You Win or You Hide, 2/?
Title: You Win or You Hide, 2/?
or,
The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Charlie, Chuck, Crowley, ensemble.
Pairings: (later) Cas/Dean, Charlie/Anna
Rating: PG
Genre: Crack, Adventure, AU
2. Chuck.
Chuck hadn’t been out of the city in a few years, but remembered the lay of the land well enough: in his younger days, he had been North and South on business for his fathers and brothers. The roads were more treacherous now, the people crueller. The cobbles of the Great Road were rough and worn, but their horses were sure-footed if not speedy. They saw few fellow travellers on the first day - those they met had a lean, hungry look, their eyes roaming briefly over Chuck and Charlie before dismissing them. Chuck was glad they had bought rough grey cloaks from father’s stable boy, for even grubby, their well-made court clothes would be considered finery to a brigand.
Charlie was looking right and left, uncomfortable:
“Chuck?” she asked. Where is the farmland? The homesteads? Everything is so….quiet.”
“It was a hard winter,” said Chuck sadly. His companion was certainly brave, but ‘sheltered’ was
putting it mildly. “Many people died. Many more lost their homes, and the lands have gone barren.” All they’d felt of it in the castle was a lack of fruit, and tougher meat at table.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Died? But…what about the grain stores?”
“Some couldn’t afford the price; some couldn’t make the journey into the city. By the year’s end the stores were depleted - gone to feed the troops in the Eastern Reach. And remember the tourney in Autumn for Lady Ruby’s visit? Or the feast for the Desert King? Those took far more from the coffers than could be afforded.”
“But - why - why didn’t the King…..?”
Chuck sighed and ran a hand down his face. Speaking like this felt dangerous, even out here. But the road before and behind them was bare, so he said quietly: “The King was…old. He had several advisors, including the Prince, but Lord Crowley had his ear. In truth, Lord Crowley has been running the kingdom for some time, and plotting this coup, I believe, for many more.”
Charlie looked stricken. “How could he do it? They were friends.”
“No,” Chuck corrected her: “Monarchs don’t have friends.”
“Sir Dean is Castiel’s friend, and he’s the Crown Prince.”
“Maybe now. But if Castiel succeeds he’ll have to put friends aside.”
Charlie looked like she wanted to object, but instead she asked: “What do the people think? they understand, right, that it’s Crowley’s fault? They want the Prince back?”
“They want to eat,” said Chuck, “They want bread and beer, and to know there’ll be bread and beer tomorrow. They want to keep their homes and trades. I believe that a year under Crowley’s rule, and they’ll take you or I for a King if we could promise them better.”
Charlie was silent. He watched the expressions flit across her face as she processed.
“What would you do?” she asked quietly. “If you were King?”
Chuck laughed. “Drink the contents of the wine cellars, then fall on my sword.”
“Castiel will be a great king,” said Charlie firmly.
Chuck hoped so. In any case, he would hold the realm better than Crowley, and probably better than his father had. On the off-chance he was still alive, of course. As they rode, the snow melted, leaving the ground hard and gritty. The sky was dull, overcast iron, unchanging down to the horizon. They pushed on as far as they were able, and when night fell, got a room at a modest-looking inn that charged twice what it should, being the only one on the road for miles in either direction. But the food was unobjectionable, the fire warm, and Charlie was pleasant conversation. Chuck found he was less nervous around her than - well, anyone, really.
“Hey,” said Charlie suddenly, “Look at that.”
He turned his head to where she was staring, behind him:
“No don’t look!” she contradicted herself. “I meant metaphorically! But that woman is giving you the eye.”
Chuck of course looked again. The woman in question was brunette, dark curling hair and dark eyes: she would have been very pretty if not for the cruel smirk of her mouth, which Charlie didn’t seem to notice. Her companions were just as unsettling: three rough men, with biceps the size of Chuck’s thighs, their faces half concealed by scruffy beards but their knives visible at their belts. One bore a slash scar down the side of his cheek, leaving his left eye permanently closed. The woman saw Chuck look, and met his eyes over her goblet.
She licked her lips.
“You should go for it,” Charlie seemed to think she was helping.
“I…really think she has enough company,” Chuck replied, and tried to disappear into his cloak.
“Your loss,” said Charlie, and almost, for a second, Chuck thought she looked wistful.
They were back on the road at first light. The sky was paler now, and the air less cold. The lands here hadn’t suffered so badly - they passed farms still in operation, and traded polite nods with the odd passing merchant. There was growth at the side of the road, too - bushes and trees. Chuck found his mind wandering. He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this death wish of a mission, but he was, as father said, rather an idiot, and probably always destined to get himself killed in some inglorious fashion. He-
“Good day mother,” said Charlie. He looked up, and jerked his horse to a stop just in time to avoid running over a hunched old woman. She wore a hood over her face and hair, and her robe looked religious, though Chuck couldn’t at first glance see any kind of emblem. “Are you lost?”
“Not lost, my dear,” croaked the old woman.
“May we help you?” Chuck asked. “It’s a dangerous road to be alone and on foot.”
“Oh, I’m not alone,” she said, stood up straight, and threw her hood back. By the time Chuck realized it was the woman from the inn, her companions had sprung from the bushes and surrounded them with their daggers. Charlie squeaked and fumbled for her small blade, but Chuck just sighed and put his hands up.
“Our purses are attached to our belts,” he admitted. “Don’t hurt us?”
The woman sauntered up to him and ran a hand deliberately up his leg. Chuck shuddered. “Now let’s see,” she unhooked his purse and emptied the few coins into her hand. “Oh, really. I know you can do better than that, blue eyes.”
“He can’t,” Charlie said quickly. “We’re poor, really. Just a couple of poor travellers. Not worth killing or maiming in any way to be honest.”
“Oh now sweetness I find that hard to believe,” the woman grinned lasciviously at Charlie and moved in that snakelike way over to her horse. She ran a hand up and down the bridle. “I saw your fancy clothes under those cloaks at the inn last night. And what’s this? A hogshead?” Oh, crap. The horses’ blankets. “House of Shurley, hmm?”
“They’ll have liquor,” said one of the ruffians.
“They’ll have money,” the woman corrected. “Now that I think about it, that is the Shurley jawline.” She swung back to Chuck and gripped his chin in her hand, hard. Her nails dug into his cheeks as he tried to refrain from biting his tongue. She smiled like a wolf: “You’re Simon Shurley.”
“Nnnnf!!” Chuck protested frantically, trying to shake his head: “Hesh my bruvver!” Then: ‘OH, CRAP.’ He shouldn’t have said that. What was wrong with him?
“Ohhh!” Her eyes widened. She released his chin and slapped his cheek. Chuck winced, feeling the half-moons of her fingernails like lines of fire. “Old Eamon has another son?”
“No,” said Chuck quickly. “I mean yes but my father hates me. He doesn’t give me money.”
“If he hated you, you’d be dead,” sneered one of the ruffians, blade hovering a little closer to Chuck’s side. Chuck breathed in. “Not out on the road in your pretty clothes with your pretty little wife.”
“I’m not his wife,” Charlie objected.
“Is that so?” the woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you worry sweetheart - out here, no-one’s judging.
Tie them up,” she instructed her brigands abruptly. “If old Eamon will keep this son alive he’ll pay ransom for him.”
“He really won’t,” Chuck assured her, as the brigands yanked his hands behind his back and tied him roughly. He felt his knife removed and was patted down for more weapons.
“Well I should just kill you now then,” the woman said.
“I mean he will,” Chuck corrected himself. “Just not much.”
“We’ll see what Azazel thinks about that,” the woman tossed over her shoulder as she turned away.
Chuck and Charlie were pulled unceremoniously from their horses. Their eyes met and widened. The brigands took their cloaks, bags and the metal from their reins, then turned the horses loose. The world tilted - then the breath was knocked out of him, and Chuck realized he was sideways across a tall, sleek black horse. Another brigand bound his ankles. Charlie, opposite, was in the same position. Chuck met her eyes and wanted to say,
“Azazel! But we’re kidnapped! But Azazel!” or something similar, but a hood was yanked roughly over his head, leaving him in darkness.
*
Though he couldn’t see the scenery passing any longer, Chuck could feel that these horses moved much faster than their own. Unfortunately, in his current position, that meant a great deal of jarring and jostling and the occasional very definite bruise when the road was bad. By the time they yanked his hood off and untied his arms, his limbs were so numb that he fell from the horse. The brigands let him hit dirt.
“Hey!” he heard the woman exclaim above the ringing in his ears, “Watch the goods! They’re worthless if we break them, genius.” She approached and prodded him with one tough leather boot. Chuck considered it best to roll over.
“This is it for the night, sugarcakes. Have a drink.” She tossed him a wineskin, which he guzzled eagerly, ignoring the pain in his - everything - as he sat up. He realized there was grass under his breeches.
“I’m alright, thanks for asking,” Charlie called from across the camp. Camp? Yes, the brigands were hurriedly setting up a fire in a small clearing. They had left the road, and the horses were tethered to a tree, grazing. Chuck and Charlie were propped against a large oak with their ankles still tied together, and the brigands took turns in guarding them while the others ate. They were roasting pigeons: Chuck’s mouth watered and he heard Charlie’s stomach grumble.
“So,” he said gloomily.
“So,” Charlie agreed.
“I did say we’d get killed.”
“We’re not killed!”
“We will be.”
Charlie huffed. “Doesn’t it get tiring being so negative all the time?”
“Doesn’t it get annoying being so blindly optimistic?”
They glared at each other for a moment.
“look, we’re going to Azazel’s castle,” said Charlie in a low voice, “and much faster than if we were on our own. What more do you want?”
“Beer, food, sleep, my legs untied, and the guarantee of my safety.”
Charlie made a face and refused to talk to him for a while. They were fed, eventually - the greasy scraps from the bones of the birds and a hard heel of bread between them, which they devoured with gusto. The woman relieved the brigand on duty, and the camp settled down to sleep. Unbelievably, Charlie dozed off. Chuck stared, trying to wake her with the force of his disgust, but nothing happened, so he turned his attentions to their captor. She was watching him too, from the corner of one eye, and sharpening a wicked curved knife on a piece of flint.
“Like what you see?” she asked silkily.
“No,” said Chuck. “I mean, yes, but. I mean-“
The woman laughed, throwing back her head so her dark hair rippled. She got up and crouched down in front of him, leaning forward so the tops of her breasts pressed against her leather bodice. They were uncomfortably close to Chuck’s face, and her knife was uncomfortably close to another area.
“Really sugar, there’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m just trying to make my way in this big bad world, same as you are.”
Chuck made a sound that might have been taken as disbelief.
The woman paused, seemingly considering. “I’m Meg,” she said at last.
“Ch- Chuck,” he offered.
“Chuck?”
“It’s short for Charles,” he said, hurt.
“Okay sweetcheeks,” she chuckled.
“So…you…serve Lord Azazel?” Hey, while they were talking, he wasn’t dying.
“Uh, no. Serving isn’t exactly my thing, honey. Azazel’s more like…..an associate.”
“What are you going to do with us?” he asked.
“Hand you over. If he thinks he can ransom you he’ll pay me. If he doesn’t…” she shrugged.
“Did I mention my father is really, really rich?” Cuch widened his eyes.
Meg laughed and threw her head back: “Tell it to Azazel, baby.”
*
With the brigands horses, the ride to Azazel’s fort went fast and hard. After the first two days the brigands didn’t bother hooding them - either Meg judged they were far enough from their own lands that making a break for it wouldn’t seem appealing, or the few words she’d exchanged with Chuck had softened her enough to grants them a small mercy. The lands grew populous, then sparse again, great dull plains and scrubby foliage. It was warm - warmer than the North in spring, and the people went without cloaks. There were trees and flowers Chuck only dimly remembered, and the air smelt of the sea. He had never been so far from home.
Azazel’s castle loomed suddenly, dramatically from a hilltop. The keep was built of dark stone, the moat almost black, and the flag of the Horned Goat leered ominously from the turrets. Chuck gulped, and realised that beside him, Meg was doing the same. ‘She’s nervous!’ With an irrational surge of hope, he filed the knowledge away.
Meg and company were admitted at the drawbridge by a pair of hulking spearmen. Meg’s brigands disappeared, and Chuck and Charlie were marched through the keep by Azazel’s soldiers, all in bronze-plate armour. Meg sauntered at their backs. The interior of the Castle was decorated with dark yellow drapery, the walls adorned with tapestries of gory hunting scenes. The Great Hall, at the end of a long corridor, was guarded by twin swordsmen stood either side of great dark wood doors. Above the doors hung a bronze goat’s head, face twisted and laughing. Its horn were long and savage, and its tongue lolled from its lips.
The Hall was as large as the King’s, but emptier. A few retainers slouched here and there with their blades on prominent display, eyeing each other and the newcomers suspiciously. The dark-yellow colour scheme was continued, high drapes obscuring the windows and bronze braziers. Azazel’s seat was bronze. So were his robes, and the circlet he wore on his high forehand and - if Chuck wasn’t totally nuts now - his eyes themselves had a dark yellow glint to their irises.
“Daughter,” he greeted Meg, and Chuck’s eyes widened. Meg swallowed, looked down and then up with a nervousness Chuck recognised entirely.
“Father,” she said warily, “I’ve brought you bounty. This is Charles Shurley, the younger son of Eamon Shurley. A rich merchant,” she clarified.
“I see,” Azazel’s golden gaze raked Chuck, then Charlie: “And this is?”
“My sister,” blurted chuck. “The lady Charlie.”
“Charles….and Charlie. And you are siblings.”
“Uh, it’s a family name?”
“Ha!” Azazel threw his head back and barked laughter. “Well, we’ll soon see what your family name is worth. Why were you trespassing in the Southlands?”
“We weren’t!” Charlie said indignantly. “We were travelling on the Great Road when these people assaulted us. They took our money and set our horses loose! When the true Prince returns you will answer for harassing his citizens, sir.”
“The true Prince?” Azazel drawled, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly Chuck saw how Meg resembled him. “And who might that be?”
“Prince Castiel, of course.”
“Castiel is dead.” Azazel said it so flatly, with such certainty, that Chuck’s stomach sunk like a
lead weight.
“No,” Charlie’s lip quivered.
“And with him dead, and the Eagle’s beak at last out of my affairs, I shall pursue justice in my own
way on my own lands. Lock up the trespassers,” he snapped.
“We didn’t trespass!” Charlie yelled. Meg stepped up and slapped her across the face:
“Speak when you’re spoken to, prisoner.”
Charlie’s mouth opened and closed a few times in apparent disbelief. Chuck hung his head and
presented his bound hands to the nearest bronze-plated guard.
or,
The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Charlie, Chuck, Crowley, ensemble.
Pairings: (later) Cas/Dean, Charlie/Anna
Rating: PG
Genre: Crack, Adventure, AU
2. Chuck.
Chuck hadn’t been out of the city in a few years, but remembered the lay of the land well enough: in his younger days, he had been North and South on business for his fathers and brothers. The roads were more treacherous now, the people crueller. The cobbles of the Great Road were rough and worn, but their horses were sure-footed if not speedy. They saw few fellow travellers on the first day - those they met had a lean, hungry look, their eyes roaming briefly over Chuck and Charlie before dismissing them. Chuck was glad they had bought rough grey cloaks from father’s stable boy, for even grubby, their well-made court clothes would be considered finery to a brigand.
Charlie was looking right and left, uncomfortable:
“Chuck?” she asked. Where is the farmland? The homesteads? Everything is so….quiet.”
“It was a hard winter,” said Chuck sadly. His companion was certainly brave, but ‘sheltered’ was
putting it mildly. “Many people died. Many more lost their homes, and the lands have gone barren.” All they’d felt of it in the castle was a lack of fruit, and tougher meat at table.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Died? But…what about the grain stores?”
“Some couldn’t afford the price; some couldn’t make the journey into the city. By the year’s end the stores were depleted - gone to feed the troops in the Eastern Reach. And remember the tourney in Autumn for Lady Ruby’s visit? Or the feast for the Desert King? Those took far more from the coffers than could be afforded.”
“But - why - why didn’t the King…..?”
Chuck sighed and ran a hand down his face. Speaking like this felt dangerous, even out here. But the road before and behind them was bare, so he said quietly: “The King was…old. He had several advisors, including the Prince, but Lord Crowley had his ear. In truth, Lord Crowley has been running the kingdom for some time, and plotting this coup, I believe, for many more.”
Charlie looked stricken. “How could he do it? They were friends.”
“No,” Chuck corrected her: “Monarchs don’t have friends.”
“Sir Dean is Castiel’s friend, and he’s the Crown Prince.”
“Maybe now. But if Castiel succeeds he’ll have to put friends aside.”
Charlie looked like she wanted to object, but instead she asked: “What do the people think? they understand, right, that it’s Crowley’s fault? They want the Prince back?”
“They want to eat,” said Chuck, “They want bread and beer, and to know there’ll be bread and beer tomorrow. They want to keep their homes and trades. I believe that a year under Crowley’s rule, and they’ll take you or I for a King if we could promise them better.”
Charlie was silent. He watched the expressions flit across her face as she processed.
“What would you do?” she asked quietly. “If you were King?”
Chuck laughed. “Drink the contents of the wine cellars, then fall on my sword.”
“Castiel will be a great king,” said Charlie firmly.
Chuck hoped so. In any case, he would hold the realm better than Crowley, and probably better than his father had. On the off-chance he was still alive, of course. As they rode, the snow melted, leaving the ground hard and gritty. The sky was dull, overcast iron, unchanging down to the horizon. They pushed on as far as they were able, and when night fell, got a room at a modest-looking inn that charged twice what it should, being the only one on the road for miles in either direction. But the food was unobjectionable, the fire warm, and Charlie was pleasant conversation. Chuck found he was less nervous around her than - well, anyone, really.
“Hey,” said Charlie suddenly, “Look at that.”
He turned his head to where she was staring, behind him:
“No don’t look!” she contradicted herself. “I meant metaphorically! But that woman is giving you the eye.”
Chuck of course looked again. The woman in question was brunette, dark curling hair and dark eyes: she would have been very pretty if not for the cruel smirk of her mouth, which Charlie didn’t seem to notice. Her companions were just as unsettling: three rough men, with biceps the size of Chuck’s thighs, their faces half concealed by scruffy beards but their knives visible at their belts. One bore a slash scar down the side of his cheek, leaving his left eye permanently closed. The woman saw Chuck look, and met his eyes over her goblet.
She licked her lips.
“You should go for it,” Charlie seemed to think she was helping.
“I…really think she has enough company,” Chuck replied, and tried to disappear into his cloak.
“Your loss,” said Charlie, and almost, for a second, Chuck thought she looked wistful.
They were back on the road at first light. The sky was paler now, and the air less cold. The lands here hadn’t suffered so badly - they passed farms still in operation, and traded polite nods with the odd passing merchant. There was growth at the side of the road, too - bushes and trees. Chuck found his mind wandering. He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this death wish of a mission, but he was, as father said, rather an idiot, and probably always destined to get himself killed in some inglorious fashion. He-
“Good day mother,” said Charlie. He looked up, and jerked his horse to a stop just in time to avoid running over a hunched old woman. She wore a hood over her face and hair, and her robe looked religious, though Chuck couldn’t at first glance see any kind of emblem. “Are you lost?”
“Not lost, my dear,” croaked the old woman.
“May we help you?” Chuck asked. “It’s a dangerous road to be alone and on foot.”
“Oh, I’m not alone,” she said, stood up straight, and threw her hood back. By the time Chuck realized it was the woman from the inn, her companions had sprung from the bushes and surrounded them with their daggers. Charlie squeaked and fumbled for her small blade, but Chuck just sighed and put his hands up.
“Our purses are attached to our belts,” he admitted. “Don’t hurt us?”
The woman sauntered up to him and ran a hand deliberately up his leg. Chuck shuddered. “Now let’s see,” she unhooked his purse and emptied the few coins into her hand. “Oh, really. I know you can do better than that, blue eyes.”
“He can’t,” Charlie said quickly. “We’re poor, really. Just a couple of poor travellers. Not worth killing or maiming in any way to be honest.”
“Oh now sweetness I find that hard to believe,” the woman grinned lasciviously at Charlie and moved in that snakelike way over to her horse. She ran a hand up and down the bridle. “I saw your fancy clothes under those cloaks at the inn last night. And what’s this? A hogshead?” Oh, crap. The horses’ blankets. “House of Shurley, hmm?”
“They’ll have liquor,” said one of the ruffians.
“They’ll have money,” the woman corrected. “Now that I think about it, that is the Shurley jawline.” She swung back to Chuck and gripped his chin in her hand, hard. Her nails dug into his cheeks as he tried to refrain from biting his tongue. She smiled like a wolf: “You’re Simon Shurley.”
“Nnnnf!!” Chuck protested frantically, trying to shake his head: “Hesh my bruvver!” Then: ‘OH, CRAP.’ He shouldn’t have said that. What was wrong with him?
“Ohhh!” Her eyes widened. She released his chin and slapped his cheek. Chuck winced, feeling the half-moons of her fingernails like lines of fire. “Old Eamon has another son?”
“No,” said Chuck quickly. “I mean yes but my father hates me. He doesn’t give me money.”
“If he hated you, you’d be dead,” sneered one of the ruffians, blade hovering a little closer to Chuck’s side. Chuck breathed in. “Not out on the road in your pretty clothes with your pretty little wife.”
“I’m not his wife,” Charlie objected.
“Is that so?” the woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you worry sweetheart - out here, no-one’s judging.
Tie them up,” she instructed her brigands abruptly. “If old Eamon will keep this son alive he’ll pay ransom for him.”
“He really won’t,” Chuck assured her, as the brigands yanked his hands behind his back and tied him roughly. He felt his knife removed and was patted down for more weapons.
“Well I should just kill you now then,” the woman said.
“I mean he will,” Chuck corrected himself. “Just not much.”
“We’ll see what Azazel thinks about that,” the woman tossed over her shoulder as she turned away.
Chuck and Charlie were pulled unceremoniously from their horses. Their eyes met and widened. The brigands took their cloaks, bags and the metal from their reins, then turned the horses loose. The world tilted - then the breath was knocked out of him, and Chuck realized he was sideways across a tall, sleek black horse. Another brigand bound his ankles. Charlie, opposite, was in the same position. Chuck met her eyes and wanted to say,
“Azazel! But we’re kidnapped! But Azazel!” or something similar, but a hood was yanked roughly over his head, leaving him in darkness.
*
Though he couldn’t see the scenery passing any longer, Chuck could feel that these horses moved much faster than their own. Unfortunately, in his current position, that meant a great deal of jarring and jostling and the occasional very definite bruise when the road was bad. By the time they yanked his hood off and untied his arms, his limbs were so numb that he fell from the horse. The brigands let him hit dirt.
“Hey!” he heard the woman exclaim above the ringing in his ears, “Watch the goods! They’re worthless if we break them, genius.” She approached and prodded him with one tough leather boot. Chuck considered it best to roll over.
“This is it for the night, sugarcakes. Have a drink.” She tossed him a wineskin, which he guzzled eagerly, ignoring the pain in his - everything - as he sat up. He realized there was grass under his breeches.
“I’m alright, thanks for asking,” Charlie called from across the camp. Camp? Yes, the brigands were hurriedly setting up a fire in a small clearing. They had left the road, and the horses were tethered to a tree, grazing. Chuck and Charlie were propped against a large oak with their ankles still tied together, and the brigands took turns in guarding them while the others ate. They were roasting pigeons: Chuck’s mouth watered and he heard Charlie’s stomach grumble.
“So,” he said gloomily.
“So,” Charlie agreed.
“I did say we’d get killed.”
“We’re not killed!”
“We will be.”
Charlie huffed. “Doesn’t it get tiring being so negative all the time?”
“Doesn’t it get annoying being so blindly optimistic?”
They glared at each other for a moment.
“look, we’re going to Azazel’s castle,” said Charlie in a low voice, “and much faster than if we were on our own. What more do you want?”
“Beer, food, sleep, my legs untied, and the guarantee of my safety.”
Charlie made a face and refused to talk to him for a while. They were fed, eventually - the greasy scraps from the bones of the birds and a hard heel of bread between them, which they devoured with gusto. The woman relieved the brigand on duty, and the camp settled down to sleep. Unbelievably, Charlie dozed off. Chuck stared, trying to wake her with the force of his disgust, but nothing happened, so he turned his attentions to their captor. She was watching him too, from the corner of one eye, and sharpening a wicked curved knife on a piece of flint.
“Like what you see?” she asked silkily.
“No,” said Chuck. “I mean, yes, but. I mean-“
The woman laughed, throwing back her head so her dark hair rippled. She got up and crouched down in front of him, leaning forward so the tops of her breasts pressed against her leather bodice. They were uncomfortably close to Chuck’s face, and her knife was uncomfortably close to another area.
“Really sugar, there’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m just trying to make my way in this big bad world, same as you are.”
Chuck made a sound that might have been taken as disbelief.
The woman paused, seemingly considering. “I’m Meg,” she said at last.
“Ch- Chuck,” he offered.
“Chuck?”
“It’s short for Charles,” he said, hurt.
“Okay sweetcheeks,” she chuckled.
“So…you…serve Lord Azazel?” Hey, while they were talking, he wasn’t dying.
“Uh, no. Serving isn’t exactly my thing, honey. Azazel’s more like…..an associate.”
“What are you going to do with us?” he asked.
“Hand you over. If he thinks he can ransom you he’ll pay me. If he doesn’t…” she shrugged.
“Did I mention my father is really, really rich?” Cuch widened his eyes.
Meg laughed and threw her head back: “Tell it to Azazel, baby.”
*
With the brigands horses, the ride to Azazel’s fort went fast and hard. After the first two days the brigands didn’t bother hooding them - either Meg judged they were far enough from their own lands that making a break for it wouldn’t seem appealing, or the few words she’d exchanged with Chuck had softened her enough to grants them a small mercy. The lands grew populous, then sparse again, great dull plains and scrubby foliage. It was warm - warmer than the North in spring, and the people went without cloaks. There were trees and flowers Chuck only dimly remembered, and the air smelt of the sea. He had never been so far from home.
Azazel’s castle loomed suddenly, dramatically from a hilltop. The keep was built of dark stone, the moat almost black, and the flag of the Horned Goat leered ominously from the turrets. Chuck gulped, and realised that beside him, Meg was doing the same. ‘She’s nervous!’ With an irrational surge of hope, he filed the knowledge away.
Meg and company were admitted at the drawbridge by a pair of hulking spearmen. Meg’s brigands disappeared, and Chuck and Charlie were marched through the keep by Azazel’s soldiers, all in bronze-plate armour. Meg sauntered at their backs. The interior of the Castle was decorated with dark yellow drapery, the walls adorned with tapestries of gory hunting scenes. The Great Hall, at the end of a long corridor, was guarded by twin swordsmen stood either side of great dark wood doors. Above the doors hung a bronze goat’s head, face twisted and laughing. Its horn were long and savage, and its tongue lolled from its lips.
The Hall was as large as the King’s, but emptier. A few retainers slouched here and there with their blades on prominent display, eyeing each other and the newcomers suspiciously. The dark-yellow colour scheme was continued, high drapes obscuring the windows and bronze braziers. Azazel’s seat was bronze. So were his robes, and the circlet he wore on his high forehand and - if Chuck wasn’t totally nuts now - his eyes themselves had a dark yellow glint to their irises.
“Daughter,” he greeted Meg, and Chuck’s eyes widened. Meg swallowed, looked down and then up with a nervousness Chuck recognised entirely.
“Father,” she said warily, “I’ve brought you bounty. This is Charles Shurley, the younger son of Eamon Shurley. A rich merchant,” she clarified.
“I see,” Azazel’s golden gaze raked Chuck, then Charlie: “And this is?”
“My sister,” blurted chuck. “The lady Charlie.”
“Charles….and Charlie. And you are siblings.”
“Uh, it’s a family name?”
“Ha!” Azazel threw his head back and barked laughter. “Well, we’ll soon see what your family name is worth. Why were you trespassing in the Southlands?”
“We weren’t!” Charlie said indignantly. “We were travelling on the Great Road when these people assaulted us. They took our money and set our horses loose! When the true Prince returns you will answer for harassing his citizens, sir.”
“The true Prince?” Azazel drawled, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly Chuck saw how Meg resembled him. “And who might that be?”
“Prince Castiel, of course.”
“Castiel is dead.” Azazel said it so flatly, with such certainty, that Chuck’s stomach sunk like a
lead weight.
“No,” Charlie’s lip quivered.
“And with him dead, and the Eagle’s beak at last out of my affairs, I shall pursue justice in my own
way on my own lands. Lock up the trespassers,” he snapped.
“We didn’t trespass!” Charlie yelled. Meg stepped up and slapped her across the face:
“Speak when you’re spoken to, prisoner.”
Charlie’s mouth opened and closed a few times in apparent disbelief. Chuck hung his head and
presented his bound hands to the nearest bronze-plated guard.