The Belromanticum

I have told tales of joy and tales of sorrow. Now I must tell a tale of shame.Thetale, really. My greatest shame.

It had been three years since I unleashed the bandit clans and pirate queens against the Heacharids. Their numbers had swelled as word got out that Zuunkhorun would buy their plunder and the hospitality houses in Ironmotte and Uraraoi developed a reputation for their honeyed delights. I spent lavishly, funding roads, schools, amphitheaters and other improvements with the plentiful treasure.

Sarakiel, Lysethe, and Tanyth all bore more children. My daughter Imshu would be Tanyth's last, for whatever magic Velena had worked upon her had been exhausted. My crimson bride had no regrets as fertility left her. She had produced five children, a mighty brood, and ensured the continuation of Clan Abibaal. The Tanyc line would rule the clan until the end of the Fifth Strata and the final obliteration of Kharsoom, though it would shift from the Abylithian branch to the Beltoryc one in a century or two.

Nesugen troubled me more infrequently about marrying her and she and I had ceased sharing a bed entirely. Such responsibilities were the purview of her bedslaves. She had two, but that number would swell with every trip to Kharsoom. The pair she had were cut from crimson iron and had the staves to match. Rumors had begun to escape the palace that she was not as pure as her unmarried status might imply, but this was good. I did not want her gaining too angelic an aura. Meanwhile, I tied my family with the improvements the Zuunese saw in their homeland. My popularity grew as Nesugen's declined.

Tanyth, already becoming a favorite in the imagination of the Zuunese people, was instrumental here. She had returned to Kharsoomian fashions whenever the weather would permit, which fascinated and titillated the Zuun people, while her natural charisma made her beloved. Artists painted her portrait and sculpted her in Zuunkhor marble.

The day this story truly began I was at the inn in Uraraoi, the same where I had given the compact to my allies. I sat by the window, pouring over the ancient texts of Zuunkhorun, ravenously learning more of my adopted home. The door opened behind me and as Quiyahui did not hiss I knew not to be concerned. A moment later, I caught the scent of sweet incense and candlewax.

"Sarakiel," I said, sitting up.

My darkling bride snaked her arms about my neck, nestling her face into the crook, enfolding me in her scent. "Hello, my love. I wanted to check on you."

"How are the little ones?"

"Napping, thankfully. Faustan is looking after them."

She moved around me, hiking her robes up enough to comfortably straddle me. My hands found her soft hips. "Then what shall we do?"

Mischief sparkled in her indigo eyes. "As though you don't know." She pulled her robes up and off, and she was nude, her bountiful curves shining in the morning light. Her stripes ran over her arms in pleasing geometry. I caressed her tri-colored hair, from its copper roots, to its orange body, to its yellow tips. My eyes went to her heavy breasts, the great teardrops of flesh I loved so well.

I kissed each one once, on the soft flesh able her fat, cobalt nipples, then her neck. "You are a gift, my love."

My robes opened, revealing my body already eager for her touch. She reached between us, taking my staff in hand, and giving me a few, silky strokes. She angled herself, her hairless azure orchid hungry. She eased me into her warmth, holding me with a sigh. "Oh, Bel."

She was warm and close. I was at home inside her. Our bodies fit perfectly, a sword retuning to its sheath. She sat down hard on me, taking every inch with effortless ease, rolling her hips to hit every part of her sex. She was lost in her ministrations, her back arching, her heavy breasts in my face.

Sarakiel's figure was always voluptuous, but when she was nursing, her breasts gained more heft. As she confidently rolled me inside her, my attention stayed on her chest. A drop of ivory milk had formed on the cap of one pebble-like nipple. I leaned in, licking it from the cap. Her taste carried the spice of incense and the smoothness of wax, and beneath was a chalky sweetness, something I craved.

Each expert stroke of her hips took me to the very gates of her womb, presenting me with the beauty of Sarakiel in bliss. I sucked a nipple into my mouth. Her milk came with it. I sucked harder, and the blessed liquid washed over my tongue. She let out a ragged groan, holding my head to her breast.

"Drink of me, my love," she purred. "Let me fill you as you fill me."

I gripped her full buttocks, thrusting hard into her as I drank. Her tail lashed back and forth, her sex milked mine. I craved this connection with Sarakiel. My love for her has always been soft and sweet. My darkling bride, my beautiful librarian. Sarakiel the Wise, Sarakiel the Learned. I liked to call her Sarakiel the Insatiable. She would not be pleased I shared that, but this is a place for honesty.

Finally, she came down hard and she broke into a shudder. I was on her heels, flooding her with hot jets. Her milk coated my mouth, filled my throat in warm rivulets. She slowed on me, no longer driving herself to bliss, but coming back. Her eyes were feverish, her flesh shivery.

She sighed, holding me, her back slick with sweat. She kissed me softly. "I needed that."

"I am your most humble servant."

"If I know my sweet wizard, a little coaxing will get you ready once again," she said wickedly.

"I have confidence in you." I was already feeling the beginning of a return to vitality at merely the thought of Sarakiel on her knees before me.

A knock sounded. "Papa? Mama Sarakiel?" It was Faustan.

"One moment, Faustan!" Sarakiel yelped. She climbed off of me and I was treated with a lewd glimpse of her orchid washed in pearl before she pulled her robes on. My robes closed over me and I rose.

"Come in, lad," I called.

Faustan opened the door cautiously, wearing his night eft about his neck. He was a boy no longer, a man fully grown. He would not stay with us much longer. I knew that, even before he had stated his intentions to return to the city of his birth. "The ship is here," he said as he broke into a happy smile.

Our steps were light as we made for the harbor. Besides Sarakiel, Faustan, and Quiyahui, Sabrael, Abilyth, Belyth, Zazel, and the infant Haliel had come with us. Sarakiel could have left the new child with Tanyth and Lysethe, as they were both producing milk, but she refused to be parted from her newest daughter.

Our goal was a ship pulling into the harbor, flying the flag depicting bear playing a harp. This was the sigil of Asden, a tiny kingdom on the eastern coast of Chassudor. All of us waited with baited breath as the sailors throw lines to the men on the docks and the ship came to a slow stop.

Arkohnus stepped from the deck, making his way down the gangway. I had not seen my son in several years. Too many. It was the longest I would ever go without seeing the lad. Like his brother Faustan, Arkohnus was a man. Tall and well-built, his time apart from us had done him good. His hair, tricolored like his mother's, but a shade darker, was cut to his chin and pulled back. He was dressed simply, leading a horse down the gangway laden with his heavy armor, broadsword, and shield. He was the picture of a knight at peace.

"Arkohnus!" Faustan called, jogging over to his brother.

The larger brother, the darkling, wrapped the wizard in a hug, pounding his back. They exchanged happy greetings as the rest of us approached. Not quite a year separated them. They had been the best of friends through their childhood, Faustan taking his elder brother's lead.

"Mother, Father!" Arkohnus called, breaking from his brother to embrace us in turn.

"Are we no longer Mama and Papa?" Sarakiel gently teased.

My son blushed azure. "Those names feel strange in my mouth. I'm a knight now."

"You call us what you like, my boy," I said, hugging him again. "Gods, it's good to see you."

"That cannot be Sabrael and the twins," he said. The girls were uncharacteristically shy and my son was gentle with them. We introduced him to his youngest sisters. "Where is Mal? I was looking forward to seeing her."

"At sea. I'll explain on the way to the capital."

Those who know the histories know that Arkohnus would spend the rest of his too-short life in and around Zuunkhorun. There is a lovely biography,The Black Rose of Ironmotte, that details the life of my son. I find myself reading it often, for now he has been gone countless years, and I like to exist with his memory. I have little to add to that authoritative text, other than perhaps context.

Knights did not exist in Zuunkhorun. In Aucor, certainly. Heacharids had a chivalric order dedicated to their goddess. They are not precisely the same as the classic Chassudorian knight that most would associate with the word, but they were close. Zuunkhorun had no such thing. Archery was the principle martial discipline, and most of those who practiced were simple farmers and tradesmen ready to be called to war should they be needed. Archery was practiced at festivals to impress and entertain.

Arkohnus changed all that. His skill at arms was incredible, but his best trait was his work ethic. If he lacked a skill, he would work at it until he had mastered it. While he made horsemanship and skill with sword and lance popular, he embraced archery. He would become a beloved champion, especially in his adopted city of Ironmotte. As he embraced Zuunese customs, they in turn wanted to learn more of knights. This is the origin of the Order of the Black Rose.

This was several years off, though. What happened next came only a week after we returned to Tagariaganuur. My family was overjoyed to see Arkohnus again and he was delighted to see them and meet the new arrivals. Our joy was interrupted when the Heacharids sent diplomats.

Their aim was obvious. My provocations had borne fruit. They would be coming to cow Zuunkhorun with concessions. Whether they knew we were behind the depredations was immaterial. They would cloak their demands as simple requests that were anything but. When the summons came, I went to my liege in her chambers which she seldom left anymore.

I found Nesugen in bed. She had begun to grow soft in her indolence, something I encouraged by supplying her every vice. "Belromanazar," she said. "Thank all the gods you are here."

"My lady?"

"A pigeon arrived. The Heacharids demand to meet in Ironmotte."

"Oh?" I feigned surprise. The only thing that surprised me was how long it took. They seemed to care less for the Golden Sea than I initially believed.

"I wish you to accompany our ambassadors to parley with the Heacharids."

I had been planning to petition precisely this. My suspicions were piqued. I never like it when my plans go too well. "Is there something specific you need me to do?"

"Yes, Belromanazar. You are the only one I can trust. I need you to ensure that the diplomats remain loyal to me."

I glanced over at her bed, where the two muscular Kharsoomians regarded me with a catlike contempt. "I understand my lady."

"One more thing. Is your bride planning to journey home to the Red Wastes?"

"There are no plans, but we would be pleased to change that. Did you wish another bedslave?"

She blushed prettily, and I saw a flash of the woman she had been before power took her. "I fear I am besotted. Their skills are prodigious."

I bowed. "We will see to it."

"Belromanazar?" she said, stopping me as I left. "I would like a half-orc, if they have one. One whose spear is...thick."

"As you wish." Bedslaves trained at the Silken Labyrinth were expensive, but if that was the cost to make me de facto ruler of Zuunkhorun, I would gladly pay it. I informed Tanyth of the request and she immediately made plans to return with Shaluvia, who was burdened with the happy task of sampling the men they thought to purchase. Tanyth's father Prince Hadirseen was growing old and she looked for excuses to see him.

I joined the delegation, which was led by her Master of Horse. He had lost favor in recent months and I believe this was partly due to the enemies she had begun to glimpse in the shadows. He did not like me very much and I could not find fault with his assessment.

"Halaak Belromanazar," he said by way of greeting. "You bless us with your presence."

"Think of me as your bodyguard, Your Excellency."

He smiled thinly. "I would think of you as nothing else."

We took the Valley Road to Ironmotte where the summit would take place. Built on the western edges of the city that shared its name, the castle Irommotte marked the border between Zuunkhorun and the Golden Sea. Its western side was a forbidding series of walls, punctuated by towers. Its eastern edge was idyllic, holding the living quarters and its famed Iron Garden.

I brought with me only Quiyahui, Ujaala, and a young assistant to the Master of Birds named Dorbei. I kept Ujaala by my side to ensure she would be seen by every member of the Heacharid delegation. I had spent much of the last three years growing quite close with the Ministry of Birds, sharing with them everything I learned from my privateers, my contacts in Castellandria, and beyond. Dorbei had become my man in the ministry and would eventually serve as my first Master of Birds in his old age. I would come to think of him as family.

The Halaak of Taichu, the ruler of the demesne that included Ironmotte, greeted us with all honor and installed us in the east wing. The Heacharids arrived two days after we did. I heard for the first time the bells of Ironmotte, a sound I would become well acquainted with.

We went out to meet them. The waving gold of the plains stopped only short distance from the walls where the ancient trenches had been dug on either side of the road. The Heacharids had turned out in force, because they knew not how to do anything else. A host of their riders and footmen escorted a small caravan of wagons where the diplomats were ensconced. The burning rose of Xomera flapped from numerous pennons.

The Master of Horse was in the lead, clad in his finery. His adjutants surrounded him along with a small honor guard. I stood with them, but I was undeniably apart, the foreigner, the wizard, the usurper. The door of the main wagon opened, and the Heacharid diplomats emerged.

I was only mildly surprised to recognize their lead diplomat. She was older and grayer than last time we'd seen one another, but I could not forget Theophilia Bardane. Her blue eyes, age only beginning to dim, met mine. Recognition flared there, but no surprise.

"Welcome, honored lady," said the Master of Horse in flawless Heacharid, bowing extravagantly. They exchanged greetings and I looked to the rest of the delegation. A woman of early middle age watched me with wide, blue-green eyes. She had an innocent beauty that had only been minorly bruised by her years. She was one of Theophilia's assistants, a position Theophilia herself had once occupied.

"I see you have brought the Dreadstorm," said Theophilia, bringing my attention back to the two of them. "We had heard he resided in Zuunkhorun."

"He is an advisor to our Tyrant," said the Master of Horse, showing enough annoyance to be clear that he did not appreciate my position nor my presence.

"Do not be concerned, Your Excellency," I broke in. "I know Theophilia Bardane of House Tzimis well. She has negotiated with me twice before. I thought I might see her people before now. Or perhaps receive a request for my presence in Heacharium."

"The Dreadstorm has an exaggerated sense of his own importance," Theophilia said. The insult burned and she was not finished. "We first met during the Turquoise Conquest. He foolishly did not counsel surrender," Theophilia said. I remembered the sound of her voice raised in passion. She was so much younger then.

"We met next beyond the walls of Castellandria.Youfoolishly did not counsel surrender," I countered.

She smiled thinly. "Fortunately, this will not be a problem this time, as no one need surrender. We could no more go to war with our loyal vassals than I could war with my own arm."

"I would be pleased--" I started.

"Honored ambassador," said the Master of Horse, cutting me off, "this does force me to wonder why you are here at all. We are not at war, as you point out. We have been giving our tribute as loyal vassals. Yet I am told there is an army mustering at Sabbatium, ready to march upon us."

"The army is not for you. Rather, it is for the bandit clans of the Golden Sea. They have gotten rather bold in the last couple of years and we need to bring them to heel."

"You have our gratitude then."

"That surprises me," Theophilia said. "For we have reports of those selfsame bandits peacefully gaining ingress through the gates of Ironmotte, laden with things stolen from the Sea, and when they emerge they have it not. You can understand what we would conclude."

"I am certain this is little more than a misunderstanding," said the Master of Horse. "Please, come with me and we will discuss matters."

The Heacharids followed us into Ironmotte and our conference commenced. I knew already where matters would end. The Master of Horse would promise that the bandits would be barred from our lands and any purchase of stolen items from the bandit clans was a tragic mistake. He would offer Zuunkhorun's blessing to the crusade on the Golden Sea. We would give them more tribute and the Heachrids would depart knowing their vassals had been brought to heel.

While war with the Heacharids was my goal, I wanted to needle them for longer, to gradually bleed their power before they knocked on the gates of Ironmotte. As with every plan, it did not survive contact with my foe. It was tremendously easy to look at the Heacharids as this great lumbering oaf of an enemy. Heacharids in force were clumsy and stupid, but individually they could be quite cunning. The culture was one of ruthless selfishness. It made them strong in fits and starts but brittle over time as their upper echelons were filled with craven opportunists out to settle personal vendettas.

I had underestimated Theophilia once, nearly three decades before on a sparkling island in the Turquoise. Her eyes flicked to me often during the negotiations. I remained silent, making my presence a silent threat that only grew more maddening by the hour.

The second night after we had finished for the day, I meandered through the Iron Garden with Ujaala. The other diplomats often found themselves here, and I wanted them to see her walking several paces behind me, her hands clasped, the slave collar about her neck. I had her wearing a simple servants' gown, a juxtaposition against my own elven finery. Quiyahui slithered close by, almost touching the ground.

As we passed an iron apple tree, Quiyahui uttered a warning hiss. I turned. The small woman I had noted before, Theophilia's assistant, approached cautiously. Over the two days, I noted that Theophilia seemed to have a low opinion of the woman. She walked with one of her bodyguards, a knight of Xomera wearing plate and mail, the burning rose blazing on his tabard.

"Lord Belromanazar," she said. "I am Melodora Diagon of House Vatat."

"And?"

"I hoped to speak to you."

My eyes flickered to the knight. Then deliberately, I motioned with my hand. Ujaala obediently shuffled to my side. I kissed her deeply, pushing my tongue ostentatiously into her mouth. "Return to my chambers, my dear, and prepare yourself for me."

"As you wish, master." I caught the edges of the glare she shot me. She did well. I nearly believed her seething hatred.

Melodora turned to the bodyguard. "Some space, Harmatius."