Outlaw of Ironguard: Anarchy Tales, #2

By Louisa Trent

Sequel to The Anarchy Tales Book I: Devil of Nettlewood

No apology, Ysenda enjoys the companionship of men. For a single night, and not one eventide more. Not that she's fickle or fussy. Nay! Quite the opposite. Any virile swain will do her for coupling. Including Almaric, the thieving wizard who seduces then abandons her. And Talon, the murderous overlord who killed her sister Mitri.

See?

Not fickle or fussy at all.

That is what she wants all to think, anyway. But despite outwards appearances, Ysenda is loyal and true...and out for revenge. Those responsible for her sister's disappearance will pay dearly for their betrayal. For when Ysenda gives her heart, she loves just as fiercely as she lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519946508

Louisa Trent

Louisa Trent has been published in ebook format since 2001. Her erotic romances have been with Ellora's Cave, Liquid Silver, Loose Id and Samhain. Refusing to be "branded" ( Louisa has a rebellious streak ) she writes across the genres -- contemporary, historical, paranormal, multi-cultural, and sci-fi. Basically, she writes whatever piques her interest, and she is a writer of many passionate interests. Readers can reach Louisa through her website: www.louisatrent.com .

Book preview

Prologue

The year 1139, the tumultuous reign of King Stephen

Almaric! Almaric. Perform another trick for us, Almaric!

Lord Talon of Ironguard, garbed in his wizard’s disguise, harkened to his adoring audience, their thunderous clapping and foot stomping telling him he had fulfilled the first rule of successful entertainment:

Always leave the stage with one’s public wanting more.

Feigning modesty along with everything else, Talon took a humble bow. When the crowd’s adulation built to a feverish pitch, he flung the mantle of his black magician’s costume over his shoulders and stretched out his arms, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

As the usual reverent hush fell over the crowd, he simpered, Enough! and blew kisses. I am hardly deserving of all this devotion.

His doting admirers disagreed.

Almaric! Almaric! We love you, Almaric. Another magic trick, if you please.

Whilst keeping his audience waiting for an encore – the second rule of successful entertainment was making them positively drool for more – he happened to glance out onto the awed faces before him.

How irritating. Standing far in the back, a filthy street urchin watched his every move, the same peasant wench who had attended numerous previous productions. Then, as now, her unblinking stare hampered his side talent....

The one that might someday land his pretty skull upon a pike at King Stephen’s court.

He cleared the apprehension from his throat. My next illusion requires a member of the audience. Do I have a volunteer, preferably one who will not swoon at the sight of blood?

Too many hands to count waved at the sky.

He always closed his routine with this trick, and the mud-splattered irritant at the rear of the crowd had never once raised her grubby hand. The same held true today. Of all the attendees present, she alone remained with her arms down by her scrawny sides.

Her reluctance to come forward surprised him. After all, for weeks now, she had been boldly following him from performance to performance across the countryside. Why else stalk him if not to make his acquaintance?

Her reticence quite put him out. Did she, or did she not, wish to meet him in the flesh?

And, really, who would not? He was beyond thrilling in person.

But nay. She showed no sign of stepping up to the stage. And so, as always, Talon picked the most beauteous and bosomy maiden in the crowd to assist him…

Thereby guaranteeing everyone would pay attention to the volunteer, not himself. Females jealous of her buxom proximity to himself would send her looks to kill; lust-ridden males would leer at her bounty.

Smiling lecherously at her cleavage, Talon asked, What is your name, my dear?

Alice.

A lovely name for a lovely assistant. With theatrical exaggeration, he flourished a square of linen before her button nose. Alice, please confirm for our audience that this cloth is ordinary in all respects.

’Tis, Almaric.

Thank you, my dear.

Next he whipped out a large pin. After Alice confirmed for one and all ordinariness of the pin as well, he placed the cloth over his raised fist, then wiggled his protruding thumb.

He nodded to his shapely volunteer. Do you dance, fair maiden?

I do, Almaric.

Would you be kind enough to show us a few steps?

Alice was indeed kind enough.

The attention of his audience now occupied with Alice’s high stepping – or, more precisely, with the jiggling of her astonishing chest – he quickly substituted a secreted piece of carrot for his wiggling thumb, now retracted under the cover of the cloth.

How utterly divine! Alice had finished her number just in time. All eyes back on him, he proceeded to viciously stab this carrot-imposter, wincing all the while, as if in pain.

Oh, how he bled for his art.

Not actually. The trick was in convincing his audience he did.

As the horrified spectators looked away from his obvious distress, he returned the carrot to its nesting spot within the hollow of his palm and restored his perfectly fine thumb to its rightful positioning.

He groaned for affect. Alice, my dear, please remove the square of linen from my hand.

When she had, he pumped his uninjured thumb high for all to see.

As if on cue, Alice squealed, But, Almaric, where is the blood? With all the stabbing you did, there should be buckets of blood. On your thumb. On the linen. There is not a drop, not anywhere! Blessed Jesu. ’Tis a holy miracle for sure.

Talon tried not to sulk. He did all the work, and who received the accolades?

The deity.

To be fair, he did get some credit, though ‘twas never enough or as much as he deserved. To another round of thunderous applause and foot stomping, Talon made his bows and began his retreat, until he could duck out of sight behind the stage curtain.

Normally at this point, he would change into another disguise and mingle anonymously amongst the crowd in the performance of his other talent…

The side one that might someday render him headless.

But with the filthy-faced urchin in back watching his every move again, he dared not tarry. More than a little inconvenient. If this kept up, he would have very little to show for his time spent on the road.

Leading his oxen-drawn covered wagon out of the village, Talon disappeared into the night. As a precaution, en route, he drew his team over to one side and checked behind for anyone who might give his secret away.

And there she was, the filthy-faced irritant from the audience, as tiny as an elf, traipsing after him at a discreet distance.

Chapter One

Curses! The magician Ysenda meant to expose as a sodding-arse thief sprang out from behind a stone outcropping and grabbed hold of her arm.

Cease following me, elf.

Ysenda grimaced. Elf! She was no sodding elf. Bad enough the illusionist had yanked the element of surprise right out from under her without him insulting her too.

Ambush was her sodding idea. Like everything else, he had stolen it. All along her aim had been to jump the sly trickster at the next bend in the narrow footpath, where wild drifts of moor heather met soggy marshes, a move that would have given her the advantage

Sod him, anyway! ‘Twas too late for that strategy now. Relying on a tried and true method of escape, Ysenda raised a knee, aimed, and…and…

Well? Well? Where the sod was it?

It being his cock.

The magician’s girth was tremendous, his paunch the size of a woman nine months gone with child. The roundness of his belly cast everything beneath into shadow, including the dingle dangle of his loins, a teeny-tiny target from the disappointing looks of them. The only substantial bulge beneath the magician’s belt was a coin pouch hanging from his stout middle. A lot of good kneeing that would do her.

A change of attack was in order.

Unhand me, she snarled and kicked out at him. Once. Again. Missing both times. Finally her foot connected with something solid.

Not his cock. More was the pity! His shin. Just her foul luck, the blow did her more harm than him. As pain shot up her unshod toes to her ankle, she tottered backward.

Huzzah! Her stumble broke his hold on her.

Faugh. She had celebrated too soon. Her arms wildly flapping, she plummeted toward the moss-covered ground. Continue, and she would find herself at the illusionist’s questionable mercy, the heels of his ostentatious boots rat-a-tatting on her backside.

To hell with that. No man, neither king nor knave – nor sodding fake magician – walked all over her.

Filling her gasping lungs with air, Ysenda propelled herself upward. Twisting midair, she came down, landing in a defensive crouch well beyond the range of hand-to-hand combat with him.

She still reached for her blade, sheathed within her sleeve. Just in case.

Tut-tut, the magician scoffed. Take care how you proceed, elf.

There you go calling me sodding names again.

Only an acknowledgement of your daintiness.

Unless we are talking cocks here, size matters not. I might be small, but I an’t afeard of you. Now back off or I dirk your gizzard and watch your guts spill. For good measure, she added a fearsome scowl to her warning.

Tall in stature but as lumpy as a bowl of day-old porridge, the magician stood silhouetted against a cloudless sky, his gloved hands held high in surrender. No reason for drastic measures. As you can plainly see, I am unarmed.

Queer, how he spoke. Not only did his tone alternate between wily and wheedling, the words themselves came out garbled and gravelly, his voice distorted, as if pebbles filled his puffy cheeks. For all that, what he said rang hollow. She believed him not.

Ready to do him battle, she dug her toes into the sodden earth for purchase, then pulled herself up to her full insignificant height. From under her shadowing hood, she glared defiantly up at the mincing fraud. Almaric the Wizard, we need to talk.

He regarded her as one would a flying insect…right before swatting the winged annoyance to kingdom come. Clever of you to recognize me off the boards, elf.

Clever, my rosy arse. She rolled her eyes. First insults, now compliments. Stuff the former and save the latter for someone more gullible than myself. I never fall for a man’s charm.

Never? His brows arched.

They were dark, those incredulous brows of his, in marked contrast to the fairness of his jaw-length curls. Never, she repeated.

Speak in absolutes, elf, and every exception in the universe is liable to bite you in that rosy area you just mentioned, if only to contradict you.

Sodding charlatan! Hell of a nerve preaching to her about anything.

Are you naming yourself one such contradiction? she asked testily.

Above his mountainous stomach, Almaric crossed one arm over the other. As much as I should like to take a nip out of the rosy area under discussion – and may I add, that rosy area under discussion is exceedingly shapely – nay. ’Tis only that my curiosity is pricked.

Sod off! I had me one of those once.

Almaric sneered down at her. Had you one of what, pray?

A curious prick. And let me tell you, that sort of oddity bodes a female ill favor. I swore the thing had spikes. After doing the deed with its owner, I walked around bowlegged for a fortnight.

A bout of hilarity overtook her then, and she squawked and squeaked at her own bawdy wit until tears came from out of nowhere and rolled down her face. When the corners of Almaric’s mouth quivered, she thought for sure the wizard might laugh right along with her. But nay. In the end, he only sniffed in righteous disdain, his nose quivering – a huge and bulbous false nose.

Fakery and flattery – that was Almaric. The strangely hued hair…the lumpy build…the enormous snout nose…everything about him was pretense.

Kohl outlined the wizard’s eyes, eyes that were of an indeterminate hue. Chalk powder whitened his skin. A liberal brushing of red ocher pigment afforded his cheeks a rosy blush. The cosmetics he wore rivaled those of a sodding Roman whore. But as she had already discovered, unlike a Roman whore, Almaric’s nether regions looked less than inviting.

At least they did today. Who knew what his dingle dangle would look like on the morrow? The magician might sprout bull balls by then.

Almaric was a master of deception. His appearance was as changeable as his wigs, of which there were many. Assuming a myriad of disguises, from feeble old crone to portly farmer to holy priest to the flamboyant whatever he was today, he traversed the countryside stopping along the way to perform at various villages…where he relieved his unsuspecting audience of their good coin and gaudy trinkets. Though, as far as she could tell, he preyed only on the nobility.

Fine by her. She sprang from hardy peasant stock, herself, which made her as wealthy as a pauper and as common as common got. Her purse – if she had one, which she most decidedly did not – was safe from Almaric’s itchy fingers.

How safe?

Her purse was as safe from his itchy fingers as his cock – if he had one, which looked a mite doubtful – was safe from hers.

Elf, forgive me, but I cannot help but note the direction of your adoring gaze.

With a snicker, she raised her sights back up to his painted face. What can I say, wizard? Your make holds me spellbound.

He gave a smug sigh. No need to apologize. Celebrity comes with the territory, my dear. I am like a star in the sky to many of your kind, especially to those of an impressionable persuasion.

Almaric batted his spidery lashes at her. Worship from the unwashed masses never doth grow old. Although stalking me, as you have done, does.

Egad! The conceit of the man. Did he actually believe she had designs on him?

Let him think it. For now. Lulling him into a false sense of security suited her purpose.

Bollocks, wiz! You found me out for sure. I am head over heels for you. Or heels over head, I should more rightly say. She guffawed. Where is a sodding haystack to rut in when a love-stricken wench like myself sodding needs one?

His color-enhanced mouth pursed. Then he showed teeth. Smite her down, but they were a fine white set…and more than likely carved from bone, a facade covering rotten stubs.

Wait! Did her eyes tell her true? Was that a smile forming on his face or did Almaric have a belch coming on? Babes and men had much in common. Oft-times, the difference between grins and gas was indistinguishable.

Seeing your enthusiasm for…er…haystacks, a pleasure to make your acquaintance…er…er… Almaric swished his resplendent violet mantle. Appalling, my manners. What do you answer to?

"Anything but elf, she said pointedly. The word brings bile to my throat."

My goodness. The condition must be terribly unpleasant for you. He swooped low at the waist in a courtier’s bow.

Haystacks be damned. That pretentious bow of his was the last sodding straw.

She swaggered up to him, the top of her head leveling out under his chin if she balanced up on her toes, and jabbed a finger into his lumpy chest. Enough sodding pleasantries, wizard. Let us get down to business.

Ah, business! I can sign a playbill for you if you like. But please, no more thumping. My delicate skin is easily bruised.

Be of good cheer. I have no want to harm you. Unless, of course, you give me just cause. Then expect a sound thrashing.

How kind you are to reassure me. And to think I trembled for naught. This time he smiled for sure, a grin as real and infectious as the rest of him was feigned and off-putting. Are all the females from your village as ferocious as you, elf?

The miseries encroached, and Ysenda hung her head. You see before you all that remains of my village. A ruthless pack of mercenaries torched my settlement. Everyone within perished. Off picking herbs in the woodlands at the time, I alone survived.

My sympathies, beautiful elf.

Quit making mock of me. I tell you, I have no belly for your charm. I am as far removed from beautiful as a pile of bull excrement is from the elysian fields.

Thinking to lick her wounds in private, she turned her back. Out of his eyeshot, she swiped at her face. And came away with a muddy hand.

In the last twelvemonth, she’d had no will to tend to her appearance. What did it matter how she looked? After mercenaries destroyed her village, all her strength had gone into taking to the road in search of her missing sister.

Mitri.

It hurt just to think her name. Fair of face and graceful of form, Mitri had been everything Ysenda was not – demure and quiet, oh so good-hearted, and as chaste as a nun. Not a day passed that Ysenda did not mourn her loss. For after months of searching, she now had it on good authority that her sister was not missing but dead, slain at the evil hands of a sodding royal.

Lord Talon of Ironguard.

She was here on the moors to see the