Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  “Serj,” he called, and the door creaked open, “round up the men who say they’ve heard whispers in the halls. Bring them here after the boys.” He nodded and slipped away in silence. Crinna was squeamish; he would have to stay with the council. In the dark. Shaitani licked her lips and poured water from the cauldron over the fire into the dip in the floor. How she had made it Drakho did not know, but like in the ice cavern it was deep enough to bathe in. The blood that had already pooled there sloshed and rose as the boiling, scented water joined it. “What is that?” He asked quietly. Shaitani blinked slowly, like a cat after the catch,

  “Herbs,” she said, “to bring forth the properties in the blood, and sanctify this space. The gateway potion will ease the transition.” Drakho swallowed and opened his mouth as the door creaked; the first boy staggered in, looking back over his shoulder. He was naked, skinny, and scruffy. Her dirt stained skin was pallid in the firelight; tear tracks showed the extent of the grime he was caked in. The others shuffled in in equally sorry states.

  “Wash yourselves.” Shaitani hissed and motioned to another tub of steaming water next to the fire. “And drink from the kettle.” The boys huddled together,

  “Now.” Serj grunted and they hurried forwards to do as told. Drakho watched them with a cold detachment seeping through his limbs. In the pit of his stomach a restless hum was taking root; this was the beginning of a new chapter.

  When the boys were clean they each took a gulp from a large cup filled from the kettle. Shaitani watched with a strange calm that Drakho thought suited her well. She had been nothing but a tornado of madness and plans since they arrived; this was a she-wolf on the hunt.

  “You.” She motioned to the tallest, “come.” He walked forward with his head held high. She laughed, throwing back her head, “Brave child. This is good. Come to me, boy, I won’t hurt you.” Strangely enough, if he had gathered the gist of this ritual, this was true. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and trailed a hand across his chest,

  “How old are you, child?” She whispered,

  “Fifteen.” He said, the apple of his throat bobbing,

  “So tall,” she whispered and trailed a finger down his stomach as he squirmed and tried to get away, “do you want to touch me, Bran?” He froze,

  “How do you know my name?” He whispered,

  “You do.” She said, “You can, if you want.” She tried to push his hand against her breast, but he pushed her away suddenly, causing her to stumble. Shaitani lay on the ground, laughing like a child, “Oh yes,” she said, “spirited and brave. This is the one.” She climbed to her feet gracefully to her feet, motioning to Drakho to come to her. She placed a wicked knife into his hand,

  “In the pool. Strip first.” She said, and slunk to a crate in the corner. The quiet clucking that had been part of the background suddenly became unbearable. She returned with two roosters, clutched by their feet, and a long, curved athame. She had informed him that this was the correct word for a ritual knife. With brutal efficiency she drew it across their throats and threw them at the feet of the boys. They tried to scatter, but the soldiers Drakho had asked for were filing into the room, and though they were just as shocked as the choir boys they frightened them into submission simply by being there.

  Shaitani ignored the soldiers and began to draw symbols on each of the holy boys with the rooster blood. They whimpered and squirmed.

  “Aledale has crossed us,” Drakho said, drawing himself up to his full height, “and we will show them who has the power here.” They shifted, halfway between agreement and fear, “but we won’t stop there. You men have been chosen because you are the best, the strongest, the brightest…” they bristled with pride, “and this is why you will be blessed here tonight.” Their disgust was giving way to confusion, the seeking of understanding, “why you will lead the charge for Bledd across Europia with the help of our most generous and beautiful benefactor.” He nodded to Shaitani who, to her credit, played the part well by smiling radiantly at them. “The blood of these cursed children will be cleansed and put to better use.” He licked his lips and looked around, “Are you ready for glory, men?” They nodded numbly.

  Obediently they stripped, as he did, and herded the boys into the pool.

  “I count sixteen boys, my lord.” Shaitani said with a smirk,

  “I thought it best to have spares.” He said, “But it’s no matter, we brought the men to match them.” She nodded, and motioned to him to begin. Drakho stepped into the pool first, and gripped the throat of the boy who had been so brave just moments before,

  “Don’t fear, lad.” He said into the boy’s ear, “You’re going to live on forever. You’re going to make me a God.” With that, he slit the boy’s throat, his cry stifled by the blood that bubbled all too quickly into his trachea. One by one the other men did the same. Serj waited until the last moment before cutting so deeply into the throat of a small, dark-haired boy that his head nearly came clean of his body. As one they sank into the warm, black waters.

  Drakho held his breath as they sank under, glad that she had told him not to drink. The smell was beyond belief. When he surfaced Serj was kneeling in the pool with his eyes closed. Drakho touched his arm and motioned for him to follow; his chosen. Shaitani nodded,

  “Drink.” She said to the others as she sat in a circle of candles. The glow made her look like an angel of death; blood smeared but beautiful beyond words. The scent of the candles was making him light-headed. She began to chant quietly, hands sitting loosely on her knees as the first scream split the air. One of the soldiers staggered from the pool and fell to his knees, coughing blood and gore as he arched on the ground. The skin of his back crawled and heaved, splitting suddenly as black, muscular tendrils burst from the flesh. He threw back his head and howled, tearing the flesh of his cheeks to display rows of jagged, hooked teeth. The cries of the others became a cacophony, but though their pain was the same no two were identical. Horns, hair, protruding growths, and even wings.

  “Gather your men to the border of Aledale.” Drakho said, mouth dry. This should have been the moment of his life, but all he could think about was her, “Serj, see to it that they wait for me before beginning the march inland.” He nodded and led the men, naked and gore smeared, from the room.

  The bodies of the boys floated in the pool, littered the chamber. In the absence of their breaths and whimpers a deathly silence had taken root. Shaitani stretched luxuriously in the pool, naked as a babe.

  “It has begun.” She said with a vulpine smile. Drakho nodded, his cock was hard, his breaths fast and tight. Something small, but vital, snapped within him and he strode into the pool, gripping her by the hair. She only laughed and allowed him to drag her onto the flagstones by the fire. Without ceremony Drakho flipped her onto her belly and thrust hard into her; she was wet.

  “Disgusting whore.” He snapped. In his mind he saw blonde curls and smooth tan skin. In his mind there was another under him, and Shiatani saw this, too.

  “And what does that make you?” She asked, breaking the spell. “My lord, you spilled the blood. You bathed. You started all of this.” He pressed her face to the floor and grit his teeth together, silencing her as he clawed his way back to the fantasy. The humming in his mind, the forceful blankness that only receded when she was near, was gone and in its place there was a painful clarity. She had him where she wanted him. He was as much her slave as she was his.

  ***

  The kingdoms were close; only a wide, raging river between them, and the glittering capital of one was mere days ride from the small town at the very edge of the other that was being slowly encircled by bristling men equipped with hungry steel.

  They moved like a wave down the hills to converge on the farming town, burning the fields before they reached the homesteads. The gate guards did their duty, protecting the burgh by slamming the portcullis on the intruders and the panicked citizen alike. Screams echoed in the night on one side of the river while music and
laughter filled the air on the other. The demons slithered through the shadows as murdering ghosts, springing from corners, seeping through cracks, and tearing down walls without mercy. They fell upon the men and women alike, tearing, biting, sodomizing indiscriminately while the town burned and the guards set the signal fires ablaze. Too late, however; within hours, the invincible demons had rampaged to the heart kingdom of Aleadale.

  At the entrance of the castle of Aleadale, two giant stone warriors stood at stoic, permanent attention, bearing magnificent broadswords. Under the full moon above, the night guardsman stood sentry, tried desperately to stay awake. Smearing a gloved hand over his face, the night guardsman staggered to the edge of the parapet, shifting slightly as he adjusted himself to urinate properly off the parapet into the moat.

  “Something needs to happen one of these nights,” he mumbled. “Tired of – ” A single light flew gracefully across the sky before coming down on the guards neck with a thud. He staggered sideways and tumbled into the moat with a splash. Another guard bellowed, promptly ringing a giant bell to summon the rest of the knights. The efforts were almost pointless; the demons climbed the wall with ease and opened the gates to the castle, and to hell.

  ***

  The army moved with unholy speed, and soon Drakho found himself staring at the castle gates as they were pried open; the guards lay slumped almost at their posts. They had not expected an attack, let alone one of such ferocity. With a grin, he turned to the knights that were massed behind them.

  “What are we to do with the citizens of the kingdom, sire?” One of the Changed asked; his hulking body seemed to have weathered the alteration without drama, but the strength granted him and the yellow flashing of his eyes showed his new nature. Drakho shrugged and pursed his lips,

  “Do with them as you see fit, my friend.” He said with an easy grin. With a look to Shaitani, the Changed lunged into action and breached the torn, twisted gates. The knights of Aleadale could not possibly mount a defense against such an extreme attack, Drakho knew this, and yet he was surprised at how easy this had been.

  Shaitani narrowed her eyes in distaste at the scenes before them as they trotted to the castle keep,

  “Men have no ambition,” she said with sudden venom, “they could be Gods amongst men, but all they care about is finding cunt.” Drakho blinked at the bloodied corpse of a mature woman; her splay legged posture belied her fate. He shrugged,

  “No ambition, no competition.” He said simply, “I am more than happy to surround myself with men who want reward rather than power. She laughed,

  “Then perhaps you are different.” She said and spurred her horse to a canter.

  The castle was not so lavish as the one in Avondale, nor so intricately decorated as that of Archibald. It was… comfortable, homely. It showed the nature of the people which it represented: pragmatic, simplistic, sturdy animal herders and husbands. Drakho found the royal quarters with ease; it was where his men were streaming to, returning with looted goods and screaming servants. The Kings body lay in a broken heap near the writhing form of his wife. The women of Aledale were taught with the boys to fight, and she was no exception. Two of his still human soldiers lay dead before her, but she was losing the battle. His men parted when he approached, but she did not plead nor beg; she knew immediately, and that alone made him mourn the loss of her. Women were not made in such ways anymore,

  “You faithless, honorless, bastard.” She snarled and flew at him, but his men restrained her,

  “Now, now, Karina…” he tutted and touched her face, the Queen struggled mightily but in vain, “such language does not befit a Queen.”

  “Shit on you,” she snapped, “and your whore creature too.” Drakho slapped her hard enough to burst the tear in her lip further, but she only laughed. “Oh she has you, boy, she has you right where she needs you, and you won’t get what you want.” She struggled to a stand, heedless of her bared breasts and bloodied legs, “That thing has been eating boys like you for breakfast since it could walk, and you won’t be any different. A horse to the mare, hmm, to fogged by cunt to know when you’re going to be gelded.”

  “Silence.” Shaitani said, “We’re not here for you, crone.” Karina looked at her with calm, fathomless eyes,

  “I know you, creature.” She said, “And your game. She’ll not give you what you need.”

  “You’ve said that already, Karina,” Drakho sighed, but she turned to him with a smirk, “I didn’t mean that. I meant Sonja. My daughter. She won’t give what you need.”

  Drakho gripped her chin,

  “She doesn’t need to give, Karina. We will take.” He said, and pushed a hand between her legs. Dry as bone. Her knees were steady, but she winced. “You’re made of strong stuff. Stronger than your fool husband.” He said,

  “Your mother will be turning in her grave, child.” She hissed, “But I’ll be the one to see you in hell. You won’t escape me for long.” He slapped her again, grabbing her throat,

  “Beg, and I might spare her.” He said,

  “Suck his dick and I might think more of you.” She replied, nudging her head at one of his knights. A low chuckled echoed somewhere in the room as attempts to open the princess’s door intensified. Dogs were barking somewhere. Drakho flushed and clenched his jaw drawing a blade. This was what Karina had been waiting for, it seemed, because she curled suddenly into a ball of muscle and flipped her legs outward, kicking him back as she managed to tear one hand free of her captors. Drakho swung to his feet and lunged at her, plunging the blade into her belly as a sharp pained roared through his chest. He staggered back, bathing in her screams, and felt the dagger hilt in his side. Clean between the ribs. Oh yes, they did not make women like this anymore, and he thanked the Prophet for that.

  A loud crack signaled the breach of the princess’s door, and ear splitting screams met with snarling and barking and yelping. The royal hounds, dirty great creatures with more teeth than brains, were determined to protect their mistress, and they were doing an admirable job against the soldiers. The Changed, however, swept them underfoot like reeds, and when the princess was dragged to light she was screaming. Drakho realized she was crying for her dogs, rather than her mother and father. She screamed something and the barked ceased, the scrape of claws on stone faded suddenly. He laughed,

  “Hello, Sonja.”

  “Cunt.” She screamed at him, “Bastard, faithless demon-fucking-” she doubled when his boot met her stomach,

  “She need give us nothing, my lord.” Shaitani agreed, dragging the blade from his side without warning, licking his blood from the steel. “She need only be pure.” Sonja wheezed on the ground, shoulders shaking. Drakho nodded,

  “No one is to touch her.” He said hoarsely, “do what you will with her handmaidens.”

  They too were warriors… they would prove good sport for the men.

  CHAPTER VII

  “Master Greendale, can you not ever relax?” Fiona laughed, exiting the house with a mug of chilled lemon water and a plate of bread and sliced meats.

  A farmer’s work is never done, m’lady,” he intoned with mock seriousness, and turned towards her as she approached, her full hips swaying slightly under the simple housedress she wore. She was alluring, even dressed plainly, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing her beautiful face. She placed the plate and mug on the ground by him as she wrapped her arms around his neck as he pulled her against him, and tried to remember that he needed to get the work done; there was, after all, a storm brewing, and he hated to be caught unprepared. He captured her mouth in a rough, passionate kiss, smiling when she squirmed happily.

  They sat on the grass happily and shared the bounty before them; the reality of retirement suited them well. At first he had worried, fretted over his men like they were children, but he had trained them well and the understanding that he was now at the disposal of his wife in full was starting to sink in. Jon decided a life of simple pleasures would suit him fine.
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br />   “We should ready ourselves to travel, my love.” She said eventually. The weeks before Princess Avondale’s marriage had been blurred with activity, and, free of the burdens of royal guardianship, he had had not realized just how quickly time had gone before they were once more making the short trip to the castle.

  ***

  The birds that circled the spires of the Grand Cathedral seemed to be interested in the proceeding below; they dipped and dived at intervals, perching on the gates and facades of the elegant building. Trumpeters blared out a happy tune every so often and the royal carriages, always well turned out during special occasions, seemed even more elegant. The atmosphere in the kingdom was electric, and no one felt it more than Avondale and Aiden. It would be only once that they would profess their love in front of two entire kingdoms, and they were determined that this event be like no other either the Kingdom of Avondale or the Kingdom of Archibald had ever seen.

  That had been the plan, but now Avondale was fighting the butterflies in her stomach for control. The wedding dress was much simpler than the one she had worn to her eighteenth birthday celebration, and so it was more comfortable, but gave her less to focus on. Suddenly the plunging neckline, so daring and exciting at the time of her choosing, felt too much. Her breasts seemed exposed as the skin chilled in the breeze, and she was sure the flesh there was moving with each hammering beat of her heart.

  Galadriel nudged her forwards as the music began, and for the first time in her life Avondale found herself very glad of enforced modesty; the veil was a blessing since the gathered revelers could not see her flushed face. Aiden looked so handsome that she almost sobbed; his brow was furrowed with nerves, but he smiled when he saw her, though he could not possible see that she, too, was smiling. When her father let her arm go, Avondale swam in a sea of confusion; she was alone and reeling in the immensity of this moment. The world slowed as she mounted the stairs, and for a single moment the urge to flee filled her veins. Aiden lifted her veil and gave her that huge smile that she loved so well, and suddenly the fear was gone. The world righted and she floated through the ceremony.