The gathering began to thin.
The old nobles left in their carriages. The young nobles left in pairs. The mercenaries were dismissed by their employers. The mercenary — her name was Vess, though none of the four men cared to learn it — stood near the gates, counting her coin purse, preparing to walk back to the lower district inn where her guild had lodged.
A figure approached.
It was the Lord. He had wrapped himself in a dark cloak that did not hide his mass but at least obscured the stains. He stopped in front of her. His face was flushed from the tincture and from the humiliation. But his voice was soft.
"Miss," he said. "I am sorry for my friend’s behavior. He was... overcome. He meant no disrespect."
Vess looked at him. Her hand was on her sword. But her coin purse was light.
"The night is ending," she said. "Speak plainly."
"I need a sword arm," the Lord said. "For private business. There is a matter of... security. At a manor outside the city. I would hire you. For the night. Just to stand guard. Twenty gold coins."
Vess’s breath stopped.
Twenty gold. A mercenary of her rank earned copper for a day’s work. Silver for a dangerous week. Twenty gold was a fortune. It was a sword. It was armor. It was a future.
She looked at his face. The doughy features. The small, wet eyes. The smile that did not reach anywhere.
"Just stand guard?" she asked.
"Stand guard. Drink a cup of wine with the employer. Be present. That is all."
She hesitated. Her warrior instincts were not fully asleep. But twenty gold. The coin purse in her hand was a reproach.
"Where?" she asked.
The Lord gave her the address. The manor. The chamber. The hour.
She went.
The manor was old and smelled of closed windows and old rot.
She arrived at the appointed hour. The door was opened by a servant who did not meet her eyes. She was led through corridors that were too dark. She was shown to a chamber that was too warm.
It was a bedchamber.
Not a guard room. The bed was massive. The cushions were white. The curtains were drawn. Four cups of wine sat on a table. And four men stood in bath robes near the fire.
The Prince. The Baron. The Count. The Lord.
They turned as she entered.
Their faces were different now. The humiliation had curdled into something hard and bright. They were smiling. The smiles were wrong.
Vess’s hand went to her sword.
"Wait," the Prince said. He raised his cup. "You are our guard. Our protection. We thought you might drink with us. To celebrate the contract."
"I do not drink on duty," she said. Her voice was flat. Professional.
"One cup," the Lord said. He stepped forward. The robe gaped. His hairy belly was visible. "For twenty gold. One cup. Then you stand in the corner. That is all we ask."
She looked at the cup.
The wine was dark. It smelled sweet. Too sweet.
She thought of the coin. She thought of the inn. She thought of the sword she could buy.
She took the cup.
She drank one sip.
The taste was thick. Honeyed. It coated her tongue.
Her head swam.
Not gradually. Immediately. The room tilted. The floor became liquid. Her knees lost their tension. Her hand fell from her sword. The cup dropped from her fingers and spilled red across the white carpet.
"Wh—" she said. "What did you—"
The four men moved.
They were faster than they looked. The Lord caught her arm. The Baron caught her other arm. The Prince stepped in front of her. The Count moved behind.
They dragged her.
She fought. Her legs kicked. Her boots scraped the floor. But her muscles were not responding. The drug was a heavy, warm, paralyzing weight that turned her limbs to water.
They threw her on the bed.
The white cushions. The white sheets. She landed on her back. Her head spun. She tried to roll. She could not. Her arms were heavy. Her legs were heavy.
The robes dropped.
Four naked men stood around the bed.
Their bodies were grotesque. The Prince’s belly hung over his groin like a sack of meal. The Baron’s chest was covered in dark, coarse hair. The Count’s skin was pale and spotted. The Lord’s back was hunched with fat and his shoulders were tufted with black hair like a beast.
And their cocks.
They were out. They were hard. They had taken the tinctures — more than the usual dose. The cocks were dark, purple-veined, swollen to a size that looked painful. They were dirty. The hair around their groins was thick and unwashed. The heads were wet with the pre-cum of their drugged arousal. They stood like four pillars of corrupted meat, pointing at her, weeping fluid.
"You laughed," the Prince said. His voice was no longer phlegmy. It was sharp. "You laughed at me."
"You laughed at us," the Baron said. He climbed onto the bed. The mattress sank under his weight. "You humiliated us. You thought you were strong. You thought you were clean. You thought you were better."
Vess tried to speak. Her tongue was thick. "No— please— I was just— I did not mean—"
"Shut up," the Count said. He climbed onto the bed from the other side. The bed groaned. "You are nothing. A mercenary. A sword for hire. And tonight you are hired for this."
The Lord grabbed her ankle.
His hand was hot and hairy and thick. He pulled her leg apart. The other men grabbed her other ankle. They spread her. Her leather armor creaked. Her sword belt was torn away. It clattered to the floor.
"Look at this," the Prince said. He leaned over her. His belly pressed against her chest plate. He fumbled with the straps. "Look at this armor. This metal. This pretense. You are not a warrior. You are a cunt. A warm hole. And we are going to teach you the difference."
He tore the straps.
The chest plate came away. The leather beneath was cut. He ripped it open. Her tits came free. They were firm and pale and the nipples were pink and stiff in the cold air. The Baron leaned down. He took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked with the wet, hungry force of a man who had not tasted something young in years.
"MMMPH~!!" Vess cried. Her body arched. The drug made it weak, but the sensation was real. The Count grabbed her other tit. He squeezed. He twisted the nipple. He laughed.
"Soft," he said. "So soft. You thought you were hard. You are soft."
"Please—" she gasped. Tears were forming. "Please— the gold— I will return the gold— just let me—"
"Let you what?" the Lord said. He was holding her ankle with one hand. His other hand was between her legs. He pressed against the leather of her trousers. He rubbed. He found the seam. He pressed his fat finger against it. "Let you go? Let you laugh at us again? No. You took the coin. You drank the wine. You are ours."
He found the laces of her trousers.
He pulled them. The leather loosened. He pushed his hand inside. The fabric of her smallclothes was cotton. It was damp — not from arousal, from the fear-sweat that was beginning to run down her body. He pressed his finger against the cotton. He found the entrance through the fabric. He pressed.
"Ah—!" Vess cried. "No— don’t— please—"
"She is dry," the Lord said. He laughed. "The bitch is dry. We will fix that."