Fearsome Warlord

By Louisa Trent

Nylif hides a dark secret. If it's exposed, evil forces will do everything in their power to manipulate her to their own wicked ends. For years, she narrowly evades their control…until her village and its people are caught in the middle of a brutal warfare campaign between the unfeeling invader, DuGauche, and the depraved warlord who means to kill him, Sortie.

 

To save her adopted homeland, Nylif must expose herself to the carnal manipulation of both these men…as she falls passionately in love with someone else, a courageous mute eunuch who has saved her life once already. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publishing
• Release date: Jul 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393791706

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

Chapter One

‘Twas just past midday when Commander DuGauche led a retinue of pike-carrying footmen across the lowered drawbridge of Claefton Castle. Whilst war drums pounded at his back and unfurled banners of blue and gold waved in the air, DuGauche directed his men-at-arms into the keep’s blood-splattered courtyard.

Standing in the shadows, Nylif’s long simmering rage finally bubbled over.

Where had the sodding commander been all this bloody time?

Common folk had expected the bastard’s arrival long before now, if only to bring supplies. By this point, foodstuffs – especially oats to thicken gruel – had dwindled to dust at the bottom of the few granaries that still remained standing after the fires. Surely the Commander knew porridge cannot be made from salted water alone. Adults and children alike had long since given up all hope for the morrow. As ‘twas, few babes had survived the military onslaught, and now they were sickening, then dying of starvation.

Her eyes filling with tears, Nylif turned away from the parade. The military spectacle was all for show. Verily, DuGauche cared not one whit about anyone but himself. Peasants – serfs and freemen both – had endured so much of late. The memories of their agonized screams during battle kept Nylif awake at night.

Hannah nudged Nylif with an elbow. Sea –

In all these years since Nylif’s arrival here at the Isle, she had never truly thought of herself as Sea, though all who knew her in their village called her so. In her thoughts, she’d always been Nylif and so she remained…

Sea – just look, will ye, at the righteous horseman Commander DuGauche makes. Handsome devil, is he not, and so well turned out.

His heralded pageantry makes my belly turn, Nylif scoffed in return. For a certainty, we here on the Isle will suffer his presence as overlord.

Mayhap, this one will differ from all the rest, Sea. Ye never know.

Nylif sighed. Oh, but she did know. As a witch in hiding, she knew more than she let on to others.

Particularly, Hannah

Why, methinks, the new overlord…

A trumpet drowned out the rest of Hannah’s gossip. Though decidedly harmless in her tale carrying, Nylif’s friend he did go on and on at times. Fortunately, kindly King Godfrey had long ago forbad the use of the Scold’s Bridle – an iron contraption installed over a busybody’s mouth in punishment for spreading unfounded rumors – or Hannah would’ve been muzzled years ago. As things stood, her tale-carrying friend was ideally suited for her occupation of Town Crier.

I will grant you this much, Hannah – DuGauche makes for a strutting cock if ever I saw one.

So saying, Nylif’s hot rage suddenly chilled to cold dread. This latest invader to the Isle looked to be the cruel sort. Rather than restore order, DuGauche seemed the kind to visit further acts of violence upon the populace. When would the new overlord target Nylif, herself?

Soon, she suspected.

First, the Commander would order his men to locate Nylif. Then, they’d drag her kicking and screaming to the dungeon for questioning – done under the cover of nightfall, so no one would know what deviousness he was up to.

Shamefully, Nylif would do anything to escape that fate. Many gifts had been bestowed upon her at birth, alas, courage was not one of them. Standing beside Hannah in the dark shadows of the bailey, Nylif trembled at the prospect of more torture, of additional pain.

By the splendid looks of him, DuGauche knew little of suffering, himself. His weaponry was past clean into buffed shiny. His shield showed nary a dent in the metal. A full quiver of fancy arrows hung unused from his courser’s pommel.

All were for display purposes only, Nylif decided with a sniff of disdain.

This DuGauche was no warrior. He knew naught about the rigors of battle. He couldn’t possibly understand the hardship these villagers had been through, not just at present, but for years and years now.

Long and short, the Commander was an imposter. The Isle’s populace would neither accept nor respect his new rule.

DuGauche was all about showmanship, not leadership. Otherwise, he never would’ve carted heavy armament on the battle-scarred road here. Certainly, not past the ruins at Saint Matthew. At that oft-plundered nunnery, only a handful of cloistered sisters remained, most elderly and feeble.

Now that ‘twas too late to be of any help, Nylif’s useless gift played out before her mind’s eye, how the nuns sank to their knobby knees and prayed for the salvation of the Commander’s immortal soul. Even as DuGauche ordered his men to bludgeon the good sisters, they’d continued to finger their wooden rosary beads.

Sod, but ‘twould do her heart good to unsheathe DuGauche’s war hammer, a fine iron club engraved in gold with the Commander’s initials, and do him in right now on the spot.

Sadly, that was not possible. But, later, if she still remained free, she’d take a walk up to that nunnery and bury those saintly martyrs, herself. Although a pagan by birth, Nylif doubted the sisters would mind.

After dismounting his steed, DuGauche tossed his destrier’s reins to Bren, an easily distractible stable lad. Most anything could and did divert the youth’s attention from the task at hand… from a butterfly’s fluttering wings to farts in the wind…all were of equal interest to him.

A bit of a dreamer was Bren.

Even now, with the Commander’s pointy-toed metal boot lowering to the stable lad’s back pockets, Bren’s head remained stuck up in the clouds. Getting his puny-arse out of the way never even occurred to him.

No help for it, Nylif nodded at DuGauche’s steed. Like magic…for indeed ‘twas just that…the horse headed for the stables, a still occupied Bren in tow.

Nice to know, Nylif still held sway over beasts. Not all beasts. Some beasts. And not all the time. When it came to incantations, she had a lamentably erratic sphere of influence.

A sorceress with unreliable magical powers and an invader reliably bad tempered equaled a disaster waiting to happen. ‘Twas past time Nylif made her escape. Away she’d go, clickety-click.

At that very moment, DuGauche raised his helm’s face-plate, thus revealing his visage. And, my, my, my, was he not the pretty one?

Not one combat scar marred the Commander’s even features. Verily, both in whole and in part, his countenance was comely. Most especially his nose, which remained unruined by swordplay.

Indeed, DuGauche was unlike any man-at-arms she’d ever seen. Probably because he was no man-at-arms in truth.

The pretender demanded of the assembled crowd:

Where is the wench called Nylif? Come forward and present yourself unto me.

Hannah stepped out from the crowd. No one here by that name, Commander, she volunteered And I should know, privy as I be to all goings-on around here.

Having yet to make her escape, Nylif whispered to her gossipy friend: "Mayhap you are not privy to the happenings of everyone, Hannah. Mayhap one or two managed to escape your notice, eh?"

Nay, Sea. Hannah stomped her foot. The leather was badly turned down at the heel from all the goodwife’s many such attempts at emphasis. I know one and all on the Isle.

Raising her voice even higher, Hannah insisted with the authority of those never wrong, Harken to me, Commander. No one by that name lives here. There be no Nylif on this Isle.

I bid you, Hannah, she whispered to her friend, Let this go. You have naught to prove here – everyone knows you are the best Town Crier in all the village.

Small praise, Sea, Hannah scoffed. "I be the only Town Crier in all the village. Nay, if this deception be true, ‘tis a personal affront to me and must be dealt with here and now. Whoever perpetrated this fraud is not to be trusted."

Nylif knew it! Hannah’s stinging accusation was only the start of all the rest to follow.

The Town Crier moaned. "I be ruined here. Do ye not hear me, Sea? Ruined."

Ha! Hannah should try burning at the stake on for size. Now that was ruined.

Mayhap no deceit was intended, Hannah, Nylif said, trying to mollify the gossip. Some folk use two names as a matter of course. A birth name and a nickname.

Why? asked the Crier.

To a born liar, honesty is always the last refuge. After all these many years of subterfuge, Nylif found herself balancing on the edge of truth’s sword. And there was no escape.

Save one.

Chapter Two

And Nylif had likened DuGauche to an imposter! It took one to know one, she guessed.

All her life, she’d posed as someone she was not. Since her arrival to these shores, she’d spent not a single day away from this place. The Isle of Versian was the only home she’d ever known, the only land she’d ever set foot upon. Literally. She’d sworn to a kind and brave king to protect this rock in the middle of the ocean and these unforgiving people, and she’d done naught but bring catastrophe down on their heads.

Nylif’s presence here spelled eventual doom for the populace. She’d not done it intentionally, of course, but dead was dead all the same.

There was but one sure remedy to her dilemma, a way to free herself of her fate while simultaneously stopping all future invasions:

Fleet of foot, she’d take off for the cliffs. After bidding this cruel world a sad adieu, she’d fling herself over the edge. Even if she survived the fall, she’d drown in the ocean below. Irony of ironies, she who’d lived by the sea all her life had never learned to swim, not even a dogpaddle. Save for one unremembered occasion as a newborn, she’d never even dipped a toe in the surf:

On the day of Nylif’s birth, an ocean storm blew up from out of nowhere, the high surf sinking the vessel on which she traveled. Presumably, her parents went down with the boat too, but who knew? That day remained shrouded in mystery. Save – for this much:

King Godfrey, the ruler of the Isle of Versian, had been out fishing nearby. ‘Twas he who rescued her from drowning. Why a king would need to catch his own supper and why he would cast a fishnet on rough and stormy seas, remained a mystery. He did say, however, that he’d dived from his longboat into the waves after her and breathed his life force into her mouth as she went under. Thereafter, he’d ignored the name Nylif embroidered on her swaddling garb and instead called her Sea.

And so had the villagers known her ever since.

She, on the other hand, knew herself to be a sorceress.

An abomination, in other words.

The populace too would view her as such, as well…should they find her out. Thus explained Nylif’s life-long reclusiveness and secrecy. Her apartness, her lies, her guilt…all of it…had worn her down and worn her out. And if that was not wearisome enough, a never resolved question continued to haunt her:

Would King Godfrey still have saved her as a babe had he known of her witchcraft right from the beginning?

Afeared of the answer, she’d never raised the question. The penalty for practicing magic – even as poorly, as Nylif did – was death, after all.

King Godfrey had loved her, anyway, even whilst knowing his rescue of Nylif, a witch, would place him in a terrible position with his subjects. How he must have suffered that conflict in his life! A deeply moral man, he’d always tried to do the right thing, to make difficult choices, even in the face of censure.

Nylif had been one of those difficult choices. By virtue of her presence in the kingdom he ruled, she’d jeopardized the good name of a genuinely selfless hero.

Considering all that, had the time come for Nylif to return whence she came…to the sea?

Full circle. Death by drowning was said to be a merciful way to die. After flailing about a bit, she’d most certainly choke on her first gulp of swallowed brine and go under. The invasions…the deaths…the starvation…would cease on the Isle then.

She was just so sodding torn. Should she come forward, admit her real identity or end herself?

Deep breathing always helped maintain her calm. Alas, even a shallow inhale proved difficult.

Piled high in the castle courtyard, like so much discarded refuse, the unburied corpses had begun to rot in the heat of the sun. The stench was unbearable. Not even the breeze off the water was sufficient to carry the lingering smell of decay out to sea.

Death surrounded her. Nylif choked on the part she’d played in all the destruction. Tossing herself in the drink would spare the villagers much. ‘Twould spare her much, as well.

‘Twas dark below the keep. Full of thick cobwebs and gnawing rats and unprincipled sentries standing watch before the barred cells of incarcerated prisoners. And having been both imprisoned and tortured in the dungeon during prior inquisitions, Nylif knew how that went. The bottoms of her feet still bore the raised scars of prior persuasions, all of which had failed. She’d never admitted anything to invaders.

This time might prove different. Clearly, DuGauche was an idiot. Should he mention the charge of witchcraft in relation to her in public, of even give a mere hint of it, frightened villagers would give into panic. And in that panic, they’d undoubtedly stone her. Their spittle would tag her face.

Turning their backs on her would hurt worse. Rejection…banishment…would be intolerable to her.

This all came down to her. Her decision, her choice to make. Declare herself and accept the prospect of ostracization…or sneak off now and end it all before her identity as a sorceress became common knowledge.

Chapter Three

Wretched and frightened, she broke away from Hannah and headed for DuGauche, saying with each of her footfalls:

Commander – I am the one you seek, the one called Nylif.

Not so, Hannah cried. "No one calls ye Nylif here. Not when ye minister to the sick with yer knowledge of herbs. Or bolster the spirits of the weary with yer odd cheery songs. Or cook and sew and tend every new mother on this Isle, including myself. Ye are not called by that name when ye bury far too many dead to count. Ye be Sea then and ye be Sea now!"

When Nylif tried to deny Hannah’s words, the Town Crier held up a hand. Nay, nay. Let me say my piece. I know everything there is to know about ye. I know ye inside and out, Sea, including that ye be still virgin.

In actuality, her friend knew absolutely naught about her save for that last – Nylif’s possession of a maidenhead – a fact she’d confessed to her not too long ago in a moment of loneliness.

After offering Hannah a sorrowful smile over her shoulder, Nylif turned her gaze straight ahead once more and continued her solemn walk to the Commander, her expression carefully devoid of all further emotion.

During past inquisitions, her strategy was to reveal naught, including fear. Save, this time, she wouldn’t be able to shrug off the usual witch generalities directed at her. This invader, this Commander DuGauche, had somehow learned something specific about her, something the others had not:

Her birth name was Nylif.

The name slipped off her tongue so effortlessly! Admitting it came almost as a relief. Answering to the other, to Sea, was the one that caused her trouble, the one that always stuck in her throat.

You will follow me, the Commander ordered, his eyes locking on hers before calling: Guards!

Their gauntlet-covered hands under her elbows, the sentries dragged her away. Her worn soles barely skimmed the bloodstained dirt with the haste of their escort. Immediately, she lost an oversized boot. Soon after, the other fell off. Her bare feet and legs shamed her.

The truth was, she owned not a single pair of woolen hose to her name.

Not to either name, Nylif mused, hysteria bubbling up inside her.

Hannah called after their procession: Sea – cease being so bloody daft and speak up for yerself. Tell the Commander ye only declared yourself the other name to save folk from the shadow of suspicion. Ye always were too generous for ye own good. Tell him this is all a terrible misunderstanding,

Silence reigned in the courtyard. All listened for what excuse Nylif would offer DuGauche for this terrible misunderstanding.

Nylif could tell, the villagers were poised to believe whatever she said. Their trust was still hers.

Alas, because there was naught to say in her own defense, Nylif remained silent.

Not so Hannah. The Town Crier announced in her booming voice, This woman is grief-stricken from all the killings. She knows not what she says. Mark ye my words, Commander – her name be Sea.

Her friend’s arguments fell on deaf ears. As the fortress’s heavy metal portal slammed shut behind their small procession, Hannah’s shouts continued unabated.

Then all went still.

Inside the keep’s Great Hall, DuGauche settled his haunches atop a wooden platform. The raised structure was of a tremendous height, looming high above the hall’s bloodied stone floor. However, when Nylif craned her neck, she could clearly make out the feverish glee written all over the Commander’s pretty face.

This latest invader of the Isle had her right where he wanted her. Her only escape had been to jump off the edge of the cliffs, a solution that would have broken the long-ago promise she’d made to a brave and selfless king to never forsake the Isle of Versian and its people, to never take the easy way out…regardless of how dire the circumstances.

Her rescuer, King Godfrey, had been the most modest and dedicated of rulers. He wore no regal vestments, no purple velvet robes lined in ermine. The symbol of his authority – a crown – gathered dust in a battered old chest, the inlaid jewels long ago sold off for the betterment of all his subjects. When he checked on the needs of his subjects, a survey he undertook every week without fail, he walked rather than rode a ceremonial palfrey like the one DuGauche had pranced in on.

Suspecting she was not the usual babe, King Godfrey had kept her secret all to himself. Instead of burning her at the