Chapter 1
A sudden rush of air was all the warning Rann was afforded. It was doubtful if he could have dodged the flick of the dragon's tail even if he had seen it, but to be attacked by the great reptile that was to retrieve them was just about the last thing he had expected. He was barely halfway up the ridged back as he caught the massive tail arcing towards him out of the corner of his eye. The tip of the tail hit him square in the back, knocking him clear off the beast's back and sending him flying to the snow-covered ground. His crossbow thudded into a snowdrift a foot from his head, the quiver strapped to his calf nearly springing its hatch on impact.
Su'kaya stared at her fallen companion in slack-jawed amazement, obsidian eyes wide with disbelief as the black-cowled priest atop the dragon's back spoke a short, clipped sentence. A single beat of its leathery wings drove the giant beast up and forward. The air blast forced the slender warrior to her knees, blasting the freshly fallen snow into her face and nearly burying the still prone Rann. The dragon came to a rest at the western end of the clearing, turning to face them. Claws the length of a man's arm dug into the frozen ground as it half-rose on its hind legs, its great wings beating to keep its balance, the giant head towering above the birches around it.
Rann was moving slightly in the snow, every breath of air knocked from his body. Su'kaya remained on her knees next to him, desperately loading her own crossbow with fingers long since numb from the cold. It was a hopeless gesture. The crossbow, as lethal as it was against other targets, would be next to useless against the dragon. Even a hit to the eye or throat would more than likely just make it mad. For the first time, Su'kaya had an idea of what the Dar'Ratha Clan's enemies must have felt when the Clan's dragons took the field. It was an experience she really wanted to have done without.
The ground shook beneath them as the dragon dropped back down to all fours, its cowled, pale-skinned rider staring down at the two Dar'Ratha, as if contemplating exactly what to do with them. Rann was stirring now, semi-consciously reaching for a long-bladed dagger. The handle was poking painfully against his side, as he was trying to fathom exactly what was happening. He was dimly aware of something stabbing into his chest with every move. In a blur, he could make out the great green dragon; more than eighty feet long, at least forty tons of savage, meat-eating reptile, easily capable of swallowing either of them whole. The dagger felt more like a needle compared to that. He didn't need to see Su'kaya to know she would have her crossbow ready. Rann knew very well how skilled she was with that weapon. He knew equally well that the best she could do was to kill the priest, leaving the dragon uncontrolled. He had seen a dragon rage across a battlefield once - the death of its master, felt through the magically forged emotional link between them, driving the beast insane with rage. Dumb luck had sent it barrelling into the heart of the enemy army, and by the time it was done with them, it was too wounded and tired to be much of a threat. They would gain nothing by killing the priest. For a few seconds they stared at each other unmoving. Then the priest gave a short cry, and the dragon launched itself towards them, its great wings taking it up and over the tree line, the blast of air pinning the two warriors against the ground.
Still not certain he could believe that the dragon had turned against them, much less that they were still alive, Rann turned to see the great beast disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. "By the blood of the First-born..."
Su'kaya was staring after the departing dragon, as shell-shocked at what had just transpired as Rann. "What... What could he be thinking?"
The ivory-skinned warrior blinked twice, and then her face regained the look of cold compositure it had worn until the dragon's sudden attack. Without taking her eyes off the clouds, she moved slightly towards her fallen companion. "Are you all right? Can you walk?"
Rann sat up slowly, wincing slightly as the movement sent white-hot needles of pain through his spine and neck. Something inside him felt like it was drilling its way through his lung. His head was swimming. "I... I'll manage. Nobody could have missed the dragon, even in this... in this weather. This place will be crawling with Blackscars within hours"
Still looking to the skies, expecting to see the dragon coming screaming out of the cloud cover any second, flames trailing from its open jaws. Su'kaya nodded. Reluctantly prying her eyes away from where the dragon had disappeared, she caught the wince of pain he gave as he heaved himself to his feet, her eyes narrowing slightly. That worried her more than she wanted to let on. Rann was Zha'khen, a courier, chosen for his loyalty and high pain threshold, a pain threshold hardened by years of brutal conditioning. She had seen him, more than once, volunteer to take someone's place on those rare occasions when someone in their Fist had to be punished. It was his twisted way of cheating the system, cheating those not like them; to make sure the pain was inflicted on he who would feel it the least. Some of the transfers, like Na'thak and Riz, didn't think he felt pain at all. That he took some unhealthy kind of pleasure in it. They were wrong. He loved it. Not necessarily the pain itself, but feeling the pain and not being mastered by it...
Her voice was soft, almost emotionless, what little emotion there was seemingly making light of the situation. "I'll cover our tracks. We'll need to hole up until nightfall. We'll stand out like a scatha in the barracks against this snow. Besides, even with these clouds, that damnable sun still stings." She took a few steps toward an evergreen at the end of the clearing. Unloading the crossbow, she hung it back across her shoulder, and unfastened the short fighting axe in her belt. As Rann bent over, drawing a long, shuddering breath and trying to clear his head, she stopped, looking back at him with concern. "I don't think you should move more than absolutely necessary, anyway..."
"I don't think we have much choice!" It was meant to be a snap. Rann took great pride and pleasure in his endurance, in his ability to push on through pain that would have made lesser men of lesser races scream in agony. It was possibly the only thing that made him truly feel alive. He took a certain perverse joy in the retelling of the hardships placed upon him, of the tortures he had suffered, of the hints of conditioning worse still that had allowed him to overcome it. He hated to be reminded that his body could only take so much, no matter what his mind set it to.
He meant it as a snap, but it came out a whisper that ended up drowned out by a series of painful coughs. Fine, red droplets of blood stained the snow with each one, as whatever was grating into his lungs moved. Broken ribs. Possible spinal damage... Gritting his teeth, he stood up straight and began looking for his crossbow, forcibly pushing the possibility of internal bleeding from his mind. Fixing his eyes on the polished wooden handle protruding slightly from a snowdrift, he took a few faltering steps toward it. Almost immediately, the world began to swim again. He felt sick. Fighting the bile rising in his throat, he stumbled towards the crossbow, dropping heavily to his knees to dig it out. The white-hot needles dug into his spine again, almost causing him to cry out. Everything went blurry, and for a moment he was sure he was going to throw up. Unconsciously, his fingers locked around the wooden handle, yanking it up out of the snow and clutching it like an anchor. Slowly, the world came back into focus, the needles of pain replaced by a dull throbbing. Lips stretching to a killer's grin, Rann spat dark red into the snow. He could do this. One step at a time. If he could only get to his feet without vomiting.
Su'kaya shook her head slowly, brushing a jet-black strand of hair from her eyes. It seemed to stick for a moment, and she suddenly realised she was soaked in cold sweat. In the more than seventy full turns of the seasons since their graduation from Dracnath, the thought of a dragon turning on them had never even crossed her mind. But of course, the dragon hadn't really turned on them, had it? In fact, it had followed every order it was given...
She spat a curse from her lips, tucked the remaining strands of hair behind her delicately pointed, scarred ear, and tore the axe loose from her belt. It was meant for battle, not woodcutting, but it would do. Choosing a branch slightly covered by others, she set to work on it, severing it with three precise strikes. Sticky sap coated the thin axe blade, and trying to wipe it off only smeared it. She would have to see to it when they holed up. Su'kaya smirked. O'rya would give her hell for that, when she got to see it. Dragging the tree limb out, carefully brushing out the tracks she had made, she inspected the tree trunk critically. It wasn't as obvious as she had feared, but not as obscured as she had hoped for, either. Anyone at all competent would see it. But anyone competent would guess they had covered up their tracks anyway. Nodding to herself, she sheathed the axe and turned back to Rann, just in time to see him try to get to his feet again. Sighing, erasing both sets of her footprints as she went, she backtracked towards him.
Rann, too, felt he was covered in sweat. The pain in his back and neck was already fading to a dull throb, years of brutal conditioning allowing him to push past it, but every time he tried to move, the world would spin around him. He had gotten maybe six or eight feet from where he had fallen. They wouldn't even make it out of the clearing before being surrounded with this speed. Breathing as deeply as he dared, feeling the splinters of bone move inside him, he forced himself to take one more step, stumbled, and brought his foot down hard, causing the pain to flare up again. He would have fallen, if Su'kaya hadn't caught hold of his arm.
Rann's voice was still little more than a whisper. "This..." He stopped, fighting hard to keep from vomiting. "This won't work. You have to leave me. I'll slow them down for as long as I can."
Instead of answering, Su'kaya slipped beneath his arm, helping him to stand upright. "Not yet. The hollow tree we laired in four days ago is just half an hour from here. I'm not leaving any of my Fist if I can help it."
For a few seconds, Rann glared at her, trying to think of what would convince her.
"That's an order, Rann. Until Ut'Hennath gives birth and can resume her duties, you're part of my Fist and that means you do as I say. We can't afford to lose anyone now."
Rann answered with silence, glaring at the slender Dar'Ratha warrior, and then he smiled, a ghastly, crimson smile.
Su'kaya just smirked at him. "Besides, I still owe you for that flogging you took for me..."
Step by step, they disappeared in among the trees
For the eleventh time today, squire Alan cursed the dark Elves under his breath. Also for the eleventh time, a snowdrift proved much deeper than he had anticipated, and he sunk in to the middle of his thigh. Adding Sir Wilfred to the curse for good measure, he brushed off the snow as well he could and went back to untangling his spear from the low-hanging branches it had somehow fastened in. This was certainly not what he had pictured when he had asked leave of his master two years ago. He had been just past his thirteenth birthday, wanting to take part in the Tournaments where the new Blackscar squires would be chosen. He was certain the old man only allowed it because he didn't think his apprentice would be among the chosen in a thousand years. He hadn't seen the locksmith since, and was glad of it. He'd done nothing but sweep floors and do dishes all his time there ... No, the Blackscars was his childhood dream, and he knew he would have to make sacrifices... But it was bad enough that his troop was one of those who had to stay here instead of marching south where the real action would happen. Now he had to get cold and wet as well. This was so really, really not where he wanted to be.
With a last, hard tug, he finally yanked the spear free, and almost overbalanced, causing him to step right back into the snowdrift again. This time Alan did not limit himself to cursing under his breath. He hushed himself quickly, quietly looking around. What little he knew about these strange Elves flashed through his mind. It had been four years since the first time a Blackscar had seen one - in a small Freetown to the south named Wolfholme, positioned right on the border of the barbarian-held territory. Both the Blackscars and their old enemies, the Greycloaks, had wanted the town to join their holdings. Apparently, the dark Elves had somehow convinced the town's Mayor to decline both offers, accepting the "protection" of the Elves instead. Since then they had waged a war on the barbarians, flying troops in on dragons and using Wolfholme as their chief base, and now controlled a sizeable part of the southern lands on the Island. Though the Blackscars had done little to hinder them at first, preferring to let the barbarians and these new arrivals waste themselves on each other. It soon became obvious that the barbarians were no match for the invaders, their strange magic and their dragons. It was equally obvious that these pale-skinned Elves would settle for no less than the entire Island. Small incidents had grown to serious incidents, and now border skirmishes were common, each side testing the other, waiting for a sign of weakness. It would seem that there was some sort of treaty between these Elves and the Greycloaks. But captive Greycloaks knew little more than the Blackscars. The Elves were as sneaky and cunning as the Greycloaks who had been adept enough to keep their war at a virtual standstill for decades. Even in the face of the Blackscars' superior military might, the Elves were infinitively more cruel, more ruthless. Their soldiers wore black and gold, and carried black-matted, slender weapons, very different from the fine, honest steel the Blackscars carried.
Most Blackscars had seen Elves before. The Greycloaks held some in their numbers, but not even the few Elves they had managed to capture seemed to know much about the newcomers. They shared the pointed ears and slender build of their better-known cousins, but there the similarities stopped. The Elves they were used to were pale, and their hair golden or almost white. But these Dark Elves' skin was white, as white as the snow around him. Their hair was black as jet, and those who had come close enough and lived said their eyes were, too. As black as their hearts, they said. As black as the magic they called forth against the honorable forces opposing them. They said that they mastered the dragons, winged, fire-breathing reptiles as large as a castle, and other, even stranger lizards, some of which walked on two like a man and carried great, brutal weapons. From what the Blackscars could gather from the few peaceful meetings with them, and from their spies in the southern areas, they called themselves M'ir-Arreth. It had been translated to mean "First-born", but those who spoke Elven claimed there were subtle differences between the tongue of the newcomers and that of the Elves they knew. As far as Alan knew, no Dark Elf had been taken alive for the four years the Blackscars had known of them. They did not surrender, if captured they would escape or kill themselves given any opportunity at all, and they would kill their own comrades rather than let them be interrogated. The large numbers of Orcs and humans that made up a sizable part of their army had not been stationed close to the Blackscar border, and those few who had been captured or turned had known little of any use.
Alan shivered. And now they were here in the forests, more than three weeks from the border, less than four hours from Dawnspear Fort. Or had least they had been. He could not imagine the dragon coming to drop someone off. The whole county would be on standing alert for days. Of course, the seeming futility of being out here in the cold, wet to mid-thigh from snow that somehow always got in through his thick winter uniform, just made him want to be back at the fort that much more. Back at the fort, sitting at a table at the tavern, a fire burning merrily in the fireplace... Waiting for Ana to come and refill his glass, her just-too-small dress barely containing her full breasts... Himself and Garwin, standing outside Ana's window after closing time, looking past the blinds she never seemed to manage to pull entirely close, eyes glued to the glass as she undid the lacing on her dress, letting it fall slowly to the floor, her naked, curvaceous body silhouetted against ...
A soft sound startled Alan out of his daydreaming, and he whirled about. His heart was in his throat, and his spear held clumsily at the ready against the Dark Elf he knew must have snuck up on him. To his relief, the man moving towards him wore the red livery of the Blackscars, marked with the black stripes that signified he was a full Knight. More specifically, they marked him as the Knight Sergeant of his own troop. With as much dignity as he could muster, Alan rose to attention, hoping that the stern Knight Sergeant hadn't seen how much he had zoned out. Then, with growing horror, he noticed how much the daydream and memory of Ana's bountiful, naked breasts had affected him. His cheeks suddenly flaring hot, he moved his spear in what he hoped was a subtle, unassuming way, trying desperately to cover the bulge in his pants.
By some benign miracle, Knight Sergeant Alfred stopped some twenty feet away, steel-grey eyes scanning the silent forest. "Found anything, Squire?" The Sergeant's voice was as hard as the man himself. As far as the Squires in his troop knew, the only voice he knew was the short, barking command-voice. According to standing rumors, he would occasionally lower the volume, though none could actually verify this.
"Nothing, Sir. Not even a trace"
Sir Alfred fixed the young squire with a steely gaze, and looked southward again, the direction the scout claimed they had gone. The wind had picked up again, the freshly fallen snow blowing with it, making it nearly impossible to see where they had erased their footsteps. Less than ten minutes further south, and they would leave Fort Dawnspear's area of patrol, and enter Fort Greenhill's. He shook his head, throwing a last, angry glance southward. Nothing. At least one had to have been left behind. If not, why cover the tracks? But they weren't here. Maybe the others had more luck.
"Head home, son. We're on the edge of our area."
Alan saluted, breathing an inwardly sigh of relief. The Sergeant hadn't noticed his daydreaming.
"And keep your eyes about you next time. Those devils would have gutted you and you wouldn't have known until you wondered whose innards were lying around you."
Wincing, Alan turned to follow the Sergeant back north, towards the gathering point and from there, a four-hour march to Dawnspear.
From fifteen feet above ground, among the thick branches of a great, hollow tree, Su'kaya's crossbow remained trained on his back until he disappeared out of sight.
"They're gone. One of them came fairly close, but he never even looked twice at this tree." Su'kaya's voice dripped with disdain for their pursuers. If she had done that poor a job during their training, the instructor would have shot her.
Rann's only answer was a slight nod of his head, about as much movement as he could manage without setting the world spinning.
Su'kaya slipped fully into the small hollow, spared a glance at the ground-level hole they had entered to, and, satisfied that it was well concealed under the snow despite the growing winds outside, she turned back to Rann, creeping over to where he was laying. "Lie still. I'll check on your back."
Rann was large for a M'ir-Arreth; just over a head taller than Su'kaya, a good six feet tall in the measures of humans, with the defined, strong, yet slender build of all Dar'Ratha's warriors. Had he not showed such a tolerance for pain and such a remarkable loyalty, qualities that marked him as a courier, he would most likely have been a Dar-Ke'll, the heavy cavalry, armed with lances or great swords and riding four-legged, terrible lizards. Only the biggest, strongest warriors could handle the beasts. The hollow would have been cramped even for two normal-sized M'ir-Arreth, and while Su'kaya was no taller than normal, and perhaps even more slender than most Elves, definitely more so than most warriors, it did not make for comfortable conditions. Slowly, Su'kaya pulled his uniform up and over his back. As a courier, Rann had forsaken the use of armour in favour of total mobility, and Su'kaya had chosen to follow his lead this time. Right now she was satisfied with that - she would have had to ruin a good leather jack. Her fingers ran slowly over white, scarred skin, now covered in indigo bruises and welts.
She gently pressed down on a few points, searching for sore spots, irregularities. "Can't tell much. There are some nasty bruises here, though... I wish Nia was here. She'd know."
Rann smiled, despite himself. Nia was their Fist's field medic. She was also Su'kaya's Soul-Bonded. He knew perfectly well that given a choice, Su'kaya would have preferred Nia as her partner on any mission, any time. Not that she didn't trust Rann, or any of the others, but... Su'kaya's fingers trailed higher, reaching above the lowest ribs, and suddenly something yielded under her fingers, and an animal growl of pain pressed itself past Rann's lips.
Cursing softly, Su'kaya pulled back her fingers. Broken ribs, perhaps serious internal injuries... He had been coughing up blood non-stop since the fall, and she could feel him tense as her fingers brushed his spine. Her face contracted in a grimace. Reaching for her satchel, she pulled out a long roll of bandage, knowing she would, at best, delay the inevitable. "You'll have to sit up. I can't do this while you're lying down."
Rann nodded. Apart from just under the hole Su'kaya had dropped down from, there was barely enough room to sit up at all. Still, she was right. The Zha'khen gathered his arms underneath him and pushed himself up, and just as he knew it would, the dull throb in his neck and upper spine exploded into agony. With a snarl, he straightened up and leant his head back against the wall, feeling the fragments of his rib stab into his back and lung with every breath. He wasn't even conscious of the smile on his lips. The small hollow was spinning wildly, and the taste of blood was in his mouth again, stronger than before, almost blocking out the bile that was rising in his throat.
Su'kaya shook her head, the corner of her mouth twisting in what might have been a smile of her own. "You're enjoying this far too much, you know?"
The room slowly went back into focus, sharp pangs of protest from his brutalized ribs clearing Rann's spinning mind as Su'kaya began bandaging his ribs. The nausea slipping back to a faint queasiness, Rann's smile grew back, a dark humour glittering in his eyes that made the animal grin even more disturbing. "Except for this concussion, I'm having the time of my life... You should try it sometime."
Su'kaya gave a derisive chuckle, tightening the bandage as much as she dared. The worst part is that he probably wasn't even joking much. She knew Rann got the same rush out of combat as she did, but the apparent rush he could get out of pain alone... Before she could stop herself, she leant forward and pressed her lips against Rann's, tasting the metallic tang of his blood on her tongue as he answered her kiss with a hungry one of his own. She held the kiss for a few seconds, feeling her pulse, which had barely changed as the Blackscar trooper passed by, quicken, and then she almost reluctantly broke it.
They grinned at each other. Nothing was as attractive to a Dar'Ratha warrior as a display of a warrior's virtues. And the warriors in Su'kaya's Fist had been trying to outdo each other in these virtues for more than a hundred and seventy years. Withdrawing, Su'kaya took a final look at her handiwork and shrugged. It was the best she could do. Rann would rightly refuse the pain-dampening herbs Nia had given her, saving them for when he would need to move. Slowly, careful not to aggravate his injuries more than necessary, she helped Rann lie back down. For once, he allowed someone to help him without protesting.
"So..." Su'kaya turned serious again. "Why are we still alive?"
Rann shook his head, slowly, just enough to keep his head from spinning. "I have no idea. If the dragon had wanted to kill me, he would have. The priest could have killed us both easily."
Su'kaya was quiet for a few seconds. She hadn't allowed herself to think about the priest's treachery much. There had been the constant need for attention as they struggled their way to this place, the necessity of carefully erasing all the tracks they made, the fact that Rann could hardly walk two steps on his own... And she had to push it as far out of her mind as she could when she held watch in the tree, to keep her anger from pushing her into stupid mistakes. She had been so close to shooting both humans out there. The oldest, most dangerous, first. Then the youngest, while he would still be trying to figure out where the bolt had come from and what exactly had happened. It would have been easy. Their red-and-black uniforms stood out as much against the snow as her own did without the benefits of her grey-white cloak. Two unmoving targets at a range of less than seventy feet. No wind. She hadn't missed a shot like that in more than a hundred turns of the seasons. But they would have been missed. Others would come looking. Now, they would report that the area was clear, and they could expect a few days rest.
Sighing, she reached out for her cloak as Rann slowly turned over on his left, unharmed, side. His cloak was already spread out on the ground beneath them. She lied down next to him, as close as she could get to maximise the sharing of body heat, and pulled the thick cloak over them, cradling her crossbow and axe. She could feel her head brush against Rann's weapons, all within easy reach just above them.
"You're right. If he didn't want us dead..." Su'kaya stopped, eyes narrowing. "He set us up for capture. He's betrayed the whole Clan. And to humans, of all things. Does he know what we found?"
She could feel Rann move slightly behind her, contemplating her words and shaking his head slightly.
Then he spoke up, his voice low and bitter. "I don't see how he could..." Rann stopped for a second, suddenly feeling nauseous. It disappeared again a moment. "...how he could know. The spy only found out less than a week ago..." He held in for a moment, and continued. "But I can't see why he'd gamble on leaving us so... relatively... unharmed. Why he would take the risk of us escaping. And he must know that the Clan will have considered what to do if we were captured. It doesn't really matter. He's hurt Dar'Ratha more than he could know. The border is three weeks from here. We'll never get the news back in time. The Blackscars will strike at Wolfholme in just over a week."
"He's dead." Su'kaya shook her head angrily. "I'll kill him myself. Do... Do you think he will try to imply we somehow... deliberately failed to return?"
"He won't." Rann didn't even hesitate. "Even if anyone would believe that two veterans would turn to the humans, everyone knows a Zha'khen's loyalty is absolute. I couldn't betray the Clan if I wanted to. He'll only bring suspicion on..."
Rann cut himself off with a grimace, as the small hollow started spinning, and he felt the nausea rise again. He bit down into his lip, clamping down and focusing all his consciousness on the pain, crimson blood running from his lip and mixing with the blood coming from within. Got too agitated, he thought. Moved too much.
Su'kaya felt Rann's body stiffen against hers. He wasn't getting any better, and they couldn't stay here forever, either. She eyed their satchels. They had used less rations than they had thought, and always packed a little more than thought needed anyway. There was food for four, perhaps five days. They could melt snow for water. Even now their canteens, filled to the brim with snow, lay wedged between them. Their body heat would see to that it melted. And while they hid here, the Blackscars were marching on Wolfholme. And the treacherous priest flew home, safe as could be.
She suppressed an oath. The mission had been going fine. Better than they could have hoped, in fact. They were supposed to retrieve reports from an undercover spy in the Dawnspear fort, and ended up meeting the spy herself. The spy, a human named... Ana, or something similar, had told them that half the garrisons of every fort around here had been sent south weeks ago. The Blackscars were planning on seizing Wolfholme, the small village where the M'ir-Arreth had first made contact with humans on this Island. More importantly, the only safe supply route from east to west went right through it.
As Rann finally relaxed behind her, she sighed. They should have been nearly home by now. Getting ready to celebrate, at least the two of them, if the Fist was on duty. Instead... She clutched the small combat axe fiercely, imagining what the priest would look like when she was done with him. Those images still on her mind, she fell asleep.
Ana knew Knight Captain Waldemar, ranking officer at Fort Dawnspear, was upset. He only ever called for her when he was upset. The fact that she also knew why he was upset and that she had her own, not so small, part to play in it, was really the only thing that made the situation bearable. She hadn't been surprised when one of the squires came running into the tavern, telling Marius that his waitress was wanted in the Knight Captain's room immediately. The barkeeper had been less than happy, of course - her being called away meant a lot more work for him. The squires and young Knights that she was serving were less than happy, too, but perhaps for somewhat different reasons. Old Marius might pull a beer better than she could, but she hadn't seen any of the men look down his cleavage as he served them. Ana knew perfectly well she was the most attractive woman in Dawnspear. Of course, she knew equally well that apart from the aging cook and the blacksmith's fourteen-year-old daughter, she was the only woman in Dawnspear. But she liked what she saw in the mirror each morning. And she guessed the boys fighting for a peek through her window each night agreed - a tall, long-legged, curvaceous twenty-five year old woman. Red, curly hair fell down to her shoulders, dresses seemingly a size too small showing off her plentiful curves and presenting an impressive cleavage she had used to rob more than one young knight or squire of coherent speech at occasion.
Right now, of course, that cleavage was seeing some different use. The Knight Captain was seated at his desk, pants pulled down right past his crotch, and the barmaid knelt in front of him, obscured by the desk in case someone would come in unannounced. The top of her dress was opened, hanging around her waist, and her full breasts pressed tightly around the older man's erect cock. Captain Waldemar groaned as her tongue flickered out to lick at his swollen head as it protruded from her breasts, before disappearing beneath the fleshy mounds again. He was close now, his head leant backwards, mouth open, his hips bucking up and down as much as he could, as usual messing up whatever rhythm Ana might have maintained. Not for the first time, Ana wished that the old man's shaft could have been long enough that she could have taken him in her mouth with each thrust. It would have been over quicker that way. Both her hands were busy squeezing her breasts together, so she couldn't even finger herself.
Captain Waldemar's short breaths turned into grunts, and Ana knew it wouldn't be long. She stopped moving, squeezing her breasts even harder around his erection, letting the Captain's own bucking take him to the climax. His fingers tightened painfully on her shoulders, and she suppressed a small cry as his fingernails broke her skin on two places. He was groaning loudly now, legs shaking, pressure building insurmountably in his testicles...
...as someone knocked on the door. Waldemar stopped, fingers momentarily digging further into Ana's shoulders in anger as the distraction caused him to miss two beats, stopping the rhythm completely.
He cursed loudly. "Go Away! I'm busy!" The captain might be pushing the dark side of fifty-five, but his voice, much like the rest of him, was as powerful as ever.
"But... My Lord..."
The voice on the other side of the door sounded nervous, understandably so. Ana could fully sympathize. The Captain snarled, and grabbed Ana forcefully around her upper arms, guiding her roughly up and down. Biting back a sharp protest, Ana complied, hoping that he'd still be close. Her own curse over the poor Squire out there, though kept thoroughly to herself, echoed the Captain's as he knocked again.
"My... My Lord, I... I have news..."
Furious, the Captain stood up so abruptly Ana fell backward, hitting the back of her head on the desk and falling unceremoniously on her ass. Quickly pulling up his pants and refastening his belt, the Captain strode to the door and yanked it open. He might be the oldest Knight in Dawnspear, but Knight Captain Aurelius Waldemar was still an imposing sight. His greying hair and beard belied strength many men half his age would envy him. Ana could almost hear the Squire's knees shaking.
"If this isn't important, boy, I'll have you..."
The rest was lost as he slammed the door behind him. Ana shook her head, clearing it, and ran a hand over the back of her head where she'd hit the desk. She sighed. She'd have a nice bump to go with the bruises on her shoulders and upper arm come tomorrow. And there'd probably be more, too. When the Captain came back, she'd have to start all over again. If it hadn't been for that damnable Squire, she would have been lacing herself up now, making sure all the Captain's juices were out of her face and hair. In two minutes, she'd have been back in her bed, clothes in a heap, hands nearly clawing at her crotch.
Everybody in Dawnspear, except perhaps for the newest arrived Squires, knew Ana was the Captain's plaything. And since the old bastard definitely did not want any illegitimate children running around, Ana hadn't had real sex in more than two years. She was getting desperate enough, that even the Captain's pathetic rutting made her crave some attention. The lustful stares she got every night at the tavern did not make things better either. Nor did the thought of the squires getting themselves off outside her window every time she undressed. Heck, last time she took a bath, even Marius, the barkeeper, was standing outside her door, looking through the big crack in the right-hand corner in a way that probably would have been hard to notice if he hadn't been audibly groaning for each stroke he made.
Ana closed her eyes and leant back against the Captain's desk, unconsciously caressing her breasts as her hand slowly crept down towards her crotch. She moaned as her fingers snuck under her skirt and found her clit, stroking roughly over it before plunging into her pussy. In her mind's eye she was flat on her back in her own bed, legs spread. Markus, the newly arrived Knight with the long, dark hair and the green eyes, on top of her, grinding into her with all the force he could muster, every thrust a bit harder, coming a bit faster, their sweat-soaked bodies shining in the moonlight. Her fingers pulled out of her soaked pussy and stroked her clit furiously, and suddenly her mind exploded in ecstasy. Every muscle contracting and tightening uncontrollably, her body shook with the sudden climax, her fingers tightening around one of the desk's legs until her knuckles turned white.
Slowly, Ana regained control of herself. She was heaving for breath, and wasn't really sure if she had cried out or not. It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes, but she couldn't hear the captain's voice at all anymore. Must have been something really important, then. Probably news of another dragon swooping over the area. Hopefully another disappointment. Oh, if he only knew that the head attached to the pair of tits he had been humping could have told him exactly what the dragon had been here for, how many it picked up and what they knew. She'd been barely sixteen when she swore to get even with the Blackscars someday. And if the Dark Elves stopped the forthcoming attack based on what she had told them... Well, she might quite possibly consider that oath fulfilled.
A small smile crossed her lips as she tied her top, her mind on the night before last. She had been a spy for the Dark Elves for three years now, but that was the first time she'd ever actually seen one. Ana hadn't really known what to expect, but the knife against her throat while she was still fifty yards from the agreed meeting place was definitely not it. A voice, hard yet strangely melodic, had given the code phrase, and Ana hadn't the slightest doubt that if she had hesitated just a moment or stuttered on the wrong place, she would have been dead, throat slit. She hadn't heard a sound. There had been literally no warning. Before she'd even had time to be afraid, the answer had escaped her, and the knife was gone as fast as it had appeared. She got one quick look at it as it passed her; a long, thin, double-edged blade, so matted it was almost black, hardly reflecting the moonlight at all. It was a cruel weapon. A killer's weapon. The perfect blade for the Elf standing behind her.
For a few seconds, she just stared at him, her heart beating in her throat as her body finally got it through to her brain that she had been in mortal danger, perhaps in the most dangerous situation she'd ever been. He was taller than her, not by much, but enough that she could tell, dressed in dark colours, the clothes foreign to her. Long, jet-black hair flowed past his shoulders, half of it tied up in a kind of ponytail, the other falling freely down his back. His skin was white, not just compared to the swarthy barbarians, like her pale skin was, but pure, colourless white, as the snow around them. Ana swallowed nervously, her mouth opening and shutting unconsciously, for once in her life struck speechless. Her mouth finally stayed open long enough for her to try and say something, but a single look from the Dark Elf silenced her before she had made a sound.
Then, another voice, the same steely edge to it, but unmistakably female, sounded from somewhere behind her. When Ana was little, before the Blackscars came to the island, her father's inn had occasionally had Elves visiting. She still remembered a few words, and nobody could fail to recognize Elvish when they heard it. But this sounded somehow different. Like their weapons, these Elves' tongue was that of a warrior people, with no inclination or time to make their language a beautiful one. The Elf in front of her nodded once to his unseen companion, and spoke in good, if clipped, Islander.
"I am Dar'Ratha uth Rannilz'kheill. You have information for us?"
Ana smirked. She had never been so frightened in her whole life. Not even the day the Blackscars came to her parent's farm and took the entire crop as provisions for their armies, leaving her father with a back that would never completely heal and her sister a mental wreck who couldn't even look at a man without crying. For years she had harboured thoughts of joining the Greycloaks. But they were just as much foreigners as the Blackscars, though their invasion was one of fair words and silent contracts. Over the years, she'd seen them slowly but surely give up ground to the Blackscars, winning a few minor skirmishes, a few political struggles, but never turning the inexorable tide that slowly threatened to engulf the entire Island. No, there was no hope for her revenge there. Better to trust in the Dark Elves. So what if they scared her more than anything she had ever met?
Shaking her head, Ana struggled with the uppermost lacing of her top. The tight dresses made the absolute most of her already impressive figure, but they were an absolute pain to lace up. Still, as long as everyone considered her little more than a walking, talking pair of tits, no one would seriously consider her as a possible spy. She had seen firsthand what the Blackscars did to traitors. It was not a promising proposition.
A quick look on the Knight Captain's desk told her that he was still supervising the same troop movements as last time. The reports read the same as last week, and the week before that. Only the names of the villages and valleys changing. According to the beautifully adorned map covering most of the east wall, the outriders would be about a week and a half from Wolfholme now, and the main force perhaps three of four days behind them again.
The door slammed open, and Ana jumped up with a small shriek. The Knight Captain grinned a fierce, wolfish grin as he shoved the door closed behind him, unbuckling his belt as he approached her with long steps. Ana didn't like that grin. The last time she had seen him grin like that his scouts had found a hidden Greycloak lair, and was bringing captives home for 'interrogation'. Knight Captain Waldemar had personally supervised the proceedings. Ana hadn't found a single place in the entire fort where she couldn't hear the screams. All in all, Ana much preferred having him upset.
He came to a stop in front of her, his pants finally freed of the belt and falling in a heap around his ankles, revealing his halfway erect cock. Masking her revulsion behind a quick, seductive smile, Ana began pulling at the lacing to her top again, only to be roughly stopped by Waldemar's meaty hand.
"No time for that, woman! I have urgent matters to attend to. Just finish it off."
Thank the Gods for small favours, Ana thought as she quickly dropped to her knees in front of him. This way at least it would be over quick. Her hand grasped his rapidly stiffening shaft, drawing a groan from the big man. Almost absent-mindedly, she began stroking, considering what the Lord Captain's newfound happiness might mean. She shrugged inwardly and turned her full attention to the task at hand. At least he didn't seem to have guessed anything about her.
Waldemar groaned again as Ana picked up the pace, his cock now fully erect and her hand nearly a blur of motion. Her other hand was fondling his sack, playing carefully over the two stones, almost feeling the pressure building inside. She heard him begin to protest as she eased off on the stroking, but the protest was lost in a sharp intake of air as she closed her lips around the purple, throbbing head. Her tongue ran expertly over the sensitive nerve-endings as she picked up a brisk pace with her hand again. He groaned once more, almost a yell, and stiffened up totally as his climax began. The cockhead expanded slightly in her mouth and then gushed forth warm, salty tendrils onto the back of her tongue and into her throat. Two more spurts shot against Ana's tongue as she swallowed. A small drop escaped out the side of her mouth and ran down her chin as she eased up the stroking on his already relaxing shaft. She leaned back, her lips letting go of him, and wiped at the small drop as the Knight Captain steadied himself against the desk, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.
He bent down and picked up his trousers, fastening the belt as he turned towards the door again. "Just get yourself laced up again and let yourself out. I have an interrogation to run." His eyes gleamed maliciously as he reached for the door handle. "We got one of them. We finally got one of those damned Dark Elves!"
Laughing, the Knight Captain disappeared out the door, too absorbed in his grim expectations to notice Ana choking on the last drops of his semen.
Continued in Chapter 2
Fist of Dar-Ratha - Chapter 1
Next Story:Fist of Dar-Ratha - Chapter 2
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