I have told tales of joy and tales of sorrow. Now I must tell a tale of shame. The tale, 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. You foolishly 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."

"My lady," he protested.

"Lord Belromanazar will not hurt me here."

The knight gave me a baleful glare as he moved off, his hands on the hilt of his broadsword. The only question I had was if I even needed my magic to slay him. Ur-Anu waited in the clouds for my summons, but would remain there.

"You are somewhat infamous in my homeland," Melodora confided. "They say you kill Heacharids by the boatload."

"Sometimes literally," I said mildly.

She blanched. "Do you hate us so much?"

"I hate you no more than any of the people you've enslaved."

"Does your slave hate you?"

The question took me off guard. She was correct, of course. I had chosen to overlook my own slaving in my righteous anger. "No," I said quickly, then remembered the layers of deception I had to practice. "Perhaps. It is no concern of mine."

"From the looks of her, she hails from somewhere in Jhobai."

"Tabiyya, though I found her in far Kharsoom."

"Kharsoom. It is a shame it is so distant from our borders. We could bring the light of purity to them, civilization."

"Uazica is in the way."

"Or Chassudor," she said.

"And you ask why I hate your people."

She opened her mouth and a shadow passed over her features. When she spoke again, it was quietly. "There is no other choice."

"There are many choices. Your people recognize none of them."

"Our responsibility is to Xomera, to bring the light of purity to this world."

"You would make a wasteland and call it purity."

"Better a wasteland than existence without the lady's light." She swallowed. "We all have our responsibilities."

"And what are you doing here, talking with the Dreadstorm? I thought perhaps the Heacharids would send assassins, not ambassadors."

"There are those who wished the former. There are those who said that when a dragon sleeps, it is the foolish man who wakes him."

"And you? Would you send an assassin for me?"

"I do not make such decisions."

"If you did. I have, after all, slain your people by the boatload."

"We have many people." I wish I could properly convey the chill I felt when she said this. There was no malice in her voice. Nothing at all. She was stating a fact as though I might casually remark that it was raining. It was that moment that I realized that I did not truly understand the Heacharid mind. I thought myself a scourge but to them, I was but a fly, not even worth the effort to swat.

"Something troubles you?" she asked guilelessly as the silence stretched between us.

"No," I fumbled. "Forgive me, a passing thought."

"We are not a vengeful people," she said, believing such words were soothing. She stepped closer to me. I felt her attention upon me, a desire to touch. "Spreading Xomera's light is all that matters."

"I see," I said, attempting to recover. I had not intended to seduce her but I was not blind to my charms. "Has this conversation changed your mind? Will you send your assassins?"

"I've none to send," she said, color coming to her cheeks. She was attractive enough, but this was the first time I found myself touched. "You are far kinder than I imagined."

Before I could respond, she scampered back to her bodyguard's side. I watched her, musing if my plans could be altered. I did not understand my enemy, and that could be a deadly oversight. Bringing one of them over that might teach me the inhuman paths of the Heacharid mind, could be invaluable. Judging by the shy glances and furtive reaching, she found me alluring.

I returned to my quarters where Ujaala waited for me. She stood from bed, her voluptuous body unclothed. "How is your plan?"

"Proceeding well," I said, taking her in my arms and kissing her gently.

"How would you like me this evening?" I hesitated and she broke into a wide smile. "You want me as you used to take me when we first traveled across the Red Wastes."

"I am feeling sentimental."

"Allow me to ready you, my lord." She dropped to her knees before me, her tongue beginning to work. I sighed happily, leaning back to experience her expertise. It would not be the last time, but we had far more encounters behind us than ahead.

I saw Melodora in the Iron Garden every night of the negotiations. Theophilia seemed to have no patience for her, which of course endeared me to the woman. It was easy to think of her as a girl, despite her three decades. She had the manner of a young one and I saw someone stuck in a place they would never leave. I saw resentment.

I saw a potential tool. And thus I damned myself.

On the fifth night, Ujaala "escaped" from my clutches and fled west. She would make for Sabbatium, but both of us expected the mustering army would find her first. Dorbei would maintain contact with her and we would have a spy I trusted above all others in the middle of the Heacharid forces.

Here fate, or so I thought, had given me a second spy. Melodora could go places Ujaala could not. I considered the way I would approach her, the promises I would make to put her under my thumb. I knew one sure way I had won women to my side before.

It was late into the sixth night and I was out on the balcony, musing at my plans when a soft knock sounded at my door. Quiyahui hissed a warning. I turned, summoning my magic. First a conjured wind to open the door, then a storm on its heels to slay any assassins.

It was Melodora. Her hands were clasped. She still wore her formal gown from the negotiations, a few strands of her dark hair escaping the modest buns on her head. "Lord Belromanazar?" she asked timidly.

"Come," I said. She slipped in, shutting the door behind her. Quiyahui watched her, coiled at the ceiling. "What brings you to the lair of the Dreadstorm?"

"I wanted to speak with you, my lord."

I felt what she wanted in the air. It was in the smokiness of her eyes, a scent that hung between us, a lingering in her glance, and a shiver in her breath. I foolishly thought that my plan would be easy. "The negotiations are in the morning. I would be surprised if there is much more left."

"There was never very much to say. Only the price Zuunkhorun would pay."

"You are a noble. House..."

"Vatat. The house of my husband."

"That was to be the second question. What does your noble husband think of you coming here?"

"He is old and infirm. I was wedded to him when I was young, but he has lost interest in me. Praise by all that's holy."

"You gave him heirs?"

"He already had heirs. He wanted someone to warm his bed in his waning years."

"You gave him no children?"

"I gave him three, but he had no concern for them. Do you have children, my lord?"

I chuckled. "Forgive me. The question struck me as amusing for how many children I have."

"You have a wife then."

"A wife, some concubines..."

Her eyes widened. "I know little of your ways. You are not from Zuunkhorun."

"Rhandonia."

"Where is that?"

"Chassudor. To the northwest. South of Svarlskell, north of Freeport."

"I have never been to Chassudor. I have never left the empire. The farthest I have been is Axichis. Forgive me!" This last was a stuttered plea, for she must have seen the rage burning in my eyes.

"I do not think of Axichis as the empire," I said. Then, more quietly, "Although I suppose it is."

"The conquest was before I was born," she said.

The talk of Axichis rattled me. I desperately wanted to speak on anything else. "Why have you come here?"

"Surely you must know," she said.

"I suppose I do. The world is bigger than you believe, Melodora. You could leave that husband of yours. You could see Chassudor. Uazica. Kharsoom."

"Perhaps," she said. She sucked in a shivering breath, and undid the tie at her shoulder. Her gown fell from her body, revealing her nude form. She was beautiful and perhaps ten years before she would have been breathtaking. Her small body was laden with buttery fat, her thick thighs leading to a thick tangle of brown hair. She was perfumed, for she had planned this.

I looked her over. In the corner, Quiyahui watched her, tasting the air. "I never knew Heacharid women to be so forward."

"Have you had many?"

"One," I said, and I would think often of the smirk that played upon my lips in that moment.

"Do you find me pleasing, my lord?"

"Who would not?" I released the magical power I had summoned when I first heard her knock. Thunder snarled as tendrils of cloud made their way up her legs. If I was to recruit her, I would first need to please her. She gasped in fear, but soon surrendered to the sensations I gave. I should have left it there, at mere teasing. But I didn't. I knew she would need my touch to forge the loyalty that would make her betray her empire.

She was far along swiftly, shivering, her body covered in sweat, sweetly thrusting against nothing. I believe it had been a long while since anyone had touched her in passion. I lifted her with my magic, drawing her over. She spread her legs, wrapping them about me, and I took her to the hilt. She gasped.

"Oh, by the lady, you hurt!" she cried, and her back went rigid, her head thrown back.

I thrust into her with deep strokes. I felt what she meant. The inside of her sex seemed studded with thorns tiny thorns. Every thrust gave me pain for no reason I could name. It was not the sweet pain my paramours often gave but the rotting claws of evil. I know now what it was and I wish I had listened to what my body tried to tell me. I did not stop. I stood, lifting her up, pounding deep inside her. My own bliss thundered to me, despite my misgivings, despite the sharpness inside her. I prepared myself to pull away.

Right as it came upon me, she somehow found the awareness to thrust. I spilled the first jet inside her. I managed to pull away by the second, painting her belly and the sodden fur of her sex. She reached for me, as though to take me inside again, but I spoke a word and the wind bore her away. She yelped, sprawling upon a couch. The last few spurts spilled sadly over the flagstones.

"Did I displease you, my lord?" she gasped.

"No, I merely...no. You were lovely."

She stood, gingerly dressing. "I have never felt a man thus."

"Your husband never brought you bliss?"

She shook her head. "He was blunt. He hammered children into me. That was all." She pulled on her dress. "I need to return so they do not notice that I am gone."

"You may return tomorrow. We have much to discuss and I will be pleased to show you more."

"Thank you, my lord." She curtseyed awkwardly and slipped out the door.

Melodora was not at the final day of negotiations. I waited for her to join us, but she never emerged and she was not at the Iron Garden that night. I wondered if she had been caught. Heacharids would execute her for what she did, but I could not imagine they would do it quietly.

Zuunkhorun paid its tribute and the Heacharids departed. They knew there was an open wound on the Golden Sea, one that I would keep open. It would be the last time I permitted Heacharids to set foot inside Zuunkhorun.

A decade passed. My children grew. Many left Zuunkhorun, with a sizable contingent returning to Castellandria to live at Azureview. Sarakiel, Lysethe, and Maireili each bore me another child in this span. Just as Tanyth had outlived her fertility, they were beginning to wane. Only Lysethe would retain her fecundity unto death, a gift of her wizardry.

Tanyth's father, Prince Hadirseen, died upon Abilyth's return to Kharsoom. I believe that he was waiting for his true heir to take the clan. She would rule well and her most able assistants were Lady Rubati, her step-grandmother and advisor, and later Lord Beltorys, her brother and warmaster. Abilyth would eventually wed a scion of Clan Bazaya, affirming an alliance that had been delayed a generation.

I sponsored games in Tagariaganuur and Arkohnus swiftly became a favorite. As his popularity grew, the Tyrant herself did the same, as even in her addled state she understood the power of attaching herself to one beloved of the crowd. None of us were prepared for what occurred. The love for Arkohnus spilled out to his family, especially his darkling sisters. Sabrael more than any other, who attended every one of his games and who he often presented his token to after a victory, became known as Zuunkhorun's great beauty, with admirers from every class desperate for her hand. I believe this somewhat flummoxed the twins, who had long considered their elder sister to be a bit of a shrinking violet. Sabrael would soon marry Halaak Dobrun Altani, whose demesne was the fertile Magnai Prairie. Their children, darklings all, further propelled the popularity of this once reviled people.

Darkling features began to be considered marks of beauty. Nobles wore makeup and even crowns with stylized horns. Some gowns collected material at the back to give the impression of a tail. Sarakiel, who had been used to being considered hideous, was utterly mystified by the way her people were embraced. Darklings began to emigrate and the population grew, fanatically loyal to Sarakiel and her family, as well as their adopted home.

The first of the workers at the hospitality houses retired at the end of this period, founding what would bloom into Kharsoomian Quarters in both Ironmotte and Uraraoi. The denizens took fierce pride in their Kharsoomian heritage, though in truth after a generation or two it was hardly noticeable against the backdrop of Jegu and Besh blood. Still, they kept traditions alive and added spice to both cities.

Nesugen cavorted with the finest Kharsoomian slaves money could buy. Most of her commands to me were to find more. I was already the true ruler of Zuunkhorun. All knew it, and though more than one of the Masters thought my actions in the Golden Sea were reckless, they could not deny what I was doing for the interior of the kingdom. Plentiful harvests, investments in infrastructure and education, constant infusions of plunder and gold, these were the rewards of my usurpation of the throne.

The Heacharid crusades into the Golden Sea had been largely ineffective. The bandits faded to the hinterlands and now they had safe haven in Ironmotte or in the few passes through the Zuunkhor Mountains.

Dorbei brought me Ujaala's reports. She had installed herself as the mistress of a local Heacharid lord. She confirmed my suspicions, that not only did the Heacharids intend to cross the Turquoise, they were massing to do so. The destination would be Mondragon, a small independent kingdom north of Axichis. They would blockade the Strait of Trelyr where the Turquoise emptied into the Lapis, choking the area from anything but the bravest ships.

It had become time to turn provocation into war. I could not let the Heacharids gain a foothold on Chassudor. When they next sent their crusaders into the Sea, I sent Maireili among them. She cut the throat of every commander she could find. Their crusade became wild, and they pursued the fleeing clans to the very gate of Ironmotte. There could no longer be any denial of who gave the bandits shelter and comfort. Soon Ujaala's warnings included an army massing at Sabbatium. On one fine spring day, they marched on Ironmotte.

Dorbei had warned me of their coming with a pigeon, but I saw them soon enough. I stood on the walls of Ironmotte when the Heacharids covered the horizon. I had gotten what I wanted and for the first time I wondered if I was a fool. I watched them mass out of range of archers and the commander's delegation ride for the gates under the burning rose of Xomera.

My eyes remained fixed on that hated standard. This was not a flag of truce. He was here to issue demands. I stood upon a precipice. If I took the step, there could be no going back. I would plunge this place into a war that would span generations. The archers on the wall murmured to one another. They sensed that danger too.

It was why I came hither. Why I had put Nesugen on the throne and why I kept her in red dreams. If I struck, war. Death. Misery. I would fill countless graves. If I stayed put, the Heacharid Empire would continue to grow. The landing at Mondragon might very well work, and Chassudor would be open for conquest. No single kingdom there could oppose them. Then Uazica, Obai...

I thought of a tiny archipelago in the Turquoise. One that had fallen long ago. Vengeance boiled in my blood. The amazons could not take it, but I could. Diotenah's ring purred its approval.

Thunder boomed and Ur-Anu appeared in my hand on a bolt of skyfire. I lifted the weapon high. It had been forged to slay a god and now it would help me slay an empire. Another bolt lanced down from the angry clouds, the thunder rolling over the defenders on the western walls. The bolt reached from the tip of the Blackspear's obsidian blade, striking the commander in the chest. He fell from his terrified horse, his chest smoking. A moment later, he rose as a stormwight.

A hush fell over the walls. A hush I filled with rageful incantations. I pulled the hatred that I had felt on the pitching waves of the Turquoise, when I slew my tent sisters and put it into the spells I cast then. I flung two more bolts, taking the commander's adjutants. The stormwights turned on the rest of the delegation, who immediately fled in terror. The Heacharid army was silent for the space of a few screams. Then they charged.

"Loose your arrows!" I called to the archers.

The war had begun.

We routed them, but the tale of the Heacharids was that they always returned in greater numbers. Their first attacks were mere probes. We slew them with arrow and lightning. My horde of stormwights grew. This was the beginning of the famous Deadwall. Not an actual wall, though often it was rendered that way in art, but a legion of stormwights ready to slaughter any who came to Zuunkhorun. Most hid in the foothills about Ironmotte, invisible until they rose from the undergrowth in a nightmare legion, while others blocked the passes through the mountains.

We prosecuted the war well. Zhahllaia and Lysethe were my most able advisors. Zhahllaia knew well the art of war, for she had tutored the great Shahs of Qammuz. Lysethe knew the specifics of Heacharid doctrine, allowing us to anticipate and counter.

It was not long before Nesugen summoned me to Tagariaganuur. No matter how honeyed the prison I had built for her, I could not keep the news from her forever.

"What is this? I hear the Heacharids attack Ironmotte?"

"A misunderstanding, Your Majesty. Over matters of trade, I believe. I'll address it."

She sighed, reclining into her bed. The past decade had not been kind to her. She was bloated and pale, her eyes hazy from sybaritic delights. She now had a half-dozen slaves ready to attend to her every desire. "Leading my kingdom is difficult, my Belromanazar."

"Her Majesty carries a heavy burden. Perhaps another strapping man would help?"

"He may," she said with a smile. "Or two, perhaps. Small and slight this time, I think. I do not need them so much to carry as to bear."

I bowed. "It shall be done."

As I exited her chambers I found her Master of Keys in the hall. Hatred blazed in his eyes. "I am concerned," I said, cutting him off before he could speak.

"Concerned, my lord?"

"Our august majesty has become aware of the skirmishes on our western border."

"Skirmishes? We are under siege!"

"In such a fragile state, learning of such things could prove fatal for her," I said. "It could prove fatal for others as well."

He stared at me in horror. "You're mad."

"You would do well to remember that, Your Excellency, when next you stand in my way."

The Master of Keys would not take my threat lightly. In a few years, he would mastermind the first and most successful attempt on my life in this period. This is addressed in detail in a number of texts including the Zuunkhorunia, The Black Rose of Ironmotte, and The Mad Tyrant, and I will not bore you with yet another rehashing of events. In a bit of irony, I executed the conspirators myself. The Master of Keys was so concerned with the safety of the kingdom I let him join the Deadwall. Never let it be said that mercy cannot also be poetic.

Another ten years passed. More of my children departed to make their lives elsewhere. Only Maireili bore me a child in this period, and it would be her last. It was Deimara, whose name any reading this will know. She was the second, after Faustan, to be born with the gift. The sight of her familiar, a softly-glowing deep bell, hanging by her crib filled me with pride.

As new life entered the family, others departed. My son Threch died, a ripe age for a half-orc but still too brief a span. He left his brides and a sizable brood of children. He had lived well and I remain proud of him.

Arkohnus was no longer merely a champion of the games. As the war truly was truly underway, he led men in the field. He was beloved before. Now he was worshiped. This is truly where the Black Rose of Ironmotte cemented his legend. The people of Zuunkhorun saw him as their noble champion and he loved them in return. His black enameled armor and black rose banner became a symbol of hope and perseverance.

Morwen visited once, bearing the sad news that Bridda had died the previous winter. I wept for my childhood love. That last anchor to my mortal life was gone. During her time with us, my granddaughter studied with Lysethe and myself. She met some of her aunts, uncles, and by then cousins, those who remained in Zuunkhorun. She played with little Deimara, teaching her infant aunt a few tricks.

The war was perpetual but it was not constant. The Heacharids attacked in the spring and retreated in the autumn. The bulk of their forces laid siege to Ironmotte, while skirmishers probed the passes. The Deadwall existed there too and I bolstered it with more Heacharids that I slew every chance I had. This was when I grew concerned about our dwarves. They had passes beneath the mountains, concealed for now but that could potentially be used by an invader. They would need to be brought closer into the kingdom, but that would have to wait for my own reforms when I truly held Zuunkhorun.

Ujaala returned from her time in the cold. She had served me well and had more than earned her rest. Dorbei requested Ujaala be rewarded and allowed to retire. I had no objections as he had been busy swelling the ranks of my spies. He spirited her back into Zuunkohrun, slipping through the Sarinan Pass.

When Ujaala returned to the capital, she came to see me in the palace. I had seen her only sporadically during her tenure as a spy. She looked tired yet relieved. I embraced her, noticing a few silver hairs in her mane of black. "It is good to have you home," I said.

"Thank you, my lord," she said with a demure smile, stepping back. Yes, she had aged. Not as much as her years would indicate, but enough to notice.

"Something troubles you?"

She blushed prettily. "I hoped to ask a favor of you."

"Anything."

"You once offered me freedom. Would you offer it to me now?"

"Ujaala, since we met, I've wanted to give you nothing else." Without hesitation, I removed the collar from her neck, casting it aside. A small scar remained where the golden band had rubbed against her skin for so many years. "You are free, Ujaala. Why have you chosen now?"

Her blush deepened. "There is one more favor I wish to ask. Permission to marry."

"I have no authority over you anymore. You may do whatever you like. Marry as you wish."

"You are my lord," she insisted. "You can take the collar from me, but we have been too long together for me not to wish your approval."

"I bless your union, then. Tell me, who is the bridegroom?"

"Dorbei," she said with another blush. "We have grown...close over these years."

"A fine man. You could not have chosen better." Ujaala and Dorbei would be happy with this union. I embraced her, for the first time as mere friends. "I am so pleased."

She sighed, holding me in relief. "I was worried."

"Have you ever known me to be cruel?" I asked, releasing her.

"To your enemies, but not your friends. Though men can be unreasonable when it comes to women."

"You are a wise woman," I chuckled. She gave me a soft kiss. An echo of the passion we once shared, now softened to mere affection.

"Thank you, my lord."

"You are my friend, Ujaala. One of the truest friends I have ever had. You have done more for me than I could ask. I am pleased I can offer you this joy."

She was wed within the year. Later, I would give her my title and make of Ujaala Halaak of Jihorut. She had been a slave for many years, she would die a noble, and her descendants would one day rule Zuunkhorun.

Ten years passed. The Heacharids no longer retreated when autumn came. A permanent camp now existed for the full year several leagues west of Ironmotte. Only Sarakiel bore a child here, little Tarsus, her first boy since Arkohnus. Perhaps that was an omen.

A witchthrall had appeared on the battlefield like a sudden storm. I heard of him first as a tale of terror after an incursion that had nearly succeeded. He flew on wrathful desert winds, burning men to death with the rasp of sand. I saw him not long after, driving him off with a storm of my own. His name was Belisarios.

Zuunkhorun boasted precious few wizards. Since the war started, Lysethe and I had managed to find and train two from the local populace. Faustan had long since returned to Castellandria and I refused to allow Deimara to fight while she was still so young. The Heacharids did not have a limitless number of witchthralls and they still wanted to believe we were a distraction from their true goals, but they could still throw more against us than I liked.

Lysethe hunted the witchthralls like animals. This was when she truly became known as the Hound of Heaven and inspired hope in the Zuunese and fear in the Heacharid. Red banners emblazoned with a snarling dog became popular with some defenders. She told me that slaying them was the only mercy she could offer. Lysethe was by far the most passionate of my wives in this time and she and I often found ourselves slaves of our desire. I took her more than once on the ramparts after a battle when death still hung in the air.

I soon made it my purpose to slay Belisarios. Lysethe wanted his head, but he seemed a cut above most of their witchthralls, possessed of an uncommon power and low cunning that made him a terrifying enemy. I trusted no one else to defeat him. Yet he eluded me. He seemed to know where I would be before I arrived. He attacked when I was away from the walls, fading into the darkness when I returned. He led a brutal incursion through the Alguur Pass and put most of Haljai to the torch before I managed to drive him off.

In the aftermath of this attack, I paced the walls of Ironmotte, seething in rage. On the horizon, the lights of the perpetual Heacharid camp glittered. A taunt. A provocation.

"Father," Arkohnus said, "I will hunt this beast down." My son stood before me in his mail and tabard, ready to lead his host. The Order of the Black Rose were men and women trained by Arkohnus and bound by oaths and friendship.

My son would have been in his late middle age were he entirely human, but his mother's darkling heritage had given him youth beyond his years. I wonder if he had aged further, would he have diminished? Or was part of his legend that he died while still young and beautiful? My heart aches for Arkohnus. He was not my first child, but he was the first given me by one of my brides. He will always be special.

Arkohnus rode with his host through the Sarinan Pass. I prepared to give my son a triumph upon his return. He was away when the Heacharids crashed against the gates of the city, Belisarios at the army's head. We could not match the limitless manpower of the Heacharid Empire. As I looked out on the endless ranks of Heacharids in their gleaming armor, beneath the flapping banner of the flaming rose, for the first time I knew true fear. I considered surrender for a heartbeat. Then two. Then three. It would mean my death but perhaps my family and the Zuunese people would be spared. This was the preamble to what would later be known as the Battle of the Crimson Rushes. Legend says that after that day some stalks in the Golden Sea, when broken, wept human blood.

A delegation came, this time beneath a flag of truce. At their head was a pair of Heacharid women, one a white-haired crone, the other with hair of gray. Knights flanked them, and alongside was the witchthrall Belisarios. He was the champion of the army, who had killed more Zuunese than any. They wished to parley. I met them with Lysethe and Quiyahui at my side, eschewing any other guard.

"My love, are you well?" Lysethe murmured as we strode to the outer gate, the one that would soon be known as the Arkohnum.

"I am," I lied.

"We cannot surrender, you and I," she reminded me. She had known my thoughts. "I would be tortured to death as a traitor and deserter. You..."

"I know," I said firmly. I looked into Lysethe's blood-red eyes, hoping to find strength there, for I had none. Sometimes I wonder what I would have done were it not for the betrayal I was about to learn. Would I have surrendered? Thrown myself on the mercy of a people who plainly had none?

I emerged from the gates into the autumn sun. What had once been a road was now undifferentiated soil, a scar forged during two decades of fighting. The earth stretching for leagues was nothing but cracked wasteland. The trenches that had once run the length of the pass had long since been filled in and every rain exposed white bone and rusted armor.

I looked over the delegation, finding my eyes lingering on the emerald ones of Belisarios. Then they fell to the woman in the lead. She was old and gnarled, her skin winkled. Her eyes, deep blue but covered in a thin milk, seemed familiar to me, but I could not place them.

"You do not recognize me, Belromanazar?" she taunted, her voice cracked and aged. "I am older now, but once I was beautiful in your eyes."

Then, beneath the cobwebs of years, I saw her. "Theophilia?"

"The same," she said.

My eyes went to the other woman. Now recognition came easily. "Melodora."

The other woman nodded. Unlike Theophilia, I saw more than mere cruelty in Melodora's gaze. I saw uncertainty, especially in the way her eyes flicked to the elder woman, seeking approval. Then, everything fell into place and I nearly collapsed to the broken earth. I held on, quivering in rage, hoping that I was wrong.

I gestured to Belisarios. "And this is our son, is he not? The product of that one night?"

Theophilia cackled. "Indeed! Why slay the Dreadstorm when we could use his progeny?"

"You must have known the chances were poor that a child would be produced, let alone a wizard. Melodora and I lay together but once."

"True," said Theophilia. "The right time, the right blessings, the right herbs. We could not guarantee conception but we could come close. As for producing a wizard, we stacked the odds there as well. It helps if such progeny is not merely the son of a wizard, but the grandson of one as well."

The ground dropped out beneath me and my gorge rose. My mind could not accept this atrocity. "What?"

"Melodora is my daughter," Theophilila said. "Our daughter."

"You said she had died," I protested as though this mattered. The horror and disgust threatened to devour me.

"I lied, foolish boy. I knew all I would have to do was dangle a pretty face before you, and your barbarian lust would do the rest."

I turned to Melodora as though she would save me, tell me this was a lie. "How...how could you be party to such a blasphemy?"

"For Xomera, I would do anything," she said, her voice quavering.

Perhaps I would have surrendered before. Not now. I could only see the roiling hate before me. "Would you die?" I wondered aloud.

I summoned my storm, ready to slay both Melodora and her harridan of a mother, but Belisarios was ready. He shielded them with his own magics. And then, pandemonium. I have no clear memory of the following sequence of events. Mere flashes often trouble me when my rest is fitful. I believe Lysethe saved my life. I know that Theophilia and Melodora made it back to their lines. Stormwights rose from the Deadwall and charged. I slew and raised their knights, but not before one landed a hideous wound upon me. Belisarios was poised to administer a killing blow while Lysethe was distracted hurling back a charging line of pikemen.

Then, a cry from the walls. Thunder embraced me. The thunder of hooves. My son Arkohnus in his black armor, his banner flapping overhead, brandished his great lance, charged onto the field from the south. Behind him was his host, the Order of the Black Rose.

"Get Father to the walls!" his voice rang out over the cacophony as he bore down on the Heacharids. My son was every inch the hero the Zuunese saw in him, a beacon of martial hope in my darkest moment. I firmly believe that had he not arrived when he did, had he not performed so admirably, we would have been lost. He bought time for the defenders to rally, for me to be spirited to the walls where I had the breathing room to summon my storms. Lightning and arrow cut down many Heachrids that day even as a Zuunese exorcist prayed over the wound in my side.

The battle turned. The Heacharids broke and fell into a disordered retreat. Arkohnus had trapped Belisarios against the wall of Ironmotte, separating him from his army. If the knight had let the witchthrall go...but no. We all wanted Belisarios dead. I could not countenance such an obscenity to exist. Arkohnus would never know that truth, but his task had been to slay the witchthrall and he would not leave such a task unfinished.

The battle between noble Arkohnus and evil Belisarios was titanic. I do not wish to speak of it further. Look at the other accounts, for there are many. The penultimate chapter of The Black Rose of Irommotte is my favorite, but I do not know if it is truly the most accurate. I do not believe there is a true accounting of which blows one man swung, which landed. Such things do not matter in the span of ages. The important point is that the struggle ended with Belisarios stabbed through the heart and Arkohnus scored to death by rasping winds.

I wept for both of them. For Arkohnus, my tears were of grief for one I loved, who had made me proud with every breath he drew. For Belisarios, I wept for his potential. He had been conceived in deception, mentored in hate. He had been damned from the moment he entered the world.

I was not the only one who mourned. Sarakiel remained in weeds for twenty years. The kingdom was enraged that the Heacharids would take their beloved champion from them and the black rose became more popular than the standard of the tyrant herself. Now I could not have stopped the war had I tried.

The funeral of Arkohnus was a day of mourning for the kingdom. We erected a tomb in Ironmotte, a statue of him at its apex. As for Belisarios, I went to collect his remains from the battlefield two days later. As I approached where he had fallen, the black carpet of crows that had descended over the dead took flight. I could not recognize which of the bloody bones had once belonged to the lad. He was gone.

I never saw Theophilia or Melodora again. They live now only in my shame.