The Queensguard

THE QUEENSGUARD Part 2

by Shane (shane7677@yahoo.com)

Note: Thanks to everyone who wrote and encouraged me to not give up. I will be continuing the story now, although I have discovered that writing is much harder work than I ever imagined, so there may be pauses between postings.

Thanks to Ian who has offered to edit. Future postings will be more cohesive and will even follow a plot (which I did not previously have!).

INTERLUDE

A dim light began to pulse in the center of the gloom, its quality strange and unnatural. The man's mind spun as he tried to understand what he thought he was seeing in front of him. It was not so much a light as it was a shifting in the dark, a barely discerned shimmering. The only comparison he could think of was a species of fish that thrived in underground streams in the Eddya mountains. The water was dark in those streams, yet the fish could be seen swimming below, barely, because of their strange, opalescent skin reflecting the flickering torchlight. The analogy was ridiculous, the man knew, and probably blasphemous. Comparing his Mistress to a fish! He suffered a brief moment of doubt as he considered that, here, he was as close to Her as he would ever be on this mortal plane. Could She know his thoughts?

He gave himself a mental shake to get himself focused on the matter at hand. He was a high priest of his cult and had not achieved his position by being easily distracted. From behind his mask, he glanced around the circle of which he was part. The other figures were, like himself, masked and cowled in heavy robes, their identities well-concealed. Each was a priest or otherwise highly important member of their respective cults or societies.

There were only two reasons why all of them were there together in that dark chamber. The first was their shared belief that the Black Mother was the true supreme deity, usurped by the white bitch eons ago. After this single point, their consensus fell apart -- particularly in the matter of leadership.

The man grimaced. For ages, the Black Societies had fought each other for supremacy. They all believed, of course, that Mother encouraged her children to play among themselves and smiled on the victors. In the past, the man had briefly considered what the Dark Kin might have achieved if they had ever united, but then he would be distracted by an attempt on his life, and, by the time he was plotting his revenge, the thought would have passed.

And so it had gone on seemingly forever: the Children of the Black Mother fighting among each other and largely leaving the outside world all alone. Leaving it to be ruled by that treacherous white hag.

Until now.

He looked at the second reason they were all there and not immediately attempting to kill one other. The robed and masked figure looked no different from the rest, yet it emanated a sense of power. It had an ... aura. "Blessed by the Mother," various members of his Kin were muttering to themselves. And he had to agree: the aura surrounding this person was frighteningly reminiscent of that flickering iridescence he saw in the center of the star-pointed octogram inscribed on the floor. He knew that a few of the idiots here even believed that the figure was the Avatar of the Mother: the Goddess made Flesh on earth and come to lead them to ultimate victory.

He did not believe this himself, but did acknowledge that he was dealing with a very potent individual, the first person ever to unite the Kin. He did not even know if this person was a man or a woman, although his intuition told him the figure underneath the robe was female. This made sense, in an irritating sort of way: Mother would probably choose a woman to be Her Chosen. In the back of his mind, however, he was still quite prepared to "play" with his brothers and sisters, just as he and his Kin had always done.

He especially considered it now, given what the figure had told them to do. The fact of her brazenly ordering them galled enough, but the task was sheer insanity. Killing the members of the Queensguard, one by one? The Queensguard was unassailable, beloved by all the common people (if not so much by the nobles). Commoners must be terrorized into submission. If the Kin started killing off the romanticized guardsmen, it might have the opposite effect of galvanizing the riffraff! As delicious as spilling the blood of those uppity buffoons sounded, it was a risky proposition. It was so risky that he and the others had demanded confirmation.

And so they were here this night, in the dead hour before dawn, when the world was quiet and his Mistress was closest to the earth.

Including himself, they made eight, this being the number of his Mistress: the number of Death. A couple of the victims still twitched in the center of the star. The man's eyes widened slightly at the amount of blood that had been shed. The screams had been quite satisfying, but so many victims! The bodies were piled in the center of the star. There was so much blood that it made a ghastly pool around the corpses, all held in by magically inscribed lines of power.

He watched as that shimmering iridescence grew. Its pulsing became stronger, each beat sending off a wave of sickly light. The waves grew in frequency and it became difficult to see the specific shapes of the piled corpses. All this while, the figure at the west point of the star -- he was sure it was a woman! -- chanted and hummed, gathering and controlling the power in the octogram. He would dearly have liked to discern the words of her spell, but could not. It was one of the reasons she was "chosen": she seemed to know deep and ancient secrets and spells that his Kin had lost over time.

The shimmering grew and a form began to take shape. The bodies became blurred, as if they were melting into a whole. A dark and shadowy figure began to rise from the pool of bodies and blood. The man realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe. His heart beat fiercely as he watched his Mistress rise from death.

The Chosen One had stopped chanting and regarded the form in the star. The man could see her robe rise and fall with her heavy breathing. He sensed that her deep breaths reflected the excitement she felt, contrasted with the short, sharp breaths of his fear.

The shape in the star resembled a tall woman, even as it shifted and shimmered. "Who calls Me?" a sonorous voice said.

"I, Your Chosen, have called You, Great Mistress! As You have instructed me, I have gathered Your minions and united them." The woman's voice was masked, growly and smoky with no hint as to gender. She continued, "Together, we will work to hasten Your return and establish Your rightful place in Heaven and Earth!"

The ghastly apparition turned and looked at each figure on the points of the star. When Her gaze passed over him, the man froze in awe and terror. Where Her eyes should have been were two gaping holes stretching forever into infinity. They contained a blackness so complete that all hope was lost. All that remained was submission.

"It is well," the apparition intoned. "The time of My return is nigh. Hear My Chosen, and obey."

With that, the apparition flared, becoming so bright all in the room were blinded. When they regained their sight, black spots swimming before their eyes, the apparition was gone. But the fear remained in their hearts.

"Hear me!" the Chosen cried. "We begin our plans in earnest! The Queensguard must die! Soon, only they will stand between us and our triumph! Direct your Kin to kill them! Kill the Queensguard!"

All of the robed figures prostrated themselves to the exulting woman. Some of them were crying and gasping, some spoke woodenly, but they all said in unison, "The Queensguard shall die."

As they left the room, the man tried to control his wildly beating heart. He looked at the center of the octogram and saw nothing but a few human bones now lying there.

His Mistress was Death. All were Her acolytes at the end, even if they mistakenly believed otherwise in life. When she took them, she took all. But she always left a few reminders for those still living so they would always know she waited for them, patiently.

Bones were those reminders.

II. A WET NIGHT

Rains beat down upon Vel Tama, soaking the city as early winter was wont to do. The fierce winds from earlier in the evening had finally died down, leaving a beating shower of water pounding straight down. The hour was late and no respectable person lingered out in the wet. The common room of the Laughing Queen was clearing out, guests retiring to their rooms and the last few city folk making a mad dash through the downpour back to their warm houses.

In a private room at the back of the inn stood a Queen's guardsman adjusting his blade as he secured his holster firmly around his waist. Next to him stood a young harpist, the younger man watching as the other leaned and turned to secure a recalcitrant strap. The harpist enjoyed watching the arching curve of the soldier's powerful back, even as he clutched his harp in anxiety at what news would greet him when he left the room. The boy regretted ending their lovemaking so abruptly, but he knew his grandmother would not interrupt except for a very good reason. He suspected he knew what that reason was, and his dear friend Havym's loss certainly superceded his lusty pleasure with another man, no matter how well-muscled that other man was.

For now, he would enjoy this moment as much as he could. The tall guardsman was handsome in his own way, and whatever paltry amount he lacked in good looks was more than made up in his beguilingly dimpled smile. The harpist closed his eyes for a moment and envisioned the guard's other dimple, winking from the top of his impressive manhood, and how sweet it had tasted. The boy ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and savored the salty-sweet aftertaste of the soldier's spunk.

The guardsman finished sorting out his gear and stood straight. He looked with his hazel eyes into the musician's gray ones.

"What is your name, harper?" the guard asked.

"Olwyn."

"And I am Mikyl."

Mikyl leaned down and kissed Olwyn again, tenderly and quickly. The boy eagerly returned the kiss, but his eyes reflected his inner conflict.

As Mikyl was unbarring the door, Olwyn spoke, "You will return?"

"As soon as I am able -- on my honor!"

The innkeeper Berta stood a respectful distance from the door as they emerged from the private room. Her face was composed, except for a slight, worried furrow in her eyebrows. She fixed her eyes on Olwyn, "Havym is in the kitchen. Go quickly, dear."

Olwyn ran off immediately. Somewhat to Mikyl's disappointment, the boy did not spare him a glance as he made his quick exit. Mikyl looked at the innkeeper, who regarded him thoughtfully.

"Please pardon the interruption, sir, but it is an unfortunate matter that requires Olwyn's attention."

Mikyl became uneasy in her penetrating stare. "I pray he is well?" he managed to mumble.

"Olwyn is well -- it is a close companion of his who has suffered a recent loss." She paused and looked down, a sadness capturing her unawares before she quickly regained her composure. She fished in her front pocket and drew something out. "Here are three bronzes returned to you. The performance was not finished before I so rudely interrupted."

Mikyl stared at her. She had said "performance" in such a normal tone, without a hint of inflection, that he wondered if she knew what really went on under her own roof.

'She has to know,' he thought, 'that one doesn't miss anything!'

Mikyl kept his hands to his sides, "I cannot accept your largess under these extenuating circumstances. Pray keep them for a later date, if it please you. Olwyn has promised to continue the...ah...performance later."

"You are too kind, sir. It shall be as you request. Pray accompany me to the common room and I shall be pleased to provide you with a complementary cider."

"Ah! I am tempted. But, I fear I must return to the gua..." he stopped, remembering belatedly he was supposed to be incognito. He finished, lamely, "To return to my duty."

Those sharp eyes never quavered, "Of course. A beautiful weapon, young sir. It has a distinctive appearance. And yet...it seems somehow plain." And then, for just a moment, those sharp eyes appeared plainly accusative.

Mikyl's eyes flicked down to his three foot-long saber, sitting idly at his side. In truth, he hated going about without his colors. He had been born and bred under the reign of Koryma II, and to be seen without her blue and gold made him feel naked, as if he had lost his mother -- or, worse, had somehow denied her. He looked at the innkeeper's apron, with its blue diamonds and gold vines. It was clear where her loyalties lay.

He reached into his scrip and withdrew a thin leather thong, upon which was fastened a single, brilliant-blue feather and a diamond-shaped swatch of cloth-of-gold. Holding it in front of him, he said, "Usually, I would wear this on my blade," he paused at the look on her face. "And wear it proudly!" he said, a tad defensively. She appeared somewhat mollified, and he continued, "But, in times like these, it is best sometimes to attract as little notice as possible."

Berta eyed the young guardsman's colors. Blue and gold were the colors of Queen Koryma II. The feather had been treated in a special resin to maintain its shape, and was no doubt taken from the the mountain bluehawk, the sigil of House Samoryn, of which Queen Koryma was also ruling lady. The diamond was the jewel of Velledore, and only the Royal House could use its sign. There was no question the young man and his colors were authentic.

As much as Berta disliked what she felt were underhanded dealings, the realist in her understood that politics could be a messy business. She thought fondly of Olwyn: oh yes, politics could be very messy indeed! She knew things were getting very political in the palace, and finally smiled warmly at the young guardsman.

"May you wear your colors in pride, young sir. And soon! Now, don't forget your cloak. The wind's died down but it's pouring like the Gray Girl got caught in a big one!"

Mikyl smiled. The Gray Girl was the Gray Sister, the mischievous goddess always causing trouble for her sisters. The story went that the White Mother spanked the Gray Girl whenever she was caught being naughty. This always made the goddess cry and this was where rain came from. The deeper her transgression, the harder she was spanked, and the heavier the rain. It was a charming tale told to children.

Mikyl saluted the innkeeper, "I thank you for your hospitality, good woman. May you pass well the night!"

Berta nodded her head, "And you, young sir. Now I must see to business. Good night." She bustled off.

Mikyl walked to the common room, which he saw was nearly empty now. He had lost track of time with Olwyn, but he knew the hour to be very late. He heard the downpour even through the shuttered windows and briefly considered simply hiring a room for the night. He dismissed the notion and decided to brave the wet. It was only a half hour walk to the Guardhouse from the Laughing Queen, and he had important information to share with Farthos. Perhaps the Lieutenant-Commander would yet be awake.

The inn's tough still sat on his high chair next the door, apparently in the same position as last Mikyl had seen him. One could almost think him a statue, until a quick, appraising flick of the tough's eyes toward Mikyl proved otherwise.

Mikyl exited into the downpour and walked quickly along the streets of Vel Tama. The air was cold and the rain colder, with not a soul in sight. An occasional covered lamp blazed fitful circles of light into the dark gray gloom, revealing shiny, rain-slicked cobblestones and shuttered windows. Some windows were edged by thin lines of candle light peeking around the shutters, but most were dark, the inhabitants beyond sensibly tucked into their beds. He trod along thinking about slain princes, foreign demons, proud queens, manly captains and beautiful harpers when he had a sudden premonition, and stopped abruptly. He looked around quickly, but could see nothing. Cautiously, he peered around carefully and -- there! He thought he had seen something under those eaves, but now there was nothing. Suddenly wary, he gripped his sword hilt.

As quickly as that, the figure was in front of him. Mikyl retrieved his weapon and was instantly in position. He could now see the figure was swathed in black, and held a short-sword and knife. This was a treacherous combination if a fighter knew how to use it, and from the way black-clothed figure held his weapons, it was clear this was so. Still, Mikyl was a Queen's Guardsmen, trained in fighting a multiplicity of styles throughout the continent. The knife and sword required supreme balance -- and balance could be compromised on the treacherously slick cobblestones. Even as he regarded his opponent, Mikyl wondered why the man hesitated in attacking.

As if in answer, two more shadowy figures appeared next to the first, both holding more knives and swords. Mikyl looked on in apprehension. One against three. Mikyl was not much of a gambler, but he knew these odds did not look promising.

Being the honorable man that he was, Mikyl saluted them and cried, "For the Honor of the Blue Hawk!"

He sensed the surprise among his enemies from his unexpected call, and used that slight advantage to press the attack. He cut immediately forward to the man on the right: he had to reduce their number or risk getting encircled. The figure dashed away from his blade just as the one in the middle slashed forward. Mikyl spun, just barely deflecting the assassin's blade. Mikyl twisted his sword in, round and up in an attempt to loosen the other's grasp on his weapon. The ploy failed and the man cut up with his knife.

Mikyl danced away just in time, only to see the remaining assassin had snuck up from the left. Mikyl turned desperately and parried the attack, only to see another blade coming at him from the right. He ducked and turned, gaining a slash on his arm. He used the momentum of the turn to shoulder the fiend, who grunted and moved back.

The assassin on the right used Mikyl's distraction to stab forward with his sword and up with his knife, at the same time. Mikyl barely deflected the sword but could not stop the knife from wounding his thigh. Risking more damage from the knife, Mikyl stepped forward and kneed the coward in the gut, knocking the wind from him. The man wheezed and almost fell.

Barely seeing the glint in time, he spun with his sword to meet the assasin's blade. There were too many and the cowards kept sneaking up on him! Suddenly feeling hot rage, he cried out, "Koryma's Blade!"

They circled him, jabbing from all sides. Mikyl held them off as best he could but realized that, although he could keep two of them off him, a third one was always creeping in. Suddenly, two of them pressed in fiercely and it was all he could do to keep that cold steel from him. His anger rising, he did a risky, flashy move called the 'Arc of the Butterfly': his blade became a whirl and, seeming to work, it forced those two back.

At the last second, he knew the third was right behind him. He simply kicked backward then turned and cut down. His kick earned him a deep gash in the back of his thigh, but his cut had earned him a squeal of pain from the assassin as the blade met flesh and the man went down. Unfortunately, the man rolled away and struggled to get up: wounded but not dead.

Mikyl wanted to finish him off, but, already, the other two were there. Mikyl barely pulled turned around in time to turn away the blade coming from behind him. Just as he heard the damp sound of wet steel clashing, he knew the other man was there, behind and to the side.

Mikyl knew he would not be able to escape the coming thrust, and twisted just in time to have the long-knife pierce his rib instead of his heart. Mikyl hissed, and from the corner of his eye saw the other coming behind him.

In a hopeless gambit, Mikyl grabbed the man who had struck him and pulled him into a ghastly embrace. Mikyl felt the blade slide forward into his chest, thankfully missing his lung. Mikyl elbowed the bastard in the face, brought his saber from behind, and hamstrung the coward. For the briefest moment, the eyes behind that black headcover registered surprise, then Mikyl stepped to the side and the figure toppled backwards.

With the knife drooping in his chest, Mikyl spun around and parried. He saw the wounded one come from his side and kicked out to keep the dog away while he dealt with another thrust from the long-knife. He was rewarded for his efforts with a stab in his calf, but the person he had kicked was momentarily off balance. He gave a vicious slash of his saber and the remaining attacker danced away. They stood apart from him for a moment.

Mikyl felt his life flowing out of him. "For Koryma!" he screamed. Then he ran straight toward the assassins. He attacked like a madman, cutting and parrying, twisting and kicking, slashing high and low, anything to keep those blades from his vitals.

Before he knew quite what had happened, he had cut forward and met with a spray of blood as half of one of the assassin's heads seemed to come off. It took a moment before Mikyl realized that the bastard had stuck in him the gut.

Mikyl suddenly found it too difficult to stand up, and he fell to his knees. The remaining assassin was obviously wounded as well, for he limped cautiously over to the kneeling guardsman.

Mikyl held his blade as steadily as he could. The rain seemed to be making everything blurry.

"For Koryma," he said, softly.

The assassin teetered over and lifted his short-sword, even as the man clutched at his chest. Mikyl swayed as he tried to focus on that sword, but it was blurry. The spots before his eyes were making it difficult to focus. The assassin raised his blade for a killing stroke.

Holding his sword clumsily, Mikyl waited for the blow, but it did not come. He tried to focus through the rain, and realized the assassin was just standing there. Mikyl looked harder, and finally saw the knife protruding from the fiend's throat. The assassin toppled over.

Mikyl tried to breathe a sigh of relief, and realized immediately that was a very bad idea. He tried to stand up, but only succeeded in falling flat on his back. He lay fighting to hold onto consciousness.

Suddenly, figures were next to him.

"Who is it?" a female voice said.

"Mikyl," answered a male.

Mikyl looked up and saw a blurry outline. He squinted, trying to focus, and thought he recognized the face.

"Vander," he whispered.

"He's in a bad way," Vander said.

"I can see that! Kalder! Go get a Healer!"

"Should we move him out of the rain?" another voice asked.

The female one replied, "Moving him is probably a bad idea. Sweet Daughter! Look at that knife!"

Mikyl made the mistake of attempting to lift his head, and waves of dizziness and nausea swept over him. Although he had forgotten about the sword sticking out of his chest, he reckoned it might not really be worth trying to look at it right now. He shivered.

"I think it's a worse idea to keep him in this freezing rain," Vander said. "He's shivering."

"All right," said the female. "Eddar! Go commandeer that house! Vander! Let's get him up gently, then."

Mikyl dimly heard someone pounding on a door, accompanied by a shouting voice, "Open up in the name of the Queen! Open up I say!"

Mikyl heard nothing after that because he gasped as his body became a dazzling star of pain while someone gently lifted his shoulders. He thought he felt someone touch his legs, because new pain shot from his pierced calf, but then it all slid away into a blessed blackness.

The brightly lit kitchen of the Laughing Queen was winding down its affairs for the night. Ashes were swept from the stoves, coals were banked in the ovens, dishes and pots were stacked in tubs waiting for transport to the wellhouse for washing, and a dozen other activities all occurred simultaneously. In the center of it all a stout woman flowed from one job to the next, waving her dipping spoon like a scepter and checking that the work was done, and done well. Minny was the inn's cook, and embraced her responsibilities wholeheartedly. Unlike her employer, Minny's white apron bore the evidence of her work: several soup and sauce stains marred its surface, although at least some of these were due to her unfortunate tendency to wave her spoon shortly after she had tested the cooking. It seemed her curse: just as she ladled a bit to check the spicing, she would see some situation that needed correcting, wave her spoon to make her point, and end up with another spot on her apron.

Still, food preparation was her most important duty and she rarely missed the opportunity to ensure that her customer's dishes had the proper flavor. It was the happy combination of Berta's mulled cider and Minny's pork tenderloin that had spread the inn's fame far and wide, generating considerable custom for that large and prosperous establishment.

Minny fingered the handle of her spoon anxiously as she glanced over her shoulder at the boy seated at a small table off to the side. A cooling portion of that very same famed tenderloin sat enticingly in front of him, accompanied by the season's first snowbeans glazed in her special honey sauce. It lay there untouched, and the boy sat slumped, looking at an indeterminate spot somewhere beyond the edge of the table.

'Where is that Olwyn?' Minny thought to herself, as she moved over to the forlorn figure. Minny stroked his head sympathetically, "There, there, dear. Eat up, now. A growing boy like you's got to have his nourishment."

The boy did not look up and barely shook his head.

Minny tsked to herself under her breath. If there was one thing Havym never missed, it was a meal. That troublemaker had received many a thump on the head with her spoon with his unending impertinence: dipping his finger in the honeypot, snacking on rolls bound for her guests, brazenly pocketing her honeycakes.

She stopped. Of course! Honeycakes! She bustled over to the warming racks between the two large ovens. There were still a few sitting there, waiting to be wrapped in wax paper and stored in the pantry. She grabbed a couple of the shiny, delicious treats and waved them enticingly in front of Havym's nose. "Come on, dear," she cooed, "Auntie Minny's got a yummy treat for you. Go on, love, have a cake."

The boy's eyes drifted irresistibly to the gooey treats, and his hand reached up slowly and inexorably. Finally, he grabbed the cake and took a small bite. Then he decorously sucked on a honey-dripping finger, and took another bite. More finger licking ensued, and then, finally, he took a proper Havym-sized bite, which was to say that most of the honeycake disappeared.

Although he remained hunched over, Minny beamed triumphantly. Success! Even the Black Daughter Herself couldn't stop Minny's honeycakes!

Recalling the reason for Havym's despondence dulled Minny's enthusiasm and she stepped away. Oh, the poor boy! Losing his last kin like that! His father's illness had been so long and slow and painful. It just must have been terrible watching the little man waste away like that. And the Blue Healers unable to do much, although Minny suspected that the man's life had been much extended due to their patient ministrations. It must have been difficult enough losing his mother when he was so young -- lost her to the same burr plague ten years ago that had claimed dear Bellie. It had been the reason young Havym and Olwyn had become such fast friends back then, both having suffered such similar losses.

Minny looked closely at the lanky, sandy-haired boy. 'He's getting as tall as a Howondan,' she thought, 'and tan as one, too, when he gets any sun.' The rumors had always circulated as to who his real parents were, although Minny personally frowned on rumormongering herself, unless, of course, the rumors were interesting. It had always been clear, however, that the pale, short, dark-haired Ollynses were not the real mother and father of dark, tall and sandy-haired Havym.

She wondered what he would do. He had come of age in the past year and was surely free to do as he chose. She did not see him continuing his father's trade, that of baking smallbreads and selling them in the street to passersby from his cart. She was sure Berta would be willing to hire the boy, although she couldn't resist a shudder at the thought. She did not relish the thought of having him too close to her honeycakes all the time. She would probably have to get a bigger and heavier spoon to fend him off!

She was glad he was eating them now, though. Anything to keep him occupied until Olwyn got here to take care of him. She looked around in vexation. Where was that boy?

At that moment, Olwyn burst into the kitchen and stopped just inside the door. He took one look at the mournful figure and dashed to the table. Minny looked on approvingly and got each of them a honeycake, then stepped away. There was nothing like a nibble to make things brighter.

Olwyn sat next to Havym. "When?" he asked, simply.

Havym's voice was low and quiet, "When I come back with the cart to load up for the dinner rush. He was just laying there. He didn't wake up. I was scared to shake him -- he don't like being shook awake. He always said he thought the Black Sister was gonna shake him and take him. Looks like she finally did."

"Is your da... I mean, did they ... take him?"

"Yeh, yeh. They come for him and took him to the Black Temple. I just came from there. I already did the family blessing with the Black Priest. They'll do all their special stuff at dusk tomorrow. It's all done now, except I got to gather up his gifts tomorrow morning and bring them over there."

Olwyn nodded. When a death occurred, the Black Priests came and took the body. Family members did the ritual blessing for the deceased to pass to the final embrace, and the following dusk the Priests did their private ritual to ensure a safe journey for the soul. The final journey required some personal items for the soul to offer to the Black Daughter and Her Sisters.

Olwyn asked, "Do you want me to go with you tomorrow?"

"No, no. I'll be fine. It's not like he had much. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Havym clenched the edge of the table fiercely. "It's just... I don't know! Oh! Damn everything to hell!"

They heard a deep gasp from across the room. Minny stood and stared at them with a shocked expression. She rounded on Havym and took a few steps forward, spoon ready to thump him a good one for the use of such language. She stopped at the ragged expression on his face, and, her own face softening, apparently thought better of it. She did give him a warning look, though: loss or no, such words were unacceptable in her kitchen. She turned back to her work, muttering under her breath, the motion of the spoon dipping up and down the only sign of her contained agitation. A devout woman, Minny would surely have been destined for the ministries had she not been such a surpassingly good cook.

Olwyn looked at the seething emotions crossing his friend's face. Glancing at the cook, he said, "It would probably be better to talk about this in my room."

Havym nodded and they began to leave the kitchen, Havym muttering an apology to Minny, who accepted with uncharacteristic meekness. At the door, they met Berta.

Berta immediately swept Havym into a bear hug, crushing him against her bosom. "Oh, dear Havym!" she said. "Everything will be all right, dear, don't you fret. Your da's in a better place now. The Daughters will take care of him and at last he can join his beloved wife." She patted his head, "There, there, love. Everything's going to be all right."

Berta's overwhelming tide of motherly love apparently broke the dam in the boy, for tears began streaming down his face as gripped Berta fiercely.

"There, there," she said soothingly. "That's right, let it out now. Everything's going to be fine."

Olwyn found himself getting emotional at the scene. He saw Minny abruptly turn away, but not before he saw her own tears. She snuffled and rubbed her nose, then stalked off to the pantry.

Berta held Havym for awhile, rocking him gently as he cried his heart out. Finally, he calmed down and she released him.

"There, there, dear," she said, "go and have a talk with Olwyn. You must stay with us tonight -- I won't hear of anything else. If you need anything, just ask. Now off you go with Olwyn. And you, Olwyn, you go take care of Havym."

Olwyn promised he would, and Berta walked calmly off in the direction of the pantry, probably to comfort the undoubtedly weeping Minny.

Olwyn put his arm around the snuffling boy's shoulder and clasped his hand. Gently he guided Havym to his room, and laid the boy down on his bed. Olwyn grabbed a towel and dipped it in the washing basin on his dresser. Sitting next to Havym, Olwyn took the towel and cleansed the boy's tear-streaked face. Gently, he kissed Havym on the forehead. Havym looked back with red-rimmed eyes, but his breathing was even now and he was clearly over the worst of it.

"Sorry for vexing Minny like that," Havym said softly.

"She'll get over it," Olwyn replied. "I'm sure she's already forgiven you. Are you ready to talk about it?"

Havym nodded and took a deep breath, "Yeh. You know, I ain't so upset about his being dead. I mean, he was sick a long time. There was so many days I had to do all the cooking and selling because he was too sick to get up. Sometimes, he would cry out in his sleep that he wished he was dead. He even called the Black Sister's name a few times."

Olwyn raised his eyebrows at that. Skarvya was the Black Sister's real name, and to call out her real name risked bringing her attention onto oneself. Olwyn had not been raised to be particularly superstitious, and believed, as did most of Velledore, that the Black Sister was simply the Goddess of Death and the Queen of the Underworld. As such, She took you when your time had come. While there was no reason to fear Her (unless you had been an evil person, of course), there was also no reason to bring Her attention onto yourself. Olwyn had heard stories of people being in unbearable pain and calling the Goddess's name to take the pain away by bringing them to her bosom. He thought that's how poor Goodman Ollyns must have felt.

Havym continued, "He was a good man. I know he weren't my real da, but he always treated me real good. Except when he was mad, of course, but that's just normal. Sometimes, we heard people whispering and stuff and da said to pay them no mind because he and ma would always love me no matter what anyone said. Yes, he was a good man and I'm gonna miss him, but I think he's happier now in the Seven Daughters' final embrace."

Olwyn hoped that he would be able to be so philosophical when his beloved grandmother passed on. "So, what's really bugging you?" he asked.

Havym screwed up his face, an utterly adorable expression he made when he was confused. "What's really bugging me? What's really bugging me is that I don't know what to do now! I know I don't want to hawk smallbreads while I push around that stupid cart for the rest of my life. But, what else can I do? What in the name of the Seventh Daughter will become of me?!"

Olwyn was glad Minny wasn't around to hear Havym's blasphemy. She would have thumped him good for that one! Taking the Black Sister's name in vain! Olwyn looked at Havym sternly, "What you will do is stay with us for awhile until you figure things out. If you're sure you don't to push that cart around, I think gramma will hire you. After all, you're a baker! You can work with Minny and earn your keep, at least for a little while until you decide what you want to do."

Although Olwyn had personal misgivings about the thought of Havym working with Minny, the boy's main skill was in baking. It was a logical combination of professions, although the combination of personalities might pose difficulties.

Apparently, Havym was thinking the same thing, because he shuddered and rubbed the top of his sandy locks, "Work for Minny? I don't think my head is hard enough!"

Grinning, Olwyn said, "All you have to do is work hard, be attentive, use good language, and do as your told. That should be easy for you, right?"

Unbelievably, Havym seemed to take him seriously. "I think I could manage that," he said with a straight face.

Unable to stand it, Olwyn burst out laughing. "Of course, the most important thing is to keep your hands off Minny's honeycakes!"

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Havym cracked a smile. It was a shadow of his usual rascally grin, but it was a huge improvement over his previous funk. "Resist her honeycakes?" he said. "Impossible! Besides, if I get any taller, she won't be able to reach my head!"

"Nah. She'll just get a longer spoon!"

Both boys burst into gales of laughter. Olwyn was vastly relieved to see his friend regaining his spirits. Havym had rolled onto his stomach during his laughter, exposing his pert behind. Olwyn eyed it hungrily, and said, "But if you do get too tall, she'll have to thump you ... here!"

With that, he gave a sharp smack to Havym's buttocks.

"Hey! Why you ... !" Havym twisted around and grabbed Olwyn and tried to force him down on the bed. Olwyn resisted and a fine wrestling match ensued. It ended, as usual, with Olwyn on his back, Havym astride his chest, and both boys breathing heavily. Havym glared down triumphantly and started rubbing back and forth on Olwyn. He smiled as Olwyn made a show of attempting to escape by wiggling, although both of them knew Olwyn was really just increasing the friction of Havym's rubbing. Havym grabbed Olwyn's hands and brought them together in front of his face. Clasping them, he used them to stroke his cheek and lips.

Havym then paused, his eyes widening in surprise. He held Olwyn's hands firmly in front of his nose, and inhaled deeply.

"Mmm. You smell good," he said. He slid down until he rested atop Olwyn, face to face. He sniffed around Olwyn's mouth and cheeks and paused where the boy's neck disappeared into the collar of his shirt and vest. Havym lay there with his head buried in the crook of Olwyn's neck, sniffing and inhaling.

"Yum! What is that smell?" Havym murmured, his voice muffled in Olwyn's collar.

Olwyn felt Havym's hardness beneath the coarse material of the boy's trousers, and felt himself rising in response. He thought of his recent adventure with the strapping guardsman. He hadn't had time to clean up, and had simply smeared the soldier's goo around his face and hands. Some of the spunk had dripped down into his collar, in the very place Havym had his nose buried. Olwyn could still taste the soldier in his mouth.

Olwyn smacked his lips, "It must have been that honeycake. You know how good they are."

Havym pulled back and stared quizzically. "No, you weren't eating your cake, so I ate it for you. Besides, that smell is sweeter than any honeycake -- and it doesn't smell like you."

Olwyn giggled. He knew Havym must be well-accustomed to his unique boy-smell. They had lain together often enough. He smacked his lips again. "Well," he said, "I just had an adventure."

Havym was back to his sniffing, "I knew it! Unh! That smell! It's so strong! Who? Who?"

"A guardsman!"

"A guardsman? You mean ... a city guardsman? A merchant guardsman?" Havym paused, "Not a Red Guard?"

Olwyn wrinkled his nose, "Of course not a Red Guard! No, it was a real guardsman -- a Queen's Guardsman!"

Havym pulled back again, his mouth an "o" of surprise. "No!"

Olwyn opened his mouth and breathed directly into Havym's face, "Oh, yes!"

Instantly, Havym crushed his face to Olwyn's and rammed his tongue into the boy's mouth. Eagerly, he swept it all across the inside, over and around the teeth, along the sides of the cheeks, darting it as far back in the throat as it could go. Olwyn responded by opening his mouth further and letting Havym get his own taste of the soldier.

Havym started licking up and down Olwyn's face and throat, making everything sticky with saliva and the guardsman's reawakened semen, which released an intoxicating aroma that Havym breathed deeply. His eyes practically rolled up in the back of his head and he began bucking against Olwyn's crotch. Olwyn knew how excitable Havym could be and tried to work his hands between them to undo Havym's trousers and reach that hard boytool while he still had a chance.

Havym lifted slightly and let Olwyn have the access he wanted. Still licking up and down Olwyn's neck, Havym asked, "What was he like?"

Olwyn had succeeded in freeing Havym's dick from his trousers. It was nearly as long as the soldier's, but straight and not so thick. Olwyn began stroking it. "He was big and strong. He had huge muscles. He was gorgeous!"

"Was he as gorgeous as me?"

Olwyn paused. He hated it when Havym asked stupid questions like that, especially in the middle of their love-making. He knew that Havym suffered from self-doubt sometimes, and craved affirmation. Olwyn thought Havym's lack of self-worth was a little silly, because, to put it simply, Havym had one of the most spectacularly handsome faces Olwyn had ever seen. From his squinty, honey-brown eyes to his high cheekbones to his pleasingly long jaw, Havym was definitely a looker. And it was all topped by his unruly mop of sand-colored hair, not quite blond, not quite brown, and a little of both. But then, Olwyn had not grown up on the street as Havym had, and had not been teased his entire life about looking like a "southern barbarian." In many important ways, Olwyn and Havym had completely different lives.

Still, in the strictest sense, Mikyl was not as gorgeous as Havym. Yet, it was pointless to compare the two. Havym did not have Mikyl's big muscles or his disarming smile. Havym nearly had Mikyl's height -- which actually was a slightly distressing thought because Havym had at least two more years of growing to do. And Mikyl...well, Olwyn thought he was the perfect height. They both had dimpled cheeks, as well, but you could almost stuff a copper mark into the charming indentations that Mikyl had. Olwyn sighed.

"You're better looking than the guardsman," he said. "But, he had bigger muscles than you."

"If I was a guardsman, I'd have big muscles, too."

"So? Become a guardsman."

Havym stopped his rubbing and sat up on Olwyn's chest, the head of his hard tool just inches from Olwyn's face. Olwyn licked his lips and looked beseechingly at Havym. But Havym was looking upward and away, an expression of dawning realization on his face.

"That's it!" he said.

"What's it?" Olwyn replied, with just a little bit of irritation as he tried to lean forward to get that delicious boycock closer to his mouth.

"I'll join the Queensguard!"

Even this gave Olwyn pause, and he looked up. "The Queensguard? Do you think they'll accept you? They're very picky, you know."

Havym was too swept up in his excitement to let that deflate him. "Well, I can try!" he said. "That would be the life. Protecting the Queen, wearing a fine sword, saving damsels in distress..." he paused and looked slyly at Olwyn. "Or damboys!"

"That's not a word."

"Whatever! You can be my damsel in distress and I can come save you!"

Olwyn laughed inwardly, but decided to play along. Anything to get his mouth on that bobbing rod of flesh! "Oh! Save me, my strong and dashing guardsman! Please, save me!"

"Okay," Havym said agreeably.

Havym finally moved forward, just far enough to rub the tip of his cock against Olwyn's lips. "Do you like your strong and manly guardsman?" he leered.

"Yes, yes! Take me, soldier! Please!"

Havym moved further forward and grabbed the base of his dick. He slapped Olwyn's face with it. "Do you want that guard-dick?" he growled.

"Yes! Please give it to me!"

"Then, open up!"

Havym shoved the length of his tool down into the waiting depths of Olwyn's throat. Olwyn sighed around that flesh and ran his tongue up and down the shaft as Havym rammed it in and out of his mouth.

Havym fucked Olwyn's throat and reveled in the occasional choking noises the boy made beneath him. He kept sliding his long dick in and out until he felt a familiar tingle in his balls. He paused, and drew the length of his cock out. Olwyn made a slurping sound as it exited his throat.

Breathing heavily, Havym started undoing the buttons of Olwyn's vest. Olwyn helped him and soon they were both naked. Havym knew what Olwyn liked best, and intended to give it to him.

Straddling Olwyn's chest once more, Havym rammed his dick into the boy's mouth a few more times to get it good and slippery. Then he pulled out and flipped Olwyn on his stomach. Olwyn eagerly complied and lay there with his back to Havym, wiggling his bottom enticingly.

Havym leaned down until his nose and mouth were inches from Olwyn's smooth, round ass. He looked at Olwyn's pretty rosebud of a hole as it throbbed slightly, pink and puckered. Havym licked his finger and stuck it in that hole, up to the first knuckle, and swirled it around. He kept pushing in until his finger was all the way in, and listened to Olwyn's appreciative sighs. He licked all around his fingers and Olwyn's hole, and stuck in another finger. He worked these around until Olwyn was moaning continuously. Finally, he put in a third finger, and had Olwyn gasping and begging.

"Oh! Please, soldier!" Olwyn beseeched. "Please give it to me! Please!"

Havym spit onto his already saliva-drenched cock, and worked his hand up and down its glistening length. He spit onto Olwyn's throbbing hole as the boy moved his sweet ass up and down, begging to be fucked.

Havym moved into position with the head of his tool resting against the target of Olwyn's pretty rose of a hole. He draped himself across Olwyn's back and licked Olwyn's ear.

"Ready, my love?" he purred.

"Unh! Pleeeeeease!"

With practiced ease, Havym rammed the full length of his near-eight-inch cock into Olwyn's waiting ass.

Olwyn howled his pleasure, "Yes! Yes!"

Havym was much too excited to make this last long, so he went for broke, shoving his dick in and out of Olwyn's sweet, tight hole. They fucked with abandon, Olwyn raising his ass to meet each of Havym's thrusts. Olwyn also contracted the muscles of his sphincter with each thrust, driving Havym crazy with lust.

Finally, Havym knew he wouldn't last much longer. He reached under Olwyn and stroked the boy's dick as he continued to ram the boy's ass. Olwyn gasped and shivered. Havym felt Olwyn's ass start spasming with the boy's orgasm. White spunk shot out of the boy's dick onto the bed and all over Havym's hand.

Havym felt the irresistible rush of his own orgasm follow soon after Olwyn's. He pounded Olwyn's ass a few more times and then felt his cum exploding from his dick in a euphoric rush.

Havym lay on top of Olwyn for a while longer, rubbing against him as they enjoyed the afterglow of their fucking. Eventually, Havym slowly pulled himself out of Olwyn and settled down to the boy's side.

"I'm serious, you know," Havym said.

"About joining the Queensguard?"

"Yes, I want to try. I think I can be a Queen's Guardsman."

"I believe you. I think you can, too."

Havym looked with hopeless longing at the back of Olwyn's head as they lay curled together in the bed. He knew Olwyn had no idea how much his little statements like that meant to Havym. He kissed behind Olwyn's ear. "I have to have a Declarant, though," he murmured.

With all the night's excitement, Olwyn could barely keep his eyes open. He tried to make his sleepy brain work. A Declarant was the individual who accompanied an aspiring guardsman and 'declared' for him, which meant he had to avow as to the man's honor, piety and good character.

"I'll be your Declarant," he said, sleepily.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow. I promise. Now, go to sleep."

Havym snuggled against his friend and soon both of them were fast asleep.

(the end of part 2. to be continued in part 3)