Bladekyll

Prologue

Medieval England, the tumultuous period of King Stephen. When anarchy reigned and sorcery ruled...

Melle stared out from behind a scruffy Hawthorne bush at the formidable warlord of Castle Weild, he mounted atop his destrier on one side of the River Noir, she spying on him through the branches from the other.

Though he wore full chainmail armor, including a closed metal plated helm that hid his visage from her view, she immediately knew his identity:

The royal heraldry emblazoned on his shield gave his noble lineage away.

Not that she needed any sodding family crest to recognize him. After peeping at Lord Cahan for nigh onto a twelvemonth now, she realized who he was from his prideful seat on his steed. On foot, his broad-shouldered bearing showed equal self-confidence. His every chivalrous move fueled her fantasies, fired her imagination, featured in all the knightly romantic tales she spun for herself.

Hawthorne bushes made her eyes itch, and Melle sniffed, then drew a grimy finger under her runny nose to catch any leftover drips.

But bugger the vexing royal sod, anyway! Not once had she seen his face. The visor on his helm was always down. After all this time, she still had no idea what he actually looked like. So sodding frustrating.

Regardless, Lord Cahan was everything she thought she might want in a suitor…after she had the whole man-woman mystery figured out.

The magical transformation from girlhood to womanhood, the one that instilled carnal knowledge, could not happen soon enough for her. More than ready, Melle was eager to learn!

Learn what was the question. What was this magical transformation all about? Would she suddenly sprout a bird's wings, grow a duck's web feet, develop a pig's snout?

A horrifying thought, that last. Her drippy nose was quite large enough already, thank you very much.

Her dear alchemist father, the only parent she had ever known, had left her in the dark about all of it. Hints of a tremendous upheaval was as much as he offered. And badgering him about the whole event did her no good whatsoever.

Melle wore a neat, although not strictly clean, wimple covering her messy hair. In her agitation, however, a knotted strand came loose from the veil and tickled her nose, a huge target that attracted just about everything, from bees to fists. The former were forever stinging her nose - especially, when she smelled flower blossoms. And the latter were forever punching her nose - particularly, when she brawled with village lads and knuckles flew.

Oh well, she mused, stuffing the stray strand of knotted hair back where it rightly belonged under her wimple. The transformation, whatever the hell that meant, would happen when it happened. In the meanwhile, she would continue to conjure up her own personal romance about the faceless warlord.

In the story, the overlord would explain why he insisted upon wearing his visor down even in the woodlands by the river, a region thick with overgrown nettles and thorns, a remote spot where General Raghlan's men-at-arms never patrolled. By all that was holy, no one ever dared come here.

Save him, the stout-hearted but fearsome Lord Cahan, out riding.

And her, the nosy yet reclusive Melle, peeping at him in the saddle.

On this side of the River Noir, where General Raghlan ruled, 'twas oft-repeated how Lord Cahan made for a bold and tenacious adversary. How he had been bloodied more than once in defense of his keep. How only inferior weaponry prevented him from taking back the holdings that rightly belonged to him through inheritance and which the general had illegally seized.

Melle puckered her brow. Hmm. Mayhap the poor quality of that selfsame weaponry explained why, in this dense green forest where no one was about but hare and deer...and her peeping at him…the valiant warrior still wore full protective armor.

Sod it, anyway. The man of her romantic tale could keep his helm. Visor too. Here on out, she would bite her tongue on her complaints. Better he wore a closed helm than an arrow through the head.

She loved him. Verily, she did. He needed to stay alive until she magically transformed. By then, she would know what to do with him. Now, she was woefully confused.

As if he understood her secret longing, the warlord suddenly removed his gauntlets. Without his metal gloves getting in her way, she could see an actual part of him in the naked flesh.

His were interesting hands. Manly hands. A swordman's quick and agile hands, with all four fingers and thumb still attached. Miraculous, a warlord having body parts all of one piece.

Even at this distance, even hidden behind a bush as she was, Melle could tell his extra big swordman's hands would suit her. Suit her how, she could not exactly say, but suit her all the same.

Melle gasped. Wait! What was this?

The overlord was rummaging beneath the chainmail he wore over his padded leather tunic, his now ungloved hand plucking at the lacings on his tight hide breeches. In the vicinity of his loins, to be specific.

'Twould appear she was about to view more of his naked flesh than she bargained for.

Bugged-eyed, Melle scrutinized what he revealed: a limp and shriveled length of himself. He jerked this limp and shriveled length up and down between his thick fingers...until...until...

He suddenly ceased.

Whatever was wrong? Had he hurt himself?

He must have. All that punishing pounding had damaged Lord Cahan.

Oh dear. Oh my. The proud and confident warrior was obviously aggrieved, bedeviled by a disappointment so heavy his broad shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

Selfishly speaking, a despairing warrior made for a melancholy peep for her.

In the interests of cheering him out of his present mope, Melle sprang out from her hiding place behind the scruffy Hawthorne bush prepared to...prepared to...

...do something to bring him joy. But what?

Once again, Melle floundered when faced with the details.

She did know this much - she was no beauty. Her too big nose again. Then there was her skinny form. Fortunately, she had a secret talent.

Well, more than one. But one secret talent would do her here:

She could dance. All the time she danced. For herself, naturally. In the woodlands, for who else would she dance?

Him. Lord Cahan. The beleaguered warrior would serve as her very first audience.

Melle swayed to the river's edge.

That caught his attention. Buoyed by his stare, Melle shook free of her wimple. As the sun-bleached linen fell to the mossy ground, she shook out her sorrel-hued hair and moved her feet. Not precisely formal steps, having no knowledge of such courtly matters, rather she mimicked woodland creatures.

Adders. Her favorites! The way the poisonous snake wiggled from the darkness into the light fascinated her. Who would not take cheer in the slimy antics of a slithering serpent?

When she writhed, the warrior flung back his helmeted head and growled like a lion.

Uh-oh. Did lions eat snakes?

Even if they did, she trusted this one not to eat her. His growl was in appreciation of her performance. Either that, or he growled over what now jutted from his hand.

His loins had certainly grown. Darkened too. His formerly limp and shriveled flesh was now a fine hard cudgel.

Did men go through transformations too?

Perchance, they did. Perchance, 'twas not only women who changed from caterpillars into butterflies.

Turning away, Melle left the warlord to his flesh pounding. Whilst he beat the thick club in his hand, she hoped he thought of her. She, of course, would always think of him:

Lord Cahan of Castle Weild, her foresworn enemy.

If ever they met without a contested waterway coming between them, the warlord would surely try to kill her. Most likely, she would return the favor. After all, they were embroiled in bloody battle.

All they would ever have in common was this:

A once shared dream beside a dark river.