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Cover art (c) Jenny Dixon 2007
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War spills over the moons of Ynthia. The possibility of peace emerges in the hope of an alliance through marriage between Amal and Adras, the two strongest realms. Many oppose the marriage, especially Mash, k'Dom of Thebe and his seer, Proph iCue. They instruct a squad of Panthera, cat-like assassins, to slay Tiesa, the rix of Adras, before the cooing between Tiesa and Arcen, k'Dom of Amal, can end in a proposal.

STAG NATION: A VEXED HEART

By

Angelica Hart and Zi

© copyright April 2007, Zi and Angelica Hart
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright April 2007
ISBN 1-58608
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

The Mash, k’Dom of Thebe, the fifth moon from Ynthia, monarch of all there, proved to be the latter. His cruelty legendary, he savored the fear he instilled as if it were night-culled ambrosia. Last in an endless line of tyrants, he intended to be remembered as the most horrific, thereby he resisted even leaving a legitimate heir, for they might best him. He had gutted his own father in order to obtain sovereignty, chose to be childless, refusing to chance his own offspring might do the same. His existence had been as close to idyllic as one of his brooding nature could obtain, until now.

Angular features taut, he stared out the double arched window. He cradled against his muscle tight chest a charcoal gray house rodentia. They over-populated the Bastion. Those lacking blankets or clothes suitable for the chilled chambers used them for warmth at night. Mash preferred the warmth of several wenches, trained in the art of pleasure and oriented to accept pain as a gift. Normally, he had at least two at his disposal, ready for his whim. This night he had already used up his favorites, dispatching them with a blade for their inability to lighten his mood. The bodies, cured in blood, claimed a corner, eyes sightless, rodentia fodder.

A tall gaunt man, Mash possessed the deepest of brown eyes, a scar from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, and a shaved head with an inked marking of an elk’s headdress on the back of his skull. A blood red tear hung from a point. He wore a leather shoulder-to-ankle cape over the crisscrossed strapping of his body harness. His black collar, the width of two fingers, bore the marking of his nobility, diamond clusters as well as the symbol of a crying heart.

Being the darkest maul of night, he saw only the reflection of the room behind him as he stared into night. A sparse room with straight-legged furnishings, it boasted a single hand-woven tapestry with the crest of the twenty-six moons of Ynthia upon it. The marble floors and walls, veined with indigo and sterling, provided the only elegance. The stone absorbed much of the warmth, which brought a dank coldness to the dim chamber. Thebe was not a rich moon, nor did it have the most pleasant climate, but it had marble, hordes of marble, and stonecutters, talented stonecutters.

k’Dom Mash would have preferred more wheat and grain fields, more livestock and all-in-all a populace that had less ignorance. One might believe that meant he could have a streak of kindness, the possibility of caring, but to the contrary, he cared for having more for selling and trading to fill his private coffers, for stone lasted a lifetime. In the end, it mattered not, what he didn’t have he seized. He had trained armadas of vicious raiders, thugs who pillaged and plundered. These brigands of cateran were skilled in the sad art of butchery, bringing pain just shy of death.

However, his tyrannical control would be threatened if an alliance between the moons Amal and Adras occurred. Adras, second moon of the planet Ynthia, home of the Adrasian race possessed similar traits to their neighboring moon Amal, first moon of the same planet Ynthia and birthplace of the Amals. All bipeds, they were an intelligent people. Though primitive in that they had not discovered technology, they existed as advanced societies steeped in morals and values. The Amals, a physical culture, tilted a bit more primal and base whereas Adras favored artistic and humane endeavors. Neither race courted war, but both accepted the mantle of battle as the price for freedom. Primal clans wanted to rape the moons of their assets, kill the powerful, and enslave the weak, none more than those who existed beneath Mash’s tyrannical weight.

The alliance of Amal and Adras was the last hope for the weak, and Mash had to admit he and those like him might have stirred the nobility within those powerful monarchs with their endless unrest and savagery. Throughout all time the two ne’er spoke of joining forces but this enemy forced the possibility, an enemy that had grown in size and desperation as poverty and greed spread, an enemy that threatened every free moon of Ynthia. The two realms, militarily competitive forces as it were, would most likely be spared, but together they could bring peace to all the moons of Ynthia. Thebe fared better with war. Mash knew this, and the rumors of this alliance disturbed him. Greed for wealth, women, and absolute power propelled him to use every resource to corrupt the quest for peace.

Mash stifled a shiver as cold asserted itself in quiet drafts in the room. Not even the blazing flame occupying an expansive hearth could quell the invasion, for this was a cold moon where most grew used to its endless drizzle and dampness. Mash ne’er had, despite having been born to the world.

A presence appeared in the dark glass panes, a woman adorned in shimmering chain mail and polished leather with crotch-boots. Tinted leather strips sparsely woven throughout the chain mail did little to conceal her virtually naked form, as did a skimpy skirt. Her roan hued face was strikingly tattooed, with a white bleeding lily filling the entirety of one cheek. The flora grew via a double-helix stem, inappropriately thorny. Each finely drawn thorn illustrated pricking with bleeding of her skin. That blood toned pearlescent white. The stems, originated at the edge of each nipple, climbed from her exposed bosom and evolved into two large leaves that hugged the entirety of her neck, as a slave’s collar might. Her eyes, as crimson as the trim on her garments, lacked any discernible pupils. The woman’s hair was black, gray, and red, each color distinctive, braided into seven tails, and ultimately bound by lilac vine into one monolith that stood straight up from her head with the tips of each bowing gently at their ends.

“The alliance is no longer a rumor, k’Dom, as I foretold.” To the unwary, the voice sounded sweet, humble, yet managed to vibrate with a trace of something sour and dank. The scent of her held the same unsavory pall, sweet yet sickening. Mash was used to both the tone and the stench, enjoying the anomaly of the Proph iCue. She was his seer and teller of possibilities, an advisor, a mystic with a prophetic eye, for Mash and only Mash.

“iCue, this you have foreseen, but you have also seen many paths, many detours.”

He watched her move, felt his groin swell and hated that he could have that sort of reaction to her, for he liked his wenches submissive and weak. The Proph had a dark lure to her, a sensuous magnetism that few could resist, but all must, for no man had survived coupling with this creature.

“They have sent the emissaries to negotiate the marriage of k’Dom Arcen to the daughter of k’Dom Isak, ‘rix Tiesa, and she will soon be on her way to the cooing. All believe this will seal the alliance with a legacy of joined bloods. The ‘rix is of childbearing years and thought alluring.”

Mash turned, eyes veined white and ecru like the marble around him, hardened. His lean, hallow-cheeked face darkened as if a veil had descended. “Now is the time for a Panthera. Some problems require an assassin. I choose S’ans to go. He has special skills and is quick and thorough. He will leave a horrible reminder that this could happen to all.”

“He will fail.” She arrogantly turned her back to him. “S’ans is a clot, too young.”

Mash frowned, knowing iCue’s advice was always sound, yet he detested her lack of diplomacy. It smacked of disrespect. Any other would taste the lick of his lash. Needing her, he kept his tone civil. “Then who?”

She spewed off a list, “Tigg, Snel of Teda, Flogger Semunion, and any of his sons. They are treacherous, cunning, and rightfully evil. But more important, they finish. You need to send them all.”

“So many?” He stared at her, moved around her, and then backed away. Her skirt shimmered with the illusion of embossed serpent heads. They moving as she did, often with fangs exposed. Sometimes Mash wondered if they were real. Stories had been told that the vipers were images remembered of the previous lovers of iCue, she having taken their lives at their height of pleasure. They were now loyal to her, constant devotees, seeking her stroke upon their heads.

“The vision is not clear. I can’t see if ten Panthera will be enough.” Her cunning was obvious as she spoke, refusing to commit to success.

“I will bring a banner of Darnaps’ thorns to drape upon Arcen’s interment.” His anger apparent, it dripped, as might the pus from a vile, furious sore.

“It is the female who must die.” She pulled a dagger from the sheath of her chaps, collared then slit the throat of a large house rodentia, righteously lathered her hands in the spurting blood, scowled, and plastered a handprint upon the chest of Mash in an act of pure insolence. “Die immediately!”

Mash had once seen the ‘rix from a distance, a comely thing with a smile that could rival majestic scenery of Ynthia bathed in morn’s light. For a moment, he considered abducting her, using her, abusing her. She had curves that could appease his needs and a spirit that begged to be fractured. He nearly salivated at the thought. Perhaps an alliance bred of blackmail would serve equally well, perhaps just treachery.

iCue stilled his restless movements and reckless thoughts with a glare. As if she knew his every thought, she responded, “It would not. She must die, and die soon.”

Something queasy settled within the monarch’s gut. She read his thoughts too freely. There had been a time he could veil them. Lips a tight line, steps swift and long, he headed toward the door, rushing from her, needing distance, needing a wench to satisfy a sudden urge in his groin. “So be it. Send as many Panthera as it takes.”

iCue stroked the head of one of the vipers commingling upon the cloth of her skirt, her smile crooked, insincere. “As you wish … k’Dom.”

* * * *

The moons of Ynthia and the worlds found upon them were mystical lands of unique crossbreeds, a place where stags and steeds were common, albeit, eland or addax, caribou or wapiti, and giraffe or Okapi were ridden, as might primitives bareback, though ornamental headgear bedecked the beasts.

The ‘rix Tiesa, only daughter of Isak of Adras was the eighth heir to the monarchy. Tall, angular, and athletic, with taut, full breasts and firm, long legs, she earned the attention of any male that dared to look her way. Her ruddy auburn hair shimmered as it spiraled in helter-skelter ringlets as untamable as the woman’s temperament. Her oyster-shell-colored skin and its voluptuous nature flaunted garb traditionally seen on a male, an act that bewildered her father and frustrated her attendants. Her choice of clothing reflected having seven older brothers.

She tilted her head first one way, then the other, and stared with riveting summer-green eyes at the strange box-like contraption set upon the swayback and bound to the leather breastplate of the largest eland she had ever seen. He was the epitome of a stunning and sturdy stag. She turned to her father and stated, “My Father, I am not riding in that.” She waggled her finger at it and the entourage of guards. “Nor with them.”

“Lower your finger,” he said, his own finger exemplifying his words.

“Forgive my frustration, but look at it.”

“It is the way of the cooing.”

“Ne’er on this moon.”

Her father, Isak, k’Dom of Adras, a marvelous physical specimen for his years, moved closer, muscles tight and chest well-scarred, some fresh, which suggested he still engaged in combat. His garments reflected his status. Leather stripping culminated in platinum-tipped aglets that covered his royal codpiece which bore the seal of his station, the hoof mark of an Okapi. His deltoids were protected by studded leather cups strapped side-to-side. A burgundy cape with white piping attached to his shoulder protectors hung just past his waist, covering his bare buttocks, while a braided leather cord spanning his forehead held graying hair from his gaze. His eyes darker than the obsidian gemstone, his lean face tanned by weather over time, and his scowl that matched the pitted rock clusters of Perrn, he could tame a wild ferocious wildebeest with a look. That same look did nothing to thaw his youngest into obedience.

His scowl deepening, he bellowed, “You will do as I say!”

She leaned slightly backwards as her father’s bellow blasted her like a strong wind. She flashed a cocksure grin at him, feigning an agreement. “I understand the import of the cooing. The pond’s reflection tells me I am of an age to consider taking a husband. I will be honorable and respectful, but do you know if his looks stir a woman’s interest?”

Her father canted his head and lifted a brow, which was enough not said. She changed her tone as she continued, “I know if a match evolves from it that peace will surely come to the moons. I am not averse to any of this. I am reluctant to ride in a box.”

“Tiesa, it is not a box. It is a hermoso caja. I was told it was especially designed for such occasions. Have a little respect for their tradition.”

“My Father, this herm chuckawux looks like a box to me.”

“It is a hermoso caja. It means in Amal, beautiful box.”

He turned to his daughter, his look implied show respect, my child.

“But, a box is a box is a box is a box.”

“Would you like a taste of my lash, arrogant fillie?” He stomped away, his boot heels marking the ground. “It is the way Arcen expects you to arrive. He sent it.”

“Then my good and wise father, it is best he discover I do not always do what one would expect and, maybe, discover this sooner.”

Shaking his head, an audible groan accompanied her words. A whipow echoed a woeful song as if in agreement. “This alliance has no chance.”

“Besides, I would be a riding target without freedom to defend myself or outrun any attack.”

‘Rix winced as the regal guardsmen of Amal stiffened, they being the most elite and sent to accompany her back. The entourage of six supreme regiment mid-level officers occupied a singular space to the right of the hermoso caja, reflective of the box’s shape. Uniformly clad with leather cross-strapping on their chests, which held their blades to their backs, their ebony leather chaps ended with matching codpieces, which left their bulbous buttocks bare. Their forearms bore the royal gauntlets, studded along the forearms with sharp spikes for use during hand-to-hand combat. Identical markings of the k’Dom of Amal, a stag’s headdress, etched each gauntlet.

With an apologetic shrug, she turned her attention toward them. “Please forgive my unintended offense. I know you would defend and quench any possible attack. I spoke before I considered.”

Her words spoke of her station in life as well as the statesperson that she could be. Her gaze traveled over the lot of massive manhood with utter sincerity, but something within her twittered. She noticed the definition of each muscle, the perfect symmetry of chiseled features and strong, jawed stoic faces. They reflected the more primal society of Amal. If this were an example of Amal’s males, she was not at all disappointed considering she would be traveling there.

Few of such status would consider a lowly guardsman worthy of an apology but many of her own elite guards were her equestrian mates, who accompanied her on her many long and arduous rides, becoming loyal friends. She saw these guardsmen as she saw her own and truly regretted her remarks.

In that moment, she unknowingly endeared herself to the hardened warriors. They tightened their jaws and resolved to protect her, with their lives if necessary. They said nothing, for it was not their place to speak, but as if on cue, they uniformly offered her a slight nod.

Isak spun about, ready to add verbal daggers to his previous bellow as the prime dawn tinged the sky. Then he noted the gleam in Tiesa’s green eyes. Tiesa was as she had always been, spirited beyond common sense, though remarkably intuitive. Being his only daughter, he could have easily spoiled her, may have in many ways, but her rebellious nature forced him to feign chastising her much more than indulging her to provide the lessons of propriety, though privately he adored her rebel nature.

Her zestful spirit made Tiesa special and set her above the tame and proper daughters of other k’Doms. If only her mother had not died when Tiesa was barely weaned. And perhaps he shouldn’t have allowed her to follow her brothers’ lead. While other girls of her station learned to mend a wound or cure a fever, weave a basket or stitch a quilt, she learned to wield a sword, hunt, ride her wapiti, and climb an a’ple tree. She somehow courted disaster yet also managed to survive it.

He had more love for this child than sense. If she did not wish to ride in Amal’s official entourage, he would not force her. To save dignity, though, he ordered her to her private chamber, removing a tailed flogger from his belt. The subterfuge was necessary because, in their world, discipline was expected. Amal’s guards exchanged looks. Some offered pity for the ‘rix could woo a man’s heart with that quick smile of hers and had already snared a tidbit of loyalty for her apology. More than one had the urge to beg the beating in her stay. Others, more seasoned and well-versed in discipline silently applauded the k’Dom’s actions.

Afterward, Tiesa’s attendants collected garments for travel, selecting, upon orders, the feminine attire befitting a ‘rix rather than the masculine wear she preferred.

A passing later, the courtyard came to life as servants busied themselves with morning chores. All kept a discreet distance, yet stilled when the ‘rix appeared, draped from head to toe with ceremonial robes, not quite a cowl but far more a djellabah, a loose-fitting hooded gown. Eyes downcast and face hidden, stiffness attached to her stride, she groaned disapproval as she entered the hermoso caja.

As the ‘rix had feared, once they were well away from the moon, a squad of Panthera, descendants of two ancient races, attacked the entourage.

Panthera known as Pants were cat-like assassins, presently scattered throughout the moons of Ynthia. The race resulted from a crossbreeding eons earlier of the Jaguarundi and the clans of Panerea from Metis, the sixth moon of Ynthia. The Jaguarundi bestial in appearance and instinct resembled the cat. The Panerea, a clan of humanoids, held little regard to life, thus the union of the two produced a cunning begatment quite willing to kill.