dragonslayer, indeed! I asked about the she-kit, not the braying ass that got lucky enough to put down its gods-forsaken sire. How old is it?”

Amon stiffened at the rebuff, but went on. “Five winters at the last quarter moon, Sire.”

Dankirk harrumphed. “About two years young for the king's fancy, but perhaps just right for his son.” A thought struck him and he spun to face Amon. “Wait a minute, how can you be that sure of its age?”

Amon looked back blankly. “It told me, Sire.”

Dankirk raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Did it now?”

“It did, Sire.”

Dankirk narrowed his eyes. “And what, pray tell, prompted it to do that?”

Amon stiffened further. “Well, I asked it, Sire.”

Dankirk swung his gauntleted fist with such force he would have unhorsed Amon if he'd been in arm's reach. As it was, he nearly unhorsed himself, and the time it took to recover control of his mount gave him time to prepare his response. “May all the he-devils of hell have their fill of your ass in the same night, you thrice-damned fool! Has some hex deprived you of what passes for brains in your village, or did that bitch who birthed you rut with goblins on her wedding night?”

Amon's mouth opened and closed like a beached fish for a moment, which did nothing to improve Dankirk's estimate of his intellect. “I... uh, but Sire-”

“Herdsmen, do not, speak, with the herd!” Dankirk bellowed so loudly that the herd began diverting their steps away from him. “I will not have these things, these, these half-breeds, these druids,” he spat the last word as something with a bitter taste, “carrying the delusion that they're... that they're some kind of... of... people!”

Amon forced himself not to grit his teeth as he replied, “Sire, I was only trying to appraise the catch. I thought-”

“Bollocks, you thought!” Dankirk bellowed. “If I ever hear the words 'I thought' come out of the sewer vent at the bottom of your face again, I'll knock your empty head off your shoulders and thrust it far enough up your ass it'll take a thousand more he-devils a thousand and one nights of debauchery to reach it! Is that clear?”

Amon swallowed, waiting to make sure there were no more insults to follow. “As crystal, Sire,” he said crisply.

“Marvelous,” Dankirk growled, as he spurred his horse. “Now get out of my sight before-” his sentence went unfinished as his horse stumbled from a collision with a druid woman. Dankirk spat another curse as he kicked the unfortunate druid in the head, sending her headlong and knocking her baby from her arms and onto the rock-strewn ground. “Watch where you're going, you blighted beast!” Dankirk barked.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” the druid repeated in terror as she hurried to scoop up her now-screaming baby before she could be trampled under the shackled feet of the other druids, unable to stop due to the whips of the herdsmen behind them.

“And pick up your damned pace,” Dankirk added, readying another kick that missed the druid's head by a hair's breadth as she hurried to get out of his reach. “It's still nearly sixty arrows to Ramdsel and I want to be there before noon tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry,” the druid hurriedly cried again, not raising her eyes from her baby.

“Have you no pity at all?” A voice came from within the heard, drawing gasps from a few of the druids as a deadly silence came over Dankirk and Amon. One of the druids, a man who walked right next to the woman with the baby, lifted his head and looked Dankirk squarely in the eye, making his defiance plain even as he shambled alongside the others.

Amon stopped his horse, climbed down and drew a club from beneath his saddle. “You'll learn not to speak,” he snarled as he approached. “Especially in such a manner.”

“Oh, and you're a fine one to address that subject now aren't you?” Dankirk mocked. “Put away that twig and get back on your horse.” With Amon pacified, Dankirk turned his attention back to the offending druid. Bringing his horse directly alongside the offending druid. His voice took on a lethal calm as he spoke. “You there. What was that noise you made, as if you were trying to speak?”

The druid man locked eyes with Dankirk and drew three deep breaths before answering. “We are your prisoners. That much is known. But for the love of anything that is held sacred in your realm, all I ask is a moment's pity.”

“Aldred, no. Don't,” the druid woman whispered in between efforts to quiet her baby.

A smile slowly spread across Dankirk's face. “Ah, I see. Your mate and kit?”

“My wife and daughter,” the druid responded evenly. “And for the gods' sake, I ask you, sir. Show a moment's pity. We've been three days and nights with no food and no water, driven like cattle by the whips of your men. This trail isn't an easy one, especially carrying a baby.”

Amon looked toward Dankirk and was shocked to see an expression of actual concern.

“You're quite right,” Dankirk said at length. “You're quite right. How heartless of me not to take your child into consideration.” Before another word could be spoken, Dankirk's mailed hand struck out, viper-like, clutched the child by the cloth she was wrapped in, and flung her over the side of the mountain. “I trust you'll find the climb easier now,” He shouted into the face of the two druids as they cried out in horror. By now they were both trying to rush toward where the baby had been thrown, pulling against the chains that bound them to the others. This earned the attention of several nearby herdsmen who rushed in with clubs ready. “Unlock those two from the others,” Dankirk commanded to Amon, who was closest to the scene. The clubs of the other herdsmen swung indiscriminately, clouting any druid unfortunate enough to be near a herdsman as they closed in on the two, uncoupling them from the chains that bound them to the rest and dragging them before Dankirk.

Dankirk's massive ham of a fist reached out and grasped the male druid by his matted locks as he began to hammer his face with the other fist. The iron mail of his gauntlet left cruel cuts in its wake, and within moments the druid's face was covered with so much blood that he was choking from swallowing it. “My daughter,” he managed in a sound that was a mix of a cough and a gutted animal's wail in between blows.

“Your kit,” Dankirk roared, hoisting the druid to his feet to begin raining blows upon his weakened body, causing great cracking sounds as mailed fist met unprotected ribs. “The kit that was so hard for your cow to carry up this trail that you were complaining about. Well you've one less thing to complain about now don't you? DON'T YOU?!” He held the druid's face inches from his own as he shouted this, before throwing him face-first upon the rocks at his feet and dealing him several kicks. “Now, am I not compassionate? Am I not considerate? Thank me for my mercy, cockroach!” Another kick. “THANK ME! Thank me for easing your burden!”

The druid let out a scream of desperation and rage as he tried to scramble to his feet, having no hope left but to die fighting. Dankirk, however, did not intend to grant him such dignity. A swift kick of his steel-booted foot connected with the druid's chin as Dankirk let out a bear-like bellow of “I said 'thank me,'” sending a spray of blood and teeth as the druid spun, landing face down upon the sharp rocks once more. “Pull this damned creature to its feet,” he called to a pair of herdsmen. “The rest of you milk-drinking goblin-spawn, get back to your posts and stop the herd. It's time to give them a lesson.” As two herdsmen seized the male druid, Dankirk turned his attention to where the female now lay, crumpled and screaming in despair. “Amon,” Dankirk said evenly.

“Right away Milord,” Amon answered, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her to her feet. She made a broken, half-hearted attempt to struggle, but at a calm signal from Dankirk, she was soon bound. Dankirk glanced at the male to make sure he was watching, and then drew his sword slowly, letting the sound of the steel blade against the mouth of the scabbard drag on almost languorously.

The male uttered a faint moan of protest and then his shoulders heaved. “Go ahead,” he husked. “Kill us.”

“In good time,” Dankirk answered. With that said, he turned his attention back to the female. Grasping the hilt with both hands he raised the sword above his head and brought it down, severing the woman's forearm. Her wailing shriek caused the other druids who were close enough to see to wince. A few of the ones who had seen the episode from its onset vomited.

After handing his sword to Amon, Dankirk calmly picked up the blood-soaked forearm and raised it above his head for the druids to see clearly. Then, clutching it by the wrist, he raised it again and began to club the woman in the head with it. The flesh on the arm was thin and withered from starvation, so it did not take many blows before it began to peel away and the impact of the bone against the woman's skull began to leave more dangerous wounds. Soon, blood from the arm mingled with blood from her scalp and covered her face and shoulders, and still Dankirk continued, taking his time almost casually as he swung the macabre club again, again, again. Finally, as her head lolled over and it appeared she was but a few blows from death, Dankirk tossed the arm over the cliff and collected his sword again.

He stood in silence for a moment, listening to the whimpering cries of the druids, mostly children. His eyes took on a gleam and the corners of his mouth turned upward into a wicked smile as he swung the sword across the woman's belly, spilling her entrails.

By now even Amon covered his mouth with a fist and cleared his throat loudly, trying to hold down his bile. Dankirk paid no heed. Sheathing his sword, he turned to address the druids who were within earshot. “My name is Dankirk Fan-Bjorn,” his deep voice rolled over the crowd, “the brother of Ramagoth Fan-Bjorn, King of Drakmark. My calling is a noble calling. I kill Elves.” He paused before going on. “It's virtuous work, cleansing the world of the filth of Elf-kind. They're a pestilence! There's only one form of life known to the gods that's more loathsome than an Elf.” His face twisted into a sneer and his voice took on the air of one who has stepped in something unpleasant. “And that's the putrid aberrations spawned by Humans who took Elves to their beds.

“I've heard of men who've taken their pleasure of every beast of field and stable. I don't spare them much thought. To each their own. But Elves?” Dankirk's eyes slowly swept from druid to druid, as if daring one to meet his gaze. “And as if the fact that such a union could spawn anything with breath in it wasn't already abhorrent enough, their spawn was able to breed... it's an abomination! Your race's existence is a mistake!” His voice, which had been building throughout his speech, reached a full scream at the final sentence. When its echo from the cliff walls faded into the cawing of crows, Dankirk went on. “You, are a mistake of the gods. Even the Elves can see that. They hunt you for sport... Not that you fight well enough to give them much.”

Dankirk's voice took on a calmer tone as he went on. “But that's the Elf way. We Men are more civilized. We show you the same mercy and compassion that we show to dogs, or horses, or trolls; treat you as if you actually have the right to exist. We domesticate you, train you. We allow you to serve. We let you actually fulfill some purpose in the world.” He paused, allowing the druids to absorb that, and continued in a forceful roar. “And for this, you will show us the adoration and gratitude that any other beasts would show their masters. Does a dog speak to its owner unbidden, or does Man give the order? Does a horse lead its rider, or does Man break and bridle the horse? You druids are no better! As a dog looks upon its master the way a man looks upon a god, so too does a Druid! And the sooner you learn that, the longer you'll live!”

Having spoken thus, he walked over to the pile where the woman's intestines lay. Reaching down, he clutched them in his fist and made a few coils of them, measuring off an amount before cutting it from the rest. With these in hand, he walked over to where her husband was held and handed the entrails to one of the herdsmen. “Hogtie the buck,” he ordered flatly and then called out, “Quartermaster!”

“Yes Milord?” answered a herdsman with a red baldric running from his left shoulder-plate to his right hip.

“Throw this on the supply cart,” Dankirk sneered, giving a dismissive hand-wave toward the male Druid on the word 'this.' “We'll feed it to the dogs when we make camp for the evening. I want it alive and moving when that happens. Understood?”

“I'm not sure it's alive and moving now, Milord,” the Quartermaster responded uncertainly.

“Well if it isn't at camp's break, then you will take its place,” Dankirk growled.

The Quartermaster swallowed. “Yes Milord.”

Dankirk looked around. “Alright, get moving!” he bellowed. “Your herdmates have cost us time enough!” The sounds of whips and cries of pain sounded from the periphery of the column as the druids took to their feet again. In case any of them get the damned fool idea they'd rather die than obey, Dankirk thought ruefully, let them remember what dying looks like. “Amon,” he said as an afterthought, “that's one buck, one cow and one she-kit less. Make sure you adjust the count accordingly.”

“Yes Sire,” was all that Amon said as he climbed onto his mount and rode back toward the rear of the column.

---

The first sun had already set, and the second's last red rays of the day fell upon the obsidian ramparts of Ramsdel Castle from the northwestern horizon. The first three moons had already risen, though their blue, black and white orbs could not yet compete with the dying rays of the sun. Soon the red moon would rise, followed by the newly-dawned green moon, a light never seen in the sky before that month. This portent was yet unexplained by the Royal Astrologers. Within the throne room, long, sinister shadows mingled with the dying sun's blood-red light through the windows as the stars making up the Old Dragon, Crawgath, began to appear in the eastern sky. Blacker and bloodier still was the mind in which Ramogoth Fan Bjorn, King of Drakmark and Archregent of Men, found himself.

Of late, Ramogoth had taken to glowering and brooding. Nothing, it seemed, could lighten his black mood. His advisers and courtiers, having failed to find a solution to the king's displeasure (and a few having lost their heads for their efforts), now hoped merely to avoid his attention until his mood changed. Affairs of Court were dealt with tersely and fiercely, and none of the diversions at the king's beck and call seemed to amuse him anymore.

The music of the court musicians now grated on his ears, and he'd commanded them not to enter his sight again on pain of being fed to drakes along with their families. A troupe of dancers, the most enticing druids in the kingdom with the lithest and supplest bodies and the most captivating movements, trained from kittenhood by the best handlers in Drakmark, he'd pronounced no more intriguing than watching sheep rut. He'd had the lot of them strangled before his eyes, along with their handlers. Their corpses he'd sent to the siege legion to fill trebuchets.

Even the druid she-kittens crawling at his feet, licking his toes and crooning the way he liked, brought no pleasure. This was not altogether surprising (around eight winters each, they were getting far too old for his taste), but it was enough of an annoyance that he had already had three or four of them fed to his hounds. Thus was the state of affairs when word of Lord Dankirk's return reached Ramogoth's ears.

“Send for him,” Ramogoth brusquely ordered the messenger who brought word.

“He is already on his way, Sire,” answered the messenger, “and he requests an audience, to present Your Majesty with a gift, and one for your son as well.”

Ramogoth made a rumbling growl of approval and nodded his red-bearded head at this bit of news. “That must mean he selected a suitable kit for Drevin. Good, good.” With a casual flick of his hand, Ramogoth sent the messenger on his way. “An audience is granted. Bid him make haste.”

The words had no sooner crossed Ramogoth's lips then the sounds of raised voices were heard at the massive doors to the throne room. Ramogoth's jaw clenched as Dankirk strode through the massive ironwood doors, before the summons was given, while the doormen hurried to open them before earning the enormous herdsman's ire.

“A mighty success, brother,” Dankirk bellowed, entering the throne room without waiting to be announced or stopping to bow. “The last major nest of the Druids has been dispersed. They're all but extinct in the wild now, what with the Elvish campaign against them in the East. My brother's stables now hold the world's only major herds of Druids.” By this time, Dankirk stood directly before the throne, one arm resting on the handle of his sword, the other hand's thumb hooked through his swordbelt on the other side.

Two references to 'his brother' and not one mention of king or crown, Ramogoth thought as he ran a fat-fingered hand through his great red beard. This cur presumes a great deal. A great deal to much I dare say. The king gave a quick kick to one of the she-kittens at his feet, a signal to all of them that they were no longer needed, at which they scurried, mouse-like, behind the throne to await Ramogoth's command to serve again. After permitting himself a moment to savor the whimper the kicked one gave, Ramogoth turned his attention back to Dankirk. “Amid all my dear younger brother's boasting, I seem to recall your king left you with an explicit command to carry out.”

Dankirk's teeth clenched momentarily at the king's tone, but he knew better than to speak of it. “Yes, Your Majesty. A she-kitten, five winters in age, sired by the Alpha of the herd.”

Ramogoth raised a skeptic eyebrow. “And you're certain it is by the Alpha?”

Dankirk met Ramogoth's eyes directly. “Absolutely certain. I slew the Alpha and his mate myself and stole the kitten from the arms of its mother.” A murmur went through the throne room at this declaration, and even Ramogoth made a rumbling sound of approval.

“Well then, bring it forth,” Ramogoth commanded. As Dankirk turned toward the door and nodded to one of his herdsmen who stood there with a resentful expression on his face (Amon, Ramogoth recalled his name), Ramogoth whispered aside to an attendant, “send for my son.” In moments a shackled young druid, barely large enough for the chains to fit around her wrists, was hauled roughly through the throne room doors, tossed rather unceremoniously at Dankirk's feet, and given one kick by way of a command to stand up. In the next moment the king's son, Prince Drevin, appeared at the arch, awaiting his father's summons.

“Come forth, my son,” Ramogoth ordered, and Drevin entered with a quick bow at the doorway. He approached until he stood on the opposite side of Dankirk from the young druid. Standing next to the mountain-esque herdsman Drevin stood mid-thigh-height. His hair, sleek, black and shot through with a dark red tint, was short and straight. Eyes an icy shade of blue, alert and sharp, shone from above a thin nose and tight lips. The boy's shoulders were square, and he wore a black tunic with gold tassels and a baldrich the blood-red shade of the Drakmark Royal Banner with a gold Fan-Bjorn coat of arms on the right side of his chest.

“Uncle,” Drevin acknowledged crisply with a cursory head-bob.

“Your Highness,” came the forced recriprocal from Dankirk.

“My son,” Ramogoth said with a twisted smile which only those closest to the king would recognize as his attempt at affection. “A gift for you.” With a casual wave of his hand, Ramogoth motioned toward the shackled druid on Dankirk's other side. Dankirk stepped aside and Drevin followed his father's gaze to the chained and trembling creature. At Drevin's questioning gaze, Ramogoth went on further. “What do you think of this one. It's yours if you like.”

Drevin's young face was impassive as he approached the shackled druid kit, stopping a few paces in front of her. He made no attempt at subterfuge as his eyes surveyed her, though at such a young age Ramogoth doubted there was lustful intent behind them -yet. “What are you called?” Drevin asked.

The druid's eyes, which had been kept downcast until now, betrayed the fear she had kept hidden as she raised them to meet Drevin's. A few seconds passed in silence before Dankirk dealt her a backhanded blow that knocked her to the ground. There was venom in his voice as he snarled “the prince asked you a question, you flea-bitten-”

“Be silent!” Drevin's voice echoed across the throne room with an intensity that one so young could not muster except by virtue of being born to royal status, whose words carried from birth the weight of law. “You will not strike her again!”

The massive herd-captain's square jaw clenched at the rebuke from a child not even a quarter of his size. Dankirk glanced at the throne to see if Ramogoth would repudiate the boy's outburst, but the king didn't move. He remained there, with one arm resting on the arm of the throne and the other stroking the wiry red hairs of his beard broodingly. “As the prince commands,” Dankirk said with forced calm, and stepped away from Drevin and the druid.

The druid's manacles, each link nearly as thick as her tiny wrists, made a scraping sound across the stone floor as she lifted herself to her feet again. She stood with her head bowed, which did not hide the trembling of her lips as she stole furtive, timid glances at Drevin.

The prince took two slow, measured steps toward her. “Don't be afraid,” he said calmly as he slowly took the chain into his hands and examined it, giving it a look as if it were something distasteful he had stepped in. “Dankirk,” he said in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed, “Remove this.”

Dankirk glanced uncertainly at Ramogoth, then back at Drevin. “Your Highness, I-”

“I, said, remove it,” Drevin's voice carried with it a deadly calm that was unmistakable even from one so young.

“If I were you, little brother,” Ramogoth rumbled, seemingly amused by Drevin's attitude, “I'd obey.”

Barely opening his mouth, Dankirk made a murmuring noise that sounded something like “yesurinis” as he sulkingly removed a key from the baldrich on his shoulder. Once he unlocked the druid's chains he withdrew again to glower at Drevin from beside the throne and avoid the eyes of the courtiers, most of whom were now chuckling at his expense.

Drevin's eyes fell upon the druid's wrists, where the chains had left angry red scabs. He took her wrists in his hands and looked at the marks, and while most of his face betrayed no hint of emotion, his brow furrowed in clear disapproval. He lowered the druid's hands back to her sides and, imitating a gesture he'd seen from young noblemen courting their mistresses, lifted her chin with his hand until her eyes met his. When he spoke, it was in tones so quiet that no one in the throne room could hear. “What are you called?” he repeated.

“C... called?” the druid answered in a voice which, as a result of starvation, beatings and endless sobbing, resembled the squeaking of a mouse.

“Your name,” Drevin answered, favoring her with a slight smile. “What's your name.”

The druid seemed about to answer before her eyes darted to Dankirk, and she cowered back from Drevin, turning her face to the floor again. “They told me I don't have a name anymore.”

Drevin frowned and let out a short breath. “That's a foolish thing for them to tell you.”

The druid's lips began to quiver, and a tear finally escaped one of her eyes, but she was too frightened to lift a hand and wipe it away. “They told me only people have names. Druids don't.”

Drevin took another step toward the druid, again closing the distance that she had withdrawn. “They're wrong,” he answered in a softer voice, “and I'd like to know what to call you.”

The druid didn't meet Drevin's eyes as she answered in a barely audible voice, “I'm Lucia.” After a moment, terror filled her eyes again and she cringed, raising her hands to cover her face as if in anticipation of a blow. “If... if that pleases you, Milord.”

Drevin calmly took her wrists in his hands again and lowered them to her sides. “It's a pretty name,” he assured her with a gentle smile. Then, lifting her chin again as he had before, he pressed the other hand to his chest. “I'm Drevin,” he announced. “Drevin Fan Bjorn.”

The druid let out an involuntary gasp, but she didn't pull away from him again. “Fan Bjorn?”

Drevin nodded once.

The druid's eyes flitted over Drevin's shoulder again in the direction of Ramogoth and Dankirk. “The King of House Fan Bjorn ordered my mother's death,” her words were barely recognizable over the effort it took for even a child of royal birth to hide sobs. “I had to watch.”

This time it was Drevin's eyes that found their way to the floor. “Mine too,” he replied after a long silence. “And I had to watch as well, as my own father ordered my mother's death.” When Drevin looked back at the druid, she wasn't looking away from him anymore. Her eyes failed to hide her fear, but it was no longer a fear of Drevin. The entire conversation between prince and former princess had been in whispers, for no ears but theirs and, perhaps, the gods, and there was one final declaration to be made in that same manner. Drevin spoke again, in the simple, innocent manner of which only children are capable, for whom trust is natural and guile is unknown; for whom deceiving another, or suspecting another of deceit, is foreign. “This isn't a good place for druids,” he said plainly. “I don't know if I can protect you. But if I can, I will.”

There was barely a moment before the druid answered, “I believe you,” and the traces of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth.

Drevin smiled back and held an open hand out to Lucia, who took it timidly. Hand in hand with the captive princess of an enslaved nation, he turned to face Ramogoth. “This one I will have,” he announced.

Ramogoth nodded once again, his chin making ripples in the rolls of fat beneath his beard as he did. “So be it then,” he declared. “It's yours.” With a passing flick of his wrist he motioned for Drevin to take Lucia and leave. “Off to your chamber with it. Training it now falls to you.”

Drevin bowed toward the throne -and Lucia hurriedly and fearfully curtsied- and departed the throne room, still hand-in-hand with his new pet. As chatter began to rise in the throne room again, Dankirk subtly approached the side of Ramogoth's throne. “Milord,” he began, a note of warning in his voice.

“Yes, I know,” Ramogoth sighed, stamping his boot once to signal the she-kittens to return to his feet from behind the throne. “He's a bit too fond of it.” Stroking his great red beard a few times more, he declared in the manner of one who has given his final word on a subject, “he'll grow out of it. In a few years his blood will heat as manhood approaches, and he'll discover what a she-druid is for. He'll have it purring, and eating from his hand.” He raised his toes to signal the she-kittens at his feet to lick more intensely as he added “or his feet.”

Dankirk said nothing for a moment, a moment in which Ramogoth presumed he was recalling being berated by the boy on the druid's behalf. “May the gods grant that you're right, Sire,” he answered skeptically.

“I'm the king of Drakmark, dear brother,” Ramogoth said with a dangerous edge beginning to form in his voice. “I'm always right. When Heaven doesn't heed my words, it's the gods who are wrong.”

“Of course, Majesty,” Dankirk answered, deflecting another rebuke, and dismissed himself from near the throne. When he was no longer in earshot, he muttered, “let us all hope the gods have been informed of that.”