Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
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A Match For The El Maiens Ch. 29 free porn video
Thank you for the feedback and votes, especially an anonymous commenter who bought the novel previously before I took it off ‘for sale’ sites.
My last chapter got 1-bombed twice! How great is that? It must be good stuff for the trolls to give it such a thrashing.
*****
The clean spring sunlight fell through the branches and budding young green leaves. Round yellow and green splashes of light lay like translucent sweets on the mulched old leaves, nearly become earth, through which the insistent straight saplings pushed up to the bright sunshine.
Mail clinked and chinked, horses whinnied, men grunted as they swung through the trees. The lines of cavalry rode by, the infantry walked quickly among them to the beat of the troops’ drums. The round splashes of light danced on helmets and on lances, on spears and on the hilts of the officers’ broadswords. A leathery scarred face showed in a pool of
light where there was a gap between two trees, then a bandaged young head with frightened eyes, then a bearded face with only one eye.
The earth was moist and fresh beneath their feet. It was good ground for marching and the day was not hot nor too cold. The officers rode back and forth between the files of men, cursing someone who was chattering and tripped on a treeroot or another who had not checked his boots before they started and had only now discovered one sock was wet from a hole in them.
Threading her way among them all went Commander-Lord el Maien. Her thin tanned face with a recently healed cut across it was set hard under her gleaming helmet, her rose-petal mouth was in a line but her slanted blue eyes looked softly at them and they reached for her hand as her horse passed them by, pressing her thin ringed fingers to their foreheads.
She would wheel her horse to the front of them again where the other Commanders deferentially questioned her on the route ahead. She would answer in clear certain tones, a small look of impatience in her eyes as if to say: but of course it is so. She would glance about her and bark out an instruction, there would be a sudden cry of command and the lines of men would alter direction, change speed.
It was a shock to them all, all the hundreds of men in the five troops, when they broke suddenly out of the woodland onto the level plain where Arventa stood.
The rich green land rolled gently down to the great wide curves of the Arven River in its slow flow to the Maier Pass, Port Paviat and the sea. Glittering in the distance, set apart from the sprawling mass of the town, was Palladia Arventa: an architectural miracle of glass, held together by the most delicate web of structures.
Between the town, the palace, the river and themselves an untidy rush of men was coming to meet them. Without the time to form a considered plan of action, without the walls of a castle or fort to shelter in, van Sietter’s troops had been thrown forward in the desperate bid for defence.
‘To me!’ Tashka’s tall figure on Challenger was suddenly in front of them all, her arm flung up their signal, her banner flying proud by her side in the spring breezes. The cavalry of five troops jumped to follow her, a ragged roar rose from the troopers’ throats and they flung themselves into the charge!
Running, riding, over the green plain at the untidy wave of men rising up to meet them. Tashka on her great grey warhorse was like a star flashing several lengths in front of them, thundering down on the red and gold ranks, even her banner-bearer had been left behind her. They were desperate to catch up with her, not to let that fine creature, their life and days and fight, be overwhelmed and cut down by the Sietter troops.
She pulled Challenger up in a flurry of turves as she neared the Sietter lines, her sword was raised, her wide blue eyes in her thin pale face stared.
A young Captain riding at the front of his cavalry had been making for her but he looked in her eyes, as he must do to engage her in combat, and his face turned, he hesitated.
‘Rania Stariel!’ Tashka shouted.
The Captain was holding his horse in the midst of a sea of cavalrymen who all looked to him for leadership. He flicked his eyes from side to side and saw no engagement yet, he had come forward too fast. He and Tashka were way ahead of their armies but his Commander was catching up.
‘Rania Stariel!’ Tashka shouted again. ‘Come to me!’
There was his brother Loisir, the Commander of a troop as he was the Captain of a Quarter: Clair el Maien’s junior, Lord Tashka’s brother Lieutenant from Fourth, thundering up the field of battle to meet him with his familiar eyes set in an unfamiliar glazed glare of war.
Rania’s nerve had gone. He knew if he fought now he would be killed because he had lost the stupid unreasoning rage of war. He had looked in the eyes of his brother officers, whom he deeply admired in his heart. He knew in that moment that the Generals had been right to argue that he ought to be hung in his brother’s place. His Commander had been wrong to swear his own life as forfeit that Rania would not break his vow. Yet he had sworn his vow with his whole heart in it and his Commander was beside him now.
‘Caja Nain!’ Tashka’s voice was like the thin sweet cry of a bird calling across to them. ‘Caja! Come to join Dar and Loisir and me! Will you deny the Captain, now Commander-Lord el Jien? Will you go by his fingers?’
‘I have sworn to my men, victory will be ours!’ Commander Nain was screaming at her, grabbing Rania Stariel’s bridle and pulling him to one side.
‘Will you truly fight us: Dar and Loisir, el Jien and the Commander, and I? Oh Caja, my dear! Will you fight us?’
‘I will!’ He was shaking and Rania saw the terror in his handsome face. ‘I will, I will!’
‘Then why is it you are going backwards?’
Caja Nain, who had raided jam out of the provisions tents of all the Quarters in turn in Fourth Sietter with her until they were caught and he was punished and she got off free because she wept when Rania and Loisir’s father, their old Commander, tried to discipline her, let go Rania’s reins and stared at her from a pinched petrified face. Her face was motionless. He saw a recently healed wound ran across the bridge of her nose. He saw her slanted dark blue eyes staring intently into his. He could not bear those eyes that loved him, and she had been a baby Lieutenant by his side, to look at him so.
He gave a yell and kicked his horse forward, his sword was raised to meet hers.
Her sword flashed up in her hand, her other arm came up, she was holding Challenger only with her knees. Her sword met his with a crash. She stabbed shallowly into his shoulder with her dagger and caught him in her strong embrace as he slid in his saddle. He dropped his sword as he clutched at his shoulder, staring into her slanted blue eyes, his face twisted between agony and sorrow.
‘Lie still there,’ she said to him softly, ‘Angel of Honour. I know you have been in Hell. Victory will be ours the day and you will be for me through the rest of your life. We will come for you when the battle is done,’ and she let him slide gently to the ground.
Rania had flung his sword down and dismounted. He was huddled into the flank of his horse, quivering with fear and waiting to be struck down. His cavalrymen were in turmoil behind him, his Lieutenants crying: Sir, sir, what are your orders? My Captain! Sir!
He turned savagely on them and said: ‘Get back! Call on the Angel of Mercy! I am for Lord Tashka and Lord Clair. My heart was always with them and yet I was true to my Commander and his vow but now I cannot.’ He stepped up to where Commander Nain lay weeping on the battlefield and stood over him with his hand gripped at his horse’s head to hold it still.
They stared at him. Half of them dismounted to stand by him and their Commander, half of them rode wildly forwards into
the H’las ranks, leaderless and hopeless. He watched them go to their deaths and bit his lip so hard that it bled.
Tashka trotted her horse to him and laid her scarred right hand on his helmeted head then she was past him and into the battle.
There were other places where men were facing those who had been comrades. Fourth and Tenth Sietter in the red uniform with a black sash across it were slow to engage. The troopers battling with them sometimes fell back saying: I cannot! Sometimes a Fourth or Tenth Sietter man failed to guard himself in his confusion at confronting a friend and was wounded or killed.
The Sietter enemy were ill-prepared and desperate. They knew that behind them was no strong united force of strategic staff and sworn Lord to the region. There had been plots against van Sietter. Some of their officers had been arrested, some hung, others obviously had little heart for the war they had been thrown into.
Tashka struggled through a mass of faces whom she tried desperately not to recognise and then she looked up and saw one she was glad to see and made straight for him.
Commander-Sir Lial Darien and Commander-Lord Tashka el Maien van H’las met in the field of battle with a crash of swords that jarred each of them to the backbone. Tashka’s sword was up and stabbing fiercely at Darien. He avoided the blow with a quick jerk on his reins, at the same time his sword came sweeping round in a flashing circle. Tashka ducked down, flung her sword up and it met Darien’s on the second sweep round with a violence that nearly threw them both off their horses.
Their horses skittered back. They both urged them forward again, cast a quick look round to ensure that no other soldier was heading for them. Their swords met and pressed, they pushed at each other. Tashka’s left hand flew up, her rings, her dagger sparkled light, Darien’s dagger was up to meet hers. Two-handed, they pressed each other. They glared into each other’s face then Darien’s horse, jostled by Challenger, fidgeted. He could not stop pressing. A look of terror crossed his face and then his foot was out the stirrup and he had leapt out the saddle and down the other side of his horse. Tashka’s sword bounced off his empty saddle.
He looked hurriedly round, meaning to try and mount and come at Tashka again but she too was dismounting and she came striding, limping at him, a tall terrible figure with wide intense eyes. He saw her limp and his eyes were startled then they narrowed as he brought his sword up again to meet hers.
He had thought that the limp would affect her fighting but the blow with which she struck at him was so perfectly balanced that even while he met it, he marvelled at the beauty of her movement. He was too good to be confused by having misjudged her ability and he struck quickly at her in return. Their swords crashed, skidded apart. She jumped to one side and struck at him. He swung round and met her blow. She stepped back and he followed her, then savagely she stabbed and stepped forward but he had seen it coming, he was back again.
They closed in another close press, pushing weapon to weapon, glaring in each other’s face, their daggers darting at each other.
Behind him, Darien became aware of a great confusion and wailing. He sensed something had gone badly wrong, he did not know what. There were cries on the Angel of Mercy but he was determined not to give her that satisfaction again himself. Then he heard what else they were shrieking: ‘van Sietter is dead! van Sietter is dead!’
He saw Tashka’s eyes flick sideways and quickly back to him. The two of them stood still, pressing their weapons with hard strength each to the other. He had lost, the battle was over but he could not bear to give up again to her. She had stood over him so often in triumph.
Tashka’s slanted dark blue eyes stared unwinking into his round pale blue eyes. She was breathing heavy and fast, her nostrils were flared and there was a barely healed thin cut across her nose.
‘Darien,’ she said.
He glared at her. His eyes were wide, he panted in her face, she could smell his warm breath, there was the long scar cutting down across his face.
‘My father is dead,’ she spoke in a colourless voice, panting with the effort of their struggle but with no emotion in her voice.
His eyes flickered quickly from side to side, always coming back across her eyes. They were in the middle of a huge ring of H’las soldiers now, who did not dare to come and try to break up the fight in case they tipped the balance against Tashka.
‘I have not often had the honour to fight with one as able as I am,’ she said. It would have been arrogance in anyone-else but his blue eyes dipped in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘Darien,’ she said.
‘Commander-Lord el Maien,’ he answered.
‘Let us part friends then,’ she said.
He looked up into her eyes. ‘I’ll not swear to Lord Clair,’ he said. She sighed. Her warm breath blew into his face, her blue eyes looked regretfully into his, ‘but I will swear to Lady el Jien’s fingers,’ he said.
The slanted blue eyes widened.
‘Will you not strip the lands from the other officers?’ he asked. ‘You may take mine,’ he added, ‘but we have had to be true to our vow. Will you recognise that?’
‘It is not for me to say,’ she answered. ‘I am van H’las. But you know that Clair is a man who not only lives by the code of honour, he will exercise duty of care to the utmost limit of his heart, and you know that Lady el Jien will never countenance an injustice to you nor any other.’
He eased the pressure of his weapons against hers. She slackened her muscles, stepped back and let her sword and dagger hang loose in her hands, watching him but not insisting that he call on the Angel of Mercy. He looked round at the H’las soldiers all around them. He let his weapons fall to the ground and stood staring desolate at the torn muddy grass below his feet. It was over. They had lost.
‘Darien.’
He looked up at her. Now that he could pay attention, he could see how she was changed by the war. She was so thin that her determination and courage seemed to shine through her pale skin. She slung her own weapons to one side and stepped forward offering him her scarred right hand. He hesitated, took it and clasped her arm about the elbow with his left hand.
‘Victory is yours,’ he said huskily.
She stared into his face. He let her hand go and stepped back. Hanya Lein had come to her side, he too was saying: ‘Victory is yours.’
She looked up at the sky. It was a clear soft blue spring sky. There was a chill in the air, a breeze on her sweat-beaded brow made her shiver but she could smell moist good earth and young plants growing.
‘Victory is yours!’ it was Commander-Sir Pava Talien of Seventh H’las.
She fell to her knees and put her face in her hands. What a hollow shell was victory to her. Her victory was Flava Trait and Petra Jien, Lial Iada and the hundreds of men who had saluted her and passed into their graves.
The soldiers around her were uneasily silent but Pava Talien put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and gripped her shoulder.
She raised her head and got slowly to her feet. She saw Darien standing by with his hands loose and his scarred face stricken and went to take his arm. ‘Go with this man,’ she said gently. ‘There will be a panic among your troop. Go with this man and collect them into their barracks. Basra! Take Commander-Sir Darien about the field to collect his men. Hanya, collect the other Commanders for me here.’
She stood in the middle of the victorious field of battle and dealt them out their duties as if they were her Captains: Give me some paper and a pen. You will arrange to take these messages to the troops we left to engage the second line of defence. You will collect the wounded and organise the medical units to assist them. You will be in char
ge of the Sietter wounded, treat them like our own or I will have your ears. You will collect the weaponry from the fallen and from the enemy. You will go into the town to establish the lines of supply for the troops, and for the troops which have engaged in the second line of defence which will be coming back here soon, you must ensure the line of supply to the enemy Sietter troops as well or I will have your ears. Sixth H’las Captains, Inien will be the acting Commander, Lein you are with me. I will see you Commanders in the Palladia in four hours and you will make your verbal reports. Bring a trusted Lieutenant to clerk for you so we may send the written reports straight out of the meeting back to the Lord General in Port H’las.
Basra was by her side, he had brought Challenger back to her. She took a moment to pat and praise her horse then she was in the saddle and off to the Palladia.
It was a big glittering toy set in formal gardens like a jewel. The building was an expression of glass, whole rooms and corridors were walled only in glass so that light flooded them. Hanya Lein gaped at it but Tashka dismounted in the courtyard and strode into it with a careless familiarity.
She nodded curtly to the frightened servants who scurried to meet her. They were doubtful at first of who it might be, she had been sixteen years old when her father first threw her out of his palace, saying he never wanted to see her unnatural face again. She was not old enough to be a proper officer but because of her great strategic skills they let her go to the troop with her brother. She came with the brother here on leave, both of them smartly turned out in red Sietter uniform. The father threw them out and here she was now in full mail with a H’las surcoat over it and a hard set in the slanted eyes that were so heartbreakingly like her mother’s.
A man came running to meet her with bunches of keys in his hands. He went on his knees in front of her, offering them up. She looked into the man’s face and gave him a curt nod, took the keys and moved away with her junior officer at her back.
She strode confidently down a corridor. On her left the formal gardens stretched down to a low hedge. Trees cast shadows through the glass onto her thin fine face over the recently healed cut across her nose. She got to a set of doors, turned and said to Hanya: ‘Go and find the steward. Make him give you whatsoever accomodation takes your fancy. I will have the blue room in the centre of the first floor landing. Tell him to make provision for all of the Commanders and any Captains they want to house here. Come back here in two hours, with the Commanders, for our meeting.’
When he had gone she unlocked the doors and walked warily into her father’s study.
It was lined with shelves and those shelves were stacked high with boxes. The back wall of the room was made entirely out of small panes of glass which must show onto an inner courtyard. The glass was opaque. It could not be looked through but even so there were huge wooden shutters which could be rolled across to stop prying eyes seeing what Lord van Sietter did not wish even to be guessed at.
There was a splendid soft pink carpet spread across the whole floor. Three luxurious comfortable armchairs and a sofa stood with a cabinet of drinks by the fireplace. In the middle of the room was a massive heavily carved desk with red leather chairs attendant before it.
By the side of the desk lay the body. Blood spilled from the dagger in his side. It did not show on the dark red robe but it had vilely stained the pink carpet.
Tashka walked slowly over to the body. She sat down in one of the red leather chairs and looked coldly at him: her father.
For months she had struggled through bitter winter warfare. She had lost so many friends. She had seen so many valiant generous noble-hearted laughing men fall at his behest. Friends of hers had died on both sides in this war. Their bodies lay in her memory, blood-stained as his was, their faces set in grotesque grimaces as they were flung out on the dirt. Already perhaps plants were growing from their flesh and bones, that was something at least. Whereas she supposed his body would be entombed with the other sworn Lords in a marble crypt to crumble into infertile dust.
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