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  Witon knew nothing of this Dwarf; had never laid eyes on him, yet Pagmav knew him. Witon believed his promise, every word.

  “Come, Witon.” Belamay took him by the arm as Pagmav's hand released him, pulling gently. “Let him do his work. He will do it well, I swear it to you.”

  Witon looked down at this wondrous woman, her raven ringlets falling about her round face. In that moment, he felt nothing but gratitude to them both.

  “See to your man's wound,” the Dwarf healer said without turning round, leaning against the bedside, removing all manner of tools and devices from the large leather bag he had brought with him.

  With a nod to Pagmav and a last look at the life he prayed to the Stars to save, Witon quit the room, following Belamay's lead.

  Chapter III: REST AND RELIEF

  “Would you send a page to the field?”

  He sat on the edge of her large, canopied bed. She sat behind him, her legs splayed, one on each side of his body, as she cleansed his wound… as she wrapped and tied it with pristine white linen.

  Head tilted to the left, his wounded side, Belamay nodded. “What message do ye wish to send?”

  Witon shook his head, grime-filled russet hair swinging against now bare shoulders.

  “No message, just…” his chin fell toward his bare chest, “… just an accounting. Of the fighting, if it still continues, of the numbers left on the field, whether or not my men made it safely away.”

  Belamay finished her ministrations, tying off the cloth, tightly enough to ebb the flow of slow, trickling blood, but not too tightly as to cause discomfort. With a grunt of satisfaction, she shimmied around her lover's body and stood before him, still dressed in her soldier's garb.

  Leaning down, she took his wide chin in her hand and lifted it, her large black eyes meeting his pale ones.

  “I will do so if you promise to lie down. To rest, at least, if not to sleep.”

  Witon looked upon the face that brought him such joy, that filled his heart to bursting, and knew it for its softness as well as for the strength behind it.

  “To rest at least,” he agreed.

  Belamay sniffed, with a small shrug of her shoulders. It was the best she could expect from him; she knew it as truth. But she took not one step from him, and he rolled his eyes.

  Now it was his turn to shimmy, up and fully onto the bed, laying his pate upon the silk and satin pillows. He gazed at her smugly.

  “Fine,” Belamay snipped, a mother to a child. “Stay there or I will tell ye naught I learn.”

  Once more, Witon felt his eyes roll, but this time he found them heavy. Perhaps to close them for a few moments would not be such a bad thing after all.

  * * *

  “Mayhaps we should let him sleep.” A man's voice, thin and with the slightest of warbles.

  “No, he would want to know as soon as possible.”

  That voice he knew; the dulcet tones of his Belamay brought him up from the void.

  Witon's eyes fluttered open. They stood right beside him, Belamay and Pagmav, observing him like a specimen in a cage.

  “What do I want to know?” he asked, gently easing himself up to a sitting position with the use of his good right arm. He squinted at them through dusk's fading light lilting through the slatted shutters with soft, horizontal rays. Two hours he had surrendered to sleep, perhaps more.

  “Your young friend,” Pagmav croaked.

  Any vestiges of sleep Witon threw off like a rough, coarse blanket.

  “Does… h… h…?”

  “He, oh yes, most definitely a he,” Pagmav said, rubbing his face with a long-fingered hand. Witon could see the fatigue, though the Dwarf tried to wipe it away.

  Nodding with satisfaction, as if an itch had been scratched, Witon asked, “Does he live?”

  “He does,” Belamay said quickly. “And he should regain the use of his arm, most of it, at least.”

  “And as long as he receives care and plenty of rest, he should live a long life, if his Elfish blood has any say in the matter.”

  “He is… an Elf?” Witon's voice squeaked like that of an adolescent boy.

  “Partly.” Pagmav waddled to the large, cushioned chair in the near corner and dropped his round body into it, feet lifting from the ground as he scurried backward to rest his small spine. “And part Human.”

  “No!” The astonished exclamation resounded from both Witon and Belamay.

  In this kingdom of Minra Erna there lived Centaurs and Elves, Trolls and Dwarves, Faeries and Brownies, Goblins and Humans, their co-existence in constant discord. At least as long as history had been written. To think two tender souls had risked so much, all for love, was rare… astonishingly rare.

  “'Tis true.” Pagmav leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but not his mouth. “It is the only half-breed of the kind I have ever seen. It took me a while to understand his physiology.”

  “But you did, as I knew only you could,” Belamay cooed, stepping to the healer and taking his hand. Witon wondered upon the sight; a Human woman tenderly holding the hand of a Dwarf. It bound them, she and Witon; one of the many bonds strengthening their love ever tighter, ever brighter. “There is a hearty dinner waiting for you whenever ye are ready.”

  Wrinkled lids crinkled with a smile. “Thank you, my dear. I've just suddenly realized how hungry I am.”

  Even with Belamay's assistance, it took some effort for the tired Dwarf to heft his form from the chair enveloping him with its cushiony succor. At the door, he turned back.

  “I meant what I said, he will recover. But it must be under the most recuperative of surroundings… medical supervision, a clean environment, good food. Without all these, all will not be well.”

  Witon stood—bandaged, eyes rimmed with smudges of fatigue—with an indisputable air. “I swear it to you, Sir, he will receive all he needs and more. By my honor.”

  Pagmav nodded slowly, contented. None called the honor of Count Witon into question… not a creature alive, whatever sort of creature they may be.

  “May I look in on him?” Witon asked, a step behind the elderly Dwarf's tottering feet.

  Holding up a single finger, Pagmav conceded, “Look, no more. Do not wake him. He will do so when his body is ready for him to, no sooner.”

  Witon followed the Dwarf out; as the healer made for the stairs leading down and to the kitchen, Witon crossed the hall, passing well-dressed and healthy-looking servants, two young men and two young women, carrying a copper tub and buckets of hot water into Belamay's room.

  Witon almost turned back at the images flashing in his mind's eye, of her curvaceous body submerged in warm water, lathered and slick with fragrant soap. But he needed to see the young creature first. He needed to see he lived.

  Slowly, Witon cracked the spare room door open, a drawn-out creak by little-used hinges announced his arrival. Tiptoeing across the room, he stood by the bedside once more. He smiled at profuse signs of efficiency: the cleaned skin; the perfectly measured stitches just visible through the thin linen binding the monstrous wound; the precisely sized pieces of wood bound to the arm in three places, rendering it immovable. He must remember to ask Pagmav how long the bindings needed to stay in place.

  A tinge of color blossomed now on the young creature's face, a deeper shade of green, though not the dense green of a full-blooded Elf. But it was enough to gift Witon a breath of crisp relief.

  Leaning down, he placed his large hand once more upon the creature's forehead.

  “I know not what binds us, my friend,” he whispered, a hint of amusement in his low tone, “but bound we are. I know it. I swear fealty to you. I swear to see ye well once more.”

  As he gently pushed the pin-straight hair—a dark blonde, Witon thought, seeing it through the layers of mud that sullied it—off the creature's face, he thought he saw the thin lips flicker as if in a smile.

  It was enough.

  Chapter IV: REJOICE AND RENEWAL

  He entered her room, ca
lming jasmine and lavender scents assailing him. Still immersed in the tub, Witon saw only her bare shoulders, her thick abundant hair, wet, and pinned atop her head. Steam wafted from the water and her body, a haze of thin, white vapor as if a magical cloud enveloped her. In his mind, in his heart, it surely did.

  Belamay smiled when she saw him. “He is well?”

  Witon nodded. “He sleeps… a restful sleep.”

  “'Tis good,” Belamay said, rubbing a soapy cloth on a raised arm. “Are you hungry?”

  Witon sniffed, amused. He prowled toward her, his appetite increasing with every step.

  “Oh, indeed. I am ravenous.” He stood at the very side of the tub now, and now he could see through the water, seeing every curve of her naked body, the thatch of dark hair at the 'v' formed by the joining of her long legs. “But not for food.”

  His eyes narrowed, glowing, a small smile tickling one corner of his full mouth. The pink bloom on Belamay's cheeks spread, not solely from the warmth of the water.

  Witon reached out and took the cloth and the lump of soap from her hands. As Belamay rested her arms upon the rim of the tub, Witon rubbed the sweet-smelling square—a mixture of her favored herbs, oil of olives, and soda powder—till the concoction coated the cloth with a thick, foamy lather. Kneeing beside the tub, he began at her neck.

  With slow, luxurious strokes, he swiped the cloth from hairline down, sweeping along her lithe form, down across her collarbone to her buoyant breasts, stopping just at the tips of her large, beige nipples. With each caress, Belamay's breath hitched, gained speed, her full breasts heaving each time. Mesmerized by the sight, Witon's gaze flicked from their bounty to his lover's face. She had closed her eyes and opened her mouth with the pleasure he brought her, and the sight sent his already hardened penis straining against his breeches. He would give her more, so much more.

  Now he brought the cloth down her shoulders, lifting her arms to lather them top and bottom. His other hand followed, the slick skin of his palm rubbing each arm, up and down, his sinewy forearm grazing each nipple as it passed up, then down, each nub hardening at the touch.

  Belamay moaned and Witon knew she needed more, as did he.

  He touched the cloth to that exquisite space between each breast, a hollow where all manner of comfort waited. With a slowness that set them both trembling, he lowered the cloth inch by inch along the curve of her abdomen, toward first one hip and then the other and then, finally, to the thatch of hair between her legs, to the swollen lips waiting impatiently for him there.

  Witon tossed away the cloth; he needed—he must—feel her for himself. Still kneeling beside the tub, he brushed back the curls falling around her face as Belamay rocked her body, thrusting her pelvis up in need and hope. With his left, he touched her, explored her. The lips slick with her wetness, the clit so engorged, so in need.

  “Witon, please…” Her breath a harsh whisper, and he looked up to find her staring at him, the same lust thumping in his heart writ all over her face. He smiled and reached for her hands. One he set to the laces of his breeches, eliciting a low groan in the back of his throat each time she pulled one loose, each time his hardness felt a brush of her fingers. Her other hand he lathered and placed upon her own breast, guiding her to tease her own nipple with her fingers, to draw circles round it, to pinch and squeeze it gently.

  Belamay set herself to the task of her pleasure, spinning her taut nipple tween thumb and forefinger, the hand on his laces trembling and shaking.

  Witon continued his exploration with his other hand, stroking her clitoris now, back and forth, knowing precisely where to flick, where to press. Belamay groaned harder as she pushed herself against him.

  “Oh, Stars, yes,” Witon heard his own impassioned voice.

  Belamay released the last of his laces, releasing his long, engorged penis and lathered it with her hand, stroking it with the smoothness till it flinched with need, till it began to dribble with the coming explosion.

  He looked down at her, their eyes locked in their pleasure. How it enticed him to watch each other as they brought their bodies to ultimate bliss.

  Belamay moved her hand from her breast, reached down and took his from her clit. Without releasing his gaze, she took his hand, grasped his middle finger and plunged it into her. Together they groaned, surrendering completely to the pleasure. She helped him as he pumped it in and out for a moment, then moved her own fingers to her abandoned clitoris. Witon broke their gaze long enough to see their hands upon her beauty. Their moans deepened; love and lust burning together in their once again fixed and locked stare.

  The small smile reappeared on Witon's lips as he took his right hand and wrapped it around the hand of hers clasping his pulsing member. Together they stroked him. Together they pleasured her. Together they stroked his penis in rhythm with the pumping of his hand inside her, the flicking of her fingers on her clit.

  Together they cried out as their fluids of satisfaction spurted forth, wringing every ounce of it, every moment of pleasure, till neither could stand any more.

  Witon dropped back on his heels, his head dropping back on his shoulders.

  And he began to laugh.

  Looking up, he saw her smile, saw her heavy-lidded eyes, both askew and drunk with physical delight and satisfaction.

  Witon leaned over the tub and kissed her, languishing in those smiling lips with his own, with his tongue. He kissed her until all the words of love unspoken were spoken in the gesture. He pulled away, laughing again as she slowly opened her eyes, ever more dazed by the love he plied so divinely upon her.

  He stood then, though weakly. Depleted, satiated, he kicked off the breeches bunched about his ankles, and climbed in the tub with her, splashing the now tepid water upon the stone floor, the sloshing a lovely accompaniment to her sensual giggles.

  She wiggled into the space of his spread legs, as they entwined in each other's arms, heads resting on each other's shoulders as if in surrender.

  “Do you ever think we shall make love in any normal way?” she asked against a shoulder that immediately began to shake with laughter.

  “By the Stars, I hope not,” Witon guffawed.

  Together, they finished cleansing each other of the detritus of the battlefield once and for all.

  Chapter V: ENOUGH

  They barely made it from the tub to the bed, exhausted from a day filled with a lifetime of living. Their bodies ached with the bruises of the battlefield, their spirits too, and yet in their lovemaking, they had found succor. Their exertions brought more fatigue, but of a soothing sort.

  Without thought of aught else, they wrapped their naked bodies together among the linens and together they fell, tumbled, into the blissful nowhere of slumber.

  “M'lady?” A faint whisper from a timid young female; it did nothing to rouse them, to pull them from the escape of somnolence.

  “Ye will have to speak louder than that,” the squire tutted, standing just outside the door. With outstretched fingers, he gave the girl a gentle push, tumbling her into the room. Though younger, he had more experience in the widowed Dame Falconick's household; seeing her curled about the manly form of the Count surprised him not at all; he felt only a consequence of envy, toward both.

  The willowy blonde flapped a nervous hand at him, but took a few more timid steps into the shadowed room and cleared her throat; the rustling of the floor rushes ceased, her courage faltered.

  “M'lady Belamay?” This time, her young, high-pitched voice resonated enough to break the spell.

  Head moving slowly at first, hair swishing against the pillow upon which it lay, Belamay stirred, dark eyes blinking open to the grayness of a dawn not yet quite realized. Seeing her young maid before her, Belamay sat up, holding the linen to her naked breasts.

  “What brings thee, Clareen?”

  Dipping a quick curtsey, Clareen reported her news. “Josem has returned, M'lady. He awaits your presence.” She pointed to the door, a gesture—an accusation—as
well as an announcement.

  “What? What is afoot?” Witon grumbled, rousing, rubbing sleep-swollen eyes as he sat up, not bothering or caring to cover his naked torso, not noticing the appreciative widening of Clareen's eyes as she allowed herself a quick view of the muscled abdomen.

  “'Tis Josem.” Belamay laid a calming hand upon Witon's arm.

  But it did no good. Witon snapped awake, attention bursting upon him.

  “Josem,” he barked, “bring thee in here, now!”

  A command not to be ignored.

  A command complied with.

  With simple wool cap twisting in his hands, the young boy inched inside, dark hair revealed, a tangled, sweaty mess.

  He bowed without grace before the bed, mousey brown eyes remaining cast down.

  “What news, Josem, pray tell,” Witon asked, more kindly this time, at the sight of the obedient youth. “Does the battle continue?”

  “Nay, M'lord.” Josem's voice cracked, but from nothing more than puberty. “Dead of night saw its end.”

  Witon's eyes flicked a sidelong flash at Belamay; she took his hand in hers.

  “Who claimed victory, Josem?” The voice that had gone from command to polite request came faintly now… hesitant.

  The young page looked up, his bushy brows closing ranks upon his smooth forehead. “No one, M'lord.” He shook his head. “Th… there were not enough remaining alive from either camp.”

  No one spoke. A monster by the name of devastation enveloped the room—an invisible cloud of darkness and blood and evil—and all the air in it.

  Witon's vision blurred with tears, but in his mind's eye he saw the meadow littered with bodies, Human or Elf, it mattered not to him. Such desolation was the greatest sin of their times, and it had gone on far too long. The cool tear trickled slowly down his cheek but he gave it no thought, could not even blink his eyes. Wherever his mind took him, there stood all the men who had followed him into that needless battle. Yes, he had given the order for their retreat, yet he could think only of whom he may have lost, for each one was dear to him.