The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 9a - Fingers Over Fist

...Before the War of Creation, the goddess Vanya sent the trickster Himpi to steal Krato's immortal stallion. When Krato found his stables bare, he sought a mortal horse mighty enough to bear him, and from all earth chose one hundred — the swiftest, strongest, fiercest — and rode them into battle... One by one they fell, until only one remained — the mare called Imblis, which means both first and last — who bore her lord to the edge of victory.

— From Lore of Ancient Arkendia, collected by Sir Benfist of Sudlin

Chapter Nine

Harric froze, his legs still straddling the windowsill. He turned to the door, whre he'd heard the voice. "Caris?"

"Hurry, Harric. I mean it." 

He swung his legs back in and crept to the door. "Are you alone?"

"Yes! Open up."

Harric moved the chair and lifted the latch, but cried out in alarm when he saw the glint of armor beyond, and tried to close it again. Caris cursed, and slammed it inward, staggering him back. Only then did he realize it was she who wore the steel.

"It's me," she said. "Calm down."

She shouldered past him in an enameled blue breastplate and matching shin and knee cops on full quilting. The blood color alone would cow any groom to silence or obedience, but a glance down the stairs confirmed she hadn't relied on that. In the dim candlelight from his room he glimpsed all three of the grooms lying crosswise on the landing. She'd knocked them senseless. He blinked in silence, stunned by her quick justice.

"Wow, Caris."

She shifted impatiently. "They stole your things."

"Hey, I'm not complaining. Don't get me wrong. It makes my escape a lot simpler."

From her shoulder she dumped a heavy bundle of oiled canvas on the rug. Her hand went to her nose. "Gods leave me. What's that smell?"

"Harts-horn. I needed the room to myself."

"Hart's what?"

"Ammonia," he translated, though she gave no more sign of recognizing that name either.

Harric slipped down the stairs to retrieve his purse from Leader, and his boots from Tartar. Leader groaned. The side of his head was swollen and blue.

"Caris," he hissed up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway above. "Help me move these guys."

"I need your help arming. Come back up here."

"Arming will take a while. They could wake and raise an alarm while I dress you."

She exhaled loudly through her nose, then stumped down the stairs. With Tartar and Leader suspended by the collar in each fist, she dragged them up the stairs like they were mere woolsacks. Harric struggled up with Third (who fortunately was the smallest), and they stashed all three in the narrow storage room off his apartment.

When he'd pegged the storage door shut, she handed him a piece of shoulder armor. "You know how to do this, right?"

He nodded. "Part of my mother's training."

"Then start buckling, squire."

Harric smiled, and buckled according to what he remembered from when his mother bedded a knight for a season in exchange for his training in the deployment of arms.

Caris reflected none of his humor. "There's a Royal in the lodge," she said. "A Westie Royal, Harric, so he's sure to practice the Old Ways against bastards. And he's with the Sapphire. You need to get out of here."