Chapter One #2
“Get in the carriage, Andre,” Lady Cordelia called out. She swung onto her horse and took the reins. “Don’t worry, I’ll instruct the men to take Chestnut. I know how much you love him.”
“But His Lordship—”
“You won’t be taking James’s place in the carriage.
He’s going to ride.” Lady Cordelia jerked her chin toward the stables, from which Lord Aranin emerged on horseback, his husband, the elf knight Raziel, beside him on a unicorn so white it glistened in the sun.
“You don’t look well,” she said when Andre didn’t move.
“You shouldn’t ride when you’re ill.” Andre sighed with relief—she had no idea what was really going on.
Not wanting to be spotted by Lord Aranin, who was observant enough to figure out something was up, Andre obeyed and climbed into the coach.
He was met with the sight of Lilian snuggling into his husband’s side, Lord Dalton wrapping him in his arms, whispering into his ear.
Opposite them sat an entirely different pair: Master George, another cousin of Lord Aranin’s, and Resh…
George’s owner. Every encounter with them was a balancing act of etiquette, for Master George was a nobleman and Resh a commoner.
But Resh was also an imp, a dangerous kind of fair folk who loved capturing human souls.
Resh had claimed George’s, as the gleaming red collar around his neck proudly announced.
Because of this unusual distribution of power, Andre was never sure which of them he should defer to.
His mind said George, due to his position as an aristocrat, but Resh was George’s master…
Andre took his seat next to Lilian on the velvet-upholstered bench.
It was unbelievably cushy. Nobles liked to travel comfortably, but this exceeded all expectations.
He couldn’t believe Lord Aranin and Lady Cordelia would forgo the luxury they were owed.
But his lordship was married to a nature-loving elf, and the lady was a knight in all but name, and both loved riding.
As Andre settled his weight, the plug shifted, pressing into his prostate.
He almost choked. Adjusting his jacket, Andre ensured it covered his crotch—the last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself in front of his betters.
But then it was also improper not to wear a jacket in their presence…
How unacceptably disheveled he had to be looking!
Panicked, he combed his hands through his hair, reining in his long, brown mane.
With deft, practiced fingers, he braided a tidy plait, securing it with a suede tie.
There, that was better. He was far from presentable, but at least he didn’t look like he’d just fallen out of bed.
Beyond the coach’s sheer silk curtains, a clamor of voices rose. The carriage lurched, and then they were moving, rolling across the cobblestones. Andre held in an undignified squeal as the wooden toy hit him just right.
If he’d thought walking on the cobblestones was a problem, this was a whole other level of dangerous. Every small bump, no matter how well-cushioned the bench was, translated to a pleasurable knock against his most private place.
Andre pressed his lips together, unwilling to make an inappropriate sound and offend the noblemen. But oh, the slow roll across uneven ground provided ceaseless, most delicious stimulation.
Andre dug his fingers into his jacket, holding it tightly to his front. Inside his breeches, wetness seeped from his tip. He was thankful for the servants who’d rushed to pack his things, ensuring he had a change of clothes once they stopped for the night.
“So what’s the plan?” Master George asked, stretching on the opposite bench before nestling against Resh.
“James has sent a herald to the troops,” Lord Dalton said. “They’re to hold off the orcs and buy us time.”
“Where are we even going?”
“North. There’s still snow further up.” It was early in the year, and the orcs loathed the cold—they wouldn’t walk into snow.
Master George pulled a face. “That’s not going to hold them up forever. The snow’s going to melt in a matter of weeks. At best.”
“James wants to negotiate, and for that, we need to improve our position.”
The carriage rolled out of the gate, cobblestones giving way to a dirt track. The earthen path was smoother and easier on Andre, though he felt the impact of every pebble they drove over. Outside the rear window, a long line of staff was following on both foot and horseback.
“I’m not convinced the orcs can be negotiated with,” Lilian said.
Lord Dalton pulled him closer. “I think James knows something he’s not telling us.”
Master George huffed. “Of course he does.”
“It’s just… most men who went to the front have been captured. Few have returned.”
“There’s a reason we’re recruiting only women as knights.” Orcs had no interest in them.
Absentmindedly, Lord Dalton rubbed his thumb across Lilian’s shoulder. “James is evacuating Castlehill town. We’re taking everyone with us.”
“He can’t be serious,” Master George said.
“You know he is.”
“What do you think?” Master George asked, turning to Andre.
Andre straightened. It wasn’t his place to give an opinion on his lord’s actions, but he’d been asked a direct question by a nobleman. “It’s very kind of His Lordship to care so much about the safety of his subjects.”
Master George gave a noncommittal grunt.
“He’s doing the right thing,” Lord Dalton said to Master George, “even if it slows us.”
Lord Aranin was a good man. He also had a more nuanced understanding of the orcs than most. Andre appreciated that he saw beyond their brutish nature and refused to regard them as savage beasts.
To Lord Aranin, the orcs were people. He’d studied them, spending months combing through old records to find clues to their history and motivation beyond their drive to procreate with men.
He must’ve found something. Lord Aranin had predicted the orcs’ invasion when everyone else had dismissed the possibility, thinking the Lady’s protective magic imbuing the Great River would shield Vale forever.
But the magic had been broken once before, when the Turian Empire tamed the river four hundred years ago and made Vale its vassal.
The orcs, more intelligent than most gave them credit for, must’ve found the lost knowledge in the ruins of Turia, capital of the old empire.
It was a slow and bumpy ride north. The uneven ground granted Andre inescapable pleasure. The flat base of the plug was comfortable to sit on, the cushioned bench inviting him to relax into it. He kept his face carefully blank, hiding the delight every hump and depression in the road brought him.
The initial excitement of the escape wore off, and the gently rocking carriage lulled its passengers in. Soon, Lilian was sleeping on Lord Dalton’s shoulder, who, too, had dozed off. Resh had wrapped George in his arms, stroking and kissing him.
Andre closed his eyes, sinking into his corner.
Though he was not one to disobey, part of him wished he’d thrown up more resistance when Lady Cordelia insisted he evacuate with everyone else.
Then he would be in Castlehill, the stronghold conquered by the orcs, and presented to their leader as spoils of war.
Or to Farigoth the Ravager himself. A shiver ran through Andre.
People feared Ikathurg the Interrogator, for he had pried intelligence out of the strongest men—and now Eric too, the Crown’s most loyal spy.
The only one who inspired more awe than Ikathurg was Farigoth the Ravager.
They said he was a behemoth, dwarfing other orcs.
Andre wouldn’t mind being ravaged by him.
For the last twenty years, Farigoth had been uniting the tribes on the Turian bank of the Great River.
Though it was how he’d done it that had everyone in a panic.
An orc could only become chief by challenging the incumbent to a fight to the death.
Every chief was the strongest of their tribe, a mighty, battle-tried warrior.
Farigoth had overcome them all. He’d absorbed dozens of tribes into his own, defeating chief after chief until the Turian lands were his.
Then, he’d launched his assault on Vale.
A jolt went through the coach, wheels crushing a twig, and the plug hit Andre. A silent gasp tore out of him. He pulsed against the confines of his breeches. Waves of heat rolled over him.
He prayed he wasn’t drawing attention, that any sweat on his brow, any color on his cheeks, would be attributed to malaise.
When he peeked, he found Lord Dalton and Lilian peacefully slumbering. Resh and Master George were another matter. Believing their companions asleep, Resh was petting George in places one did not pet in polite company.
Not wanting to cause embarrassment, Andre closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.
Under the rolling bump, bump, bump of the road, his mind returned to Farigoth.
The power he wielded was unmatched. The sheer size of him had Andre clenching the wooden toy, wishing it were something else. Something bigger. Mightier.
A jolt punched Andre, and precum oozed, soaking his drawers. If the Lady was merciful, there’d be no wet spot on his breeches.
A low whimper that was not his own had him opening his eyes. Resh, pointy ears poking out of dark hair, had snuck a hand into George’s breeches, smirking as he stroked him in a languid rhythm. He looked up, his gaze catching Andre’s. His mouth pulled into a wicked grin, eyes flashing red.
Andre flushed. He shouldn’t have seen that. Resh was taking a risk with Lord Dalton right there, the threat of his waking up looming. But an imp wouldn’t care, and George, oblivious to Andre seeing them, lay willing and wanton in Resh’s arms, arching into every up and down of his hand.
Best to pretend he hadn’t seen anything. It wasn’t his place to judge.