Jordan, High Lord of the Poa Steppes dismounted, flopping back on to the luxurious furs that formed the lining of his camp bed. He glanced over at the limp form of the slave girl who lay beside him. He vaguely remembered hearing a snap at some point in the throes of his passion. With a grunt he cocked his leg and used it to shove the lifeless form from his bed.

Cyprus!” He barked out for his steward. “I fear I have broken another one.”

Cyprus was well aware of the situation. He had heard the change in the slave girls moans as the crescendo of his lords rutting had reached levels beyond her experience. He had winced when he had heard the sharp crack of her spine as it succumbed to the exertion.

He bustled into the chamber trailed by his two men servants. With a gesture he indicated what was required of them and tutted at his lord.

“Perhaps his Lordship should find himself a…more robust plaything?”

“Oh my dear Cyprus, I do love it when you nag me so. If I was to take a more robust plaything I would be riding one of my own horses.”

He rose from the bed, strode over to the wash basin and began washing the stench of his exertions from his body.

“Tell me, what news from the scouts?”

The old steward paused momentarily, this wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to having.

“All of the front-line scouts have reported back my liege.” He licked his lips nervously. “Countess Slovenia has left small sorties as a rear guard to slow our advance on her legions.”

Lord Jordan sensed the stewards nervousness. He sighed, his son Denmark had not reported back on schedule and was now three days out.

“You know very well that I have no interest in the front-line reports. That stupid boy will be my undoing! Have one of the sergeants muster up a search party. We will ride at first light.”

“You intend to join the search my liege?” Cyprus wasn’t really surprised.

“Yes you foetid cretin, how else do you expect we will find him?”

  • Cyprus (