Torturous Alliance

by Kristine Lichtlider

  Hector was hard pressed to deal with the remaining bowman, who had swiftly drawn a mace from his back and was attempting to splatter the squire's head with it. Unable to parry the attacks for fear of his own blade breaking, he was forced to dodge and weave around them.

  Davros drew his own blade and charged hard down the road at the Templar, who had stumbled over when he hurled the horse and rider. The knight had just regained his feet when the former First Sword of house Mannix struck a ringing blow to his head. Bruno's helmet flew off as he was again forced to sprawl in the dirt. Davros rode past a dozen feet and brought his mount about, sword again raised for a killing blow.

  Aven struggled against the leather thongs holding her prisoner, and even more against the fumes wafting into her nostrils. Her hands had been bound cruelly tight, and the fingers were getting swollen and black. In her straining, she overbalanced the chair and caused it to crash to the floor. Her cheek scraped painfully across the rough surface, eliciting a muffled groan from her gagged mouth.

  Fortune smiled, however, as the smoke was much thinner at that height. Even better, she was able to slide the thongs down the chair legs and free her feet.

  Still bound at her wrists, as well as having her head tethered to her knees, it took her several agonizing minutes to drag herself across the dirty floor to the table. Standing up as much as she could with the thong choking her, she nudged the end of the table with her shoulder until the priest's dinner knife slid to the floor. Painfully, she eased her way over to where it lay on the floor. Her fingers growing more numb by the second, it slipped from her weak grasp again and again, but stubbornly she persevered until her hands were free.

  A few moments later, she was stumbling out into the clear air. She gasped for several minutes, shaking her head as she tried to clear it. Her hand went to the hilt of the hunting knife at her side, green eyes narrowing as she heard the clash of metal in the distance.

  Bruno's head rang from the vicious strike he had suffered, making his movements slow and clumsy. He was barely able to keep the point of Davros's blade from his unprotected head as the man charged past again. The force of the blow made his feet slide in the dirt until he nearly stumbled, but the knight's mettle was not wanting and he kept his feet.

  Davros seemed to recognize that his momentary advantage was slipping. He spurred his mount forward and began a relentless assault on the woozy Templar. Still off balance, Bruno could not mount any sort of offense, and was forced to give ground to the mounted soldier. Gone was the smiling face of his old friend, replaced by a determined scowl of a seasoned warrior. Bruno was as good with a blade as any Templar, but Davros had spent twenty years tutoring nobles on the art of dueling. Only the knight's dirt and blood streaked armor kept him from death, and still his side ached beneath the metal skin from a well-aimed blow.

  Up the road, Hector faced his own moment of truth and faltered. Unable to get within reach of his mounted opponent, the squire turned his blade upon the man's horse. The front foreleg was neatly severed, both mount and master screaming as they tumbled to the dirt. Hector stood upon the man's chest and drove his blade in a two handed downward thrust through the eye slits of the soldier's helmet. The man's feet kicked as one last guttural scream issued from his dying throat. Hector's blade was drenched in gore as the dying soldier tried to use his bare hands to draw the blade from his skull, until at last his fingers went limp against the metal.

  Hector dragged his blade free just in time. Thurston had regained a bit of his nerve, thinking that Davros was sure to triumph. The mayor frantically hacked with his weapon, driving the squire back until he stumbled over the fallen crossbow. His blade went flying from his grasp, and he lay on his back staring at Thurston's murderous eyes. Up went the crude weapon, and Hector had no way to stop it.

  Bruno's blade entangled with Davros's, and they stood locked in a contest of strength. Davros was more skilled, and he had the leverage of being on horseback, but the Heartfire tattoos beneath Bruno's armor surged to life, pouring strength into his limbs. With a cry of triumph, Bruno shoved the old man from his saddle, causing him to drop into an awkward heap.

  The knight danced around the slashing hooves of his horse as it reared, and raised his blade overhead for a death blow.

  “Walk with the Allfather, Duncan,” said Bruno grimly. Davros shut his eyes tight, sprawled helplessly on his back with his blade several feet away.

  The blow never fell. Rather, Bruno stumbled forward a few feet, nearly trampling the old man. He felt as if he had been punched in the kidney, turned about to see a broken bolt lying on the dirt.

  “Magnificent armor,” said Crown, reloading a smaller, one handed crossbow with a practiced hand. “I suppose I should aim the next one at your head.”

  Davros used the distraction to scramble to his feet, though his sword still lay on the opposite side of the wounded knight. He squinted in the sunlight at Crown, straining to make out his features.

  “Bruce?” he said “well timed, friend, but where has your eye patch gone?”

  Bruno stood with his sword held in a two handed grip, arms tilted across his body to unleash a powerful swing. He advanced on the assassin, eyes glinting with murderous intent.

  “I knew you were no priest,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Crown “for all the good it did you. I can hit the eye of a sparrow from a hundred yards, knight. Your fate is sealed.”

  “If you are so sure you will not miss,” said Bruno with a grim grin “why not take your shot?”

  Crown never had a chance, as a stone the size of a roast hen slammed into his temple. The priest collapsed in a heap, instantly driven to unconsciousness by the heavy missile. He lay face first in the dirt, blood leaking from a sizable gash.

  Bruno looked up to see Allison, rubbing wrists that leaked blood as well. The grim set of her features took the knight aback, almost as much as the second rock she hefted over her head. The barmaid stood over the fallen man, clearly intending to smash his head flat with the heavy stone.

  “Wait!” said Bruno, who spun about to point his blade at Davros. “Keep him alive for a time, my love. Dead men's tongues do not wag, and I have much I wish to discuss with father Cornelius.”

  He leveraged a hard eyed gaze at the old soldier, thrusting his blade into the man's belly until it just broke the skin.

  “Do you yield, old friend?” said Bruno.

  “I yield, sir Bruno,” said Davros sadly. “The day is yours.”

  Back up the road, Hector rolled out of the way of Thurston's clumsy swing. He tumbled in the direction of his fallen sword and snatched it up mid somersault to stand at the ready, blade pointing at the mayor's breast.

  “Not so easy when I am armed, yes?” he said grimly. “Now you die, mayor, and too long have you sullied the earth with your presence!”

  Thurston hurled his blade and made a mad run for the woods. Hector fought his instincts and did not pursue, instead turning his concerned gaze upon the bloody carcass strewn scene not far away. He stopped to clean his blade on the bowman's jerkin before sheathing it. Slowly, he walked up to stand before Sir Bruno and Allison, unable to contain his smile of pride.

  “Well done, squire,” said Bruno, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand “well done indeed!”

  Hector beamed at the compliment, but frowned when he saw Crown lying in the bloody dirt. He grew more alarmed when he saw Allison, bloody wounds on her wrists and face.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” he said.

  “I am fine, Hector,” she said, offering him a fierce smile. “It is the priest you should worry about.”

  “Bind our prisoners, squire,” said Bruno with a grin “we shall see what drives noble men to turn against their king.”

  “And not so noble men,” said Aven, kicking Crown in the face when the man groaned.

  Obliteron chuckled as he watched the melee unfold. That fool Davros was no match for the Templar, with his Heartfire tattoos and superhuman strength. Ind
eed, even Oblitero's magic may not have been enough to overcome the Templar.

  It was probably a good thing that Davros had insisted on no interference from the wizard. Not that Oblitero was afraid—he was never that—but he was...concerned about the Templar's prowess. Bruno was said to be one of the greatest warriors that line had ever produced, and Oblitero did not seek pointless conflict.

  It made it so hard to enjoy the perks of his power.

  Davros had not asked about Sabia, meaning that the old soldier had known what would become of her. Soon she would be broken to the bridle like the rest of his Hell Ponies.

  In the meantime, he would busy himself with eavesdropping. It seemed a waste of his formidable magic, but all Davros wanted was for him to observe and record, not interfere.

  And play with his Hell Ponies, of course….

  Chapter 3

  Seamus cursed at his sword as it once more clattered to the floor, dropping like a stone from his three fingered grip. Stooping low, he grasped it once more in his blood burned extremity and turned to face the center of the room.

  Stella frowned at his continued struggles, sitting in one of the hard seats in the watch station. Her grimoire lay open in her lap, the page depicting a complicated series of hand gestures. She tried to return to her reading, but winced each time the big man's blade dropped to the wooden floor.

  “Why don't you give up already?” she said, looking up with annoyance.

  “Excuse me?” said Seamus, turning his scarred face upon her. Murdoch had provided an eye patch with a thick band that hid much of his acid ravaged skin, but he would have to mask his entire head to conceal them completely. Stella repressed a shudder, and went back to her book.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  Seamus sneered at the little witch. It was obvious that she was only interested in saving her own skin, as well as that massive book she clung to like life itself. Again he gripped the blade in his hand, and again he sent it through a few attack patterns. When the blade again skittered across the uneven floor, he became enraged, upending the heavy table that still bore his bloodstains.

  Stella sighed, and leaned her torso across her grimoire. She fixed Seamus with a look that bore more pity than he was expecting.

  “Look,” she said “that is a broadsword. You're a long way off from being able to wield it in your...injured hand. You should look into acquiring a lighter blade, perhaps a cutlass or even a rapier.”

  “Bah,” said Seamus, “what's the use? I could not even slay a gnat, let alone the dragon who lurks beneath our feet.”

  “Perhaps you could learn to use your left hand,” said Stella, pursing her lips.

  “I can scarce even handle my manhood with it,” said Seamus, causing Stella's face to scrunch up in disgust.

  “You do not even wish to try,” said the wizard “you'd rather just annoy me by flinging your sword to the floor all afternoon.”

  “Then cast a spell, oh mighty one,” said Seamus, holding up his maimed hand before her face “cause new fingers to spring up from my skin like water from a well.”

  “I told you, I cannot,” said Stella with a sigh “I do not even know if I can find this dragon of yours, let alone find a way to kill it.”

  “You must try,” said Seamus, his jaw growing tight. “Fennik will not be able to rest until the beast has breathed its last.”

  “I must try,” she muttered “because the small minded ingrates in this fish guts infested city have said so.”

  Seamus ignored what was likely an insult aimed his way and gripped his sword, this time with his left hand. Though it felt clumsy and ungraceful, he did manage to hang onto the blade's hilt.

  “Perhaps this can be done, after all,” he murmured, trying to focus his strikes upon his own dancing shadow. Stella looked back to her book, unable to watch his awkward movements without smiling.

  At least it will be quieter now, she thought. Seamus disappointed her by speaking.

  “How is it that you can track the beast, anyway?” said the big man. “Will you grow the nose of a bloodhound on your face, and sniff the dirt until you catch his scent?”

  “No, you cretin,” said Stella with a pout “your blood mingled with the dragon's. In a way I am not certain I understand, the grimoire says you are now linked to it. I can use your blood to find its blood.”

  Seamus nodded.

  “That sounds...feasible,” he said. His face fell into a scowl a moment later. “Wait, did you say my blood?”

  “I'll only need a drop, moron,” said Stella through gritted teeth “and I'll never master the invocation unless you cease your foolish prattle.”

  Seamus shook his head, glancing over at where Roikza slumbered in a patch of sunlight. The little dragon sighed, not seeming to care about the tension in the room.

  “Never met a wizard before, anyway,” he said “except for those blokes what can make a bird come out of a hat-”

  “Those are magicians,” said Stella with a sneer “and every bad thing you have heard uttered about a wizard is their fault! My father was one of...was the greatest wizard who ever lived. He left me this spellbook...the only spellbook not burned by the Templars during their damned inquisitions. The secrets contained within could drive you mad!”

  “You don't seem too touched in the head, hey?” said Seamus, a dubious expression on his face.

  “My intellect can handle it!” she said. As if on cue, the book in her lap slammed shut. “What? NO!”

  Seamus guffawed as the slender woman tried to force the cover back open. His mirth only increased as she pleaded with the tome as if it were a living thing.

  “Shut up!” she said “Do you want to find this dragon or not?”

  “I wonder,” said Seamus, the smile fading from his face “why the watch does not simply send a contingent of armed men into the sewers, and drive the beast out with fire and steel.”

  “Are you a dolt?” she said “No, don't answer that, I already know that you are. The watch fears for their lives, as well they should! I would think an experienced, accredited dragon slayer such as yourself would know that.”

  Seamus thrust his sword into its sheath, which took several tries with his left hand. Once he had slid it home, he stalked towards the front door. Without being bidden Roikza sprung to wakefulness and fluttered across the room to alight on his shoulder. She nuzzled the big man's bald head, casting a baleful eye full of cunning at Stella. Then she was off, flapping her wings into the azure sky. Stella wondered if the little dragon was searching for the monster that burned her master.

  “You know,” Seamus said, “the sheriff has given me dominion over you.”

  “Don't remind me,” Stella said, rolling her eyes. “I can't believe I'm under a Geas to a half wit like you.”

  “See, that's what I'm talking about,” Seamus said angrily. “You treat me like rubbish, and I've never been unkind to you.”

  “Well, you can always order me to be nice,” Stella grumbled. “I have to do anything you say.”

  “Anything, eh?” Seamus said with a grin.

  “I don't like where this is going,” Stella said, putting down her grimoire.

  “Stand up,” Seamus said.

  Stella sighed and did as she was commanded. She could feel the Geas's magic pulling at her, prying obedience from her very being.

  Seamus licked his scarred lips.

  “You're short, but stacked,” he said, eying her bust. “Those robes don't do you any justice. Why don't you take them off?”

  “I don't want to,” Stella said.

  “That's funny,” Seamus said, cocking his head. “I thought you had to obey me.”

  “You didn't give me an order, you asked me a question,” Stella said.

  “Oh, I get it now. Thanks!”

  Stella smiled.

  “You're welcome big man...” her face fell. “Oh, shit...”

  “Take off your clothes,” Seamus said, his eyes narrowing “wench.”

  Stella tr
ied, she honestly tried her damndest not to obey, but her hands moved toward her collar. Tears streaked down her face as she pulled the robes down to her waist.

  “Mmm, nice,” Seamus said, grinning lecherously. “Keep going, I want to see your ass.”

  Stella let the robes fall to the floor. Slowly, she turned about and turned her soft, round bottom toward the man who owned her, at least for the moment.

  Seamus strode up behind her and slapped her firmly on the left cheek. Stella winced but was too proud to cry out. He stuck his hand between her cheeks and slid it down until he was stroking her moist pussy lips.

  “By the Allfather, you're hairy,” he said. “I have to go and speak with some of the city’s finest about some military back up. Why don't you shave while I'm gone, eh? After you've finished your studies.”

  Stella bit her lip on a retort. The truth was, it felt awfully nice to have Seamus touch her, scars and all. After being fucked by half the town of Port Gar she found his presence oddly pleasing.

  Not that she was about to tell him that.

  “Fine,” she said, starting to pick up her robes.

  “Oh,” Seamus said with a grin “and don't put those back on. In fact, I think you should remain naked, until I say otherwise.”

  Stella turned pink, realizing that she would be on display for the entire town.

  “See you later, love,” he said, blowing her a kiss.

  Stella ground her teeth in frustration, of more than one variety. On one hand she wanted to throttle the big man, cast a spell to turn him into a toad. On the other, she wanted to leap atop him and jam his cock up her twat as far as it would go...

  The big man left, and Stella's thoughts of going out into the sun after him were dispelled when the tome abruptly fell open in her naked lap, once again showing her the incantation she would need.

  “Thank the gods,” she said with a sigh.

  Out on the streets, Seamus kept his gaze fixed on the ground before him. However, he could not help but notice the extreme expressions on the faces of those he passed. Some were disgusted by his scarred visage, while some appeared pitying. The only constant was that they annoyed him.