Winged Missive

The scribe worked carefully. His quill moved in upright letters, perfectly formed cursive of the well-trained writer drawing itself across the page in dictated words.

Your Majesty,

Queen Danele of Nharati is missing with her son, Tyltin. She left to visit her father, and may be anywhere between. She may yet prove a valuable asset of weight to negotiations, should you manage to find her.

Send any information requests back with the hawk.

- X


He passed the parchment off to the darkness behind him, a burgundy glove emerging into the candlelight to take hold of it by the edges. Half a moment later, a hissed, "Excellent," came out of the colder, darker regions of the room.

"My payment?" the scribe smirked, turning from his chair and cocking a brow. The other figure moved to the table, slotting the end of a stick of black wax into the flame of a candle.

"Name your price," the woman answered, mahogany tresses licked with the orange rim of amber light at the curls. The melted wax met with the back of the folded missive, and the stamp descended to leave a circle and 'X' as a mark.

The scribe sneered and leaned back in his chair. "I hear," he began, absently rubbing ink from the side of one hand. "That you don't have a gag reflex."

Eyes turned black from the gloom turned to regard him, one brow quirking as the angular features of the Advisor slipped into an amused expression. "The whole city's heard that," she pointed out, heading over to the window, where her hawk perched on the open sill. She rolled the parchment, tied it with string, and then slotted it into the leather tube that would bear it from here to Nyrthlond.

"I want to find out if it's true," he grinned, beginning to unbuckle his belt and very obviously eyeing her whilst she went about her message ties.

"Do you," she murmured, letting the chain off the hawk's ankle and watching it zip away from the window. North. There was no stopping it now. She turned back to the man in question, going to lean her hands against the arms of his chair, and leaning in towards him.

His grin grew more and more perverse, gaze levelled directly at her cleavage. She lifted one hand to the side of his neck, diamond-point sleeve brushing against his skin.

A swift, sickening squelch halted his leering. The small, silver inlaid knife that was typically kept slotted against her wrist had been inserted directly into his throat, and within moments blood began to flee his mouth. She withdrew it, and he twitched into a slump, gurgling and reaching his hands up to clutch at her fur cloak. It didn't take long for him to stop, head lolling forward and red trickling onto the floorboards like rain on slate.

She took hold of the candlestick, wiped her knife on his shoulder, and went over to the draperies. A moment later, they went up in flames. So did the chair in which he was sat, and the other pieces of upholstered furniture in the room. His stores of paper fueled it further, and by the time she dropped the stick on the fur rug and departed, the room was a blazing mess behind her.

She left the door open for the fire's benefit, lifting her hood. Uncharacteristic dark brown swathed her, and by the time she mounted an inconspicuous bay horse outside, the flames had crept to the roof. She watched the cottage's windows light up.

And turned, and rode away.

Power tastes good.

Ulrika's brow arched at the brusque message tucked in a stack of missives. A quick assessment of the parchment showed no identifying marks nor a seal of any sort, but the news it carried she'd recently heard in whispers from her informants down below The Neck. Those same lips had told tales of rumblings within Bruinwald, some the landholders beginning chafe beneath the burden of foreign rule, and it was through there there the fugitive Queen must go to reach Geldenland, that or pass very near The Neck. If the Bruinwalders had any sense, they'd take the woman and child as leverage against King Wyldgrenkledrysllthen.

Her lips curled in amusement at what could be a rather nasty blow to that alliance. Perhaps she should merely let it play out. There was, of course, a very slim chance that the Queen would manage to slip through unnoticed to Geldenland, but a lightly armed escort for an obviously high-ranking woman stood little chance in either Bruinwald or the no man's land beneath The Neck...her own raiders up to their usual harvest antics in that area currently.

But why let such an opportunity slip into the hands of Bruinwald? The stupid devils might slay the child and rape the woman before they had a clue what might be done . Her raiders were, in many ways, the same, but orders had shifted with her ascent to the throne: she was to be informed of all captives of rank and they were to be treated well and guarded well until she gave word otherwise. So many fine chances wasted by killing folk too easily.

Her own messages went out, murmurs through the network of ears that sprawled from her castle, birds sent to key individuals further south to spread her decree. A reward for any of her people who found the Nharati Queen and her child alive and in good health, along with a description of the woman.

No doubt once she reached The Neck to winter south, she'd be overwhelmed by claimants for the prize, many women and babes torn from their homes to be forced up before her, but such was the cost. Perhaps she'd do some hunting of her own when she arrived...

Ulrika glowered at the lastest group of men dragging in a woman that obviously wasn't the Nharati Queen, the screams of the infant son at her breast making her head throb. The bloody woman was blonde and far too young, most of those keen for the prize only hearing woman and infant, and thus petitions had been overtaken by those trying to cury favour with peasant women that could be Queen.

"Get out! And if you come back with another one that's not even close....." The threat hung in the air, teeth snapping with each word. Her guards ushered them out quickly at the jerk of her head, the King beginning to pace like a caged mountain lion. "Inform the clerks if they can't tell blonde from auburn and eighteen from thirty-two, their eyes are forfeit." The growl rumbled under her breath before the King stalked out of the small audience chamber. She'd taken residence with one of the lords in the Neck, more of the bloody bastards there than all the rest of Nyrthlond and their quabbles were constant. All the more reason for her to winter there, but the glut of people was simply unnerving.

Nessa fell in with a small contingent of her guards, not a word spoken as the King stormed out of the estate. She made short work of saddling her horse, stableboys unceremoniously backhanded when they got in her way. In short order, she and her guards left the confines of the estate, the King routing to where most of her ship's crew was building winter quarters, her bellows of hunting drawing a cheer from them. It seemed she would have to find the woman herself.

Despite chasing dead ends the first few days out on the trail, exhiliration flooded Ulrika. The chase, the occasional clash with Bruinwalders venturing out too far, the whispered clues, it all was far more satisfying than the details with which her councillors weighed her down, and she soaked up the freedom. The King imbued confidence to her party for the initial setbacks did not dampen her enthusiasm one whit. They were on the trail. She could smell it, and it took them slinking ever closer to the Bruinwald border.

On that particular day, her party was enjoying the hospitality of a holder on Bruinland's border. The holder however wasn't particularly enjoying their company for he presently rested against a tree with an arrow through his skull, while his daughters and wife entertained the Nyrthlonder guests. They had needed a break, and Ulrika laughed with the rest as one of the elder girls squealed when a meaty fist tore her gown from her breasts. Modesty would be long gone by day's end.

Beneath the raucous yells and the slurp of food and drink, hoofbeats pounded against the earth, Ulrika sensing it with sharpness of years of necessity. Her sudden hiss silenced her party, the shrieks from the women forcefully muffled moments later by vicious hands covering their mouths or grasping their throats. The hush hung palpable, hoofbeats and heartbeats all the King could hear. It was a single rider, pressing hard. Nessa and her guards were on him without the necessity of command, Ulrika watching impassively as they intercepted the rider.

He splayed his hands when he caught sight of the storied guards, weapons left undrawn as he cried that he had an urgent message for the King. Ungently, they dragged him from his beast, one of the women holding onto him as Nessa removed his weapons, ignoring the usual wide-eyed stare of a man who didn't know if he should bed her or fight her.

With arms crossed over her chest, the leather of her coat creaking, Ulrika inspected the thin ragged fellow with his dirty blonde hair. Her eyes narrowed in a squint as they caught his, a peculiar shade of blue green that had her laughing suddenly as she clouted him on the shoulder. "Stygger! You bloody bastard, what's got you thundering up here in such a rush? No, no, ale for him first!" She commanded, gesturing sharply for one of the bug-eyed holder women to serve him. The lass required a good shove in her direction to get moving, but Stygger waved it off as he grinned at his King, still struggling to catch his breath.

Despite the cheekiness, he bent in a proper bow as he spoke. "Your Majesty, we'd heard you were searching for something. A rather rare treasure."

Her blonde brow arched at him as she nodded for the raider to continue, a hard glint rising in her eyes. "You know I am.." Anticipation crawled up her spine. Surely Stygger wouldn't subject her to the foolishness of a false lead.

"Just so happens, Majesty, that two gems of such a description fell into our hands. Or rather, they fell into the hands of some unpleasant folk of Bruinwald, and we doubted their safekeeping. We've stowed them but a few hours' ride from here." A wolfish grin flashed over his thin face, no doubt seeing the promised reward.

The King grasped his arm, dragging him off to the side for a few whispered questions. Satisfied that he knew details she'd not spread widely, she roared for them to mount up, commands to take as much as they could carry from the holding and the women beside. If Stygger was right, they would be needed for the celebration.

The next hours passed in a blur, Ulrika implacable with the scent of prey in her nostrils. Though they tried to slow her from the brutal pace she set, the King did not heed them, her mind with the hoofbeats carrying them closer to her quarry. If only they could go faster! Willing it did not make it so, and they arrived with the horses and riders in a lather save for Ulrika, the King as cool as she'd been when they set off.

A sentry had beaten them back by a scant minute, the raiders pouring out of the small camp to go down on bended knee before their King, most of them personally known to her, but there was no time for names or recognition as Blugdrot dragged a woman out before them, a boy child clasped in her arms.

Frozen eyes locked on her face impassively, both her party and the raiders silent as they awaited the King's evaluation. The flicker of terrible recognition in the ragged woman before her drew a predatory smile. True, the lavendar gown was dirty and torn, her hair hanging lank about her shoulders far from the usual perfection of her appearance, but it was unmistakeably her.

Mockingly, Ulrika bowed with a courtly flourish, her voice unmistakably smug. "Your Majesty, a lady must be careful of her traveling companions lest she meet with harm. I have come to take you home."

The flash of loathing in the woman's face made the King laugh even as the woman charged at her, babe in arms. Ulrika's leather-clad hand flashed, knuckles cracking against the Queen's jaw with a vicious backhand as Nessa tore Tyltin from her arms above her screams. Two more of her snarling women gripped Danele's arms, forcing her back into the small hut where she'd been kept, the celebration soon drowning out her fury.