Kell's Legend

fingers.He licked his lips, dry now at the excitement of gems and gold. “I think,” he said in all honesty, and without any trace of the subtle cynicism which commanded him and in which he prided himself, “I think this is my lucky day.”
    It was later. Much later. Weak light sloped through the ice-patterned window. Saark propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at the sultry vixen beside him. She was breathing deep, lost in sleep and a totality of contentment. Gods, thought Saark, with a wry grin, I’m fucking good. In fact, I must be the best.
    He ran long fingers from her throat and the gentle hollow there, down her sternum, over her rhythmically heaving breasts, and further down to curl in the rich mound of her pubis. She groaned, lifting her hips to him in unconscious response, and Saark eased his hand away. No. Not now. Not again. After all, there was business to attend to. He couldn’t afford to get her excited; although, he considered, it was extremely tempting. However. Business was business. Gold was gold. And Saark took his business very seriously.
    He stood, and slowly, easily, silently dressed. Finally, he pulled on his long leather cavalry boots, and gazed longingly at the beautiful woman, head thrown back on the bed. Oh, to have stayed there for a whole day and night! They would have enjoyed so many sexual adventures together! But…no.
    Saark moved to the mahogany sideboard, and eased open the top drawer. There was money, a small sack of thick gold coins, and these Saark tempted into his pocket. The next drawer held nothing but silkenunderwear—Saark considered helping himself, but greed for wealth over trophies got the better of him; he didn’t want to be too much of a pervert. The third drawer held papers tied together by string. Saark rifled them, looking for bonds, shares or agreements; he found only letters, and cursed. On top of the sideboard he found a long, jewelled dagger, used, he presumed, to open correspondence. It had fine emeralds set in a heavy gold hilt. He pocketed the dagger, and moved to the wardrobe, opening the door with a slow, wary gesture, seeking to avoid the groan of aged wood and tarnished hinges. Swiftly he searched the contents, and at the back he found a satchel. It was locked. Dropping to his knees, he pulled free the jewelled dagger and swiftly sawed through leather straps. Inside, there was a sheath of bonds and Saark whistled silently to himself. He held a small fortune. His smile broadened, for these were Secken & Jalberg; he could cash them at any city in Falanor. Today, Saark realised, was not just a good day. It was probably the first day of a new retirement-
    “You…bastard.” The words were low, barely more than a growl. Slowly, and still on his knees, Saark turned to see the wavering point of his own slender rapier.
    “Now donit be like that, sweetie.” He wanted to use her name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Was it Mary-Anne? Karyanne? Hell.
    “Don’t sweetie me, you pile of horse-shit thief. ”
    “Hey, I’m not a thief!”
    “And a rapist,” she said, eyes gleaming, lips wet with hatred, as they had so very recently been wet with lust.
    “Whoa!” Saark held up his hands, and went as if to stand. The rapier stabbed at him, nearly skewering his eye. “What the hell do you mean, Darienne?”
    “It’s Marianne, idiot! And do you know what the Royal Guard do to rapists when apprehended?” She glanced at his groin, and made a horizontal cutting motion with her free hand.
    “Marianne! We had such sweet sex! How can you do this to me? It’s despicable!”
    “Despicable?” she screeched. “You take advantage of me, then seek to clean me out of every penny I’ve squirreled away from that old vinegar bastard I call a husband! Do you know what I’ve had to put up with, marrying the stinking toothless old goat? His acid sour breath? His pawing, hairy hands on my tits? His unwashed, fucking rancid feet!”
    Saark managed to get to his feet without losing an eye, and with both hands held in supplication, his voice a soothing lullaby, he searched frantically for a way of escape. “Now, now, listen Marianne, we can both still come out of this smelling of roses…”
    “No,” she hissed, “I can come out of this smelling of expensive perfume, and satisfied, but you,” she jabbed at him again, drawing a shallow line of blood down his cheekbone, “you’re coming out of this without your balls. ”
    In a swift