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Description
R For language, mainly.

This started as a pencil-sketch of Firehawk through a different person’s eyes---Strangled Duck, an out-tribe warrior who takes employment with the Shadow Riders to earn back the horse he lost at poker, so he can return to the Lost River tribe.  Like most things in my wind-bag hands, it turned into its own epic. And then the Dungeon’s captive artist produced a cartoon to go with the piece (thus earning an increase in coffee rations).  All in all, it was enough to tempt me to share.

A little less polished than my other stuff (if “polished” is a word I should apply to any of it!)  But very fun to write.

So please welcome Duck to my bestiary of heroes.  A nice guy rather than a smart-ass.  It’s a real new one for me, so let me know whatcha think of him.

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Flirting With the Hawk

Strangled Duck, the temporary bartender at the Stoned Gargoyle Inn, had come to a strange sort of peace with his silent appreciation of the physical Firehawk.  He understood that he could “look at the menu” as the wizard put it, as much as he liked and there’d be no trouble.  Trouble was reserved for the damn fools who thought they deserved a sample of the main course and stupidly brought their forks to the ready.  And there were more of those than Strangled Duck could believe!

Like that snotty woman from the Flame Moon tribe, who was a famous songcrafter.  Most of that clan boasted skill in some form of creation, they were blessed by both Freya and a foreign god named Gwydion who according to Firehawk had invented both poetry and “blarney”.

But this woman, Leafsong, was known even in the Southern kingdoms for her skills in the crafting of both stirring battle marches and poignant love-tales. And now that she’d graciously visited the Gargoyle in company with other members of her Tribe, word had spread quickly. By the time she swept imperiously downstairs, the inn had been packed with both the curious and the worshipful.

And she regally ignored them all, ordered a drink Duck had never heard of and scornfully instructed him in the making of it.  And then caught sight of Firehawk, eyeing her with interest from farther down the bar.

She froze in mid-insult, simply staring with her mouth at half-mast.  Firehawk glanced behind himself in some alarm to see what had rattled this outtribe woman---despite his reputation for arrogance, Duck had noticed the wizard could be charmingly naïve about his own effect on people.

To be honest, he didn’t blame Leafsong for goggling at the wizard.  To the barkeeper’s mind, Firehawk seemed pretty easy on the eyes even in his grubbiest garments, when he was playing “kickball” with Do’nar’s crew of warriors.  Or swearing and sweating as he helped with the patching of the inn’s roof, damaged during a spate of magical storms.

But that night---Firehawk was utterly heart-stopping.

He wore the lightweight, colorful clothes the Shadow Riders preferred for relaxation, rather than his usual jeans and tee-shirt.  His hair was a scorch of heat against the dark blue and emerald mottled fabric.  He’d tied the arrogant waves into a loose ponytail so as to reveal a teasing glimpse of his gracefully pointed ears.  Bits of the flaming stuff had escaped the leather tie, though, and feather-like wisps caressed his face like the glow around a candleflame.

He looked more alive than anyone Duck had ever seen, filled to the brim with mischief and magic.  And so staggeringly beautiful, it was like a glimpse of Paradise and a blow to the head all at once.

The ocean colors of Hawk’s clothing seemed to pull the green in his matchless eyes to an intensity that was almost painful to look at directly. Duck sure couldn’t look him in the eye, not with the aching erection he had! It had popped up like a dog begging for treats the instant the boy had leaned against the bar and greeted him with a fetching smile. “Hey, there, Donald! Pour my abused ass the meanest drink in the house and keep it comin’. Damn Carson anyway!  Why do *I* have to impress these people, I ask you?”

“P-people?” Duck stammered, reaching blindly for some bottle or other.  “Oh, you mean the out-tribesmen who are visiting.”  Timidly, he hazarded a guess as he tipped a mint-flavored but lethally potent brew into the odd little “coffee cup” he kept on reserve for the wizard.  “Is that why you’re, uh, lacking the magical eye-lenses?”

Firehawk sighed, rested one elbow on the bar, and snagged his drink thirstily.  “Yup, specs are on stand-by.  I think my boy woulda asked me to shave my ‘stache too if he didn’t worry about me torching his dick at the very notion.” Hawk smoothed the insulted facial hair lightly with a forefinger, unaware of how incredibly erotic the movement seemed to---well, half the room, not just the bartender!  “I tell ya, Donald, life’s too fuckin’ hard.”

Something was too fucking hard, that was certain!  If he didn’t change the subject, the urge he’d just had to reach out and gently touch Hawk’s mustache himself would overcome him.  Then there’d be hell to pay!

“It’s D-duck, Firehawk,” he corrected patiently for at least the fiftieth time since he’d known the wizard.  Why such a bright fellow had so much trouble with his name he didn’t understand.  He’d noticed that the mistake always seemed to irritate the warchief; probably any imperfection in his Bonded was hard for a Lord of men to tolerate.

Duck was somewhat glad that Nightwolf hadn’t accompanied the elf, this time.  The leader of the Shadow Riders had never been anything but courteous to Strangled Duck, but he was an intimidating person even at his most pleasant.

And also, very astute.  Hawk didn’t seem to notice how aroused the nervously twitching bartender had become at the mere sight of him, but Duck was pretty sure that Nightwolf would have zeroed in on the fact instantly.  And just possibly stuffed him into one of his own booze bottles as punishment.  To desire someone was the opposite of an insult, but the warchief was from a different world and seemed to have unusual ideas on the subject

Firehawk smiled impishly; Strangled Duck muffled a groan as his treacherous dick responded with an urgent throb.  “I *said* Duck!  Anyways,” the redhead continued with a mix of amusement and real irritation, “Carse asked me to play Tribal boy if I went out tonight.  He figures these dudes will stay longer if I give ‘em something to gossip about by lookin’ too weird, and he sure don’t want that!  The Tuney Moonies can be long-winded suckers. Did you hear the old bird who leads ‘em, his arrival speech?”

“Part of it,” Duck admitted.  He’d luckily been near the back of the curious crowd of Riders at the time, and had been able to tiptoe hastily away after the first ten sing-song minutes without too much disturbance.

“Chocolate covered Jesus, I never heard such a windbag in my life!” Hawk complained.  For some reason, a nearby Rider nursing his drink started laughing at that.  Firehawk threw him a filthy look and continued.

“Anyhoo, I suppose my boy will wander on in sometime tonight; he’s still chinning with the visitors, but he’ll give them the slip sooner or later.  He was already lookin’ pretty mean when I got bored and took off.”  The wizard chuckled, a fond light coming into his eyes at the thought.  The idea of Nightwolf looking any “meaner” than he did normally had a different effect on Duck.

“I’ll go in back and broach an extra keg of that spiced wine he prefers,” he remarked nervously, attempting to return Hawk’s smile.  “Maybe that will sweeten his mood?”

“Oh, nothin’ ‘sweetens his mood’ after a political session,” Firehawk said cheerfully.  “But it might ease his nerves and that’s enough for me!  Go for it, dude; I’m gonna cruise the room and mingle.”

Firehawk had lots of friends. Some people in the area were already trying to hail him, with everything from waving mugs to impatient shouts.  How wonderful it must feel, Duck thought, to be so liked that people were actually clamoring for your attention!  He watched Firehawk give a negligent wave without even turning around, as if saying “With you in a second; keep your shirts on!”  The elf reached to finish his drink, and Duck cleared his throat uncertainly.

“Uh, Hawk---would you mind just keeping an eye out when I’m in back, in case there’s trouble?  I know our lads follow Kathal’s rules about fighting, but these out-tribe folks---I don’t know---“  He almost bit his tongue in two, then, as Firehawk laughed delightedly.  Great Thor, why was he talking about out-tribe folk in that high and mighty way, as if he wasn’t one himself!

“Sure, dude---I’ll keep the peace while you’re busy.  And watch the money-box, too; my pleasure!”  Hawk’s air of innocent dishonesty and shifty eyes as he said this last drew a laugh out of Duck in spite of his worries about Lord Nightwolf’s future temper.

The wine might help, but if anything could improve the warchief’s disposition, it would be the sight of this bewitching creature who belonged to him.  In Duck’s view, the High King ought to skip through the fields with a grin on his face at the very thought of what he owned and bedded nightly, rather than frowning at the world as if it pained him. But that man’s aloof outer crust was probably necessary to keep him from rolling over like a begging puppy at Firehawk’s toes in front of everyone.

Duck found the wine quickly from Kathal’s storage; everything was neatly shelved and meticulously labeled by the bar’s owner.  Kathal liked things in their place and running smoothly, but he wasn’t nasty about it like some folks when unfortunate events caused a jumble.

In his first days of learning the barkeep trade, Strangled Duck had done a lot of jumbling.  And tripping.  And breaking, which really shamed him since he always seemed to smash crockery loudly and in the middle of the common room at that.

Kathal hadn’t yelled at him once; just shrugged and laughed, said that such things happened when one was learning.  He himself had once nearly burned the place down trying to cook a stew. Duck suspected this was a lie to make him feel better, but held his tongue. ‘Thal then replaced the destroyed glassware and cleaned up Duck’s various messes with swift efficiency, telling him not to worry about it.

Duck was grateful to not be scolded.  But his employer looked so pale and worried!  And exhausted all the time.  Thinking it was his inefficiency that bothered Kathal despite what the man had said, he’d focused every ounce of his willpower upon becoming an excellent worker.  And he learned to clean up his own messes.

He’d succeeded in becoming a help rather than a walking disaster, he thought.  But he’d also learned that ‘Thal’s worries had nothing to do with him. It was that rotten brother of his!

Duck shook himself.  Best not stand back here and brood on that! The wizard would get “antsy” if he had to cover the bar for too long.  Duck quickly toted out a small barrel of the Nightwolf’s favorite, heavy on sweet spices and low on alcohol.  None of the other Riders would touch a brew with so little kick to it, so there was always plenty on hand.

As he suspected, Firehawk was bouncing in place as he handed out small ales to a group of the Flame Moon people who had just come in.  He relinquished the task to Duck with a cheerful “Piece of cake!”---though he had served no sweets, as far as Duck knew---and obvious relief.  With a wave, Hawk grabbed his own drink and became a customer again, scooting several yards down the long bar and immediately beginning an animated conversation with a big-nosed, spikey-haired lad whom Duck had never met.

Strangled Duck sighed a bit wistfully.  The obvious disappointment of the crowd Hawk had been waiting on when Duck became the new bartender depressed him a little.  But it was not hard to understand.  Firehawk was friendly and flamboyant; Duck was shy and tongue-tied.  Hawk was graceful, funny and downright gorgeous. Duck had three left feet when he wasn’t careful, never could remember the punchline of a joke, and had a pleasant, slightly worried face that could only be called unmemorable.

He wondered why, for the thousandth time, that someone so attractive and popular had chosen to befriend him.  More, actually seemed to enjoy his company.  He would have thought the wizard was just being nice, but the sharp-tongued, sarcastic way Firehawk talked to other people including his formidable lover didn’t quite fit the image of a generally “nice” individual.

That was the moment Leafsong chose to sweep downstairs and interrupt his musings.  She’d ordered her weird drink (with a slight sneer as he fumbled the ingredients together), and then fixed her attention on Firehawk as if she’d spotted a rare gem in the mud while taking an evening stroll through the bad part of town..

*Mine!* her look said, loudly as words.  Oh, dear---this was not good.

“Barkeep!” she whispered dramatically.  “Who is that?!  The fire-haired one with eyes like the foaming ocean?”  He’d noticed the woman seemed to embellish even her most commonplace statements as if she quoted from some lay of legend.

“Why, that’s Hawk, our warchief’s Bonded,” he observed, surprised that a woman so supposedly well-informed didn’t know this.  Well, she certainly *needed* to know it!

“Firehawk, you maybe heard of him?” he continued significantly.  “He’s Bonded to Nightwolf, you know, the Slayer---did I mention that? High King of the---hmmm.”

Duck found himself talking to empty air.  The crazy woman had shot down the bar after his first three words, to nail Firehawk with a melting expression that even the simple Duck had no trouble interpreting.

This handsome woman with hair like hammered bronze and the beautiful compelling voice was in lust for *Firehawk*?  Oh, gods above, and by his attitude the usually alert elf did not have a clue!

“Heard your stuff, really rocks!”  Firehawk glowed with pleasure.  He actually thought this woman was hanging near him, smoldering and blushing, because she was interested in music?  Duck groaned, and fought against the urge to palm his forehead.  Instead, with a view to being helpful should the need arise---and perhaps a small interest in eavesdropping--- he produced a cloth and began to wipe his way down the bar towards the pair of them, humming industriously.

Leafsong smiled bewitchingly at the wizard, obviously ignoring his words but drinking up his admiration like Firefog wine and coming to a totally wrong conclusion.  “You are too kind,” she breathed. “Will you drink skaal with me, so we can talk as friends?”

Duck closed his eyes and prayed for strength as Firehawk said happily, “Sure!  As long as you clue me in on the lyrics  to the “You Are the Wind From the East” song you wrote.  Do’nar---our war captain, y’know---tried to sing it last feast day, but he mangled the words so bad might as well have been a bear yodeling.”

Leafsong smiled.  It was the smile of a confident predator.

Duck thought, oh fuck! as he polished even harder.  Hawk, you idjit, *I* know you’re thinking to serenade the Nightwolf with this woman’s song, and that’s all that’s on your mind.  But don’t you even realize what “drinking skaal” means around here?  This woman knows, obviously!

To “drink skaal” was in many tribes a kind of pledge, to seal a bargain for a night of sex between those who consumed the special beverage.  It was not a custom popular with the Shadow Riders, though---they were not a bunch who liked anything smacking of the marketplace in their love lives.  So possibly Hawk was indeed innocent of where this drink could lead!  And Duck realized, with dismay and the beginnings of a smoldering anger totally foreign to his nature, that Leafsong had no intention of explaining this to the wizard  until after he was committed.

Of course, he could---and very likely would---tell her to go straight to hell.  But because it was a type of vow, horrible luck might ensue if he did so!  Duck had no faith in the fairness of gods, and he didn’t think Hawk’s ignorance of the ritual would impress the heavenly hordes one iota.  Gods were better at dishing out punishment than showing a poor man any sympathy.  He’d known that the moment he’d woke up with a duck on his chest pecking hell out of him, and stupidly strangled it before realizing the bird would be counted as his first kill and thus doom him to a life of ridicule.

Firehawk was a wizard, of course, and a damned powerful one.  Perhaps he could ward off the bad luck of a broken vow?  No, better not to invite misfortune at all.  And besides, this woman’s deceit just made Duck furious!  Possibly because in a tiny section of his brain which responded only to his rod and its desires, he was mad at himself for not thinking of the trick.  And that truly shamed him.

Firehawk was above all his friend, and to swindle someone into bed----even if by some miracle the deceitful one survived Nightwolf’s wrath---was not the act of a friend at all.

So when she turned to him, smirking, and said briskly, “Amberheart wine, barkeep; two mugs of it!  I presume this tribe has heard of the liquor?” he rested his hands on the bar and braced himself for trouble.

“We’ve heard of it, and we’ve got some,” he admitted.  He’d never been a good liar, so he told her a solid truth instead.  “But I’m not serving it to you and Hawk.  Choose a different man to drink skaal with. I told you, he’s the Warchief’s Bonded.”  There.  He’d said it, though making a speech like that to such an imposing woman scared him nearly witless.

Leafsong stared at him, her smile slowly dripping from her face after freezing there a second.  “Do as I say, you stupid oaf; this is none of your business!” she finally got out.  “You are paid to serve drinks; serve them!”

“How do you write music when you’re deaf?” Duck snapped back.  He was used to scorn like hers.  He’d felt it all his life.  And by the gods he was finally tired of it.  “I will not serve you.  And if you keep insisting, I’ll toss you out of the place myself, you treacherous strumpet!”

Firehawk’s jaw actually dropped at Duck’s uncharacteristic attitude. Though fierce in battle, the big blond warrior was rather timid in day-to-day talk, especially with beautiful women. And though Hawk constantly teased him about it and lectured him on the merits of standing up for oneself, he obviously hadn’t been ready for this.  “Duck, what’s up with you?  It’s just sharing a drink, fer cryin’ out loud.  Carse isn’t *that* possessive.”

“Isn’t he?”  The voice was deep, musical, and as deadly as rich poison.

Duck managed to overcome a most unmanly urge to dive under the bar, but it was a near thing.  It was amazing how a man as large as the Wolf could move like a ghost when he wished, unseen until he chose to show himself.  Duck could have sworn that corner seat was only full of shadows, but now the darkness shifted, and blazing blue eyes unsheathed themselves like blades.

Even Firehawk seemed surprised. “Dammitall, Carson, how long you been sitting there?”

I’d like to know that too, Duck thought, guiltily remembering his former erection, and the even more frightening urge to touch.

The wizard continued, sounding a little miffed.  “Don’t like my company or what?  You coulda said something!”

The warchief rose to his full towering height with cat-like grace.  His eyes were fixed on Leafsong, who stared back at him haughtily.  By the gods, the woman had balls of solid steel, he’d give her that!  Duck could think of no one except Hawk who could meet Nightwolf’s eviler looks with a tenth of this composure.

“Tell my fool of a Bonded what drinking skaal with someone implies,” Nightwolf said grimly.

“Fool of a---now just a cotton-picking minute here!”

The Nightwolf switched his wicked gaze to his indignant lover.  “Silence yourself, lanisha,” he said in a gentle, terrible voice. “I do not wish to become angry with you as well.”

“I’m innocent as hell!” Firehawk squawked, astonished.

“You are indeed.”

Outraged, Firehawk threw his arms dramatically in the air and declaimed to the entire inn, “Would somebody KINDLY tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

There was a beat of silence that seemed to stretch on forever in the now silent room.  Nervously, Duck responded when it seemed that no one else intended to do anything but grip their drinks and feign invisibility.

“Er, Hawk.  It’s customary to drink skaal with someone as, well, an agreement to have sex---um, spend the night with them, as it were.  I didn’t figure you knew that, so I----“

“Interfered!” Leafsong snapped haughtily.  By the gods, the woman must have a death wish.  “It is a civilized custom, I was sure he must have heard of it---and I did not know he was spoken for.”

“Like hell!” Duck blurted, so offended all his shyness dissolved temporarily.  “I tried to tell you three times---”

“Yes. She is a liar.”  Nightwolf’s voice, chilling in its calm, cut across Duck’s sputterings easily as a blade edge.  “But not a very clever one.”

Most of the warriors in the inn now looked as if they had seen ghosts and were about to expire of terror. When the Wolf spoke in that soft, measured tone he was angry beyond belief, and dangerous beyond comprehension.

The remainder of the patrons, tougher souls or more brainless, appeared hugely entertained.  Leafsong was an important person in her own right, but Nightwolf didn’t care about that.  He’d kill her anyway and no doubt this would split the tribes and cause a civil war. Life was about to get interesting!

She tossed her head and changed tack abruptly. “Bah!  It’s a crime of selfishness in any case, to keep such a beauty all to yourself!  It’s the Tribal way to share with many; how can you presume to chain this prize?”

She was dead.  How a woman intelligent enough to craft  famous songs could be such a heedless fool was beyond Duck’s understanding. Crossing the Nightwolf in such a mood---granted she did not know the warchief personally, but just the sight of the man towering over her like a thunderhead full of lightning death should have made her quail.  And quoting “tribal ways” at him!  She was an idiot, to put it kindly.

And especially—talking about Firehawk like that while he was standing right there, as if he were a---table or something!

“Prize!  Hawk’s a person and a good one, not a trophy for you or anybody else!  You’re the selfish one, and ignorant to boot!  And I despise what I’ve heard of your music; sounds like frogs farting to me!”

Duck agreed wholeheartedly with these sentiments.  It was only when all eyes in the room turned to him in surprise that he realized who’d voiced them, and blushed crimson.

But it was worth it, when Firehawk’s stunned expression changed as he looked at Duck with wonder. The wizard smiled almost gently.  “Dude,” he said quietly.  “Thank you for that.  You rock.”  Then he looked up at his tensed, white-faced lover and said simply, “Don’t.  Please?”

A low, almost painful growl rolled from Nightwolf’s lips.
For some reason, this startled the woman into near-sense; she took a nervous step backwards.  The smartest thing she’d done that whole night!

Firehawk’s face was serious as he continued; not usual for him in the slightest.  He touched Nightwolf’s clenched fist lightly, caressing the iron hand as if to relax its tension. “I think she’s a creep, too.  But it’s not worth the trouble it’d cause you.”  He gave the woman a filthy look. “And forget the song lyrics; I’m with Donald on this one.  Your stuff stinks!  Overwritten crap.  And I woulda said ‘no’ anyway.  Your ass is too fat for my taste.”

“What!” she had the gall to sputter; she caught another glimpse of Nightwolf’s face as he struggled to master himself, and prudently swallowed her complaint.  Even turned it into a kind of apology.  “I---he’s too much of a temptation, looking like that.  I lost my head.”  She glared at Firehawk as if this was his fault.

To Duck’s surprise, Hawk didn’t get fire-breathing mad.  Instead he smiled cynically, a look that didn’t belong on him at all.  “Oh, yeh, babe---I gotcha.  I’m too sexy for my shirt, right.  Why deny it?  Being like this---I suppose it’s like having a really fine Camaro with a bitchin’ paint job.  It’s a cool thing to own and you’d never sell it.  But some days you just wanna walk, and everyone keeps pestering you for rides regardless of how you feel about driving their fat asses around.”

Duck didn’t understand a good part of this speech, and from the baffled look on Leafsong’s face she wasn’t handling it well either.  But Nightwolf’s steel-harsh expression finally softened as he studied the wizard.  “You wished to walk today?” he said gently, as if the remark made sense.

Firehawk nodded slowly.  “Yeh.  Have some brews, BS with my pal Donald.  Pretend I’m just a Berkeley boy again, blending into the scenery.” He shrugged lightly.  “Sometimes I get that way, dunno why.”

“Sometimes, so do I,” Nightwolf said quietly, and Firehawk stared at him, eye wide and emerald-bright, obviously surprised and delighted.  Duck had stopped trying to puzzle out what they were rattling on about, but it seemed a kind of love talk.  And better that than the killing look Nightwolf had worn before.  The black-haired warrior actually smiled faintly at his lover’s pleasure in the confession, before turning his look back to Leafsong.  “But most days---“

The smile changed as he studied her; a worse expression than his dark and deadly stare.  “Most days, I enjoy being king.”

The words were weighted with meaning, and the Flame Moon woman at last looked afraid.  Could she have stupidly forgotten what Nightwolf was, in her arrogance?

“My Bonded has asked to spare your life, being too soft-hearted despite his loud insults.” Nightwolf studied her with dark intensity as he spoke. “And to please him, I will do that.  But you will not enjoy the days you keep.”

Everyone in the bar was riveted.  Nightwolf’s sparse remarks were far more deadly than shouted, over-dramatic threats.
And what he said next shocked even the Riders with its cold finality.

“Sing your tunes to the Southerners, woman; you are banished as of this night from any land I rule.”

Leafsong gasped, and the assembled warriors winced.  To be banished to the South was far worse than being slowly put to death!

She began to speak, babbling something about the crime not being so great, that her tribe would be furious to lose her talents, even frantic pleas for mercy.  The Wolf cut her short with a gesture of impatience.

“Not for only your lies do I do this, though they anger me greatly.  Nor for wanting my Bonded, because anyone with sense would do so.   And I tell you now, I do not keep him from those he honestly desires; though it irritates me, he is an elf!  So your trickery was engaged in for no reason.”  He glanced at Firehawk, who looked disturbed but obviously sensed that no further efforts even on his part would change the warchief’s mind this time.  “But you tried to ‘steal my car.’  And where I come from, that is a crime most ghastly and unforgivable.”

Firehawk’s head whipped up; he stared at his lover for a moment before dissolving into peals of laughter.

The slightly teasing note, meant only for the wizard, changed to cold stone again as he studied the ashen-faced woman.  “And you insulted my Bonded, which is something I do not allow or forgive, ever.” His voice went even softer then, like the warning breath of a pit viper before it strikes.

“And do you truly think me fool enough, you bitch, to believe you did not know who he is?  What status you would gain, if you succeeded in bedding the king’s Chosen? And I do not doubt that you hoped to impress him enough to perhaps even steal him from me.”

Her eyes jerked wide in shock, and she attempted to stammer a denial even with guilt spread across her suddenly less than attractive face.  “Nonsense! I mean---If he chose me that would be his busi---“

“As if!” Firehawk interjected, astonished and indignant.  Only Hawk would have the nerve to interrupt at this point!

Nightwolf, fortunately, ignored him.  He studied the stammering tunesmith with measured contempt.  “Enough.  Your voice is becoming very irritating to me.  Get out of here before I kill you anyway, promises be damned!”

The woman fled the common room, beginning to weep but not foolish enough to try and argue over her fate.  At a curt nod from the Wolf, a pair of warriors arose and followed her to make certain of her immediate departure.

Banished from the North!  Duck tried to dredge up a shred of sympathy for Leafsong, and discovered just a drop or two.  Of course Hawk was seductive enough to turn any woman---or man---half stupid with wanting him.  But she should have honestly admitted her desire and took her chances that he’d say no.  A Shadow Rider would damn sure know better!

Even a man whose first kill had been an angry duck knew better than to try and thieve what should be freely given.

“There had best be wine, Sir Duck,” Nightwolf growled, breaking his thread of thought. “There are times I understand why my War Captain drinks himself half witless!”

He stepped to the bar, bending a look on Duck that was hard to read.  It was not an angry look, particularly, but it was very thoughtful and that worried him greatly!

He bustled to serve the warchief, trying desperately not to look at Firehawk who had scooted comfortably into the circle of Nightwolf’s arm and was nearly purring with satisfaction.  He didn’t need to see that dreamy look of smoking desire the wizard turned on his lover.  He wasn’t jealous, of course, but Firehawk in a romantic mood was a sight to turn his dick to granite no matter whom the look was focused upon!  Maybe he *could* spare a crumb of sympathy for Leafsong, after all.

Firehawk tugged on the warchief’s heavy black braids, pulling his head lower to whisper in his ear.  Nightwolf smiled faintly.  “You are crude, my love,” he remarked in a pleased tone.

“Betcha,” Firehawk agreed, with a pirate’s smile. “But coming from a man who more or less called me his ride, that insult kinda lacks punch. Hey, Double-D!  Donald!”

Caught in a daydream about what “crude” thing Firehawk had muttered to his lover, Strangled Duck jumped guiltily.  “Y-yes, Hawk?  It’s Duck, by the way.”

“No,” Nightwolf stated quietly.  “You deserve a better name, I think.”

“Er---well, I think so too.  But the fates weren’t kind to me, so, well---there it is.”  Duck was a little confused and a lot alarmed. The Wolf speaking to him directly and not about what he wanted to drink---!  He admired the man deeply; he was everything a warchief should be.  But unlike Firehawk, he was not so easy to converse with.

“We been thinkin’, me and Carse here,” Hawk explained helpfully.  “And we figured that maybe, since your job situation kinda got extended indefinitely---“

“Kathal needs the help,” he said a bit defensively.  “I can’t desert him, especially since he’s having troubles with that shiftless brother of his!”  No doubt they wondered why he hadn’t returned to his own tribe like an honorable man, after his errand for his warchief was finished.  And loyalty to Kathal was definitely a big part of it.

But mainly, he was happy here, miserable there.  The realization surprised him a bit.  He’d thought himself cheerfully resigned to his old life, but he hadn’t been “cheerful” in the least!

“He does value your help,” Nightwolf agreed calmly.  “In fact, I would be most annoyed if you left him in the lurch.  And so that is why I will ride tomorrow, to talk with your warchief and make it clear that from now on, you are a Shadow Rider and under my command not his.”

Strangled Duck stared at the tall, fierce looking man like a half-wit for so long that Firehawk began to snicker.  “Maybe you shoulda just beaned him with a brick, Carse.  The look would be the same!”

“Does this not please you?” Nightwolf frowned slightly at Duck’s continued, wooden silence.

But he couldn’t speak, not without starting to blubber like a damned infant.  This dangerous, moody man had offered him a gift beyond price, a place in what was essentially his family.

“You better say thanks and accept, Donald.  My boy’s in a tolerably bad mood for some reason and you don’t wanna annoy him,” Firehawk drawled wickedly, eyes dancing.

“No!” Duck agreed so hastily that even Nightwolf looked amused.  “That is---yes!  I am honored more than I can say---though I fear Gutted Panther won’t be pleased.”

“Somehow, this fact does not terrify me,” Nightwolf remarked in the driest of tones, and Firehawk snickered in a truly nasty fashion.

“But I don’t understand why you’d pick a person like me,” the Duck added timidly, wanting to be fair.  “I’m a decent warrior when I have to be, but really I prefer, er, a peaceful life.  I’m not sure if I belong in the most powerful of the Twelve Tribes, to be honest.”

“Are you kiddin’ me, dude?” Firehawk interrupted breezily.  “I never seen anything braver than the way you jumped down that dumb bint’s throat.  Fierce to the max.  We need more guys like you.”

Duck flushed happily.  But before he could voice another thank-you Nightwolf speared him with a look intense enough to make him fidget.  Not an angry look.  Just very focused.  It would have scared a dead man!

“Indeed.  Anyone who stands up for my beloved so courageously belongs here under my protection.  Not in a tribe of fools who name their warriors by the beast they first slay.”

The slight, sarcastic emphasis the Wolf laid on *my* beloved did not escape Duck’s notice.  He began to sweat profusely as he stammered out thanks for the praise.  No doubt about it, the warchief knew all about those erections of his!

“You should think on what Rider name would suit cha,” Firehawk observed cheerily, and thank the gods the Nightwolf’s attention switched to the redhead.  “Smitty, our witch-momma, can scry one for you, or you can pick your own.  Your choice, dude.”

Duck looked down at the drink he’d poured for himself as if it would provide inspiration.  “I don’t know,” he said slowly.  “I’ve been ‘Duck’ all my life, you see.  I hate it---but I’m used to it, if that makes sense.  I’d like to choose some glorious name, but that would just make me feel like I’m trying to fool somebody.  And your witch-lady---“  He shuddered.  “No disrespect, but she thinks I’m an idiot.  She’d probably manage to find a name even worse!”

There was a thoughtful silence, then Firehawk said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “Well.  We can leave it alone if you want, but I think you should pick something groovy myself.  Hell, if I’d been named for the first thing I killed, you’d be callin’ me ‘Squashed Bug with Shoe’.  I wouldn’t dig it so much.”

Duck looked up at his friend, and for once the tug he felt was affection, pure and simple.  He supposed the lust would continue to come when his dick wasn’t scared limp by Nightwolf’s presence, but it was as he had said.

Firehawk was a real person, not just a pretty face.  A person he would have liked even if he looked like a warthog---impossible as THAT was to imagine in his dazzling presence.

Suddenly, he smiled happily.  “I thought of something---“

They both leaned toward him with interest. Names were important to the Riders as well, though they were chosen differently.

Duck took a breath.  “I’ve---come to like ‘Donald’ quite a bit---what does it mean, by the way?”

He was totally bewildered when the Nightwolf cursed resoundingly, then moaned and began shaking his head over and over.  While Firehawk whooped with laughter until tears poured from his eyes.

But the laughter was friendly not scornful, and even the cursing seemed less than dangerous for some reason.  He started laughing too without really knowing why.

Except, of course, that it was nice to be home at last.