Heart Of The Lion

by Anthony lupus@agora.rdrop.com [Heart of the Lion is the first in a series of erotic heroic fantasies, featuring Wulf the Freelance. If response is good, I'll be posting more in the series. The current story is written with a bow to Stephen Brust (author of the Vlad Taltos series), Bill Willingham (artist/writer of the excellent erotic graphic series "Ironwood"), and George MacDonald Fraser (author of the Flashman series). It is also something of a tribute to pulp adventure fiction and the Zulus of southern Africa (yes, the battle IS based upon Isandlewanah). And if the foregoing makes you nervous, fear not -- it has tons of sex. This includes hetero sex with lots of talking dirty, group lesbian/hetero sex (five gals, one guy, and not even human -- wow), and mildly non-consensual sex (don't worry, it's the hero, he escapes, and gets even). It does not, on the other hand, contain any blatant acts of incest, pedophilia, necrophilia, snuff elements, rape, violence against women (except at the end, and she's not even human, is evil, and deserves it), etc. If you require any such acts to be turned on, I suggest you find some other fiction to your liking -- I'm sure it's out there. The rest of you, enjoy. Please e-mail me if you like the story. Or if you don't, but if you must flame, flame gently. Now, without further delay --]

I have several names, but my favorite is Wulf, and I don't know what I was thinking when I joined the White Empire army. Admittedly, things had gotten pretty hot in Godshome, especially for a freelancer (read "thief") like me, who made his living by relieving wealthy, decadent nobles of expensive items that they didn't even know they had, and that they never really appreciated in the first place. I found myself beset on all sides by the legal authorities of the imperium who, for reasons known only to themselves, finally moved off their well-padded bureaucratic posteriors and started cracking down on the city's "criminal elements" -- that is to say, those unwilling or unable to fork over a portion of their incomes in the form of bribes to keep the hounds at bay. As this included yours truly, I was forced to find employment sufficient to keep me alive long enough to blow the White Empire, and head off for another land more suitable to my chosen profession.

Now, in any "traditional" profession, I'd probably stand out like a Xeshite whore in a Rexxaran church choir, but the armed forces of the White Empire were notorious for accepting virtually anyone into their ranks, so when I saw a handbill carelessly posted on the wall of the Dragon's Rest, I read it with interest.

A T T E N S H U N S I T I Z I N S !

Impeeriyul Armee Seekkin Noo Rikroots!

Jenerus Pay!

Menny Benifits!

Bee Rispected an Feered!

Joyn the Impiriul Armee Tuday!!!!

Now, besides the fact that there were a grand total of two words correctly spelled on the entire flyer, it interested me on several counts. The army would be a safe haven, I rationalized, and would provide room, board and regular pay sufficient to finance my planned exodus from the empire. All I would have to do was bide my time for a few weeks, then go AWOL with a pocketful of silver.

I was younger then, mind you, and somewhat naive. I figured that, given the empire's extreme age and decadence, the chances of actually having to fight were pretty minimal. As usual, I was dead wrong.

As soon as I signed up and received the emperor's copper, I realized something was up. I was billeted with a motley collection of wastrels and professional soldiers, issued basic equipment of fair to good quality, and actually drilled regularly by a sadistic half-elf sergeant named Rhalatha. She was a scarred veteran who had lost one eye in a fight with a manticore, but had proved too mean to die. She drove us like a demon whip-master and earned our undying hatred in the process. I had to admit she was good, though. She regularly beat me in sword drill, but at least went so far as to grudgingly admit that I was less of a complete fuck-up than the rest of my squad. I was made corporal in short order, a position which I neither asked for nor wanted, but which I was well advised to take.

My platoon would have made a Litharnan landsknecht vomit. There was me, a smattering of rugged human mercenaries and career soldiers, a couple of elven outcasts who kept to themselves and were really, really scary, a bunch of individuals with varying degrees of orcish ancestry (is there any such thing as a pure-blooded orc anymore? I doubt it), a centaur named Rose, a cyclops, two wolfen, a throg, three nymen and a dwarf by the name of Sigurd. Although he was a bit rough around the edges and drank like a fish -- both of these being time-honored dwarven virtues -- Sigurd and I got along well. He was the first to break the bad news to me.

"Rumor has it we're shipping out soon," he said one night over a game of Lords and Harlots. "The Emperor seems to have gotten it into his head that he wants to conquer the Veldt Lands."

I gaped in astonishment. I knew the emperor was a few arrows short of a quiver, but this was beyond insanity. "The Veldt Lands are a thousand leagues away," I said, "and full of hostile locals who won't like White Empire armies tromping through their back yards."

Sigurd shrugged and started loading his pipe. "Tell it to his imperial majesty. All I know is that he's heard about the gold mines and the rubies lying around for the picking. He also seems to have developed a somewhat patronizing attitude toward the Veldt Lands' inhabitants."

I grunted. I knew that there was a hell of a lot of misinformation and smugness going around in regard to the Veldt Landers. It's probably because their skin was black and ours was white, which the people on our side of the equator seemed to feel made us better. The truth is, and I've known many from the Veldt Lands, that they are every bit as cunning, intelligent and resourceful as we are. They can also be as violent, treacherous and cruel, mind you, but this is simply further proof that we're all the same regardless of our skin tone, height, mass, strength, longevity, or relative pointiness of our ears.

With my advance intelligence in hand, I was determined to light out of the camp as quickly as possible, with Sigurd if possible. Unfortunately, the emperor's good subordinates had seen to doubling the guard and keeping everyone carefully in camp. No further opportunities arose over the next three days, and we were soon loaded onto vast, leaky transport ships for the long journey overseas.

I don't remember much of the trip. Both Sigurd and I spent most of our time abysmally seasick, and when I was healthy that pointy-eared bitch Rhalatha had me at work oiling leather, polishing swords, and cleaning out the bilge. During the voyage, I saw considerably more of the inside of our worm-infested ship than of the sea.

Things went poorly from the start. Our outdated vessels were not equal to the task of sailing the distance, and nearly a third sank or were forced to turn back. Our fighting force was reduced by more than a quarter before we even arrived. We stopped at a filthy port city called Vang several days before reaching our destination, far to the south. It was the last outpost of civilization I remember.

Once we debarked in the hot, arid atmosphere of the Veldt, disease struck, laying low another quarter of the survivors. The Lands had no decent port facilities, and our supply lines were stretched to the limits in any event, forcing us to forage almost from the first day. The locals, a coastal tribe called the N'jara, fled before us, leaving their villages empty and useless. The riches of the Veldt Lands were anything but apparent.

I did my best to command my squad. Rose the centaur was a great source of help, lending her strong back to hauling, and carrying anyone who fell ill. Nevertheless, our platoon was hit particularly hard -- nymen and throgs seemed especially susceptible to local illnesses, and all died within a week of our arrival. Even Rhalatha felt the strain, collapsing from heat exhaustion and leaving me to manage the platoon. Again, I didn't want the job, but I scented disaster on the wind, and realized that if I didn't keep our unit together we'd all be dead.

Both Sigurd and I knew that it was only a matter of time. We left those incapable of travel behind at Fort Nathra, the stockade we'd built upon arrival, and began our march inland. Out of a force of 30,000, we had fewer than 12,000 remaining.

Our commander, Lord Heatham, hoped for a quick campaign against the Sholanti, the most powerful of the local tribes. From here, he hoped to establish a stable base of supplies, utilizing the free labor pool he anticipated obtaining from his wealth of Sholanti prisoners. His main problem was that the Sholanti had no intention of cooperating.

We crossed over into Sholanti territory after about three days' march. Our army, despite its problems, was a sight to behold. In the vanguard marched the Imperial Knights, one of the few units without either supply or illness problems, this due to the fact that they had first pick of the quartermaster's stores, coupled with the high percentage of priests and healers, who tended to their own unit only. At their head rode a high priest of Kybor, bearing the sacred image of Saint Orlan. The knights wore white lacquered armor with plumed greathelms and shining blue and white tabards, carried gleaming lances and rode proudly barded white warhorses. I got a headache if I looked at them too long.

Lesser cavalry came next -- mail-clad Xeshite mercenaries, horse archers, lancers. We marched in the middle -- the endless companies of infantry, equipped and led in a bewildering variety of styles, so disparate as to give even the most skilled commander twitching fits. Finally, the supply train followed, a crowd of wagons and pack animals that raised a cloud of dust which could be seen for leagues around, a fact which was not lost on the Sholanti.

On the day we entered their lands, we also met our first Sholanti. He was a tall, muscular specimen, a long, leaf-bladed spear clutched in his hands, a leopard skin cloak thrown over his shoulders. He wore a lion mask which hid his features, and addressed us in heavily accented, but quite intelligible Imperial common.

"Why have you come to the land of the Sholanti?" he bellowed. "Why do you come here with spears and bows and the weapons of war?"

Lord Heatham saw fit to answer, spurring his charger forward and bellowing back. "We bring the lawful rule of the White Emperor to this land! We bring the force of his justice, and the power of his swords, and demand your immediate submission!"

I cast a withering glance at Sigurd. "Oh, he's sure to score some points with that one," I said.

"Respectful he isn't," Sigurd agreed. "We'll have a fight on our hands in a day or less."

The Sholanti herald barked a brief laugh, then turned and vanished into the yellow grass. Heatham looked nonplused, as if he had expected his stupid ultimatum to actually work. Then he turned, spurred his horse back, and urged us onward.

We marched through the day, then made camp on the low slopes of a craggy mountain, near a broad, slow-moving green river. Heatham was intelligent enough to have us dig in and build a palisade, but by the time this work was finished, we were all so exhausted that all we could think of was sleep. I crashed to the ground without pitching my tent and simply curled up in the long grass. I slept like the dead, with ants and various other insects crawling all over me through the night.

I awakened to urgent bugle calls and leapt to my feet, diving into my breastplate and helm, and grabbing my sword. As I cast frantically about, I saw Sigurd, in full armor, looking grim and determined.

"The battle Lord Heatham so longs for has finally come to pass," he said, a trifle formally, like a man carefully selecting his dying words. When I saw the Sholanti, I understood why.

The plains were black with them. They came on like an inexorable tide, rank on rank of tall, dark-skinned warriors. They carried great hide shields and spears like the herald we'd seen. Each unit represented a different warrior society, and wore the mask of a different animal. As they advanced, they chanted, and pounded spears to shields in unison, creating a rumble like oncoming thunder. On the flanks of the infantry came the Sholanti cavalry -- there were several different units, including slim riders with elaborately lacquered hair and long, iron-tipped lances, riding tame zebras, and -- most interestingly to my eyes anyway -- several bands of strapping woman warriors, dressed in leopard-skin cloaks and mounted on sturdy black veldt-cats. I didn't have long to admire them, unfortunately, for the battle had started even before I could urge my squad to the palisade.

I took a quick stock of our situation. We were fortified, behind an improvised stone and stick palisade and a shallow ditch. Our rear was secure, anchored against the rounded mountain behind us. So far, so good. The problem was that the oncoming enemy seemed every bit as determined and professional as we were, if not moreso, and outnumbered us by at least three times.

Heatham was clearly rattled by the size and discipline of the Sholanti horde. He had probably expected a bunch of jabbering savages who would flee the moment the imperial knights charged, but it was rapidly becoming obvious to everyone in our army that we were both outnumbered and outmatched. In the back of my mind I could only take grim satisfaction that these veldt-warriors, who most imperials considered cowardly primitives who didn't even have their own language, were about to give the White Empire a lesson it would never forget.

Lord Heatham, astride his charger, his blue and white plumes waving proudly in the stiff breeze, pointed toward the enemy with his sword.

"Archers!" he cried. "Archers!" His command was instantly transmitted down the line by trumpet, and in an instant the air was full of arrows, arcing up from our skirmishers and down into the oncoming Sholanti. Warriors fell or stumbled, but the holes were instantly plugged and the volley had about as much effect as flinging pebbles at an oncoming ocean wave.

Our archers kept it up, however, raining volley after volley on the Sholanti. When they got close enough, our crossbows opened up, and several wizards chanted and cast spells. Gaps in the earth opened up beneath the Sholanti, swallowing up dozens. Liquid fire shot from a wizard's finger to envelop a unit of hawk-masked warriors, who then fled shrieking. Rocks hailed down on a shark-masked band, recoiling them. Another unit, all in masks in the shape of lizards' heads, fell back in terror, assailed by invisible illusions.

The Sholanti advance faltered, their front ranks milling in confusion. Heatham saw his chance.

"Knights forward!" he thundered. "Forward at the charge!"

With that, we opened ranks to allow the gleaming knights to thunder forward, all gleaming metal and waving banners. The earth shook and dust rose up in billows as they passed. Forward they charged, Saint Orlan's banner at their head, against the milling vanguard of the Sholanti army.

But the Sholanti were not to be counted out. Heatham had made two critical mistakes, possibly out of some lingering arrogance regarding our imagined "superiority" to the Veldtlanders. First, he had ordered the charge when the enemy was too far away. Their horses, hot and sweaty to begin with, bore heavy burdens of armored riders and clumsy steel barding plates, and would be blown and exhausted by the time they reached their targets. Second, he had sent the knights, our best and most important unit, into battle unsupported.

The Sholanti were quick to catch on. From their flanks, relatively unmolested by our missile volleys and magical attacks, the Sholanti cavalry countercharged, barreling down on the knights' exposed flank.

Oh, gods -- I knew I was probably going to die in the next hour. But what a sight, I thought... The zebras were fastest, and bore slim, lightly armored Sholanti men with long, wicked lances. Individually, they would be no match for our knights, but in a body they were truly terrifying, galloping hell-for-leather across the plains, zebras whinnying and screaming, calling out a deep-throated war cry: "Uuuuusuuutuuuuuuu!"

The cat-cavalry came behind, slower but more methodical, bounding over the high grass trampled by the zebra-riders' passage. These were even more magnificent. All women, they were, and the sort of women that keep me up at night, sweating and sighing. Tall, muscular, fine-boned, armed with curved swords -- I was glad that I didn't have to face them.

Yet, at any rate.

The fight in front of us was vicious and short. Heatham realized his mistake and ordered more cavalry into the fray to keep the knights from being wiped out, but he was too late. Unarmored but still deadly, the zebra-riders plunged their lances into our knights. Some broke on armor, but others hit just right and plunged through bodies, both horse and human. The cat-riders were worse, however. The great black mounts swiped with heavy claws and bit with saber-fanged maws, effortlessly seeking out gaps in armor, rendering knight after knight to a bloody, twitching corpse, then moving on to the next.

The rest of our cavalry arrived just in time to be butchered in short order. Through the dust I could see a handful of our riders fleeing back to the relative safety of the palisade, but I knew that our fate was sealed.

"Ready..." I shouted. "They'll be on us in a moment!"

But the Sholanti cavalry did not pursue. Showing admirable restraint, they returned to station, and allowed the infantry, which had reformed during the engagement, to continue its advance.

This time they had their own magic. Bone and charm covered shamans advanced, shaking rattles and pointing feather-bedecked staves. Now we were forced to deal with supernatural forces. Grassfires burst out in the middle of our camp. The ground shook, throwing many of us off our feet. Weapons softened and turned to water. A horde of stinging scorpions swept over my squad, and half of them ran screaming, only to fall a few feet away, black and bloated.

I scrambled up a nearby rock outcropping, shaking off a half-dozen scorpions which had tried to crawl into my boot. Sigurd was beside me, along with the survivors of my squad. All looked exhausted and terrified, and we hadn't even gotten to sword-blows yet. A tide of black scorpions surged up the rocks after us.

I grabbed a fetish from my pouch and mumbled a counterspell, hoping that it would work in this gods-forsaken country. I cast a hand over the advancing tide of scorpions and was surprised to see them vanish or scuttle away. Damn -- I was genuinely shocked.

"Good job, corporal!" Sigurd shouted. "I'm afraid it won't save us for long, though!"

I drew breath and realized that he was right. The Sholanti were only a few paces away, spears glittering, hide shields like an impenetrable wall. In a moment they'd be across the ditch and at the palisade.

"Back in line!" I ordered furiously. "If we break now we're all dead!"

Reluctantly, but with the strength of fatalism, we returned to the palisade.

The Sholanti were on us immediately. We fought a unit of insect-masked warriors who came at us with almost suicidal bravery. I killed three at the palisade, and still they came. As I hacked down warrior after warrior I realized that they were sacrificing themselves, keeping us busy as their fellows hacked at the wooden palisade nearby. I could do nothing, I realized as another insect-warrior impaled himself on my sword and I pulled it free just in time to parry a spear-thrust from yet another.

It was only a matter of time. Overborne by dozens of screaming warriors, hacked at by innumerable spears, the palisade collapsed with a cracking crash, and the Sholanti poured through the gap, their dark eyes clouded with hatred and vengeance.

I knew what they wanted. We had come to steal from them, to take their land, and make them slaves. This was their land, not ours, and we were to pay the full price for our arrogance. The Sholanti kings were determined to send us back to the Empire, awash on a sea of our own blood.

"Every man for himself!" I bellowed. "Save yourselves if you can! I'll see you in hell!"

"Well said, human," Sigurd bellowed back. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

The line was breached everywhere. It had degenerated into a furious hand to hand struggle, with each of our soldiers facing at least five Sholanti. There was no doubt to the outcome now. I saw Lord Heatham, beset on all sides by spear-wielding Sholanti, belaboring about him with his sword, and killing at least a half-dozen until he was finally pulled from his horse and vanished under as tide of muscled black bodies. The Sholanti spears rose and fell in unison, and I heard their war-cry once more.

I threw down my sword and ran. Sigurd was beside me, puffing along on bandy legs. Speed is not a dwarf's strong suit, so I was determined to help him. He weighed a ton, but I was able to heft him over my shoulders and run along, albeit at reduced speed, through the carnage as Sholanti warriors dragged down our soldiers, slit their throats or bellies, and left them to die. Ahead, a band of Sholanti was ripping apart tents and plundering the baggage train.

I stumbled on a rock, sending both of us sprawling. Sigurd rolled in a tight ball and was on his feet, while I rolled on my back, wondering if this was the end. A Sholanti stood above me, spear poised for a downward thrust. Our eyes met for an instant, and I saw the depths of hatred in them.

"Kweeeeeeeeeesh-haaaa!" he cried, and thrust down.

I rolled at the last second, and the spear plunged into the hard earth. I looked again and saw Sigurd throw himself at the Sholanti, his ax whirling.

"Run, you bloody gods-cursed human!" he shouted back at me, his face red and streaming with blood. "I've no chance here. Get the hell out! Tell my clan how I died!"

I hesitated for a moment, long enough to see a second Sholanti slam his spear into Sigurd's face. He fell without a sound, blood geysering.

Gods...

I ran. I ran as fast and hard as I knew how. My army was gone. My commander was gone. My friend was gone. All I had left was my own life, and that was in considerable peril. The lower slopes of the mountain were ahead of me, strewn with bodies, broken weapons and fallen banners. I stripped off my breastplate and arming coat and ran naked but for my breeches, making for the slopes and the river beyond. My heart hammered, and each breath burned like fire, but I kept running, because I knew that to stop was to die.

I made the crest of the slope, pounding down toward the rocky shores of the river. A few other stragglers ran with me, but as I watched an elf went down with a spear in her back, and a band of a dozen or so Sholanti appeared twenty paces to my left. Ahead lay the river.

A shriek sounded behind me.

"Kweeeeeeeeesh-haaaaaaaaa!"

The spear buried itself in the soft riverbank beside me. With the last vestige of my strength, I hurled myself into the deep, green waters. Just as the cold waters enveloped me, a heavy blow crashed down on my head, and I slipped into darkness.

* * * *

I swam up from darkness only with great difficulty. My head felt as if a team of orcish squat-ball players had just had a scrum on my cranium, my tongue was the size of the White Emperor's throne room, and my body ached with the sort of pain that makes you sorry you were ever born.

Oh, did I mention that I was alive? It didn't seem to matter too much.

With effort I managed to wrench my eyes open, and waited a few moments while everything came into focus. I was lying on a low cot, in a cylindrical chamber with plastered, whitewashed walls and a thatch roof overhead.

I was covered with a rather scratchy blanket, and realized abruptly that I'd been relieved of all my possessions, including my clothes. I was a strange patchwork of red, brown and fishbelly white, where my vest and breeches had covered me, but otherwise I seemed relatively intact.

Beside the cot was a bowl of water and a wooden platter containing several exotic-looking fruits and some kind of porridge. After briefly wondering what the porridge was made of, I decided that I didn't care if it was mashed fruit flies and termites, and devoured it with a vengeance, not pausing to even bother tasting it.

At this point, as you might guess, I was beginning to suspect that I would live after all, when my hopes were suddenly shattered.

The doorway was covered in a colorful, striped blanket, which abruptly parted to reveal one of the tallest and most muscular Sholanti spearmen I had ever seen. I met his gaze, my heart racing. When he saw I was conscious, an inscrutable expression flashed across his face, and he retreated through the door.

Outside I heard shouting and footfalls. My heart was racing. I jumped out of bed, abandoning the blanket, casting desperately about for a weapon or something to defend myself with. I was in the hands of the Sholanti, the people we'd just tried to conquer, and who had just impaled the White Empire's collective asses on one of their broad-bladed spears. I could only think that they'd kept me alive just so they could polish me off in some slow and excruciating fashion once I had returned to health. Unless I could get out of this mess, I was as dead as a Slaerthist at a Saint Orlan's rally. I was doomed. I was ruined.

The entrance of a second Sholanti through the curtain ended my fatalistic reverie and brought my scrambling to a screeching halt as I gaped, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.

She was beautiful. A statue carved of gleaming mahogany would not have done her justice. She was my height, with a serene, high-cheekboned face, dark brown heavy-lidded eyes and full lips. Pale bone rings hung from her ears, and several heavy necklaces of multi-hued trade beads lay piled on her shoulders. Her body was a picture of lean muscularity -- deep brown and smooth as glass -- her arms slender but wiry, her legs like a Xeshite wrestler, her stomach flat as a windless sea.

None of this is to suggest that she was in any way unfeminine. Her hips flared alluringly, and her bare breasts were ripe and rounded, projecting in a way that made me consider becoming religious again. Beyond the jewelry -- earrings, necklaces, carved anklets and silver bracelets enough to choke a dragon, she was alluringly close to total nudity -- just a hide loincloth and -- this I noticed with sudden shock -- a leopard skin cloak. Further inspection revealed that she carried twin curved swords, one on each hip.

I stared for a moment, then finally made the connection. the cloak... the swords...

"You -- You -- " I blathered, not realizing that she probably didn't understand a word I said. "You're a cat-rider."

A smile graced her exquisite countenance.

"Good boy," she said in flawless Imperial common. "You win a prize."

"You speak common?" My astonishment was building with each passing moment.

"That should be obvious, paleman," she replied. "I spent some time as a mercenary in the barbarian lands -- that's what we call your part of the world, by the way -- and I learned how to speak that gibberish you call a language."

"I'm grateful," I replied. "Uhhh, can I be so bold as to ask what I'm doing here?"

"Sit, boy," she said. "This could take a while."

I complied, grateful for every moment I remained alive with all my major organs intact.

She planted herself before me like one of my instructors at the Magic Academy. The main difference was that she was much more fun to look at.

"You were in that pathetic excuse for an army we butchered three days ago?" she asked.

I sighed. Lying would not only be stupid, it was likely to be suicidal. "If you mean the White Empire expeditionary force, under that wanker Lord Heatham, the answer is yes. I'm sorry to say that I'm just a minor functionary. If it had been up tome, I'd have stayed home and left you people in peace."

She tapped her forehead, a gesture which I later found was the Sholanti equivalent of nodding in agreement.

"As far as we know," she said, "you are the sole survivor of that unfortunate expedition."

It came as no real surprise, but it still hit me hard. All dead -- Sigurd, Rose, even the contemptible Rhalatha and the vainglorious Lord Heatham. Damn all kings, I thought. And damn all generals.

"What about the people we left back at our stockade?" I asked, "Did you wipe them out, too?"

"No," she replied contemptuously. "We're not butchering barbarians like you people. We sent them the head of your Lord Heatham and told them to sail home and tell your Emperor never to come back."

"It probably won't work," I said. "The Emperor and his entire court are bugfuck crazy."

"It's of no matter. If he sends another army, we'll kill them, too."

"That's encouraging." I took a deep breath. "Exactly what are your plans for me, by the way?"

Her gaze took on a distinctly wicked cast. "That's a little complicated... Excuse me, but I didn't get your name."

"I'm usually called Wulf," I said. "I picked it myself because it sounded so dramatic."

She bowed, an act which did amazing things to her breasts.

"Ushandra Kalundi," she said. "Of His Majesty's Maiden Guard." I frowned. "Maiden guard?" I asked. "The cat-riders?" "The same. We're his majesty's personal bodyguards. Since only men can be king, I guess he figured we were less likely to try and overthrow him."

"Are you maidens in the sense of..."

"In the traditional sense?" Ushandra snorted. "Hell, no. It's just an affectation. We have to quit if we get pregnant, but we have ways of getting around that restriction."

I didn't bother to ask. I was more concerned about my own skin.

"So you never did say what was going to happen to me," I said.

"Well..." she began, choosing her words very carefully. "The consensus among the shamans and King Uzu's advisors is that you have a sharpened stake hammered up your ass, be hung from a tree for three days, then hacked apart while you're still alive, and your separate pieces burned and buried."

This last didn't go over very well. I stared in horror.

"I'll be damned," Ushandra said in amazement. "I didn't think you people could get any whiter than you already were."

"I'm full of surprises," I said. "So I'm going to be tortured and killed horribly? Is that what you came here to tell me? Or did you come to ask if I had any last requests?"

"'Not really." She looked contemplative. "The fact is that the shamans are telling the king that your army was composed entirely of zombies, and that impaling you and cutting you into small pieces is the only way to make you stay dead. We've treated all your other soldiers that way."

"Yeah," I said, "but they were really dead. I'm not! Why in the hell did those blasted witch doctors get it into their heads that I was a zombie?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're so pale you must be dead."

"Troll crap!" I spat. "You've been to the Empire. You know we're all this color!"

"Sure I do," she agreed, "but my opinion doesn't hold much weight with the shamans. They seem to feel that wisdom resides only in those Sholanti with testicles."

I made some incoherent, frustrated noises. I was on the verge of tears. "How the hell do we prove to them that I'm not a zombie?"

She tilted her magnificent head back. "Ahhhhhhh,- she breathed. "The crux of the matter. Well, my dear Wulf, there are several ways of telling if someone's a zombie, at least according to those rattle-shaking frauds."

"Any that I can use?"

"Well, they claim that when you throw a zombie in water, he floats, while a living man will drown."

"Big help, cat-rider," I said bitterly. "But if that's my choice, I'd rather drown than be buggered and dismembered."

"There are a couple of other signs," she continued. "The most important one, given your current dilemma is the common notion that zombies can't... Oh, what's the word...?" Her dark eyes fixed me like a goblin impaled on a knight's lance. "Fuck?"

Before I go on, I should say a few words about myself. Sometimes I honestly do not know whether I am being rewarded or punished for the sins of a previous life. Given the rather -- shall we say -- colorful nature of my life, one would be justified in thinking that I actually sought out all the exciting things that have happen