Luchar looked with annoyance at the torn shoulder of his brigandine doublet. The top seam that ran along his left shoulder was split almost to the slope of his narrow arm. The rip had been slowly extending as he and Heidrun had traveled further into The God’s Wood.

Luchar and Heidrun had been following the trail of the rogue knight for half a day or so. He had ridden his courser for much of that time with Heidrun keeping pace beside him. Initially he had worried the woman would be outpaced by his horse, but the reverse had been the case. He shuddered slightly as he remembered Heidrun’s long, strangely jointed arms propelling her with ease through the dense walls of thorned brambles and grasping branches. 

The Sidhe woman barely left a trail, even while matching his courser’s trot. Her over-long, sinewy limbs bent and buckled at angles that would have dislocated a mortal's joints. As she moved, her body emitted wet cracks and pops like a chicken being disjointed for a feast. Her limbs sprang out grasping tree limbs, rocks and brush, using the leverage to fling herself forward. At his horse’s top speed, she seemed less to run through the forest as she did to fly. Strangest of all, she seemed to be able to pass through the wall of grasping branches, thorns, and brush untouched, even as it grew progressively denser as they ventured deeper into the woods. 

After several hours, though, the road had narrowed and disappeared, confronting them with a wall of brambles, brush, and wildgrass. His steed had bucked and complained at being driven through the dense thorns. Luchar had found catharsis in driving the animal with his spurs, but forcing it to exhaustion for no purpose brought him neither benefit nor satisfaction. The animal would not have made good time through the dense forest anyway. In the end, he had let the creature go. He hoped it would wander back and find feed. Perhaps it would find refuge at Heidrun’s cabin. 

Traveling by foot, though, had made the state of his armor impossible to ignore. The rent shoulder forced the weight of his brigandine doublet increasingly on his right and made the armor sit awkwardly on his waist and ribs. He frowned. 

Luchar loved the way the armor hugged his waist. The thin plates of metal, elegantly sealed in soft black leather, were perfectly fitted to his body. He could bend and twist almost as easily as he could when naked. He felt elegant, sleek and deadly in the armor, like a cat. Or he had felt that way; now the armor dug painfully into his left ribs, and he had to stop regularly to readjust the doublet. 

Working through the forest by foot was miserable enough without impediment. Every step had to be won from the grasping branches, thorns, and dense bushes. He had cut himself a dozen times already. His fingers absently touched a fresh scar stinging on his cheek; he missed his mask. Constantly readjusting his armor was making the progress even more tedious. 

“Take it off, little mortal. It won’t provide any protection that way,” came Heidrun’s voice from behind him. Her dry raspy voice, like loose rocks dragged across slate, still sent shivers down Luchar’s spine.

Luchar continued walking, but craned his head back to meet Heidrun’s gaze. With annoyance he noted that she was moving easily through the brush, not a scratch visible on her. She looked eerily like the peasant he had found praying at Elatha’s statue. Although she was no longer hiding her otherworldly voice, the woman had resumed her mortal form. Soft, pale skin, tightly-braided, near-white hair, and that same unreadable visage that almost hinted at a smile. That too made him shudder. 

Luchar’s right hand moved absent-mindedly to the bite marks still visible on his naked left arm. The purple welts the strange woman had left there were beginning to heal, but he could still remember the cool sensation in his arm, along with the sharp scent of pine needles and lemon balm. The thought of Heidrun’s other form hovering over him drooling venomously filled him with a mixture of fear and excitement. 

He let his eyes wander down to the bright white-blue loop still glowing around Heidrun’s neck. He smiled wickedly and felt his pulse quicken. The next time Heidrun’s hunger overtook her good sense, they would have a more dynamic session. If last time had been any indication, though, her poor pain tolerance might keep it from being too cathartic. He sighed. 

“You seem eager to have me unclothed, madame.” He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked, his sing-song voice a teasing lilt. 

“Maybe I’m curious what you’ve got hiding under that doublet,” Heidrun replied, her expression and tone remaining unreadable. 

Luchar’s shoulders sank. There had been a time when jests like Heidrun’s had filled him with a little thrill. They had been common his whole life, but increasingly they bit into something sore to the point of unbearable numbness in his chest. His smirk faded. 

He unbuckled the straps along the left side and easily slipped off the doublet. He studied it in his hand for a moment. There was real anger brewing in his chest at the thought of leaving it behind. The garment had been made for his exact proportions. Each rivet was a perfect silver jackal’s face to match his mask. It would take some doing to get the Citadel smith to forge another.

The rivets of his abandoned brigandine reminded him of the bent mask at his hip. He flinched at that. Fion were sworn to never let another see their face. If anyone did see his face, he was obligated to kill the witness. He imagined arriving at The Citadel maskless, his jackal face hanging, bent in half, from his belt. Cold anxiety flushed through his veins. 

He gave his doublet one last mournful look and let it fall into the carpet of brush and wildgrass. Frowning, he turned to his companion and studied Heidrun’s impassive face again.  

He would simply say that he had killed all who had seen him. Grand Master Barrok likely would not demand that he show the ears to prove it. He hoped. He imagined cutting a bloody path from Adlyr territory across half the isle to Mount Bannoc collecting the grim evidence. He felt sick. He took in Heidrun’s placid face, and his guts churned. No, he could not stomach that. 

Tightening his bandolier against his narrow frame, he scowled, realizing that, without the doublet’s added bulk, even the narrowest notch on his bandolier was too loose. It did nothing to pull his baggy tunic around his narrow waist. Bitter bile rose in him. His body was always the wrong size. 

He stared down Heidrun and gestured at his chest. “It hides nothing. I am my father’s son.” He turned and continued moving. 

Heidrun tilted her head curiously. “Is that sadness in your voice, Syr?” Heidrun asked. Her voice was as unreadable as ever, but Luchar was certain he detected mockery in it.  

“We must keep moving. We’re almost upon them,” Luchar offered neutrally. He busied himself working his way through the grasping flora.  

Heidrun stopped, letting Luchar advance ahead. “It is not unheard of for a son to wish for teats,” Heidrun placed her hands casually on her own. “Not a thing I can give, but more than a few Sidhe can grant that boon. And there are more than many of us in The Aesvithr.” 

“You’re falling behind. I would not do that if I were you,” Luchar stated, a sing-song lilt returning to his voice. Glancing back at Heidrun he smiled as he saw her flinch at the words. He felt a rush of warm blood along his left arm and cheeks. 

Heidrun made no motion to continue. “They’d look good on you too, little witch-knight. A buxom thing with a narrow little waist?” 

Luchar turned. Heidrun’s mouth split, revealing a set of growing needle-like teeth. Her too-long tongue licked them greedily. 

He met her gaze and felt snapping sparks of pain cascade down his left hand. He clenched his fist. 

Heidrun’s hungry expression was gone in an instant. With a shriek she collapsed to the ground, the muscles of her arms and legs spasming as she thrashed. 

For an indulgent minute or so, Luchar let one wave of pain after another snap and cascade down his arm and into the writhing woman in the brush. He let each wave build in his arm for as long as he could stand the pain before letting it ripple down, savoring the way it played through the woman’s body below him. With each ripple, her entire body spasmed and contracted. As the waves hit, her arms would for a moment pop and extend to twice their size, or seize against her body. After a few waves, talons began emerging from her fingertips. He watched as her cheeks and brow contorted. Her lips parted, and her needle-like teeth clenched. The bitter weight of his thoughts evaporated in the immediacy of the pain and her responses. She really was beautiful, he thought.  

“Please,” she moaned between paralyzing contractions. “No more, witch-knight, please.” 

Luchar allowed himself a smile. He relaxed his left fist. Within a moment the cascading waves of pain were gone, but his heart was still pounding–his every sense sharp and clear. “Good, hound. Now, we’re almost upon them. I think you should keep up.” He turned and continued walking. 

Heidrun snarled. Picked herself off the ground, her muscles still shaking, and closed the distance between them. 

Bridget hadn’t bothered to clean the muck between her legs. She had built a small campfire at the lip of the gully, laid out a cloak, and collapsed into ugly sobs. That had been several hours ago, and by now she had forced all the tears from her body. All that was left was a numb ache and a tingling thirst scratching at the back of her throat. 

The dense woods around her looked even more menacing when cast in the deep shadows of her campfire. The grasping fingers of gnarled branches and the wicked thorns of brambles seemed to grasp and reach at her as they flickered in the fire light. 

For a moment, she remembered Ago’s father spread like a wet, red spiderweb across the trees. She sat up and pressed her knees against her chest. Her heart was pounding. She wished Her Lady–The Princess, she corrected herself–were here. She had felt so much safer in her company, she realized. 

Shame coursed through her at the thought. How pathetic for a knight to need her Princess for protection. She felt her chest pressing in on itself again. She wanted to cry, but nothing came. This is what she deserved, she told herself. She had violated The Princess, her oath, and the trust between them. It was fitting she should die out here alone, covered in filth. 

Bridget heard a loud snap followed by murmuring somewhere in the woods. Her entire body froze, and she felt her ear prick up. Her breathing ceased entirely. 

Phantom imaginings of the Sidhe that had killed Ago danced through her head. The same ill-formed specters that had haunted her dreams since she was a child, now aided and given clarity by the monster, The Daerg Due, she had seen with The Princess confront that night in the cabin.  

Another snap accompanied by more murmuring came from the forest–closer this time. 

Bridget waited for another long moment, her head swimming. 

Finally, she let out a long breath. Without looking, her hand glided to the sword she had set beside her cloak. Gently, so as to make as little noise as possible, she drew the blade. Her body rose and assumed a tail guard stance–the point out and down behind her, her left hand hovering over the pommel of her hand-and-a-half sword. 

Keeping herself facing the noise, she edged carefully along the lip of the gully, distancing herself from the firelight. 

Her ears were straining so hard they hurt. She could make out voices, but only just now were they clear enough to be words. “They are near…” The voice was high and lilting, dragging out and up like a question, but Bridget heard some menace in it. 

Another voice responded, so raspy and full of fry that Bridget could not make out any words at all. There was a pause, and then a sharp yelp, a crash and a series of snaps–branches and brambles being smashed. Bridget could make out a long moan and–was it laughter in the same raspy voice? 

Bridget shifted farther, trying to move out of the firelight and hide herself in the wall of thorns and wildgrass behind her. 

From across the gully, she saw a figure emerge cautiously from the foliage–just a head and shoulders from what little Bridget could make out. The figure’s head scanned the gully and the opposite ridge pausing to inspect the campfire. For a long moment, it made no movement at all. 

Bridget remained statue-still, holding her tail guard and taking long, even breaths. She was not especially well hidden. She had allowed herself enough space for firm footing and an uncompromised stance at the cost of better cover, but there was always a chance she would escape notice in the dim light. Her right arm was beginning to tense and ache. 

It was several full minutes before the figure emerged from the foliage. Bridget noticed a low rasp of metal and then the flash of a blade in the figure’s hand. Another long moment passed and the figure slunk out and crept down the edge of the gully. They moved slowly toward the fire, sword held in a relaxed guard–pommel near the hip, point out. The form looked unpracticed, sloppy, to her eye. Slowly, they began to close the distance toward the fire. 

The figure’s left hand hovered near their chest. Bridget narrowed her eyes trying to make out what was in the figure’s off hand. If there was a parrying dagger or buckler there, she couldn’t make it out. The positioning of their left hand looked practiced, though, unlike the figure’s loose guard. She shifted forward to get a better view. 

The figure’s head snapped toward her. 

Without pausing to think, Bridget lept. Wheeling her tail guard into an overhead strike, she descended on the figure. Even before she landed, Bridget knew that the blow would not land. She only had the reach to connect with the point of her blade, and the length of her leap gave her opponent ample time to react. 

The figure nimbly hopped back, landing in a wider guard, off hand still at their chest. 

Bridget transitioned her swing into a plow guard, ready to deflect the figure’s counter, but no swing came. 

Instead her opponent laughed. “Ah, here is the rogue knight. Where is your pretended princess?” The figure scanned the ridge behind Bridget. 

In the firelight, Bridget could make out more of the figure’s features. They had a narrow face ending in a sharply pointed jaw, topped with a mop of tousled red-brown hair. A few wavy curls fell over their eyes. which were ringed with a thick circle of kohl. Beautiful in a lithe, cat-like way, she thought.   

She glanced over the figure's garment. Under the black cloak, the figure wore only a gray silk tunic and a bandolier covered in pockets across their chest. 

The figure began to circle Bridget. They weren’t closing the distance, but the movement did force Bridget to turn. After a few paces the fire was behind the figure, darkening their features again. In the shadows, she could still see that their eyes were scanning her body. Their brow furrowed at her missing cuirass and then widened in surprise as they fell between her legs. They began to cackle, high and mirthful. 

“Lords’ mercy, what happened to you, cur?”

Bridget’s cheeks burned. She realized her trousers and braies, which she had cut open in her haste to violate The Princes, were hanging open. She felt dizzy, and her lower lip shook. Fighting down the raging storm of self-hatred building in her head, she barked, “What do you want with The Princess?!”

The figure’s mouth twisted wickedly and their eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I only wish to talk.” 

Bridget continued to scan the figure’s garb. They were wearing a pair of black, boiled-leather greaves and a single gauntlet. Each was covered in elaborate silver filigree. At the figure’s belt, near their scabbard, hung half a silver mask depicting a jackal, its face contorted in cruel laughter.

“Fion wretch,” she cried, leaping forward and aiming a sweep at the figure’s legs. 

The Fion warrior deflected the blow and skipped backward. Hopping lightly on the balls of their feet, they continued to circle Bridget, giggling all the while. “Poor dog. Where’s your mistress? Did she leave you to roll in the mud without even giving you a bath, poor thing?” The warrior’s sing-song voice matched their playful foot work, hopping and weaving mockingly. 

Bridget’s eyes widened and her cheeks burned. “Better an abandoned mutt of a lady as fine as mine than a lapdog to murderers and thieves!” She bellowed and charged at the stranger. With the grip in both hands, she threw her shoulder into a heavy upward cut. 

The Fion ducked under the blow and spun as Bridget passed over them. They whipped their sword around. Her left pauldron caught most of the blow, but the tip found purchase on her shoulder blade. A flair of white-hot pain shot across her back. She managed to turn awkwardly in the mud to face the warrior again. Biting back a grunt of pain, she brought her sword back into a plow guard–pommel to hip, tip out and up. 

The figure tilted their blade and licked the edge. In the dim firelight, Bridget could make out her own blood on the figure’s tongue. They caught Bridget’s gaze and bit their lip. She noticed a red flush spreading across their cheeks.

Bridget furrowed her brow. They must be trying to intimidate her. She ignored the trick.

They were better with a blade than she had credited. She tried to study their footwork. That was practiced, she could tell, even if the style was unfamiliar. She tried to get a sense of the nimble rhythm of the willowy figure. Their limbs were narrow, but tightly muscled, she noted, not without interest.   

“Did she really?!” They cackled gleefully. “She abandoned you? Poor cur!” 

Bridget’s blood pounded in her ear. She knew she was being goaded into making poor strikes. She knew the Fion warrior was getting the best of her. Everything in her still screamed to beat the smirk off their face. She searched for a barb to throw back in reply, “Reprobate!”

Luchar met her gaze and laughed openly. 

Her cheeks burned in embarrassment.  

She took a deep breath, and tried to let the anger go. She remembered arriving at Castle Ohg’ir. The mockery and constant challenges from the other trainees. The bruises and the pain. Her blood cooled. She knew how to win a fight. She focused on her guard, keeping her muscles relaxed but ready.  

“Aw, poor dog. Not the sharpest wit either, are you?” The warrior continued to hop and circle. “Do you need a new master?” Their smirk eased and their eyes narrowed again as they scanned her face. They flipped their sword downward into a reverse grip and held out their hand, turning up their palm, and extending two fingers toward her. “Come here, pup. You can lick my hand, and I’ll feed you.” 

Bridget’s heart skipped a beat. Ignoring the heat low in her belly, she stepped forward and feinted another low sweep at the Fion’s legs.

The warrior reacted, leaping backward and lowering their sword to deflect. There was a loud squelch, and the Fion’s eyes went wide as their feet caught in the mud of the gully. 

Seizing the opportunity, Bridget wheeled her stance around, kicked forward, and swung down hard. 

The Fion cried, attempting to bring up their blade to deflect, but they had neither the footing nor the time. Panic across their face, they tried to throw their body to the side, attempting to leap clear, but a misplaced foot and the grasping mud turned the dodge into a pratfall.

Following the Fion’s descending form, Bridget ended her swing an inch from the figure’s throat and slammed her greaved foot on top of the figure’s blade, sinking it into the mud. “Not exceptionally skilled with a sword, are you, jackal?” She smiled. “Now, yield!” she hissed, spittle flying from her teeth. 

The figure released their grip on their blade and turned up both hands, wiggling their fingers. “I yield, Syr Pup.” They glanced between Bridget’s legs and licked their lips, “Perhaps you can take a seat on my face and claim the spoils of your victory.”

Bridget hissed in rage. “Mud and filth is a better meal than you deserve, cad.” She wanted to force the blade through their throat, but that would be folly. She had no idea if this warrior was alone. “How many Fion are with you? Where are they now?” she growled. 

“No warriors travel with me,” they replied easily, smiling. 

“Liar. I heard you speaking with someone as you approached.” 

Their smile widened. “That was no warrior, nor any friend of mine or yours. Come to think of it, I would worry more about her than me, Syr Pup.”

Bridget’s eyes flicked upward to the gully ridge above them and then back to the Fion below her. She wasn't sure of their meaning, but she was certain they were lying; there had been a voice. Bridget’s eyes narrowed. The warrior’s ally should have had time to join the fight by now. 

“What is your name, villain?” she hissed, pressing the tip of her blade into their throat. 

They retreated backward into the mud, a nervous twitch at their lips. Bridget extended her blade a little further to match the distance. “Luchar, Master of Arts from the Citadel at Whitepeak, at your service, Syr Pup.” They attempted a mock bow, pressing the tip of the blade against their throat. A small rivulet of blood ran from the tip of her sword, and Luchar bit their lip again. 

Bridget furrowed her brow at the strange creature below her. They were certainly not trying to intimidate her this time. She had little time to ponder, though. There was a rustling at the ridge above them. 

Bridget’s eyes snapped up and widened. Emerging from the foliage was a face that barely read to Bridget as human. Its flesh had a corpse-like pallor, and its jaw was extended far past any natural length. The creature’s gaping maw was bristling with needle-like teeth, and its eyes were inky black orbs that glistened in the firelight. The Dearg Due, Bridget realized–the monster from the cabin. Little wonder that a Fion sorcerer would be in league with some monster from the forest. 

“Attack me and the Fion dies, monster!” Bridget yelled up at the creature. She slid her blade further along the prostrate warrior’s throat. 

From the monster above her, Bridget heard low raspy laughter that might have been a grinding millstone.

In the same moment Luchar, in a voice so low it startled her, shouted, “No!” and the monster leapt forward. 

She could have flicked her wrist and ended the warrior below her. As she saw the creature suspended in the air in front of her, she knew she had the time to end the Fion.  

Then the monster collided with her. There was a rush and a burst of pain, and, next she knew, she was a half dozen paces or more away, back-first in the mud of the gully. Her vision wheeled. 

The Dearg Due was perched above her. Its inhumanly long arms had to bend out and back to reach her body. The monster’s hands gripped her arms, pinning them down. She flinched as its acrid stench filled her nose, and flecks of viscous venom dripped onto her face. 

The monster hissed in anger. “Fool, girl. Why did you not kill him?!” The Dearg Due slammed Bridget’s arms down painfully and then pushed itself up to a standing position. It turned toward Luchar, lowered its haunches, and raised its taloned hands toward the Fion. 

Bridget furrowed her brow. Luchar was a boy? 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came Luchar’s sing-song voice. 

Bridget saw the monster flinch. Its arms retracted to its belly, and it raised its stance, backing away.

“Good hound!” Luchar said, giggling happily. 

Bridget whipped her head around to see Luchar walking toward her, sword in the same lazy reverse grip, his left hand held out, fist closed. 

“She’s right, you know?” Luchar sang. “You should have killed me.” 

“At least we agree you deserve no better, wretch. Lend me your throat and…” Bridget’s voice trailed away, and her eyes widened as she saw white-blue lighting beginning to arc along Luchar’s left arm, snapping and sparking against the silver filigree of his gauntlet. As he grew nearer, he opened his left hand and long cords of the same white-blue light slinked from his palm. They moved like serpents. Slow and meandering, crackling faintly, until one cord touched another and suddenly both would snap and writhe emitting loud pops and hisses.

Bridget’s heart was pounding in her ears. She pushed herself to her feet and assumed a tail guard again. 

She had sparred with a warrior who fought with a chain bolas once, a Villsven from the lowlands south of Sinnactal. She had attempted to deflect a sweep only to have her blade ripped from her hand. Once she learned to bait a strike and close the distance, though, it had been easy work. 

She tried to judge the reach of the glowing cords extending from Luchar’s hand. They coiled, snapped, and writhed as she watched, seeming to extend and contort as they did. Doubt crept into the back of her mind. This was nothing like any fight she had ever been in. Fion arts were among the most carefully kept secrets in all The Four Kingdoms. Legend held that all who saw the naked face of a Fion were cursed to die within a day. 

Useless thoughts, she forced them down. 

As best as she could judge it, Luchar had closed the distance sufficiently. She stepped forward and began to wheel her arms into a downward cut again. 

The Fion took the bait a second time. He did not, though, swing his arm, as Bridget expected. Instead he stretched it forward. The glowing cords shot forward and out, extending far beyond the distance Bridget had estimated. 

Leaping to her left, the cords snapped and buzzed past her in the air. She kicked forward, sweeping up hard with her blade. Luchar attempted a parry, but it was weak, one-handed, and poorly formed. Her blade turned it aside, screamed and sparked up its length, and slammed into the guard. Following the sweep through, she flung the blade across the gully. The edge of her blade had narrowly missed his thigh and chest as her sword arched by him. She smiled, appreciating her aim and Luchar’s dumbfounded expression. 

Continuing her momentum, Bridget dropped her own sword into a reverse grip in her left hand, and closed the distance between them. With her right, she grabbed Luchar’s left wrist hard and yanked him forward. Raising her left fist, she transferred all of her weight into a punch. Her metal gauntlet connected with the Fion’s jaw. Like a marionette with its strings cut, the entirety of his fragile frame collapsed, and, for a moment, he hung loosely from her right hand. She held him up, a thrill running down her spine.  

Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw the cords flowing from Luchar’s palm flicker, fading from view and back again. “I demand again–this time on your honor and your life–yield! If you promise to leave and never harm my lady, I will let you live.” Bridget yelled at the spindly figure dangling from her grasp.

Luchar’s head rolled on his shoulders. He shook it, and pushed his feet back under himself. His vision still spinning he met Bridget’s gaze and smiled gleefully. His teeth were red. “Mmmm, hit me again, Syr Pup. Please.”

Bridget’s face screwed up in disgust. “Yeild,” she yelled again dumbly, spittle flying from her mouth. 

“When will you fools learn to kill me?” Luchar’s grin split further; his eyes widening. 

Bridget's eyes went wide as she heard a snarling crackle. Seeing the glow in the corner of her eye, she attempted to sweep her sword up at Luchar, but it was too late. She felt something white-hot around her right arm and leg, and suddenly her limbs were not her own to direct. They spasmed and convulsed, dropping her to writhe in the mud. 

It was unlike any pain Bridget had experienced. It ripped through her in a white-hot instant, almost impossible to feel. It was only in the moments after that she experienced it as pain, bright and sharp, as if every inch of her had been slapped at once. Every muscle in her body was coiled and tense in the aftermath, and she had to fight to extend and relax her limbs. 

“Poor pup.” Luchar giggled above her. He stooped and studied her face. Luchar’s own face was lit from below by the glowing cords still extending from his left hand. His features looked all the sharper and more violent in the harsh light. Bloody spittle hung on his teeth.  

Bridget, fighting her tensing muscles, extended a shaking hand toward Luchar’s throat. 

Luchar’s smile widened, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, pup.” He raised his left hand into view, palm already half-closed.

Bridget persisted, and Luchar’s hand closed. Her grasping fingers were inches from his narrow throat when the subsequent wave of pain shot through her. For a moment the world around her disappeared. When it passed, she was dizzy and tingling, her limbs contorted tightly around her again. 

“You look so beautiful like this,” Luchar mused, using a finger to push a few locks of Bridget’s tightly curled hair out of her eyes. His smile softened, all the mockery gone. His eyes searched hers hungrily for something. Throughout their duel, Bridget had been nude between her legs, but only now did she feel naked. 

Ignoring the blush on her cheeks, Bridget growled, “Fion dog. Murdering for you masters. How many innocent folk have you slaughtered?” 

Luchar’s eyebrows raised for a moment. “You say that as if it were an insult. Dogs are loyal and true. Dogs will not lie to you or betray you. I wish I could be counted as one.” Luchar’s eye shot up, fixing on something behind Bridget. His smile faded. 

“Let me eat her, little witch-knight. Payment for that bruise she placed on your jaw,” came The Dearg Due’s rasping voice. 

“Payment? This beauty,” Luchar brushed his jaw with the fingers of his right hand, “is a treasured gift from Syr Pup.” 

Bridget heard the monster hiss and draw closer. 

Luchar’s face became cold and impassive. “Heidrun, no. Stay. I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.” He returned his gaze to Bridget’s.

The creature ceased moving.  

“You have no honor,” Bridget wheezed. She reached out to grab the front of Luchar’s tunic. 

“Uh uh,” Luchar scolded. He held up his left hand again and closed his fist.

Bridget’s body was wrenched by another wave of pain. She was beginning to feel an awful, numb ache in the aftermath. Every muscle in her body felt as though it were tense to the point of bursting, as if each would tear itself from her bones. A tear slid down her cheek.  

Luchar wiped the tear away gently. “If I were you, I would lie down and stay. I have a few things to tell you,” Luchar’s mouth twisted in a smile. “Honor is a trick used by people with power to bend you to their wants. I can offer you something much more honest, pup. I need you.” 

Bridget’s heart raced at the words and her brow furrowed in confusion. She searched Luchar’s face for mockery and found none. His smile was fading. 

“If I do not find your princess and bring back evidence of her death, I will be put to the sword,” Luchar said. 

Bridget slammed her fist into the mud in anger and began to reach toward Luchar. 

“I would not do that.” He held up his left fist. 

She relented. 

“Good pup!” he responded, the praise high and sing-song. His eyes were searching hers hungrily again. 

She bit her lip, trying to ignore the tingling she felt as the cool air passed between her legs. 

“You need me too, though,” he continued, his voice dropping down into its usual register. “Whatever is out there,” he gestured with his right thumb toward the dense forest above the gully. “You’ll need more than your blade to overcome it, you know that.” 

Bridget snarled. She hated how true his words sounded. For the second time, she pushed down the memory of Ago’s father. 

Luchar scanned her face and nodded approvingly. “See? So, I promise to work with you to rescue The Princess from whatever danger she is in. Then we can have one of your honorable little duels, and the winner can decide The Princess’ fate.” 

Bridget’s cheeks burned. He was right. Princess Amaryllis was somewhere deep in the Aesvithr without a guard or attendant. No one was with her to ensure she was fed or housed. That might be all a degraded knight was good for, but she still desperately wanted–no, needed–to be of service to her lady. That thought made her feel perverse. 

“Fine,” she barked. “I accept.” 

Luchar’s mouth split into a wide red grin. “Good pup!” He looked up at Heidrun and down at Bridget. “What a merry band we shall make!”