Gears of Troy 3

by Daniel Pierce

  It was well into the next day when we reached the area that she called the highlands. There was little more grass than on the rocky expanse we left behind, but there was more. Every so often we would come across some towering rocky cairn or a primitive scene of stick-animals drawn onto the surface of a smooth natural stone wall, giving the land an ancient, raw feel. There were signs of people, but it was wild and fragile, as civilization had made no inroads beyond simple drawings that claimed we are here.

  We dismounted to stretch our legs and followed an old path for several hours as the evening sun descended upon us. This was an old place, to be sure. It was a cold place as well, and dry and forbidding, given enough time to consider the expanse around us.

  “Who made these monuments?” I asked, pointing to one of the stone structures as we passed it by.

  “I do not know. I imagine they were made long before any of my people came here.”

  “Are we close to your home?”

  “We are, but I think it would be best to camp for the night.”

  I had only packed a few furs for the trip, but tents did not seem necessary. The night turned out to be clear, free of any unfavorable weather. We built a fire atop a rocky hill and spread out our furs at the fire’s edge. The view left me without words. Wolves were howling far below us in the valleys, only adding to the scenic feel. Patches of grass and other foliage accented a half-dozen shimmering ponds which reflected the light of the stars. The fire crackled at our side as we took in the vista. I felt more at peace than I had in the days since my run-in with the gryphons.

  I had set some salted lamb bits over the fire to roast, and I sampled one to see how it was coming along. Almost perfect for my tastes. A few minutes later, I handed one to my companion, and we had a nice little meal.

  Whistler opened up to me more then, telling me of her first journey to this land. It sounded to me as if she had come from somewhere around the area that would become Persia, but my knowledge of history and geography were both tenuous, so that was hardly an educated guess. She still refused to explain why she was fleeing her homeland, instead opting to tell me that she had brought a lover along with her during her flight.

  Along the way, she had met many capable people who would become her Slingers and settle the highlands with her. This lover she brought did not take a liking to the prospect of his beloved willingly entering into a life of danger, and, eventually, she had him exiled for all of his complaints. He was weak, she said, a coward. To me, it sounded like a sudden and extreme turn of events, but she struck me as a woman who knew what she wanted. I assumed there were other misgivings she had about the man that she did not mention in her tale.

  “Are you a coward, Troy?” she asked. Her tone was more playful than serious.

  I laughed. “There are not many things that I am afraid of, no. There was this storm at sea that almost killed me one time, but that’s about it.”

  “I thought as much,” she said, grinning. “And what makes you such a fearless man?”

  “I guess it’s just the fact that I have a cause now. Port Superior and the people of Troy have given me a new lease on life. There are goals worth achieving that are bigger than just little old Troy Weston. I guess it’s hard to be afraid of things when I’m working toward a noble cause that I know will live on after I’m gone.”

  She finished her lamb and snuggled up closer to me, laying a hand on my chest. “That is. . . noble of you, Troy. And do you crave power like many noble men?”

  I laughed again. “I feel like most people like to have a sense of control over things. I would like to unify as many people as I can under the same banner so that we can all grow together without politics mucking everything up. I will accept power offered to me, sure, but I’m not going to steal it like some tyrant.”

  “So noble . . .” Her words were softer now. “And would you impose your laws on those who sailed under your unifying banner, Troy Weston?”

  “No, never. You’ve seen my Thirian friends. You can ask any one of them how they feel under my rule. They would all tell you that things have only gotten better for them since joining me at Port Superior. I have not asked them to change or even tone down their customs—for now. There will be justice under my flag, and it will have to be justice as I see fit. I take counsel form the good people around me, but in the end, yes, it will be my decision.”

  Without another word, she took her blanket and pulled it over herself, climbing on top of me. My chest and head were left exposed to the night sky as she worked under the covers. I felt her hands loosening my pants, and then I was free, held in her hands with a delicacy that made my breath leave my body.

  Her touch was gentle, arousing, as she ran fingers up and down my shaft, and then there was motion as she began to change positions. In seconds, I felt the shock of warmth as her lips wrapped me, her tongue sliding up and down in a rhythm of pure pleasure.

  I groaned then, and one of her hands climbed up to my chest, rubbing my hair with that same gentleness that she gripped me with from below. I clasped one of my artificial hands over the back of hers as it came to greet me and followed it as it caressed my chest.

  The outline of her hips taunted me through the furs, and I wanted to grab them so badly then, but the sensation between my legs held me still, clinging to every morsel of pleasure as if each might be my last. Her grip tightened and she began to slurp me faster, the sound of it drowning out even the calls of the wolves.

  “Don’t stop,” I begged.

  I put a hand on her head and felt her work. Up and down. Up and down. Some of her fingers loosened their hold as others doubled down while she continued to run them along my rod. I felt as if I would release any moment, and it took every ounce of will I had to prevent that from happening. My heart hammered in my chest as I felt her lips pull back in a smile, tongue giving me one last defiant lick.

  “Climb on,” I said, forgetting my request from a moment ago.

  I pulled the cover away, and she straightened up, lifting her tunic over her head to reveal a toned body blessed with supple breasts, their curve more elegant than a crescent moon. In the next breath, she closed her lower lips around me, and I began to pump her up and down, my arms lifting her easily.

  Whistler fell forward as we began going faster, caught up in the moment as she braced her arms against the ground on either side of my head. Her breath washed over the hairs of my chest and rushed up to greet me, the alluring scent invading my nostrils, strengthening my resolve.

  “Troy” she hissed. I had apparently hit a sweet spot. “Please . . . there.”

  I pushed up with more urgency as she began to tighten, our mouths in battle with a heated kiss that only ended when I stood without warning, lifting her slim form into the air

  She yelped with laughter, and I continued to pump while standing. Her legs splayed out on both sides of me as she reached out in panic, grabbing my arms for more support.

  “Troy. Yessss.” The hiss again, a call to the air around us, not meant for me.

  Her back was at an angle as I relaxed my arms, spilling her hair back in a silken curtain that rocked back and forth. The view from where I stood was spectacular, and I realized that she was missing out looking up at the sky. I sat her down for just long enough to spin her around and scoop her up again, this time facing out looking over the valleys below.

  Her legs were hooked over my arms as my hands snaked up under her armpits and locked together around the back of her neck. She was in a truly powerless position, but, for me at least, that only added to the eroticism, and I heard no protests from her.

  She was panting like a dog then. We both were. My heart was pounding like a battering ram, but I stayed the course, her plump cheeks slapping against my pelvis with each exertion, and I saw her fists ball up, her knuckles growing white, bracing her against the constant invasion.

  “Yes. Yessss.” A final word from her, the sound trailing away as a smile spread over her lips, along with a flush that colo
red her with passion.

  A cool slickness washed over my nethers, and I knew that she was done. I finally released the pressure that had been building between my legs since the moment she dropped under the covers and then lowered her back to my blanket.

  We lay there, our panting slowly returning to something resembling normal breathing patterns, and we soon dozed off under the starlight of the clear highland sky, but not before she asked me one final question.

  “Will there be a place for my people under your unifying flag, Troy?” She drew circles on my chest with an idle finger.

  “Of course.” I ran a hand through her hair. “There will be two, actually. One where they live now and another at Port Superior. Any who wish to may come and go as they see fit.”

  There was a beat of silence, then for the last time, a single word from her. “Good.”

  10

  I awoke to the sound of wings flapping. Just birds, I thought. It was still dark, so I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep. Then came a shrill screech from overhead.

  I looked around but saw nothing out of place. The bird was nearby, but I could not tell where exactly. Probably just a nest in the cliff’s edge, I thought.

  “We have visitors, Agara,” rasped an old woman from somewhere overhead.

  I jumped to my feet, forgetting that I was still naked.

  “I see, Grigga—this one’s cock dangles limply between its muscled thighs!”

  The voices alone were almost too much to handle. I scanned around and finally found the source of the noise. There was a small plateau behind where Whistler and I had been sleeping. Atop it was a massive nest woven together with tree branches and what looked like remnants of clothing. Sitting in the middle were two haggard old women—one bloated, the other gangly. Their skin was wrinkled and leathery, as if they had spent the previous five decades chain smoking in a tanning bed. Their sagging breasts and loose bellies were bare, but everything below the waist was covered in what I at first mistook to be radiantly colored skirts. I soon realized that I was actually looking at their own feathers, and the more I looked at them, the more I felt compelled to turn away. The blues and reds of their plumage were too bright, too sickly sweet, for me to feel at ease. Their grotesque skin was a pale blue, an almost perfect contrast to the obscene yellow-orange gradient of their teeth. They watched me through the beady black pits that were their eyes, and I looked on in horror, at their mercy if only for a few minutes.

  I heard Whistler begin to stir near my feet, but I dared not look away from these late-night visitors.

  “This one is afraid, Grigga,” said the thin one.

  “Yes, Agara. I see, I see.” the fat one squawked. “I can smell it!”

  “I can taste it,” screeched the other. “His tainted heart cries to me of his hypocrisy.”

  “Yes, I can hear it,” Grigga spat. “Just hours ago, he told that whore there that nothing scares him anymore.”

  The other let out a loud rasping sound that I took for laughter. “Yes, yes. What a load of horseshit. And he also told her that he has some grand purpose which keeps fear at bay. But, no, this man is a coward like all other men.”

  “Yes, Agara. An insecure coward. This man’s only purpose is to please his cock with as many women as he can before he is taken from this world. He simply wishes to spread his ego—his repulsive, self-assured, ass-chinned face—across the land, spoiling young women like a beast.”

  “No surprise there, Sister! Such is the way of all men.”

  “The whore is no better.”

  “Troy?” Whistler was at my side now, speaking to me through waves of grogginess. “What is happening?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I was fairly certain the old birds were bad. As in, lethally bad. They certainly had shitty manners, which was reason enough for me to pluck their shriveled tails.

  Agara shrieked with delight, “Look! She stirs now. The fuck doll is finally awake. Hello, harlot. Tell us, how was your most recent fucking? Better than the last, I hope? How was the view from up here? Do you think you will fuck again up here in my home?”

  They both clapped their wings together. It was then that I noticed their claws, surely poor tools for carrying out human activities but perfect for doing vulture things, like tearing flesh and muscle from bone.

  “Wh—harpies!” my apparent fuck doll said with sudden realization. Her sling was in her hand in the next instant. “Troy, do not listen to these cretins. They feed on tormenting honest people with their warped half-truths.”

  “Half-truths?” I said. “So, ugly birds who are full of shit? Tough break, gals.”

  Their teeth-clenching laughter pierced my eardrums again. One of them screamed, “The dense lug refuses to acknowledge his true self! He was about to deny the truth of our words. What a deliciously dense fool.”

  “Yes, Grigga. Dense. How does that lump even dress himself in the morning?”

  “He does not, Sister. Look at him standing naked now in the wee hours of the morning.” She screamed with laughter. “And the whore, too. Though she chooses not to dress so that she may advertise her lecherous ways to all the cock-hungry dogs that roam these rocky wastes. Such depravity,” the harpy said, somehow managing to try for the moral high ground.

  They cackled some more and then Agara picked up the slack. “Yes, her body still drips with the wretched juices of her lust. Why, I would wager that it had not even been washed from her previous—squaw!” She was cut off as the harlot delivered a gift to the cretin’s sunken loose-skinned stomach in the form of a well-thrown bullet. “It struck me! You fucking wench!”

  Their wings fluttered, and they both fell upon us from their ridge. I held an arm up to brace myself against the talons of the fat one’s feet-claws, and she swiped right through my flesh, leaving a nice set of gashes, which only served to flip my combat switch to on.

  I howled and reached for her ankle with my other arm, batting away more strikes from her free foot. She screeched and flailed as I pulled her closer. Feathers were coming loose left and right, and the wind she swept my way washed over me like a tidal wave of putrid dumpster stench. The smell was almost enough to make me relinquish my hold, but I held firm, knowing that she would likely disembowel me if given the chance.

  “Got bad news for you, skanky chicken. This is probably your last day,” I said.

  Her free claw swung my way again and I grasped it between her front talons and the hind one, preventing her from balling it up completely. Panicking, she flapped her rotten wings harder and tried to yank out of my hold with her legs. I lurched forward, bracing myself with a foot, and spread my arms wide. There was a loud crack, and I was sure that I broke something around her pelvis. She yowled and fell to the ground.

  Agara was trying to take her vengeance out on Whistler but not having much luck. It seemed as if the girl was able to unleash another gift or two upon the harpy before she could cover the distance between them. Her pale blue skin was now riddled with several fresh wounds, from which dark blood oozed.

  “Fuck you, whore!” she shrieked, spittle flying from her mouth. Her mouth was a nightmare of germ warfare, not to mention the smell was just south of a dumpster fire.

  Whistler had a knife in her hand and was taking swipes of her own at the wounded monster-woman. The harpy returned with more strikes, but Whistler was too quick, hopping back and dodging them by miles. She even caught one midway and cut into the creature’s wrist.

  Grigga went for my ankles from her spot on the ground, but I was able to jump away just in time. I followed my momentum to the ground and rolled further away. I looked around for the horse, forgetting that we had tied him off to a tree far below. My sword and everything else were on him. This was the second time in a week that I found myself weaponless while under attack from a flying clawed mythical creature, but I shook out my fists and considered how I was going to take apart this ostrich from hell.

  She was crawling f
or me, apparently not one to know when it was time to admit defeat. As soon as proximity allowed, I lifted a leg and stomped down hard on one of her hand-claws. She spat and went for my ankle with the other, but I lifted the same foot and brought down the heel of my boot of justice onto that claw as well. She shrieked again, and I decided that it was time to finish her off, in the fashion of all irritating vermin, albeit one with a remarkable ability to hurl curses.

  My shoe came down once more, this time on her face. She writhed and managed to successfully gouge my ankle with a single talon. I ignored the pain and slammed my heel into her again, and this time blood began to trickle from all of her facial orifices. She fell limp, all nagging condescension seeping from her lifeless form.

  Whistler had just severed a main artery on her foe, and the hag crumpled to the ground as I walked over.

  “Damn,” I said. “What a mess.”

  “Do not feel bad for them. They are the embodiment of evil itself.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Just look at them. Smell them! They go around all high and mighty bestowing insults on everyone that crosses their paths. Few things make me sicker than the words of a harpy.” She was quiet and looked at me for a moment. I suspected she might have been feeling a little guilty about throwing the first stone, or at least she may have been worried about what I now thought of her for doing so. “They would have attacked us sooner or later. Probably when we turned our backs to them.”

  “I’m sure they would have,” I assured her.

  “They eat people, you know. And horses. We should check on yours and make sure the poor thing is all right.”

  “That’s a good idea. Let’s roll the furs up and get out of here.” I cast a gimlet eye at the corpses, then decided against burning them. Let them rot.

  Before we made our descent, Whistler insisted we climb up and check the harpies’ nest, explaining that they were potential treasure troves since the hags often robbed their victims.