by Lexi Hots
Ramsey swallowed breaking his breathing pattern for a moment and then said, “You are my friend and lord. In this, as in all things, I deny you and our king nothing.”
“What say you, girl?” Hellor called from the chair. “Would you come with me to be my servant and serve my pleasure far from this dark valley?”
“Yes, lord.” She shivered from her spent energy and stinging backside as much as from the thought of being whisked away from her father and the only home she had ever known. She felt the urge to touch herself again at the thought of Count Hellor’s unique tastes and discipline.
“What would you want now, dear?” Hellor said, “If I could give you anything in this moment, what is your desire?”
She swallowed as she remained bent over the desk afraid to ask for what she really wanted. “Fruit, my lord.”
Hellor narrowed his eyes at her. “Fruit, you say?”
“Yes, lord, I want to try the fruits I saw on the tables in the ball room.”
Count Hellor laughed. “As do I, dear. Ramsey, will you indulge us in this?”
Ramsey turned. “Steward?”
The door opened and the steward’s eyes immediately turned to the floor even though Bessella’s raw ass and swollen sex were flared up for his view. She licked Count Hellor’s seed from her lips and enjoyed the taste. She wanted more.
The steward said, “Yes, my lord?”
“Bring me and my guests three droughts of wine,” Ramsey said.
“Six,” Hellor corrected. Bessella saw his shaft growing thick and stout again. She wondered and hoped that their session might not be finished. He caught her looking and smiled as he stroked himself for her. “It is a party after all.”
“Six draughts,” Ramsey said. “And a platter stacked high with a generous selection of all the fruits. After that, we are not to be disturbed until I call you again.”
“Yes, lord.”
The door closed again and Hellor stood still massaging his growing thickness. “Yes, dear, we are going to have amazing adventures together.”
Bessella swallowed and smiled. “Yes, lord.”
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TEMPTATION TALES
Story 77
The last streaks of the sun’s dying light faded over the western skyline as the tall warrior tethered his hulking warhorse to the post outside the tavern. The crudely painted banner on the ramshackle door read ‘The sign of the times’ and times were rather hard for him right then. He looked into the leather pouch tied to his belt, all that was left were the six coppers he had earned the day before rescuing a lost cow from becoming wolf dinner for a farmer. The man was too poor to pay him anything of value, but the six copper coins and a side of roast beef was better than nothing. He shook his large head ruefully at the state of his affairs as he walked up the rickety stairs of the insalubrious place. It was an odd place for a meeting; the mission had to be of the utmost secrecy for his mysterious patron to have arranged for a convention there, at the outskirts of the city walls.
He stepped into the tavern, his tall, muscular frame out of place and standing out like a sore thumb in his highland kilt and scant metal armor, a massive Claymore broadsword in its scabbard on his wide back. Men of all kinds and of all vices crowded the place, most of them of the shady sort. They eyed the huge mercenary with caution as he walked past them slowly. Several tables were arranged around the dirty dining hall, with roughhewn chairs scattered all around. Men ate and drank, and sang and argued, while others lay passed out on the tables or the floor. Serving wenches swaggered around, carrying large platters of pungent meat and flagons of ale, spilling some of it all around them. He sidestepped the rushing women and his keen eyes searched the tavern for the one who had arranged this meeting.
He stopped midstride as a small shapely hand suddenly pressed against his massive chest. He looked down at the voluptuous blonde woman standing before him, her face covered in gaudy paint. One of her finely plucked eyebrows was raised questioningly. She pushed her generous near naked breasts up at him and her painted lips curled up in an inviting smile. With what he had in his purse at that moment, he couldn’t afford her even if he wanted to. Calmly he brushed her aside and moved forward; his eyes locking onto the only other figure there that looked as out of place, if not even more, as he did.
The rather heavy set man sat in the far corner of the tavern, at a small round table with only two chairs. He had a heavy brown cloak over his shoulders and a large hood pulled down over his head obscured his features. He raised a hand and made a quick gesture. The mercenary slowly stepped up to the table. The hooded man motioned him to sit down.
“One roasted partridge.” The mercenary said, softly as he took the other seat.
“And its eggs poached.” The hooded man completed the coded message to confirm they were not making any errors of judgment.
“What’s the job?” The mercenary got right to the point, not comfortable sitting with his back exposed.
The hooded man slipped a hand into his cloak and brought out a small painted portrait, fitted in a gilded frame. It was the likeness of a young woman, breathtakingly beautiful, with fiery red hair, emerald green eyes and skin as lush as fresh cream. The mercenary recognized her immediately. There were very few who did not. The Princess Shania was not one to be hiding behind the palace walls, though she seldom ventured outside alone; she was well known and feared all through the Western Kingdom and beyond.
“Three days afore.” The hooded man said in hushed tones. “Towards the Dark Keep to the east.”
“I know the place.” The highland warrior nodded, glancing over his shoulder as some drunk singing a ribald tune. “What is the purse?”
“Twenty gold pieces, sovereign stamped.” The other replied, placing a small pouch before the mercenary. The thick golden ring on his middle finger gleamed in the flickering light before he swiftly pulled his hand away. “Five now, the rest when you have returned with her alive and unharmed.”
“I need a manner of proof to convince her of my intentions.” The mercenary nodded, quickly palming the pouch. “So she may not fear me more than her captors.”
“I understand.” The slouched man shook his head under the deep hood and fished out a small leather wrapped package from under his cloak, placing it on the table.
The large muscular highlander picked it up, unwrapping the tight binding. His eyes gleamed at the ornate, jewel encrusted dagger within it. That alone could pay for a few years of his way of life. He wrapped it back up and slipped it inside his leather jerkin.
“Why do you trust me with this, and with your precious cargo?” He abruptly asked the hooded man.
“You were highly recommended, Cullen, and your reputation precedes you in such matters.”
“You know my name,” Cullen replied gruffly, rising to his feet. “And I am yet to see your face. But no matter, your manner of speech and the signet ring on your finger that you have forgotten to conceal has already told me who you are.”
“That’s why you are the man for this job.” The other nodded as the mercenary turned and walked away. “I can trust none other. And Cullen, be warned, for your patience is to be tested… as my precious cargo is not accustomed to ways below her exalted station.”
***
Cullen stood in the light rain outside the high walls of the imposing structure. The Dark Keep was all it as called looked every bit of its foreboding nomenclature. It was well entrenched within the mountains of the Eastern Kingdom, three days ride away from the borders of the Western Kingdom. It was the fourth day since his meeting with the hooded man in the unsavory tavern, whom Cullen knew was the king himself, and he had ridden his warhorse hard through the vast forested landscape. The rain refreshed him and the horse. He had it tethered to a pole beside a few pitched tents outside the walls, of merchants and other men seeking to make money for their wares inside the walls of the Keep.
He had found their company welcoming. Being traders
and merchants they had travelled the lands and a sight like him was nothing out of the ordinary for such men. He had to wait until dark to make his move, a few hours wait also did well to get him some rest and prepare for his rescue attempt. Mostly as a mercenary, Cullen had been hired to slay, to fight against others like him, and even assassinate a powerful rival to some king, noble or chieftain. This was his first attempt at a rescue and that too of a woman, and a princess no less.
Being part of a race of natural born warriors, Cullen was well versed in the art of warfare and hardship, owing to a life in the highlands, where surviving every day was a battle won. He glanced at the merchants around him, soft and compliant men for whom silver tongues were of more value than sharp steel. They had their uses too, especially when it came to a good meal and gambling.
“And what are you here for, my large friend.” The short squat man standing beside him asked. “You are no trader or merchant, unless it is slaves you wish to buy or sell.”
“I am here on a diplomatic mission.” Cullen smiled at the man, though it did not reach his steel blue eyes. “One that will ensure future trade.”
“And whom do you represent, where are you from?” The tradesman pressed.
“My people are from the cold highland hills of the North.” Cullen scanned the walls of the Keep, noting the guards on patrol.
“The North?” The fat man laughed. “What do the people of the North have worth trading with the opulent Eastern Kingdom… animal pelts and dried meat.”
“Our skills with the sword, Jessop.” Cullen adjusted the leather strap on his helm.
“Why, is there a war brewing?” Jessop looked suddenly wary.
“There’s always a war going on, my friend.” Cullen strode off toward the walls as the first few bright stars became visible in the darkening skies above. “Thanks for the fine lamb stew and for taking care of my horse. I will be back shortly.”
“Fare you well, my large friend.” Jessop sighed. “In whatever diplomatic adventure you’re undertaking.”
***
“Halt, who goes there, answer or die.” The harsh words yelled outside the wooden door to her cell drifted to her sharp ears as she stretched herself on the wooden cot, the only piece of furnishing there.
Some fool had caught the guards’ attention outside making them raise a ruckus and now her sleep had been shattered. Seven days ago she had been kidnapped from the royal guardians of her father, King Gawain’s summer palace and brought here to this foreboding keep across the borders of their kingdom. She didn’t know what for, but being a princess was good enough reason to be kidnapped. She knew her father would pay any ransom for her, but she was not abducted for the wealth of the kingdom. Instead it was an attempt to stop her from marrying the prince of another kingdom to the south, thus making their nation even more powerful and a possible threat to this one in the east. She had never met this southern Prince before, never even heard of him and couldn’t really care.
Princess Shania couldn’t give a hoot for such matters of state and politics. Though she was terrified at the abduction, she was so far not treated badly by her captors. Perhaps they knew better than to spoil their only means of leverage, whoever they were. She had been blindfolded and brought to the Keep to be locked up in the little cell, about two days ago. They had given her proper food and drink, proper for a commoner, but acceptable enough to quench her thirst and hunger for the moment. And now when she finally laid her head down to rest, someone was raising hell outside.
She sat upright when a loud crash sounded right above her cell. Voices were raised in anger and the sound of scuffling ensued. Metal rang on metal, screams of men maimed or dying echoed inside. Then there was a sudden deathly silence as if nothing had ever happened. Whoever the fool trying to escape was must have been dealt with by the guards.
Suddenly the door to her cell exploded in a rush of splinters as a large man wearing the helm and armor of the Dark Keep guardsmen came hurtling in headfirst, hit the hard floor and lay there very still, his glassy stare looking up at the ceiling of the cell. She stifled a scream, not knowing what to expect, but her heart was beating furiously. A huge shadow blotted out the torch light coming in through the shattered door, and then it ducked low to step into the little cell.
Shania screamed this time as the largest man she had ever seen stepped into her little cell, a huge broadsword in his massive fist, dripping with fresh blood. He wore some leather and metal armor and his immensely muscular arms and shoulders bore the marks of many scars and ceremonial tribal tattoos. The large iron helm on his head had a visor covering his eyes, his grim lips were a thin line and his powerful jaw bore a few days’ worth of dark stubble. She pressed herself back toward the cold wall of her cell, her green eyes wide in terror.
“Her hair be as brilliant as the sunset, and her dazzling eyes as green as the evening sea, she has the face to stay the gods and the body to make men kneel before her, ever ready to die.” He said, in a low guttural rumble that seemed to emanate from his deep chest. “You are the Princess Shania, of the Western Kingdom… heir to the crown of Gawain, the King.”
She eyed him warily as he stood there, not willing to acknowledge him without knowing who he was. He stood there silently awaiting her response, throwing a furtive glance over his massive shoulder every now and then. Realizing that she was not certain about his intentions, he took off his helm. His long dark hair tumbled in sweat slick curls around his handsomely rugged face and she stared at the steel blue eyes that looked back at her intensely.
“Princess, I am Cullen of the Northern Highland Clans, hired by your sire to return you to him.” He said urgently. “Come, we have to leave before they rouse the main army.”
“Why should I believe you… you’re just a barbarian of low birth.” Shania composed herself and gave him a contemptuous look.
His jaw clenched and the thick vein on his muscular neck bulged. “My manner of birth doesn’t matter, I am a mercenary and my job this day is to take you safely back to your father.”
“Show me some proof.” She demanded, unsure if she was going to be safer in her cell or with this unknown mercenary.
Anticipating her exact request, he fished out a dagger with a jewel encrusted hilt and royal insignia of her kingdom, and tossed it to her. She grabbed it with both hands and studied it closely. It was her late mother’s ornamental dagger. She glanced up at him as he peered out of the cell crouching low.
“The alarm has been raised.” He said in low tones, “I see the guards with their torches approaching from the south gate.”
“Why should I believe you were given this by my father…?” She looked at him defiantly. “You may have stolen it from the regal knights who would have been entrusted with this family treasure.”
“Had I stolen it then why should I be the fool to come after you? That piece could fetch me more gold than I can carry in a year. We have little time, Princess.” He hissed. “We must go now.”
“I refuse to…” She began, but his huge hand clamped over her startled mouth and he was off and running with her cradled in his arms like a little sack of meal.
As he rounded a narrow corridor, a few of the Dark Keep guards blocked their way. Cullen callously dropped her to the dirt packed floor and whipped out his massive flat bladed broadsword with his right hand and a foot long wickedly gleaming dagger with his left. Shania temporarily forgot her misgivings and of the filthy floor as she watched her muscle-bound rescuer in action. The man was a blur of savage ferocity. Either he was natural born killer, or trained well in the art of killing by some master of the craft. One of the guards, the largest of the lot, swung his spiked ball and chain at him. Cullen caught the massive chain on his thick left forearm, wrapping it around twice. He yanked it hard and the guardsman came hurtling toward Cullen. A ruthless blow from the flat side of the broadsword smashed the big man’s nose and sent him sprawling to the ground.
The two remaining guardsmen approached with caution, but C
ullen didn’t wait for them. He dived right into them, smashing the hilt of his dagger into the side of one man’s head and his heavy right fist into the other’s jaw. Both men crumpled to the ground. There was a fourth, smaller man crouching behind the three, but he just turned tail and ran. Cullen didn’t chase him; instead he scooped up the princess as if she was a sack of dry oats and slung her over his shoulder. Shania noticed that even if he had the outer appearance of a savage, remorseless killer, he hadn’t actually killed those guardsmen, but knocked him senseless instead. Why he did that, she wondered, for surely these men would not do the same for him. She didn’t get the time to think on that as her massive rescuer sprinted through the narrow passageway until he came upon a set of steep stairs.
He bolted up the stairs, seemingly knowing his way around the Keep and ran at breakneck speed, leaping and hurdling his way through startled guardsmen and other inhabitants of the place. Within moments he was racing with her in his arms over the length of the western wall. The southern gate was heavily guarded, and he knew that even before he planned this rescue. With a wild reckless yell he leapt right off the wall and landed feet first into some tents pitched around the wall. Screams and yells ensued from those inside at the sudden intrusion. Not waiting around to assess the damage he caused, Cullen leapt onto a large dark stallion tethered on a pole beside a tent. With Shania slung over his broad shoulder, he kicked the horse into a fast gallop, away and into the dark night. A cohort of six horsemen came after them, curved swords and spear tips gleaming in the moonlight.
