Laura woke immensely groggy, somehow. Her back and neck were hurting and her throat was dry. She rubbed her face.

Accustomed to sleeping on plain ground, not even having so much as a pillow, came back to haunt her hard. She had decided to sleep resting against the rock on which Reo Conchobair's formidable fortress stood. That had been a bad idea. It had rained as well during the night, so maybe that had something to do with it too.

Grunting, she untangled herself from her sleeping bag and went straight for the nearby river. Morning was routine. On the way there she lazily flattened some peasant houses, but there were no living things about anywhere, save for some birds. The whole land was empty. Everyone had fled.
She came across a little well with wooden framing around its mouth and so she squatted over it to make water. If these peasants did not let her squish them they could bloody well drink her piss if they ever came back to their homes. Groggy or not, being gigantic was still good, she decided.

She took water from the river and gave her body a scrubbing. She was in need of grooming. Her hair, nails, armpits and crotch all needed tending to. She belched, reminding her of the myriad of people she had eaten the day before. They were likely all well digested now and soon she would shit them out. That was the final insult. Ending as a brown turd. There were no graves for them, no tombstones, no prayers or ceremonies.

She brushed her teeth as usual with water and a finger. For the bones and severed limbs between her teeth she pulled off a branch from some tree that had already shed almost all its leaves. After pulling strings of wood from the broken end for maybe half a minute she received something close enough to a tooth pick. She could have her living breakfast clean her teeth for her as well, she supposed, but she was in no mood to wait before eating them.

She was supposed to let them live, actually, she remembered. It was all for the cause. More hands to hold spears were better than fewer and Laura and Janna had smashed the city who's sigil the captive soldiers wore on their chests quite thoroughly, so there shouldn't be many quarrels about allegiances.

But their city had quite angered Laura. It was the reason Graham was dead, Furio had been wounded and would probably die, which was in turn the reason why Janna wasn't with her any longer. For their stupid city, Laura had to attack Havena alone. Granted, they were not personally guilty, but the amount of association clearly warranted chewing them a few times.

Her clothes were cold and clammy when she pulled them on. If it were summer, it might not all have been so bad, she thought. In summer, or maybe in the south if it was very hot there, she'd like to cut off her jeans legs and mass murder people in hotpants. That would be cool. But then winter would come again and she would regret having cut her pants like that. Maybe the tiny people could fix it like the Thorwallers fixed her burned T-shirt. She fingered the patch they had so cunningly made from ropes and sail cloth. It seemed to be holding its own.

If she and Janna never again came up north after going south, there might not be a need for long pants, though, or a need to endure cold, wet weather. That would likely mean that all little people would flee north though, she realized, so that wouldn't work either.

'Focus,' she told herself, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

She'd gladly kill ten thousand people for a cup of coffee. It was better at the ship, she decided. There, she had something resembling a real bed and she could lay there all day or sit on an actual chair and not cower in the mud all day. If she got bored she could play with her little village, but that was likely gone now.

In the small, rocky castle yard a whole bunch of people had assembled to greet her. She dreaded it but took the necessary step to tower over them. Princess Branwyn ni Bennain had changed her garb, wearing a more modest silver-white gown with a flaming red dragon's head embroidered on her sixteen-year-old bosom. Next to the princess, Reo Conchobair wore the same exact clothes he had worn yesterday, armour, surcoat, britches, boots and sword.

“Praois' blessing to you, Laura!” Branwyn beamed up at her.

The sun was Praois' Disk in these primitive people's understanding. It was a good thing that they were so hopelessly medieval. Had they had guns or something like that Laura and Janna might have been shot dead a hundred times over by now.

“Whatever.” Laura yawned in reply. “We've got a busy day and I have not slept very good. What's the matter with that dragon you wear, is looking Thorwalsh fashionable now because almost all of them are dead?”

It looked Thorwalsh because it resembled the figureheads some Thorwalsh ships had at their stern and sometimes their aft too.

“It is the sigil of my house!” The princess explained. “Albernia was first settled by Thorwalsh, a long, long time ago, so it is said!”

Branwyn did not look Thorwalsh at all to Laura's eyes, but who knew how many generations of cross-breeding she had in her.

“The oldest forefather of our house was Niamad ui Bennain, a great Thorwalsh warrior and count of Kyndoch! He ended the wizards' reign of terror in Havena and was raised to Duke as a result! The Havenans celebrate this event still even today and ever since his decree, magic has been outlawed in the city!”

“I'm in no bloody mood for history lessons today.” Laura frowned down at her.

Her living breakfast was assembled in the middle of the yard, held at spear point by Conchobair men at arms. The captives did not wear the Winhaller sigil today. They wore nothing at all, only their hands in front of their tiny manhoods. Reo and Branwyn had been thoughtful to undress them for Laura's convenience.

“Please don't eat us!” Cried the one Laura was looking at.

She wasn't very hungry. It was early and she had stuffed herself so full yesterday. Maybe that was why she had slept so bad too. Her belly was empty, though, and upon her thinking of eating the tiny men it replied with a rumble.

She felt like being mean as well. Someone had to pay for the way she felt. On the other hand was the cause.

“I'll tell you something, my snacks.” She determined. “We are fighting a war but are finding ourselves short of troops. If some of you think that maybe King Finnian or Lord Bragon Fenwasian did not treat you very well, I will give you this one chance to join us.”

“Here, that's me!” Several men squirmed forward, some throwing themselves onto their knees. “I hate that boy Finnian and that prickly thistle Fenwasian as well, all of them!”

“No me! I hate them even more! I make japes about them! I could tell one if you would like to hear!”

“Nothing would more likely ruin my breakfast.” Laura interrupted their begging and plucked up the jester from the yard.

Holding him between thumb and index finger, she lifted him first into her mouth that she kept purposefully open so that the others could hear his screams. She made him wrestle her tongue for a while before transferring him between her molars where he was promptly and noisily crunched.

“Oh, too bad.” She said, swallowing. “I have an appetite after all, it seems. I'm afraid I must withdraw my offer.”

“Mercy!” A man suffered a nervous breakdown before her very eyes.

He collapsed, crying and pissing himself, all over his own body in a big, yellow arch.

“Are you serious?” She sighed. “That's disgusting. How am I going to eat food that pissed on itself.”

'You should think more often before you speak,' she told herself right afterwards, because the inevitable and predictable was now unfolding.

It had a comical element to it, seeing the captured soldiers some desperately trying to squirt piss out of their penises while others let loose their yellow streams and showered themselves with their own urine. Thinking one step ahead those unable to pee soon got the idea of dirtying themselves some other way. Like pigs they wallowed in the filth upon the ground, smearing themselves with anything they could find.

“Stop it!” Branwyn bitched at them. “What in Praios' name are you doing?!”

Reo Conchobair stood, looked incredulous and laughed. Laura had to smile as well. She was feeling cynical.

“You've won. I am powerless against your piss.” She declared jokingly. “Have them marched to ground level so I can trample them.”

The Conchobair soldiers already moved to obey when Reo raised his voice.

“That's a waste, though!” He shouted over the ensuing tumult. “Look around! The people have all fled! Where will I find men? We're at war with all the rest of Albernia now and Nostria is at war with the ogres and Thorwalsh besides! This lot might be craven but surely no one can deny their dedication!”

Laura gave a disinterested shrug. Breakfast was ruined now. She was in no mood to have the soldiers washed. She would have trampled them as a punishment for defying her but if Reo Conchobair could use them as meat shields then so be it.

“Have them then.” She replied. “But they are forbidden to wash for a week. Let every man know them by their smell.”

“Aye!” Reo nodded and grinned. “The coward's stench!”

He was supposed to be a king, Laura remembered, only he wasn't very kingly at all. But what was a king other than some cruel arse with power and a crown, she added in her mind, thinking of King Andarion of Nostria.

“I suppose we should be off.” She said. “There's no one here I can squish. Standing around here won't win us the war.”

“Right!” Reo Conchobair replied before hesitating. “But...about...the...”

Laura rolled her eyes: “Yes, I know. Anyone I squish can't hold a spear against Nordmarken or whatever.”

“If they overrun us after you have gone, all we are doing between now and then will have been for nought!” Branwyn urged her.

It was the implementation of the conversation she had overheard the night before. As a result of hearing that conversation Laura had originally resolved to be super constructive and convert rather than kill anyone she could. She was even going to let live most of the nobility, bar King Finnian and a few others.

It was all for the sake of creating a reliable military ally for Horas, as well as a kingdom in which she and Janna had not to fear being attacked by armies of thousands of little men while being relatively free to do with the small folk as they liked. That had been before Laura had slept badly, however.

She had meant to send Reo Conchobair off to get sell-swords and gather troops so she wouldn't be the only force on their side capable of doing anything meaningful. The logic of it was inescapable. Nordmarken, apparently, was a neighbouring duchy with enormous military power. And the military power of the rest of Albernia that was yet to conquer outweighed that of Branwyn and Reo heavily.
Besides the few dozen before Laura's eyes now, they basically did not have anything, neither friends, nor wealth, nor troops.

'I should have found allies with actual power.' She thought bitterly. 'So dumb.'

It all came down to her. It couldn't stay that way, or Branwyn would be proven right and Laura had wasted her time.

“Where would you go to raise an army, Lord Reo?” She asked, rubbing her neck and trying to get the kink out of it that had nested there during the night.

The little king-to-be who was not a lord in truth, not even a knight but only a squire, let his eyes wander over the landscape for a moment: “Where ever I can find men. Everyone around here seems to have died or fled. The fleeing will have spread the word and may have caused more dispersion. The question is which way around Farindel Forest it spread more quickly. The road along the Tommel leads to Honingen. It seems the most likely destination for fleeing small folk. I would go the other way, west, south-west, and try my luck there. There, the likelihood of being discovered and attacked is smaller too. Fewer castles that way, but we may have to fight in any case, if the locals' loyalty to our enemies runs too fierce.”

Laura smelled a logistical nightmare. She also foresaw Reo being caught, tortured and executed for a rebel, a traitor or a usurper. And that was only if he didn't die fighting as his father had, or became ill on the march, which was historically still the number one cause of death for soldiers from the time of Greeks and Romans all up until the American Civil War.

“Rubbish.” She declared therefore. “You're coming with me. Branwyn too, and a few bodyguards. The rest of your lot can stay here and guard your castle. We're going to Honingen first, right? I'll give it to you along with any soldiers and people who don't want to end up under me.”

She gave the former Winhaller men a look while they were timidly getting dressed with clothing the Conchobair men gave to them bit by bit. Some already tried on their new black surcoats with the crossed yellow swords of their new liege.

It all came down to her in the end. In her presence, loyalties sometimes meant little. They were all afraid she would squash or eat them. Once converted, turning their cloaks again would be hard for them, she guessed. Some would probably try to flee. Others yet might still feel to have obligations towards their former lords and ladies. But, integrated into a new force, most would likely stay on Laura's side. Plus, there was the risk of her physically coming back and crossing paths with them again if they joined some other force or whatnot. For them it was surely preferable to march under the banner she wouldn't step on.

Reo Conchobair turned: “Bran, Rigan, Conn and Cuil, you are coming with us!”

Some of the men who wore better armour and weapons bobbed their heads but one such man he had not addressed looked distraught.

“My lord?” He asked. “Ha-have I done anything to displease you?”

It must have been his right hand or some other sort of companion. Men formed companionships, fighters especially. That was the way of it.

“No.” Reo Conchobair smiled. “You I task with riding west in my stead. Try your luck at Jasalinsfield, Ahawar, Crannonmor and Ulaidh Broch. Ride as far as you have to, spend as much gold as you must. Phex with you, my friend.”

“Clever.” Laura commented dryly. “We should get going now. Grab some food and blankets or whatever you are going to need. I'm not stopping at every hovel to see if there's something worth plundering. Keep it within reason, though. I'm not your pack horse.”

She was trying to learn from previous mistakes. A dedicated bunch of bodyguards was the most important one but food, water and sleeping equipment came close behind it. Much and more could happen while travelling, she well knew.

When all was done, her six little charges rode on the palm of her hand. Everyone leaned over her thumb to marvel at the view and shout out landmarks as they saw them. The way was relatively easy, just following the paved and well-maintained road south next to the river Tommel. Not a single soul was in evidence anywhere.

“You are fast!” Reo shouted up at Laura after the first two minutes of walking. “At this rate we will arrive at Honingen in no time!”

That was the first good news all morning, Laura felt.

They made a little diversion away from road and river to check out a village that Reo named Arwanagh. It was a small collection of peasant homes with thatch roofs and a gappy stockade wall all around them. Also, it looked completely deserted, recently so.

“It can't be entirely deserted!” A man at arms declared. “There's always those who are too old or too stubborn to leave, even before foragers come through and burn them out!”

“As I said, they have been warned.” Reo replied. “I think this is not the last empty village we are going to find. The stupid ones are likely trying to hide inside their houses.”

Laura gave that remark a brief investigation by trampling one house flat and demolishing another piece by piece with her foot.

“No one.” She said, but still tried a third little house.

In there, she uncovered an old couple, wrinkly and white-haired, cowering at their table and howling with terror. Half their house was gone by that point but they hadn't moved away. It looked like the soldier had been right.

“Unlucky.” Laura told the couple before stepping on them, feeling like the table gave more resistance than their old bones.

Laura decided that destroying that village was worth nothing. Closer to Winhall had been the village of Tommelbend. Maybe there too she could have found some old or stupid folk. That wasn't worth it, though. She had even seen a larger village on the Nordmarkener side at some point, but that was empty too.

It was the same picture at Garindrim and Fentûr and any land in between. Empty hovels, empty road, empty fields. Even the animals were gone, except the occasional lonesome dog or cat.
With every step Laura took there were more tracks on the road. It might be that she was looking at the beginnings of a diaspora, she thought. That would be really bad, like coming down from northern Thorwal had been.

All the villages were small, less than a hundred souls at the very most. It was staggering to see how many peasants there must have been in total, though. That was to be expected however. In medieval Europe, so she remembered what lessons in history she had taken, almost anyone had been a peasant. Before the advent of tractors, fertilizers and such things, or even the steam engine, productivity in agriculture had been so low that it was necessary for an enormous part of the population to produce food at any given time.

For Lauraville, hunting and gathering had sufficed in that regard for a long while because it was situated in deep, largely untouched forest where likely no hunter had ever strung a bow. In the long run, they would have had to become a farming community as well.

“I can see Iaun Cyll!” Reo Conchobair shouted suddenly, pointing.

“Iaun what?” Laura asked, spying in the distance to see.

There it was, the castle, a huge grey-green square atop a cliff over the river Tommel. Next to it was a larger village that was framed with grey stone walls and towers as well. She walked closer. Something moved on the parapets and towers.

“Iaun Cyll!” Reo expanded. “Weyringen Castle, the seat of Bragon Fenwasian! The village next to it is Ortis!”

“Where did he ever get all this stone?!” Asked Princess Branwyn ni Bennain in a tone that suggested jealousy. “And why did he give it to the peasants?!”

There was uncommonly much stone indeed. Most houses inside the village seemed to be made of it as well. It did not escape Laura that Branwyn did not know this place, though. That could mean a lot or nothing at all, but it was at least a little suspicious.

Once again Reo was forced to explain: “Well, he has his own quarry nearby here. Why he gave it to the small folk, I do not know. Maybe he couldn't sell it off or maybe he just has too much coin. Maybe he wants others to see or believe that he has too much coin?”

The medieval equivalent of a showy sports car. Laura had to grin. Above every tower blew the yellow flag with the black thistle, only identifiable in her mind to anyone who already knew what it was. It was the sigil of House Fenwasian.

“The Fenwasians are nothing if not arrogant.” Branwyn declared in her own most arrogant and proud tone.

She sounded snubbed.

“It's not deserted.” Laura noted when she came closer and a horn was blown from the walls. “Do I get to squish Count Bragon then?”

It was far quicker than she had anticipated. She had walked for little over half an hour at the most.

“That would surprise me.” Reo replied to her. “I had heard that he was called upon to join the king in travelling to Havena and celebrate the reunion.”

Nonetheless, or rather, of course, he had left a garrison behind to guard his castle. The village Ortis looked abandoned upon further inspection, but the soldiers in the castle had not joined the flight.

The square fortress had four huge, round towers, one at every corner. Other than that, it was big, perhaps one or more of Laura's steps between every tower. Inside were barracks, stables, sheds, granaries and what ever else a castle should have. There was probably more than a castle should have, Laura thought, because it was so big and the space had to be used somehow. There were two large smithies she could identify from afar. That was certainly a little excessive, as was the grey-stone bathhouse with its huge rectangular glass windows. Glass was almost a costly rarity in this day and age, for most people anyway.

There was also a garden area, nice and idyllic with ivy ranking everywhere. In the middle was a well, a fountain to be exact, mounting the stone statue of a fairy that was pouring water from a jar into the well. But just like the smithies were not being worked at at this time so did the fairy not pour water.

“All this, and not even a bergfried.” Reo Conchobair observed, looking.

He was right, Laura recognized. Iaun Cyll, or Weyringen Castle, or whatever its bloody name was, did not have a bergfried. That was strange. Perhaps it didn't need one because its walls were excessively high and thick, the towers at every corner excessively strong and anyone attacking this place excessively stupid to do so. There were some larger, splendid buildings which would likely be the living quarters of the Count and other nobility, housing kitchens and whatever else they needed, but they did not seem nearly as bunker-like as other bergfrieds Laura had seen.

The gates were barred and looked almost large enough for an ogress to walk through them upright. They would have befit a city, but not a castle at any rate.

Though huge, the walls might have reached just to Laura's knee. They were standing on their cliff, so the difference would be more until she got close enough to stand right next to them. The towers reached maybe to Laura's hip. She had gotten occupied wondering about the bergfried and the excessive, city-like display inside the castle walls, so she noticed too late that each tower had an artillery piece perched on top of it, two bolt throwers and two catapults in total. The sight of them made her blood freeze.

“That's a lot of men for just a garrison!” One of Reo's soldiers noted as well.

“Some of the refugees will have taken shelter here!” The king-to-be who was still a squire replied. “Don't be fooled! These are dressed up peasants! Little more.”

That seemed to be about right from what Laura could see. She was within ten metres now, from her view of the world. There was definitely movement atop the towers and she thought she could hear the machines' wood and iron parts working as they were loaded with winches that worked cogs turning torsion ropes with counter weights in turn.

Laura hated siege engines ever since the Horasians had pummelled Janna and her with theirs. Her instinct told her to turn heel and run while her mind shouted at her to get there as quickly as possible and destroy the war machines before they could loose. They only had four of them, small ones, and she couldn't see anything burning viciously up there so they would likely, hopefully, not shoot fire.

“Loose!”

The catapult on the closest tower shot first, letting fly a cascade of small rocks. Laura closed her hand around her little allies to shield them and took the shot full on. It mildly felt like someone shot her with a rubber band. The catapults were no threats if they continued launching pebbles at her.

“Loose!”

The bolt throwers thrummed noisily and she could see their wooden frames rocking with the force. To her surprise she saw that they weren't launching bolts at all but large balls of rock or iron. One flew straight past her eye and she could've dodged had it hit. She missed the other and felt it slam right into her cheek. These rocks were larger and had more force, but where a massive, long bolt might have broken her skin, the rock rather felt like being hit with a bullet from plastic toy gun for children.

She made her decision.

“Notch, draw, loose!” The command rang across the parapets when she came close.

There were sparsely few archers on the towers, most of them having assembled upon the long wall that was facing her. But every second man she had judged an archer from afar she could now see pointing a crossbow at her. That was roughly the same, she supposed. Crossbows had more punch but less range and took longer to reload.

“Are you alright in there?” She asked her fist but if there was an answer she couldn't hear it.

She was worried about the artillery but couldn't open her fist now that she was taking arrow fire too. The tiny shafts pricked her skin as she had known them to. In the scheme of things, they were no more than an annoyance, less than a flea bite. She had to shield her eyes and hope for the best.

She walked quicker, climbing the inclination on which Iuan Cyll stood. The slope was not steep, only a little rocky. Her feet for once did not sink into the ground as much as they had in the wet mud, though some rocks crumbled like dry clay under her heels. She felt mighty.

The second catapult, situated on one of the towers commanding the river, was not manned. Apparently they did not have sufficiently many skilled men to do so. The other catapult and one of the ballistas was clearly not crewed by professionals either. The catapult loosed into the very same direction as before, missing her entirely. The ballista that had missed her eye before shot high this time, the round stone ball it fired sailing straight over her head.

'One would have thought I was hard to miss.'

On the other ballista was a man who did not rush his shot. He was the only one she had to be afraid of. The apparatus thrummed and rocked and Laura shot her hand out to shield her eyes. The ball slammed hard against the palm of her hand, leaving a sting.

“Give up!” She shouted and started jogging the last few steps.

The peasants on the walls started screaming. Those who had crossbows fired them blindly at her before tossing their weapons away and running for their lives. In their midst, Laura could see knights, however, men in armour, clad in shiny steel and deadly determination. Their Fenwasian surcoats, yellow with the black thistle, looked undeniably haunting.

Finally, she was at the walls, going for the towers first. The one with the experienced artillerist she pushed over with her hand. It took her weight leaning into the structure to do it, but once it broke in the middle the top half come down all on its own. Its occupants screaming wildly as they died, but that was almost entirely drowned out by the thunder of crumbling stone.

The tower to her right had a catapult on it and she swatted it, flattening the war machine and everyone atop the structure in one single blow. The merlons jettied over their foundation, providing gaps, murder holes, through which arrows could be shot or rocks or nasty substances poured onto attackers below. When she removed her hand it was all in ruin.

She stepped over the wall where chaos now reigned supremely. Everyone was hurrying to get away. With two small steps that landed inside several buildings she was at the other side where she did for the other siege engines as well. Then she spun around, doubled back and dragged her foot through a stone house with crow-stepped gables, using the rubble to block the gate.

No more arrows were flying but the knights on the walls now made toward the towers as well. Inside the towers must have been stairwells that led to ground level. The armoured men carried their swords and shields and when they couldn't go on account of the fleeing peasants they hacked through them. As a result, the peasants were soon fleeing as much from the knights as from Laura, only Laura was inside their castle already and the gates were barred.

“You've lost!” She shouted at them. “Lay down your weapons and no one needs to die! Assemble here before me! Anyone who tries to hide will be killed! I am flattening every one of your little houses!”

To prove it she took a little stomping walk around, levelling buildings near the gate. She was already wondering if there were any pretty damsels in this castle that she could eat or fuck to death. Branwyn had looked just as tasty in her white gown as she had in the yellow one she had worn yesterday. It was a crying shame Laura couldn't eat her.

At first, no one made any attempt to heed her words. The first people came pouring out of the bottom of the towers and ran for the gate, only to find it closed to them.

“Don't you dare move another inch!” Laura stomped the ground in front of them, shaking the entire castle to its foundations and making the nearby gate rattle noisily.

A knight made it through the tower, sword in hand. He roared and ran straight for where Laura was standing. She placed her foot in his way to see what he would do. He wasn't very smart, she judged, because he immediately started to charge her sneaker and plunged his sword into the white rubber above the sole. To make matters worse for him it seemed to have gotten stuck there a moment later and he huffed and puffed in frustration, trying to wrench it free.

She took away sword and shoe to crush a man with her other foot. He was making along the wall, trying to get to the other tower.

“Assemble in front of the gates if you want to live! You there on the northern walls! That counts for you as well!”

She stomped the runner flat and looked to the northern wall where some more cunning wretches had run, trying to make toward the river. If there was a postern gate there, she couldn't see it. Upon her words they all froze in their tracks, looking like thieves caught stealing. Then they turned and scurried back, heads betwixt their shoulders.

More knights arrived below, bloodied swords, almost all of them. The first knight who had lost his sword had run over to Laura's right foot again and now pummelled her shoe uselessly with his shield.

The knights were tall, strong men. Laura judged them useful to her cause but she also anticipated having to trample the lot of them and being content with winning the two hundred or so peasants. The peasants were craven. They now assembled where she had told them to, none of them still carrying their weapons.

The thought of taking a break, sitting down and playing with them crossed her mind. It was intriguing. She could crunch the armoured knights, hear the peasants beg for their pathetic little lives and search through the castle to look for even more helpless prey.

The knights saw their brother in arms and how useless his efforts were. They halted.

“Leave off the monster, Rondragoras!” A tall, markedly slender man in black armour cast down his equally slender sword. “It has beaten us!”

The tumult calmed and the other knights assembled behind the one who had spoken and one after the other tossed their weapons and shields onto the ground. The fierce one, apparently named Rondragoras, pulled off his helmet and threw it furiously against Lara's foot before turning and marching to where his comrades stood. His shield had its own sigil, she saw, a red wolfs-head on a white disk upon a black field. The slender man did not wear a shield at all.

They remained where they stood, however, not mingling with the other soldiers. Laura counted eighteen knights in total. In between their group and the considerably larger one gathering in front of the gate there was another demerger, seven men, some of whom with ragingly differing appearances. Laura opened her hand around Reo and Branwyn so that they could help her untangle this mess.

“Well done, Laura!” Reo shouted after throwing himself half over her thumb to see the scene below. “I see we have captured two lances of the Thistle Knights!”

“Thistle Knights?” She asked, looking at the gathered men in armour who as per command now formed up to one group of ten behind the man with the wolf on his shield and a group of eight behind the slender one.

They all looked dark, somehow, eerie, and none of them looked like they often spoke. The slender one had black, shoulder-long hair in which raven feathers seemed to have been braided. He might have looked effeminate had his eyes not been a piercing azure blue that made Laura feel cold when she looked into them. He was the least armoured of his bunch and the only one to carry a horn that was banded in shiny gold. Just as Laura was scrutinizing him, a raven flapped down from out of nowhere and landed on his arm as if it were a trained hunting bird.

It happened so suddenly and appeared so naturally that it was more than slightly unsettling.
The knight with the wolfs-head on his shield was the only other one without a helm. His hair was black as well, though closely cropped. He was balding, looking a solid forty years or older. His eyes were dark, squinting pits, which made it impossible to determine their colour.

“Laura, put me down so I can get a better view!” Reo urged her.

She bit her lip. It was dangerous. She did not want to lose the new companions she had just acquired.

“Stay away from them.” She determined, speaking as much to Reo as to her captives. “Anyone moves, I'll squash them flat.”

On the ground, Reo disembarked with the four bodyguards. When Princess Branwyn wanted to follow, Laura closed her hand and rose again. She was the most vulnerable and most important because of her claim.

“What is the meaning of this?!” A queer-looking man with ice-white hair said, standing in the group of seven between the knights and the peasants.

The slender knight with the raven on his arm replied with a mild smile: “This, Sir Niamus, is the squire Reo Conchobair. He seems to have risen above himself.”

“Eh,” Reo retorted with a sporty gesture, “you know me.”

“We don't know you.” Growled the knight with the wolf on his shield. “Some of us knew your father for a scheming sack of shit.”

“Apples don't fall far from their tree.” The slender knight pointed out.

They had their grim looks and the serene darkness that surrounded them, these knights, but they also possessed a near menacing calm. None of them seemed afraid, even though the entire situation ought to at least have surprised, if not enraged, terrified or devastated them.

While they talked, Laura felt awkwardly like an outsider, like a friend's friend coming uninvited to a party. She did not feel very much as sublimely powerful as she had a moment ago.

“Careful now, Rondragoras of Wolfstone.” Reo continued engaging in the verbal dick-measuring contest. “Nordmarkeners should not open their mouth so wide when they're in Albernia.”

“He's from Nordmarken?” Laura jumped in, eager to re-join the conversation and make her presence known.

She remained crouching so they wouldn't have to crane their necks like birds when trying to answer her. That the man with the wolf on his shield should be from Nordmarken made no sense whatsoever in her mind. She had thought the kingdom and the duchy frequently at each other's throats. Both were part of the Garethian Empire, however.

“Yes. I am.” Rondragoras of Wolfstone said simply.

His cheeks were covered with coarse black whiskers, adding to his grim look and fitting his rough, scratchy voice. This one sentence seemed all the answer she was going to get.

“Listen, you stupid bugs.” She snapped. “You'll answer my questions more thoroughly or I will tear your little limbs out before I step on you!”

“They have yielded, Laura!” Reo called up. “We shan't harm them, unless they give us cause! And these men are valuable captives. Count Bragon has paid heftily to ransom his Thistle Knights before. Let him pay, then you can do with them as you please.”

Bragon Fenwasian therefore was not one of the men assembled here, Laura gathered. Nonetheless, among the shields upon the ground were many bearing the black thistle. But that could mean that they were Fenwasians as much as that they just did not have their own sigil to bear.

“Who are the Thistle Knights?” She asked sternly, deciding that if this time she wouldn't get the answer she wanted she would start killing people.

Reo understood: “They, the Knights of the Black Thistle, are the backbone of the Fenwasian strength, a well established order of knights, squires and men at arms. They divide themselves into nine lances, three of them at each castle the Fenwasians hold. Here at Iaun Cyll are Siandrim, Drudyadrim and Sirdrim, each round and about ten men strong. Sir Rondragoras of Wolfstone is lance master of the Siandrim and that there is Sir Mathariel Swordsong, lance master of the Sirdrim.”

The tall, slender man smiled and inclined his head, his icy blue eyes shining.

“The lance of Drudyadrim is not present. They must be guarding the count on his voyage.”

“Clever squire.” Mathariel Swordsong mocked.

Laura concluded that this would likely mean the shields without sigils belonged to squires and men at arms who had not yet been knighted. That raised the question of the thistle shields.

“Are there any Fenwasians here?” She asked next.

Mathariel Swordsong tugged his long black hair behind an ear and ignored her question: “Wait, if she will kill us anyhow after our lord ransoms us, why should we not die fighting?!”

The question hung in the air a moment too long. Laura couldn't tell if Reo's declaration that she could 'do with them as she pleased' was earnest or just a threat meant to frighten them. In any case, it now revealed itself as a blunder. Something else caught her eye, though. When he tugged his hair away, the right ear of Sir Mathariel became visible. It was queerly shaped, its tip way too long and pointy to be called normal.

He looked graceful as a dancer when he moved, and quick as a cat besides. He wore the least armour of them all, too. Two swift, light steps, a snatch and he stood there, his long, slender sword in his hand.

“Die!”

It happened almost too fast for Laura to react. Mathariel was sprinting at Reo and his bodyguards who were still busy drawing their own weapons. Laura's fist came down as quick and fast as she could, to smash the rogue knight into a pulp.

“Laura, don't!” Reo screamed in the last instant.

She stopped, but it looked as though her punch had carried some sort of magical force. It hadn't, she understood a moment later. It had only been that Mathariel had thrown himself to the ground, azure-blue eyes wide with terror. He was finally afraid now.

“The madness of elven blood!” Reo cursed and spat on the ground, past his blade that he had now drawn. “We need him most of all, Laura! Men say that he his Count Bragon's eyes and ears!”
Bragon's eyes and ears were good to have as a bargaining chip, Laura had no doubt, but that was not the thing at the forefront of her mind.

“What blood, did you say?” She asked, her voice quaking.

“Blood?” Reo asked perplexed. “Elven blood! The blood of the forest! You know? The pointy-eared kind!”

The ground shifted beneath Laura's feet. She had to sit, and did so with a massive plop of her arse that shook and scared them all to the marrow. Sometimes this planet felt like a gigantic rabbit hole and she was tumbling down its depths, her surroundings becoming weirder with every few metres. The talk of fairies in Farindel Forest had been unnerving already, as was the statue upon the well that stood behind her somewhere. She had seen the pale white whale at Thorwal, the one the Thorwalsh had believed to be their god Swafnir. She had endured the demons in her mind. She had watched herself trying to murder Janna, unable to stop herself until Vengyr had been crushed.

She was well aware of how fucked up things could get. It felt like all the nerdy fantasy writers from Earth had somehow stolen all their ideas from this planet. Or maybe she was projecting, she thought. The similarities did not make logical sense, unless what she actually saw was different yet somewhat like what her stupid mind expected, and then filled out the gaps to form something it could comprehend.

“Are you an elf?” She asked.

Mathariel Swordsong, who just a moment had only been a tall, slender man with black hair and blue eyes, rose to his shaking legs and began dusting himself off. He did not recover his blade from ground where it had fallen.

“I have the elven blood, it is true.” He said stiffly, avoiding her stare. “Some around these parts still do. Elves...”

Finally he looked up at her, forlorn: “You do not know very much about this kingdom, do you?”

“No, I don't.” She chewed her lip. “I really, really don't.”

She should have taken a crash-course or something before coming here, she thought. She didn't figure that there were any tourist guides she might have read but Furio could have filled Janna and her in on how weird this place was, surely. Maybe it was just Farindel again. Maybe the world was normal over at Havena where she had originally been going.

“The Elves have been gone for thousands of years, maybe more, or so mages and other bookworms would tell you.”

This meant that at some point there had been elves and some of them had cross-bred with humans. Why not, she thought. It could never get weird enough here.

“Oh.” She replied. “So, I'm not going encounter an army of pointy-eared pricks who are super good bowmen?”

“Err, no.” He said, irritably. “Maybe in Farindel Forest. Who knows what's not in there. But if they were still in there, some place, I would imagine the fairies would have lost a word or two about the matter.”

That was the other thing she didn't quite understand.

“Have you talked to fairies?” She asked, feeling rather like a journalist by now, with all her questions.

“Of course.” He said, as if it was as normal as breathing. “The noble house of Fenwasian keeps close ties with Farindel and her kin. Some say we ought to forsake them and honour the Twelve with all our hearts but if you ask me then the Twelve can be bloody well buggered.”

The looks on many a face around foretold that this was the general sentiment here. Mathariel's raven flew back to him, this time landing first on his head before hopping down upon his shoulder. It cawed angrily over having been so rudely shaken off him when he ran.

“Can we get captured now, or is this going to take all day?!” Rondragoras of Wolfstone complained from behind.

Laura ignored him: “How large are fairies?”

Mathariel held out thumb and index finger, measuring perhaps the size of a mouse. It was hard to tell accurately at the distance and this small it would make little difference to Laura anyhow. The weird thing was that she could tell his ear was pointy, but not accurately how much space there was between his fingers. Maybe she was projecting after all.

“And they are magical and powerful?”

“Oh, yes.” He replied after a pause. “If not, why should we heed Farindel's laws?”

It could all still be a fluke, Laura thought, imagination, superstition and exaggeration. Maybe Mathariel Swordsong was just a tall, slender man with absurd ears, an effeminate face and a strange name to himself. Their reasoning for believing in fairies was no better than the Thorwalsh's reasoning for believing in their albino whale. But the albino whale had been real.

“Then why didn't they warn you of my coming?”

He laughed a scoffing laugh, dark and bitter, before turning and going back to his lance. The audience was over. Laura had wasted much time talking, much more time than she had spent fighting these tiny men. She didn't know if it was worth it and felt like she had already learned as much as she was able to remember from today anyway. Anything more would be spillover.

Reo turned his head briefly over his shoulder to ask her: “What makes you think they weren't warned of your coming?”

Laura ground her teeth. They had been warned, of course. Not by fairies though, but the myriad of peasants on the run.

“I mean,” she corrected herself, “why didn't the Fairies warn you that I could walk over all of you as if I was taking a stroll? Why did you stay here, anyhow? You could've fled with the others.”

Some of the knights exchanged a few looks.

“We do not flee.” Sir Rondragoras finally declared flatly.

Laura sighed in frustration: “The lances of the Thistle pricks are made up of knights, squires and men-at-arms, correct?”

She reached right behind Sir Mathariel, to the hind most men and plucked one of them up with her fingers.

“You'll have formed bonds, I guess? I hope so. I want it to hurt your hearts when I squish this little runt.”

She held the man upside down in her hand, shaking him in hopes his helm would fall of. It was fastened with leather straps or other means, but the visor popped open to reveal a face far older than she had expected. It could be a man-at-arms, or a squire of Reo's age. But Reo had given to testimony that his being a squire was only on account of the king hating him. Therefore Laura had concluded that squires had to be younger. In any case, the risk was too great.

“Hmpf.” She sighed again and tossed the man back to his lance master before reaching for the next one.

If the knights were really prized hostages, she couldn't risk it. For all she knew it could be a Fenwasian she was holding in her hands. The next one proved old as well, and the one after that too.
“Remove your fucking helmets.” She finally growled. “You from the other lance as well, all of you.”

They did as they were bid quickly enough, visors clattering as the helmets fell to the ground. There were far too many grown, stubbly and bearded faces. The crew around Mathariel Swordsong did not have a man who looked younger than thirty, except for their lance master himself. With that one, Laura didn't trust his young looks, though. It wouldn't make sense to make the least senior one the leader. Maybe he was an elf, or a half-elf or something like that. And maybe elves didn't age as normal people did. It might just as well be that he looked younger than he was. It made no matter.

In the other lance, the one behind grim, taciturn Rondragoras of Wolfstone, she spied two fitting victims, young and sprightly. Laura feared another outburst of sudden anger, so she scraped all the weapons and shields on the ground safely away from each group before going for her targets. Several older men were shoved to the ground by her uncaring hands but that only served to show them how powerless they were. The one squire looked twenty or twenty one, the other about sixteen.

“You two aren't knights, are you?” She asked rhetorically. “No, you are too young to be knights.”

She had to do it now, if not for them then for herself. It couldn't be that she didn't make any use of her power and be dominated by this bunch of tin men and their superior contempt. She had to show them who was boss and that they had to fear her.

Mathariel Swordsong's raven cawed angrily and the man next to him shouted: “Leave them be! We are your prisoners, monster! You have no cause to harm them!”

Somewhere along the line, the reality of the situation must have slipped from their minds, she pondered queerly. Maybe it had been when they saw Branwyn and Reo. They might have understood that this was a coup d'etat in motion, a revolt, so to speak, and since the principal perpetrators, except for Laura, were high-born, they judged that they did not have to fear for their lives after all.

It seemed illogical and still was to be expected that nobility did not kill each other frequently after capture. Otherwise, so had been the medieval reasoning, the world would sooner or later run out of blue blood to intermarry with. In battle, these men probably had not all too much to fear either, other than injury, on account of their formidable armour and skills. If they were beaten they would yield and that was that. Then it was the dungeons until they were ransomed.

'Such a strange world.'

She was getting rather irritated with it: “I am ninety metres tall, Sir, and heavier than you could possibly imagine. I don't care about your rules, your honour or lack thereof.”

She lifted her right butt cheek off the ground and deposited the two squires in the dent it had made in the hard ground.

'Fuck them all,' she thought.

She'd savour this.

“Gods! No!” One of the squires screamed when she rolled back over them, feeling their tiny hulls give in to her massive weight.

That was much better. In armour, the boys had looked like proper men, fearsome knights just like the rest. Their youth was on their faces and in their minds, but veiled in helmet, visor and silence there was no seeing it from a distance. They had been tall and muscled, well fed, likely noble-born. And now they were flat, because Laura had decided that they were expendable.

“Elric! Moril!” Thistle Knights shouted in terror.

Laura smiled: “Calm your horses, little Sirs. They're still alive. I can sit down on top of them fully if I want, which will crush them like bugs, but right now they are just a little bereft of breath. I'm as good at crushing as I am at not crushing you, you see. If you want them to survive, you will have to answer my questions more to the full truth. Don't say I haven't warned you.”

The two bodies under her butt cheek had now about the thickness of a wallpaper, if she was any judge. It was sort of hard to tell through her jeans but she did not have to tell that to their comrades yet. They were most definitely dead, though, probably crushed to a point where even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them any more.

It already felt much better than before.

“I am Ian Conan Galahed Fenwasian!” A knight next to Mathariel Swordsong pressed forward. “If you would dishonour yourself and torture prisoners, let the boys go and take me! I'm a Fenwasian, that's what you want, isn't it, monster?!”

“Aha!” Laura made and grinned. “A Fenwasian after all! Then you should know I can't torture you, as much as I would enjoy that. You're a valuable prisoner, and besides these boys seem to work well to distress you, don't they? One thing, though. I don't give a damn anything about honour. If you mention it again I might feel inclined to fart, and that would rattle those little fuckers down there quite severely.”

Then she laughed right into his little, stupid face. He looked forty, or close enough, and would have been among the least impressive among the knights if one looked solely at his stature. His armour and apparel looked better than average, however.

“How closely related to Count Bragon Fenwasian are you, little Ian?” She asked with a raised brow.

“His...well...” The knight chewed his tongue. “His grandfather and my great grandmother, uh...they were siblings.”

“Ooh.” She frowned, thinking if there was even a term for such a distant relationship in English. “Are there any more Fenwasians here?”

A man from Rondragoras of Wolfenstein's lance stepped forth: “I am Branhir Fenwasian, Count Bragon's second cousin!”

This one was a tad larger built, more like their average specimen. He was older, fifty-five-ish, but his armour looked not quite the best.

“That means you have three Fenwasian hostages now!” The first Fenwasian shouted. “How many do you need?!”

“Three?” Laura asked perplexed. “I only see two.”

He looked perturbed in turn: “They said you took Winhall! That means you must have captured Jonides Fenwasian, Count Bragon's cousin who is chancellor there!”

“Chancellor?”

That was an office Laura hadn't even heard of yet, assuming the steward did all or most of the managerial work, anyway.

“Uh,” she frowned, “Reo here took the steward Saravil Hexen's head off. I never saw no chancellor. Reo, did you see him? He wasn't among the guys we captured, right?”

Reo Conchobair gave her a brief frown and shook his head.

“Well,” she winced, “I'm afraid he got smushed...or eaten, or...”

'Or shoved up Janna's ass.'

No, surely he would have said something, she reasoned. If he was dead he must have gotten underfoot while she and Janna had been trampling people. There wasn't much time to say anything then, other than perhaps a last few begs for mercy, or maybe a yelp or a scream.

“You should've warned me that there was a Fenwasian in the city!” Laura rounded on Reo and Branwyn alike.

Reo did not even so much as turn his head, although he winced too. Branwyn had the grace to try and look innocent before she shrugged.

“Did you even know he was in there?!”

'Did we even talk about capturing anybody before I went back into city?'

This could be a fault of circumstance, as well as theirs, she reasoned.

“Get off the boys, monster!” Ian Fenwasian demanded. “They've done nothing to warrant this punishment!”

Elric and Moril were still flat under her butt cheek. She just didn't care to move off them yet. Sitting on the tiny squires made her feel in control.

“I asked a question I have not yet received a full answer for.” She said. “I'd hurry if I were you. I fear the air is getting a little bit thin down there.”

“We were warned!” Mathariel Swordsong explained. “Not by fairies, aye, but by the streams of fleeing peasants. Our steward, the Thistle Knight Sir Rodowan Ahawar warned us that we should join them and run away from here. If truth be told, we thought that we could beat you. We have strong walls and even siege engines for defence. We underestimated you and how terrible you were. That is all!”

“And who of you is Sir Rodowan Ahawar?” She asked, looking from face to face. “It sounds like he is a much cleverer man than any you are.”

“He's not here.” Sir Rondragoras' rasping voice broke the brief silence that followed.

“He has always been the more cunning man.” Sir Mathariel added quickly. “And it is not the first time he has done this either. When Nordmarken threw its weight behind the cursed lord of Niamor, Count Bragon made him the commander of our troops at Aran. To prevent a massacre he led everyone out of there and gave the village up without a fight. That was why he was made steward in the first place.”

Laura rubbed her nose, thinking: “So, I guess you took from the peasants whom you could get while he was leading the others away from here?”

Ian Conchobair replied: “Aye, and he called us fools for staying! Now, get off those boys before you suffocate them!”

“Where will they go from here? Honingen, right?”

She enjoyed how the fear for their long-dead comrades seemed to make them sheer mad. She sat cross-legged and heavy on the ground. Had they bothered to examine the situation they could have known that there was no hope. But even so, Laura saw at least one more twenty-something squire she could squelch for leverage. And after that she could go through them, man for man, and find out who was a knight and who wasn't. Anyone without a 'Sir' to his name could be made collateral, she judged. For the hostage thing it would be better to kill as few as possible of the Thistle Knights, but in truth she already wondered if all this bother would pay off in the end.

She felt somewhat like a dog chasing cars. And now a new element had emerged that had almost escaped her.

Reo was the one to speak it aloud: “Honingen is the most likely destination! If we want to catch them on the road, any moment we linger here brings them closer to their destination!”

Men were needed for fighting. That was the tricky bit. If Laura could send them somehow reliably to Conchobair castle or take them with her to Honingen where she planned for Reo to set up his army, then she could do with the rest pretty much as she liked, which would mean that she would finally get her breakfast.

“Do you think we can still catch them on the road?” She asked innocently, her mouth watering at the thought of the peasants she might get to eat.

“Likely!” Reo gave a court nod. “Winhall to Honingen is probably a hundred kilometres as the bird flies. There is no way they made it even if they ran all through the night. Ha, even if they grew wings! But the sooner we're on them the lesser time they have to get notions into their heads about swerving off into the wild!”

That opened the can of worms Laura had been frightful of. What to do with the people in front of her. She would have little other choice than shoving her hostages into the pockets of her jeans, she resolved. It was only until Honingen where they'd be put into dungeons after she captured the city. The seven strangers in the middle, she had not yet gotten to. She did not know if they were worthy of keeping or not.

Then there were the two hundred odd soldiers. They looked like peasants, every one of them. She had heard somewhere, she didn't remember where, that garrisons were usually not very large at all. Not in peacetime, anyway because castles were strong force multipliers. In theory, a handful of men could fed off hundreds. It was just because she was huge enough to step over the walls as if they were a less than a garden fence that she was able to be relatively unthreatened by them.

That meant that this lot were lost likely actual peasants, people who had borrowed the land in feudal fashion and owed their lord fealty, taxes, serfdom in form of labour and service in times of war. If they loved their own lives more than their liege lord they could well become soldiers in Reo's army, given that he would be king of Albernia later on. They might even join wholeheartedly, thinking that there'd be lots of plunder to be had in Laura's wake.

Most likely, though, did Laura's presence scare them to death and they would wish nothing more than to run away as fast and far from here as they possibly could. Therein was the problem, because she had neither the time nor the nerves to walk them personally from here to anywhere. Neither did she yet have sufficient human allies who might have helped her with that endeavour. The four men of Reo's and Branwyn's bodyguard would never be enough.

She thought about using a ship as a container, the way Janna had done for Furio, but there was no such thing here. Her blanket might serve, though, she thought. She used it as a sack anyway. She could stick the dildo in the back pocket of her jeans for the time being. Janna had taken the lamp with her, the useless night-vision device as well.

That left the seven people she hadn't gotten to yet.

“Let's wrap this up.” She sighed, turning to the group between the peasant soldiers and the Knights of the Black Thistle. “You, I will hear your names and what you do.”

She had wasted so much time talking, she thought. Maybe it was tactic as well, to give this Rodowan Ahawar as much time as possible to lead his track of fleeing peasants away from here. The Thistle Knights surely were not a talkative bunch, she'd seen that from the start, but while at that, Mathariel Swordsong's deliberations had let her down many paths she could have avoided. If every castle would turn out as tedious as Iaun Cyll, maybe crushing them all to paste was the better option. Otherwise, maybe she'd never get to Havena.

Her head was more than full with things she could remember of one day, too. And it wasn't even noon yet. Honingen was ahead of her, a whole city she had to sort out. She could physically get from place to place with frightening speed, but talking went the same speed as it did for anybody.

“If you are done with us, get off Elric and Moril!” Ian Fenwasian reminded her.

“Oh yes.” Laura allowed. “I almost forgot.”

She lifted her butt off the ground before letting herself fall down unchecked, right on top of the two dead, little squires beneath her.

“There,” she grinned, “that's that. Will you shut your mouth now, or do I have to mash some more of your friends?”

He bit his tongue at that, while at the other lance one knight started retching up red wine and the remaining twenty-something squire started to weep uncontrollably.

Laura felt like a god among insects, albeit one with a tight schedule just now.

“Names and positions.” She rounded on the demerger of seven.

“Armund Holbruch!” The first of them started, white terror in his eyes. “M-m-master of messengers!”

His costume looked fancy like a herald's, gold thread worked into his doubled that no doubt displayed the Fenwasian colours on his chest. He wore a chainmail shirt on top of it that looked entirely unfitting. The rest of him were a puffy yellow-black hat with a feather and high riding boots.

“Good.” Laura said. “Can you fight?”

“Fight? Err...”

She snatched him off the ground and tossed him into her mouth in one quick move. One swish of her tongue and he was bathed in saliva. Then she swallowed him whole.

“Next.”

“Valpo Winhaller, quartermaster!” Bellowed the next man, short, stout, clad in helmet, armour and a leather coat over his chest.

A quartermaster had something to do with logistics, or at least that was intuition led her to believe.

“You look useful.” She said. “Care to join Reo Conchobair's army?”

He squinted up at her: “I would sooner walk through the freezing depths of the Nether Hells before I betray his Countship's trust!”

Laura sighed, cocked her index finger behind her thumb and moved it into position. Valpo Winhaller, as he called himself, stood in front of two others so she had to aim a little more careful than usual. Before anyone could react she had already given him the flick, sending his tiny body smashing against the castle wall behind him. His chainmal rattled noisily and his half-helm flew off, and on impact his head exploded on the grey stone leaving an ugly smear.

“Next!”

All heads had turned to see where the quartermaster would land. Now they all shot around, back to her.

“Er, uh, Rhuad Groterian.” A tall man in plain, brown robes announced, visibly uncomfortable. “Uh, I'm the medicus. Was the medicus, I mean.”

“What do you mean 'was'?” Laura scolded him. “Can you heal people or not?”

“Uh, aye.” He replied through a face full of pain, chewing his lips all the while.

“Move to the left then.” Laura guided him with her eyes.

The tall, lanky man took a step, stumbled in his robes and fell. Then he scrambled to his feet and all but ran to where he was bid.

“I am H-Hilmer and th-this is B-Bartug!” Two soldiers in chainmail were next. “I teach s-sword and p-p-pike and B-B-Bartug teaches b-b-bow. You k-k-killed our friend F-F-Fengorn when you t-t-toppled that t-t-tower! E-E-if you ask me, e-e-you can get f-fucked b-by r-rats!”

Laura had to giggle. The odd couple were two men of not very high age and obviously not very high intellect. Their low birth was written plain on their faces. Hilmer had hair like a bundle of wet straw, Bartug a fuzzy mat the colour of dry dung. Hilmer had been the one speaking, dragging Bartug along by a gambeson sleeve.

Confronted with Laura's gaze, the latter wrenched free and made off toward the peasants upon which Hilmer looked rather distraught, finding himself alone and the words he had uttered still hanging in the air.

“Fucked by rats?” Laura was still merry with giggling. “Who was Fengorn?”

Hilmer swallowed hard and a wet spot began to form at the front of his britches: “H-h-he w-w-was the m-m-master o-of k-k-catapults!”

'Damnit.' Laura bit her lips.

An artillerist would likely have been a priceless asset. He had been at the only ballista that she had considered a threat while taking the castle. It had been the one whose shots did not miss and had almost hit her eyeball.

“Go to your friend, before I change my mind, Hilmer.” She said. “You will teach Reo Conchobair's men from now on.”

“Th-th-thank you!” The man almost collapsed but picked himself up and made over.

Laura had his name. Would she still want to squish him for his insolence, she could do so at any time.

“Next.”

There were only two soldiers left, one in good clothes and good armour and one that looked like his lesser form.

“Collin Wallbreaker, captain of guard!” Said the first man. “Before you kill me, tell me where went the other demon and that evil war wizard who summoned you?!”

That was a surprisingly solid question, coming from a commoner, she judged. The man appeared also utterly fearless.

“Why,” she asked, “do you have a little wife somewhere you're afraid she's going to step on? Scared she's gonna gobble up your children like sweetmeats?”

That was the only angle she could think of to win him over. Men were often willing to die, at least more so than women and children. Fear of harm to the latter was the way to get to this kind of man, although it was unspeakably cruel.

Collin Wallbreaker's face hardened stubbornly and he remained silent. It was a bit of a stalemate because Laura didn't have his wife and kids at hand to threaten him.

“And who told you we were demons?” She tried something else. “Who here thinks I'm a demon, raise your hands.”

Three or four hands among the Thistle Knights went up, more so in defiance than anything else. Two or three hands went up amongst the peasants as well, although they were soon and quickly lowered again when they saw that the sentiment was not broadly shared.

“You don't think I'm a demon?” Laura turned to the squat, lesser man behind the captain of guard.

“Um, err,” he stammered, “er, I, uh, heard you were just, uh, a wench, begging your pardon. Heard you fell into an alchemist's kettle. Err, Stewain, uh, porter and adjutant to Collin, I am.”

“Do you have family, Stewain? A wife, maybe? How would you like it if I twisted your legs round and round until you told me where they were? And then I'd go and trample them. Would you like that, Stewain?”

Her plan was to do exactly that, torture the little porter until he gave up where she might find his family. That way, the captain of guard might have a change of heart, or so she hoped. She had placed her bets without the lesser man's shortcomings, however.

“Err, don't have no wife to speak of.” He said, rubbing his bald, shiny head. “Got a sister in Aran. You want to step on her, uh, she got fire-red hair. Can't miss her. Might be, she died, though.”

“If you can hold a spear, over to the left with you.” She determined, oddly disgusted with him. “Or, actually...”

She made true on her threat anyway, took him and grasped a hold of one of his short legs.

“No!” He cried out in terror before his voice became a rasping scream.

Laura twisted, feeling the tiny bone snap and the weak flesh give way. She soon found that was much either to turn him rather than his flimsy little leg. For that, she had to keep Branwyn locked in her fist and give her a presumably most uncomfortable shaking, but the tiny princess had been all but mute ever since Laura had stepped over Iaun Cyll's walls and she saw it as a fit little punishment.

There was only so far Stewain's leg would turn before the spongy flesh of his leg made it twist back after she let go. So, she started doing his other leg. He had fallen unconscious, but when his second leg went the way of the first, this time failing at the knee joint, he woke up and screamed even louder than before. When she was done he was a squat, crying heap upon the ground. He was one-legged too, because the second leg had simply ripped off while Laura had twisted it.

She dragged him by his remaining leg, face-down over the ground and under her buttcheek to end his misery.

“So, that's what I'll do to you if you don't join our army.” She told Collin Wallbreaker afterwards.

Stewain's gut exploded with an audible pop as she sat down on him. Men like him had a hard lot in life. No one loved them. Not a tear was shed for him in the yard, not like the handsome little squires Laura had crushed. Those boys, rich, privileged, tall and good-looking, they had everything, always. The only joy Stewain probably ever knew was a little alcohol after his guard duty.

The captain's face grew only harder and he didn't say a word.

“Don't be a fool, Collin! Turn your coat!” A Thistle Knight shouted.

It was Ian Fenwasian, Laura saw.

“No,” was Collin's only reply and he stepped forward.

So, regretting it all the while, Laura had to do it again. Before she started, she remembered something, probably inspired by the stubborn look on the man's face. In one history class she had taken, regarding medieval times, the professor had made the students watch a tediously long, enormously old movie about William Wallace. She remembered a scene where he was somehow tortured for one reason or another.

“Can you yell out 'freeeeedooooom' while I do it?” She asked when the captain was already in her hand, solemnly awaiting his legs being twisted off.

“Freedom? Why?” He grunted through clenched teeth.

“Just a thing I'd like to hear you yell.” She shrugged.

It would be evening before she could have explained to anyone here what a film was.

“For Albernia's freedom we fight and we win!” He grunted instead, and way too early.

“Aye!” Shouted the Thistle Knights from the ground.

“That wasn't what I meant.” Laura scolded him. “What does that even mean.”

“They are the words of the house I serve!” Sweat ran down Collin Wallbreaker's forehead and his chest was pumping as if it was having a seizure. “For Albernia's freedom we fight and we win!”

“As part of the Garethian Empire?” She asked. “Sure, I mean, whatever floats your boat. But that's not freedom for Albernia, is it. You're lumped into one big thing, the smaller cousin to Nordmarken who gives you a spanking every time you try to truly be free.”

“And how would your reign be any different?!” Spittle flew from the captain's mouth and he was shaking. “Crushing people, eating them, wiping cities from the land! You're a monster, whatever you are!”

“I'm no more bloodthirsty than any army of yours.” She corrected him in a piqued tone. “Well, maybe a little, but that's spilled milk under the bridge at this point. Actually, the places I call my own I'm rather peaceful toward. I squish only those pets of mine that displease me, for the most part, anyway.”

She turned to everyone at large: “Just so you know, I understand you hating me and all that. And, I guess you know this; when I'm done with Albernia and Reo is king and Branwyn is queen, you'll be part of the Horasian Empire as Havena was until recently or whatever. But if you hate Nordmarken and want your kingdom to be as free as humanly possible, then my side is where it's at. If your little neighbour duchy sends troops, which they will, I'm gonna walk all over their little army. Maybe I'll even go over there, squash some peasants, take some hostages and so on. Maybe I'll pluck some damsels from their castles and eat them.”

She could barely wait to do that, in truth. No pesky talking, just crushing, eating and fucking everyone to death that she'd find. No restraints, that was what she yearned for. Why she had said the words she had said, she didn't really know. She wanted to make clear that, if Albernia was understood as a concept independent of its current rulers, she was actually its friend and ally.

“Collin's a good man!” Ian Fenwasian stepped forward, arms spread wide as if to calm her. “And what you say, uh, there's things in there that agree with anyone here! Let Collin live and capture him with us. Speak to our Lord of Fenwasian and see how he decides in this matter! I wouldn't want to be seen as a traitor, but...but if king Finnian is as powerless to stop you as we were, which I still hope he isn't, with all my heart...but if he is, his lordship might be inclined to bend the knee! Stop killing us, I beg you! Keep us alive for when you may have need of us!”

It was an awkward moment. Laura cursed herself for not saying anything to the same effect before she had murdered two squires, the porter, the quartermaster and maybe even the artillerist. Some Thistle Knights, a moment ago her fiercest enemies, even looked slightly doubtful now.

“Yes, that's fine.” She said. “I was just about done killing, anyway.”

Her eyes found those of Collin Wallbreaker in her hand. He had a broad, stubbly jaw that looked like it had been broken once or twice in his life. He had scars too and was otherwise of the overly manly variety, dark, hairy, tall and strong. A guy like that did not budge. A guy like that died before he would change his mind, unless he was presented with a real dilemma.

But Laura was unsure what to ask him. Whether or not he'd be willing to be her captive until Count Bragon made a decision would make her look weak. That was simply a no-go.

“You can join me now or you can die now, you little shit.”

She had decided that she was tired of thinking.

“Kill me!” He spat, spittle and sweat flying.

By now he looked as tough he had taken a bath.

Laura took his head between her thumb and index finger and gave it a little yank. Branwyn shrieked in displeasure when she found herself caught in Laura's fist again. The captain of guard's neck snapped like a little twig, but somehow that was not the end of him.

“Praois have mercy!” Someone prayed when they heard a crack.

“Boron, have mercy!” Someone else lamented when the next bit happened.

Collin Wallbreaker's body started twitching unaccountably, bobbing about while he was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were still awake, wide with terror. It took a moment for Laura to understand. He was paralysed and his body failing. He'd be dead in a moment but probably convulse and spasm all the way until the end. It really was grotesque.

She put him on the ground, placed the tip of her index finger over his face and pushed down, crushing his head like a cooked pea. Afterwards, she wiped the blood and brains off on his surcoat and pants.

“So.” Laura cracked her knuckles. “Now that this is done, I can...”

She stopped when she noticed that she had forgotten one man who had edged over to the Thistle Knights to whom he didn't belong, judging by his apparel. She counted in her head. Hilmer and the bow guy, the quartermaster, Stewain, Collin, the master of messengers and the healer. She must have miscounted before, she noticed to her surprise.

She had missed the first man who had really spoken after she had entered the castle, the man in armour with the icy-white hair. It appeared to be an accident on her part because he cleared his throat to remind her of his presence. That was entirely queer.

“Ser Niamus Landogar af de Floodplains!” He announced in a dialect Laura had never heard before.

He didn't look terribly old other than his hair. His clothes looked reasonably in shape as well. His armour on the other hand seemed withered, ancient even, like a ruin of forgotten stone wall in a forest.

'And who might you be,' she almost asked before realizing that he had just said who he was.

“You have no cause to kill this man!” Ian Fenwasian's voice still bore the bitterness of Collin Wallbreaker's death he had just witnessed. “He is an honoured guest here at Iaun Cyll!”

“Do not put yourself in harm's way for my sake, Sir!” Sir Niamus replied amiably. “I have lived long enough, I'd say.”

“What's the matter with you?” Laura asked, annoyed that she had to deal with yet another silly, little munchkin. “Why is your armour so green and your hair so white?”

He stepped out to where she could crush him without endangering anyone else: “My hair lost its colour the day that the Count told me I had erred in what year I was in!”

“Your armour, Niamus.” Mathariel Swordsong reminded him softly after a moment. “Why is your armour so green.”

“Oh!” He scratched his head which made him look senile all of a sudden. “Well, I am three hundred years old, or some abouts. And so, it happens, is my mail. It hasn't rusted, mind you. As for why they didn't let it, I could not say.”

Laura squinted her eyes in distrust: “Who are they?”

“Fairies!” He looked up at her with clear, blue eyes, not as strong and frosty in colour as the elf's but close enough. “I was a knight. I am a knight, I mean. But as it happens, one fateful day, I wandered looking for quests and, be it levity or madness, I ventured into the Farindel. I came out, most like the other way, or the way I had come. Makes no matter. I saw a group of knights riding down a path, or a road or...”

“Is this story going somewhere, or are you wasting my time?” She asked him pointedly.

Everything was weird about this weird guy, but her curiosity got the better of her and she decided not to squish him yet.

“Focus, Niamus.” Mathariel told him, just as soft as before. “Your mind is wandering again.”

“Aye!” Sir Niamus rubbed his chin and squinted. “There was a bridge. And thinking that not a day had passed I went ahead to block it for I saw ridderfolk on march, coming my way-ward. The knight I served as squire did not heed much of war and battle, you must know. His was the duel, the fair and honourable combat, to please the goddess.”

“You were still spoiling for a fight.” Laura understood. “And then?”

“Then, uh?” He coughed. “Then it was Count Bragon, leading a host to make fast this Muriadh. I had never heard of such a man and so we began talking. That was how we discovered that I have survived a number of kings and emperors and much more. Three hundred years, or near abouts, we later constructed with the help of scrolls. In my day, the decree of Abilacht that gave Albernia independence had only been twenty odd years past. It was a princedom, then. Now it was a kingdom, one among many in the New Holy Empire! The next morning, my hair was white as snow. I have been washed up here, as the sailors say, ever since. And Count Bragon has given me room and board.”

Room and board might have have been what he had in mind when he devised this fairytale, the charlatan, Laura thought sceptically. On the other hand did his armour look withered to a point that seemed hard to fake. His hair was white as well, even though he didn't look old, but the same had been true for the scary little guy Laura had found outside Joborn. His speech and accent might have been an act.

“And this really happened?” She raised a brow at him to make clear she didn't quite believe it.

Mathariel Swordsong spoke with unbreakable confidence in his voice: “I was there that day. Many of us were. You did not see the look in his eyes when he and the Count were speaking.”

Laura sighed: “And what do I do with you now, you three-hundred-year old...mh, knight?! We can duel if you're still up for it. Although, I fear that would be a rather one-sided affair.”

“Ha, I am certain of that!” He allowed.

“Bragon hosted him all this time!” Reo Conchobair shouted from below. “He's grown fond of the man, that's plain to see! Take him hostage and let him be ransomed as well!”

That was as good an idea as any, Laura found. She was eager to go. Or not. If truth be told, she was wroth to go just as much. She was done, feeling like after a session of studying. She craved a beer and maybe a joint in the park on campus, back on Earth. Maybe that park had been why her degree had come into jeopardy. It all seemed a life away now. And here she was, with elves, fairies and three-hundred-year old knights.

She had to go, she decided, or else she would strand here like Niamus Landogar of the Floodplains had. One after the other, she shoved her prized captives into the front pockets of her jeans. Rondragoras of Wolfstone growled a curse when she put him in. She still hadn't worked out how a Nordmarkener knight was fitting into all of this.

When she took Ian Conan Galahed Fenwasian, the more talkative of her two Fenwasians at this time, she noticed that he had a silken handkerchief wrapped around his left arm and a tattered, dirty piece of cloth around the other.

“This is the one my wife once gave me as a favour.” He explained darkly when she asked him about it. “This is a piece of the surcoat of the one that slew her.”

Laura swallowed hard and decided she had had enough personal interactions with the Thistle Knights for the moment. When she took Mathariel Swordsong she noted that he was a most beautiful man, however. His tall slenderness gave him something rogue that she liked.

When all hostages were stored she came to the peasants. They mostly stared at her feet, now that she was towering over them again. Laura would have liked to squish a few just for good measure but decided against it.

“Guess you guys don't want me to step on you, huh?” She gave them the choice with a smile.

Two or three brave or foolish men looked up at her puppy-eyed before shaking their heads.

“Well. If you don't want to get crushed I'd say you owe me a favour, don't you, you little things? A pretty big one, I'd say. Anyone who doesn't think so can step forward now.”

It was so much easier when the little mites on the ground were disposable as they should be. She tapped her foot to make clear what she intended to do with anyone who didn't take her up on her offer.

“You lot are Reo Conchobair's army now.” She continued point-blankly. “I have a way to transport you. You don't have to be afraid of me when you are on my side. I am going to go and get the thing that will allow me to take you safely to Honingen. Stay still. If I find any of you where I don't want you when I come back in a moment, I will have to twist a few more legs.”

Reo's bodyguard had done a solid job on finding any hidden blades like daggers or hunting knives on the hostages before Laura had taken them. Now she left them alone with two hundred enemy soldiers, only taking Reo with her. She just couldn't be bothered on a day such as this.

When she came back, no one had moved and the rest went extraordinarily easy. The padding of her sleeping bag was reasonably comfortable for her and kept the cold off. It was day now, however, and Laura was moving and didn't feel particularly cold. To the tiny men the padding of the sleeping bag was more comparable to that of a half-deflated bouncing castle, to be sure. There was no way they would die in there unless they got under a pile of their comrades and got crushed to death that way.

They let themselves be put in without uttering any sort of complaint. Laura had half a mind to sit on the sleeping bag after she was done, but did not do that either. She'd get to kill plenty at Honingen and it couldn't be much farther away now.

Before she finally was able to go, Reo urged her to do something about the horses in the stables.

“Fuck, does this ever end!?” She cursed in annoyance.

Branwyn, still on her hand because there might be people still hiding in the castle, snapped her head around in alarm. Reo looked like a beaten dog.

“I'm only...these are excellent steeds, is all!” He called up at her.

“Yes, fuck!” She groaned.

'If the next castle is as bothersome as this one I will fucking trample everything in there.'

A big castle like Iaun Cyll was a big deal to dismantle if one wanted to make use of its parts. Reo determined a man of his bodyguard who was to drive all the horses north to Conchobair Castle where he would get more men. Together they would return to Iaun Cyll and loot it and well as look for hidden survivors. That way, the wealth of Bragon Fenwasian would be theirs, as well as weapons or whatever else there might be worth stealing around here. The horses turned out one per Thistle Knight, and a few more, twenty one total. It was clear which horses belonged to the Sirs. They were great, cold-blooded war beasts, muscled mountains of flesh, blood and hooves.

The men tied them together with ropes and the chosen bodyguard drove them through the gate after Laura destroyed it with a kick of her foot. She did so, that if people still hid in Iaun Cyll they could not bar themselves up against Reo's looters.

Then, finally, she gathered up Reo, Branwyn and the three remaining guards and went on down the road south. It didn't go very well. She just didn't feel like it. She arrived at the next village quickly and found it as empty as the others. There was another one close, slightly inland off the river, but it looked just as hastily abandoned.

“This is Thariansdrim, and that there in the distance is Ambenhall!” She was dutifully informed.

As if it mattered what these empty shells were called. At Ambenhall she could spot a long hall that reminded her of Thorwal. It was slightly out of place here. Some people she'd seen bore somewhat of a resemblance to the Thorwalsh, true enough. But everything else seemed more to have an Irish touch to it than a Viking one.

“Yeah, uh, I'm not doing it.” She said, turning heel.

Reo's mouth fell agape: “Wha...what do you mean?”

Laura shrugged: “I'm taking a rest. I'll only continue when I feel like it.”

Branwyn looked like she finally wanted to speak for a moment before deciding against it. Something was terribly off about that girl, Laura started to feel, but just the same she had no nerve to get to the bottom of it now.

Back at Iaun Cyll, Laura set everything down. She ordered the soldiers from her sleeping bag.

“Out, you mongrel bastards, out!” She toyed with them. “Find me some strong rope, I want to hang myself!”

Branwyn, Reo and their guards, all unsure about this new development, were transferred to the castle wall where they would be safe for the moment. Laura relished having her hands free once more. Carrying tiny people all the time was such a bother.

“Find me rope!” She reminded the soldiers as they crawled out into the daylight once more. “You do what I say or you get squished! And why are you still wearing Fenwasian colours?!”

For some of them those colours were just black and yellow pieces of cloth wrapped around an arm. Others wore ill-fitting surcoats that had obviously been pressed on them so they be made recognizable as Fenwasian soldiers. For still others it seemed they must have had a shield in black and yellow or a piece of cloth wrapped around their spear. Since they had given up their arms they were now just people in primitive, dirty clothing.

“Search the castle for hiders!” She stomped her foot in front of them. “And find me food! I am hungry and I will eat now or I will eat you!”

She took the Thistle Knights out of her pocket and assembled them in a neat group, not divided by lance. They were dinged up from having been confined quite tightly. Maybe her jeans pockets were not such a sound prison for so many at once after all. None of them had died or sustained any horrible injuries, though.

“Take these fuckers to the dungeons and lock them in there!” She went on, never waiting for any form of reply. “If anyone of them escapes it's death for all of you!”

Leaderless, the peasants were confused and timid to action. They were unassertive by nature, Laura sensed, or else they wouldn't have been on one of the lowest rungs of their societal ladder. Feudalism did not exactly make it easy to move up, but even in a medieval society for there would have been a myriad of ways for a clever man to advance himself.

“You better get moving. I'm rather out of patience right now.” She warned.

Eventually, the cleverer plough pushers went ahead and occupied themselves with the easiest task of finding strong rope and lots of food. Both should be readily available somewhere in a castle such as this.

“You will need tools as well.” Laura added to her list of demands. “Saws, axes, whatever. I want my nails trimmed.”

She also wanted her pubes and armpit hair removed, but she'd only reveal that later on. Her hairdo she did not trust them with although there was little to lose on that front. It was a dissolved, tangled mess at this point that was in dire need of sorting out.

She looked around and decided to first bar the gate once more which she accomplished with two fists full of dirt and rocks. From atop the cliff on which Weyringen Castle stood she could see well and even farther over the Farindel Forest. There were curiously few spruces, those trees that had needles instead of leaves. It was rather all leaves and ranks in between, looking as thick as wool in places. Then there were queer clouds rising from there, mists thicker than blood.

It was eerie, calling somehow and yet she would have been terrified of walking in there.

Iaun Cyll was much better. With the castle walls it could be her little sandbox to enjoy a little me-time in until she felt a little more like moving on.

Since the castle stood on a cliff overlooking the river she had a certain suspicion that she went out to inspect immediately. She half expected some sort of hidden tunnel from inside the castle down to the water where maybe a little rowing boat would be tied up to provide a stylish escape for the Count in case his walls got overrun. But there was no such thing to be found, just rocks and pebbles and no tunnel at all.

Back inside the castle walls, the peasants had apparently resolved that the Thistle Knights were less scary without their armour on. It turned out to be true to some extent only. The men were still silent, grim and arrogant-looking, and tall and strong almost all of them. Mathariel Swordsong had a well-defined body like a swimmer, although he looked a little lanky without his garb and plate. Rondragoras of Wolfstone looked even more dangerous now. He was equal parts fat and muscle, and looked like he could've ripped off the heads of any of the scrawny peasants surrounding him.

“How does it come a Nordmarkener serves as a Thistle Knight?” Laura finally asked.

She had to get it over with or the curious side of her would agonize over the question to no end.

“Well, I'm here.” The knight spat. “Came by horse. Ha!”

His bark of laughter was all contempt. He hated Laura as much as he had any reason to. Her nationalist or patriotic appeal might have struck a chord with native Albernian sentiments, but to his ears her words were only more poison.

“His house and mine have long been friendly.” Explained Ian Fenwasian while wrestling his wife's silken handkerchief and the piece of her murderer's surcoat from the peasants that were taking off his mail and plate. “It is tradition that a promising page of either house be sent to the other for seasoning after which he will usually remain with his sword father, the knight who gave him his spurs. Sir Rondragoras counterpart is Magorn Fenwasian, who squired at the Castle of Needlerock.”

“Needlerock, huh.” Laura tried to memorize it. “Well, I will try and remember when I go there and flatten it.”

Rondragoras of Wolfstone looked out at her and snarled: “Ha! Go there and get pricked!”

It was the obvious remark about a place called Needlerock, Laura supposed, although she found it rather unimaginative. In fact, she made another decision.

“Well, I'm sorry, but I guess your tradition is suffering a little blow today.”

“What are you doing?!” Rondragoras shouted when Laura lifted him.

He was equal parts fat and muscle. No doubt he'd be quite nourishing, although Laura had quite overlooked that he was also quite hairy as men like him often were.

“Magorn left Needlrock after there was confusion and turmoil over the succession!” Sir Ian rambled on in hopes of stopping whatever he thought Laura was doing. “He went to Castle Newall to recommend himself as the overseer in the establishment of the Count's Guard and was confirmed in his new position without hesitation!”

Laura regarded Rondragoras of Wolfstone dangling in front of her eyes.

“Oh.” She licked her lips. “So I won't have to watch out before I step on everyone at Needlerock, or Wolfstone, if that's even a place.”

“Curse you!” Rondragoras roared when he entered her mouth.

He tasted slightly musky, like the air in a bathroom after spraying men's deodorant. She wasted no time swallowing him.

“Ah.” She made, grinned and licked her lips again.

They all stared at her in horror.

“What?” She laughed. “Did he look too big and bad to you?”

He almost certainly had. Even he himself seemed to have been of the opinion that he was too much man to deal with. Perhaps he never learned how to conduct himself around larger and stronger people than himself. Now he could be an arrogant, taciturn prick while she digested him. It was nothing to her, although Reo looked troubled.

“Take them to the dungeons, lock them up and guard them.” She commanded. “Leave Sir Mathariel with me. I think both those lances shall require new points.”

Once more Ian Fenwasian pressed forward: “If truth be told, our lance master rarely tends to his leadership responsibilities! He leaves them to me, as his second in command! Kill me! I'm the one you want!”

“Not really, my little Fenwasian.” Laura picked up the tall, slender knight with the pointy ears gingerly with her fingers. “And if you've done it before then I'm sure you'll make a splendid new lance master.”

Mathariel's raven was gone. It had flapped away when Laura took the man into her jeans pocket but now it was suddenly back again, flying at and around her hand as if to attack her. Laura swatted with her left hand, once, twice, but she couldn't get the bird at all.

“I'm not killing him, you stupid thing.” She said. “I just want to talk to him a little.”

Oddly enough, that seemed to calm it and it flapped to perch atop her knuckle as if to guard over the knight it belonged to.

“I really like your hair.” She told Mathariel. “That feather thing is quite something.”

His long hair shun like black silk and the little raven feathers in it gave him such a dashing appeal that Laura couldn't help but dream a little. She had always fallen for the bad boys.

“Are they from your raven?” She asked.

“Yes.” He finally replied. “She loses feathers every now and then and I cannot bear to see them wither.”

Laura bit her lip. She wanted this man. More precisely, her pussy wanted this man. And in good time it would have him, she decided. But first, Laura had finally found someone whom she could entrust her hair to.

Nevertheless she allowed herself a little peak at the wares beforehand. His dark green tunic, turned sweaty under gambeson and armour, was low cut and revealed much of his lean, wonderful body already. She pinched a flap of it with her fingernails and tore it off him.

The bird took to the air in alarm and started circling her head, cawing loudly.

“Fuck off!” Laura swatted again. “Or I'll have them braid your feathers into my hairdo!”

She was much too large for that and the feathers way too small, unfortunately.

“We, uh...we found rope!”

A group of peasants arrived next to her, carrying a nice, thick one, long enough for Laura's purposes.

With the other Thistle Knights out of sight, Reo and Branwyn aghast and disenfranchised but the tiny peasant army dutifully doing her bidding, Laura had everything she wanted.

“I want to be beautiful.” She declared to everyone around, Mathariel in her hand in particular. “I want my nails trimmed, unseemly hair removed and the hair on my head braided. It's a shame all of you are men and probably don't have an inkling of such things. As the only one present with at least the hint of style, I will trust Sir Mathariel Swordsong in this matter. Do as he says. Anyone blunders will wish they hadn't.”

She was issuing a lot of threats, she noted on the side, so much so that she ran the risk of them being considered empty. But then again she had killed some people so it was hopefully alright. She couldn't kill too many or they would try and hide or run away somehow. She had to keep the balance.

With the castle wall being as high and thick as it was, there was no need for scaffolding. Mathariel Swordsong stood atop and barked orders at the soldiers who tried their best to do what he said. The thick rope was needed for making a simple ponytail first. Then Laura intended to get some little braids at the front as well, the way the Thorwalsh had made them once for her.

She laid on her back while men were comparing her hair to ropes and twine, up on the wall above her. At her left hand were men with tools and rather clueless looks upon their faces. Her right hand was served with food, although the fare at Iaun Cyll was anything but gourmet. It seemed to consist largely of salted meat, mostly mutton and beef. That stuff had to be boiled for hours before it became edible for a normal person. Laura could eat it only because the bites were so small and she was so huge, but that did little to improve the taste.

The ale was okay, dark and thick, and there was red wine and also cheese. The local cheese was the best thing about this place, Laura decided. It reminded her of cheddar, although there were also some other sorts she was able to get a taste of. Bread-wise there was way too little, only a few loafs that had been baked in this very castle.

“Take off all the Fenwasian displays.” She commanded idly and to no one in particular. “I don't want to see this stupid thistle everywhere.”

Flags and banners displayed to whom a castle or city belonged. They were symbols of power.

“Burn them in the yard.” She continued. “And I'm banning the words Iaun Cyll and Weyringen. I'll sit on anyone who utters them. This is Laura Castle now. Get used to it, or get squished.”

The idea of being able change fundamental things just by a command made her more horny than might be healthy for Reo's little army. Laura and Janna preferred girls for masturbation or sex. They were smaller, cuter, more fragile, more helpless-looking and most importantly by enlarge less dirty than their male counterparts. But if there were no girls to be had, or if a particular fancy led the other way in the given moment, men and boys could end up as their playthings just the same. Using Branwyn would be sweet, but Laura needed her. Even if she didn't break her during the act she might be eternally humiliated and emotionally broken and thus useless as a queen.

Mathariel Swordsong would be sweet enough. Laura wondered whether she should make him lick her first or just use him with her fingers. She tried to imagine what he might say, whether he'd beg her for mercy or say something clever. And whether she should then pulp him in her vagina with the dildo or find some place where she could grind on top of him.

“Mmh.” She sighed contently and closed her eyes, enjoying being tended to.

What she heard, she had largely heard once before already, albeit in a different accent. The whole situation was eerily reminiscent of Thorwal. Janna wasn't with her, she was in a strange land, surrounded by walls and slaves whom she threatened and occasionally killed. She always went for a secluded, sealed-off place that she could enjoy in detail and without worry, Laura noted about herself. It was a good thing she had Reo and Branwyn to rule Albernia after she was done with it.

Her belly rumbled as it digested Rondragoras of Wolfstone and the oatcakes, cheese and salt beef she was washing down with ale. She felt like someone should object to her cruelty so she could have some fun with them. But for now, everyone was obedient.

“Get one strand folded into between the other two and then the one from the other side!” Sir Mathariel explained for the third time. “Come on, you pocksy plough pushers! I've seen your women wear their hair like that! Don't act dumber than your cows!”

At her left hand successes were being made by using a large saw that had to be worked by two men and looked large enough to saw off Laura's finger had anyone dared to try. After that, they did the fine work with wooden hammers and chisels.

“F-f-fine, you l-lot!” Laura heard the familiar high, stammering voice of Hilmer say somewhere near her feet. “W-w-we're s-serving a n-new m-master n-now! L-let's n-not s-sit about i-idle! L-l-let's r-r-resume w-w-with o-our t-t-training!”

Who ever had the notion of making that one an instructor at arms had clearly not counted on the time it took him to speak a sentence, Laura thought. She opened her eyes and saw Reo marching straight at the man, guarded by one of his men at his shoulder.

“What are you teaching them?” He inquired roughly and direct in a way that pleased Laura.

Her tiny new royalty should apply themselves where they could.

“S-s-s-spear f-f-form-ation!” Hilmer managed surprised. “M-m-m-my L-l-lord!”

“Royal Highness.” Reo corrected with a critical glance at the sorry dozen peasants before them. “Let them put on armour and bring tourney swords. I want to test their vigour.”

“M-m-m-my lord,” Hilmer objected, “f-f-f-first th-they m-must l-learn the f-f-formations!”

“Your Royal Highness.” Reo corrected again, angrier. “Make sure you remember it or it will be your vigour I put to the test.”

Laura smiled for a moment, then soured when she saw Branwyn still on the castle wall, guarded by two Conchobair men at arms where Laura had left her. Something was wrong with the girl. She looked more afraid by the minute, by now almost fit to retch.

Below, Hilmer chewed his tongue: “A-a-I w-would g-g-gladly a-a-at that, your r-r-oyal ha-highness!”

“Blunted swords!” Laura growled at them. “And put helmets on!”

To her own ears she sounded like a scolding mother, like Janna sometimes did. The surprising realization made her question why she even cared. They were no more than two worthless bugs to her. She could well watch them cut each other to ribbons. Then she remembered, that one of them was her little king, the man she meant to install as faithful ruler and ally of hers over Albernia.

“I said not that way!” She heard Mathariel Swordsong on the wall above, where her hair was being braided. “The other way! And you, you there, climb on her head and do the same over there!”

His words were followed by a thwacking sound that could only have been the pale-skinned knight chastising a sun-burnt peasant with a slap across the face. When the second peasant protested he was dealt a thwack as well and then Laura felt a tiny man honestly doing his best to climb her head.

It wasn't very hard because her hair was somewhat like nest of ropes to him, indeed. He had plenty to hold on to, so long as she held relatively still. It was a funny feeling that almost made her giggle. To occupy herself, she took another cask of wine from the ground and crushed it in her mouth. Sometimes she enjoyed not having a smartphone around her at all times. With the world wide web at arms reach it was hard to ever lay still and truly rest.

Her belly rumbled and she let out a burp. It wasn't used to cheese so much any more, but that wouldn't stop her from eating more of the excellent local stuff. If Rondragoras of Wolfstone was still alive he could get gassed as well as dissolved to shit, she supposed. Likely it wasn't anything the scowling, big wolf didn't deserve.

Down at her feet Hilmer was being clad in pieces of armour from the Thistle Knights, all the while having a rabid discussion with Reo.

“Horses are what I need!” The latter insisted. “They multiply the force of men like water and yeast multiply grain for making bread!”

“Ha-ha-horses fo-fo-fold like b-b-bread u-under pe-pe-pressure te-too, m-my king!” Countered the other. “N-no ho-ho-horse wh-wh-will cha-cha-charge e-e-in t-to a w-w-wall o-of p-pikes!”

How the two of them duelling with tourney swords should resolve that dispute, Laura had no idea. Finally, the two were both helmed, armed and ready to face off. Reo was taller than Hilmer but the instructor at arms had a certainty about him that was a little unsettling.

No sooner had they taken position opposite each other did they run forth, shields crashing loudly while they hammered at each other with their blunted blades. Reo landed the first hit, it seemed to Laura. Then again and again. His use of the shield was slightly awkward, though. He always held it in front of him, thus having to cut around it which diminished the strength of his blows.

Hilmer then landed two cuts at Reo's helm, harder but probably not threatening. Most of his work was done with the shield, using it to smash his opponent's out of the way so he could land a blow with his weapon.

“Eh, we're done here!” A man announced at Laura's left hand and it was time for her little medieval nail salon to switch sides with her little medieval banquet.

By the time that was done, Reo had tired visibly. He could hardly still hold his shield up now while an unperturbed Hilmer landed blow after blow at his shoulders and arms.

“Enough now, you too squabblers.” Laura announced. “Stop fighting.”

While she was still speaking, Reo let his shield slide off his arm before grasping his dagger and moving into Hilmer right when he stopped his attack.

“Yield!” The instructor was forced to concede when Reo shoved the sharp point under his chin.

The silent bow guy whose name Laura had already forgotten had meanwhile started to make himself useful by turning the group of peasants into archers, presently instructing them how to draw right. The realization that they now no longer had men to squabble over made them all laugh, first Reo, then Laura and then Hilmer as well.

“Your hair is done and done, my lady!” Sir Mathariel announced in a queerly elegant tone, laced with his earlier arrogance. “Very beautiful, much in spite of the unworthy lot you have given me to perform this task!”

'He sounds like he didn't see me eat the other lance master,' Laura thought.

“Very well.” She said. “I suppose there's no giant looking glass or lake or something nearby where I might convince myself of the truth of that?”

The river didn't reflect light well enough, or at least not today.

“Uh, no. I fear not, my lady.”

She had no idea where this lady stuff was coming from all of a sudden. The atmosphere inside her little mighty castle had certainly changed. With work to attend to everyone was able to focus on things other than their fear. Perhaps that was why, not that it would change anything.

“Fine.” She popped open the button on her jeans and wriggled out of them. “Then you can remove the stubble between my legs now.”

She heard several gasps at that, but could not determine where they had come from in particular.

Removing hair proved much easier than braiding it and peasants were apparently the best people she could have asked for the job. Like harvesting grain, three men with sickles had the easily reachable part hairless in under four minutes. Two other men were doing their best climbing around between her thighs and removing the stubborn stubble there.

Mathariel Swordsong, tall, slender and pointy-eared, did not get his hands dirty and did not say anything besides. Instead, he started singing, sad and beautiful.

“On one cold morning, the world was still silent, when Los slew Sumu alone, on the grass. Desire and envy, in timeless eternal, so he the world's first murderer was.”

He had a beautiful voice for singing. Laura bit her lip. She was just about done with grooming and did not care very much for his song at all. It was him she wanted.

“After his deed, he was so empty, the field, on which the body still lay; bore a foul fruit, but Los was condemned, to live until the latest day, the latest day. Alone, with the...”

He yelped when she took him. The involuntary barbers had done their work and she had removed them to the armpit where they would continue their work. The nail clipping was done and she had had sufficient food for now.

The knight with the long black hair went straight into her nether lips. She was wet down there, from after sitting on the squires, or bullying little people into submission, or eating Rondragoras, or changing the name of Iaun Cyll at a whim. He fought and made it perfect for her. When he wanted to scream and shout she just buried him deeper in her folds, half drowning him.

She sighed again, but with lust this time. She needed a base she could return to so as to feel well, as she was feeling now. The Thistle Knight who had slapped other men across the face a moment ago when they didn't do as he said was now nothing more than a little toy to her.

Her eyes were closed or else the raven might have flown straight into her eyeball like one of the annoying little flies that always seemed to be everywhere before a thunderstorm in summer. It pecked against her skin and flew away when her hand came to catch it.

“Bow guy.” She commanded. “Bring down that bird.”

She had seen the man loose a few shafts as demonstration for his peasant pupils. He seemed good at it. It would be thoroughly embarrassing and uncool if he missed. Laura took Mathariel out from her sex so he'd be able to hear.

“No!” He screamed and pleaded.

“That's a good bird!” Said the bowman in some form of meek protest.

When Laura favoured him with a withering look he jumped to obey. The arrow hissed up into the air a moment later and impaled the tiny raven like a chicken on a spit. Laura laughed and buried her tiny toy boy back in her nether lips. Tumbling around its own axis the little animal soared to the ground almost softly. Afterwards, Laura had it taken over to where she could reach it, lazily extended a finger and squished it to feathers and pulp.

“You'll have to get used to this.” She gasped, working herself harder with the little knight. “I'm too big for, mhh, privacy.”

She was fingering herself in front of more than two hundred grown men and felt not the least bit of shame about it. Perhaps she was a monster. Perhaps she was goddess. Either way, it was time for a decision.

She had put the dildo on the flattened ruins of what seemed have been an almost empty stable, almost only because by the looks of it there had been two or three donkeys inside that now where nothing more than grey rugs. The castle wall looked inviting as well. She could put Mathariel on top and then crush him with her pussy while she ground on top of it like a pillow, or a teddy bear or anything other that was at hand. She had been doing it that way ever since she could remember, and only through pornography discovered that she could use her fingers as well.

The wall might crack though, endangering the sanctity and inescapability of her little safe space. Thus, the large stone dildo it was.

She turned Mathariel in her fingers so he could look upon the mock manhood that would pound him to puree in her love tunnel. Laura wondered what it might be like if there was a boy her size with her now. The idea was intriguing and off-putting at the same time. She yearned to get fucked but she loathed having to share this power. Not with anyone other than Janna anyway. She loved Janna.

“No! Not that! Please!”

All hints of superiority and arrogance were washed away again. Laura could make it her ultimate punishment, she thought. Death by giant cock, the ultimate insult to any man's dignity. She moaned and grinned and laughed at the same time, resulting in happy squealing sounds. No one dared call her out or mock her on account of it, of course. She could do with all of them as she wanted.

Mathariel entered her effortlessly and Swafnir's Cock followed suit. She could feel them both quite clearly. In his utter terror, the tiny man first tried to fight his way deeper into her. When he saw that that way lay certain death, he tried the other way, only to be met with a round stone head of the penis. That was when Laura pushed the dildo in, hard. It was perfect, Mathariel caught in between her and the dildo. Now he was done.

She laughed again and started to work herself like a machine. Her breath shuddered and failed for a moment. Bending forward she could see the grey stone shaft moving in and out of her, dragging her inner lips with it as it went. Somewhere in there was a little, arrogant prick, about to be thoroughly squashed by an inanimate, bigger one.

Her orgasm came quick and hard. Even though she savoured every moment of it, and prolonged it as long as she could, she could not have said when the moment came that she had stopped feeling the tiny man inside her. When the dildo came out of her with wet plop, there was a distinct smear of red, however, and a stubborn piece of flesh and skin sticking to the warm, slimy stone.

The tiny bushel of long, black hair at the tip of it was unmistakable. She smiled.

“That's all that's left of the little lance master.” She said. “Tell the dungeon rats what I did to him.”

She hated them for their silence and their contempt. It was well and good to let them shiver. If she felt like it, maybe she would kill more of them.

'And piss on that stupid ransom.'

She gave the shaft a lick and lapped up the last piece Mathariel Swordsong before sending it down to where Rondragoras of Wolfstone had been digested.