Troll-y Yours BBW Erotic Curvy Fantasy Romance (The Centaurs)

by Fredricks, Sheri

  In the center of the room, feeling marginally better, she took one last look around. Against the wall, the six-drawer dresser sat empty, nothing left on top. A drawer perched open and she pushed it shut with two fingers. She’d made her bed that morning, though the stall cleaner was due to come by and strip the sheets.

  The fancy borrowed clothes Kempor Hippolyte had lent her were hanging in the closet, along with a note of gratitude she’d written earlier. Shoes were lined up on the floor, a bit cockeyed from the reverberations.

  The flat strap of the heavy overnight bag dug into her shoulder, she carried her purse and the book bag in the crook of her other elbow. Time was awasting and speed-dates were awaiting. Money wouldn’t be made by itself. Handsome Centaurs were best left to live the palace life, and this Troll needed to get back to Boronda.

  It was as if the Earth called to her, to burrow beneath, to soak up the minerals within. “Good-bye, Centaur palace. It’s been a nice change of pace.”

  Outside the door, the thud of many feet continued up and down the hall. Inside, Ella turned the knob, exterior pressure caused the door to fly open—and she screamed.

  A centaur warrior in true form flopped forward at her feet. His bearded, sweaty face pulled into a tight grimace, both hands clutching his bloody girth. The noise in what was a normally quiet palace seemed as out of place as the male on the floor.

  “Help me.”

  “What happened? Who did this to you?” Horrified, Ella dropped all three bags and knelt for a closer look—then immediately became squeamish.

  Muddy brown auras swirled above his heart, indicating a life-threatening injury. If pale pink emerged and made contact, his fate would be complete.

  “Hold on.” Ella looked around, then ran into the bathroom and ripped a bath towel off the rack.

  Oh gods, oh gods! Racing back to the soldier, she pressed the towel against his wound. He let out a loud, mournful groan. A pool of thick red covered the slate floor beneath him, mixing with the cut bluegrass and soaking the spiny blades.

  Nicks and old scars covered the Centaur’s sweat-streaked face. This wasn’t the male’s first season in battle. What was left of his flattened nose turned a right angle.

  “You need a healer.” Panicked, she looked up and down the hall, hoping someone would help them. Sounds of others fighting echoed in the corridor, though she saw no one from where she sat crouched next to the injured man.

  Minotaurs with long handled axes trotted down the hall, their upper body protected with some type of leather. Crisscrossed over the leather, they wore a harness laden with knives that gleamed in deadly menace. Their hooves beat the sharp rock floor like tom-tom drums from another era. Thankfully, the bulls ignored them as they passed by.

  Why were Minotaurs in the palace? What the hell is going on?

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  “No!” The Centaur coughed, blood spattered the front of his tactical vest. “Not—safe.”

  “I’ll be careful, and I’ll bring back help.” She swiveled her ears to the catch the sound of someone unseen in desperate pain. Their cry of agony clutched her soul. In the back of her throat, the fear bubbled up.

  A mob of fighting males careened around the hallway corner. Grunting and cussing as their weapons slashed, they fought their way toward Ella and the injured soldier.

  Trolls stood with Wood Nymphs, Satyrs beside them, all battling the Centaur military. Three ganged up on one unfortunate Centaur. Palace soldiers swung swords and fists. Warriors grappled and kicked hind hooves to defend themselves.

  To avoid the flying weapons that barreled down on them like a twisting tornado, Ella acted fast. Bending low, she grabbed the wounded male under the arms and dug in her heels to drag him backward, into her room. At nearly thirteen hundred pounds, the Centaur wouldn’t budge.

  His moans grew louder, the fighters drew nearer. A ping of metal ricocheting off the rocks above her head frightened her as much as the whiz of flying arrows.

  Panicked and torn, she realized she’d have to leave him to protect herself. Oh gods…what should I do?

  On the heels of the stark horror of leaving the poor Centaur to face the fate of the gods, came undiluted guilt. Sharp, painful, and remorseful.

  “I’ll get help,” Ella repeated. “And you’ll be okay.”

  “Search down that corridor, I’ll take the one up ahead.” At the shout of a familiar voice, she turned her head toward the opposite end of the hall. Eli, armed with a short sword, streaked past in the cross corridor. What in Tartarus is he doing here?

  The growling mass of swinging swords rumbled less than three true Centaur lengths away.

  Ella flicked her gaze to the collapsed soldier at her feet, praying he had only passed out and not died. His aura showed green, an indication of stress, not the black shroud of death.

  Soaked crimson, the white towel pressing his stomach drew a grisly reminder of what was happening around her. Utter terror scrambled her thoughts. She couldn’t afford a mistaken decision. Screaming wasn’t an option.

  No time left. Two Centaur lengths away from sharp flying objects, Ella leaped to her feet and took off after Eli. He could help pull the soldier into her room. Besides, he wouldn’t know his way around the palace. Not that she knew the tunnels like Al, but she could find a healer for the soldier, and then lead her brother outside to safety.

  Then, they could both escape the madness.

  On the balls of her feet, Ella sprinted down the hall. At the corner she glanced back, relieved to see the Centaurs gain the upper hand and steer clear of the hurt soldier on the floor.

  Faced forward again, she saw Eli’s bare feet moving lightning quick toward military housing. She followed as swiftly as possible. “Eli!”

  A group of heavily armed men swerved around the corner. The sounds of their raucous fighting echoed off the rock walls, drowning out her voice. She didn’t know where the exits were in this section of the underground palace, only the location of Al’s stallroom corridor.

  The same corridor Eli turned down.

  Does he know where he’s going?

  Instead of barreling on and following, Ella stopped at the bend and let her backside hug the rock wall. As if a Minotaur were strapped to her shoulders, her dread was so great it added to her growing emotional baggage. Swords clashed somewhere unknown and increased her rapid breath. A male voice cried out, then abruptly stopped mid-scream.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts, her mind spun with all she’d seen and heard.

  While her pulse sprinted a race, she grabbed the rock wall and leaned to spy on Eli down the hall. He jammed a metal stick into a door lock and repeatedly struck the end with his palm.

  Why would her brother break into someone’s room? Ella stepped from the wall to jog down the corridor, intent on grabbing the Golden Child and getting them the heck out of Centaur hell.

  Unexpectedly, a life-force of its own came out of nowhere. It threw her against the sharp-edged rock wall and knocked the air from her lungs. Pain stabbed into her back, strong hands held her by the hair and throat.

  When she could blink past the wild stars spinning out of control, the feminine face of an angry Wood Nymph glared down at her.

  “A Troll.” By way of a shove, the female released her.

  Ella flung her hand to the wall to stop from sliding down to the floor.

  “She’s not loyal.”

  A Satyr male who guarded the Nymph’s back flicked his gaze toward the hallway behind him. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, he traced over Ella’s shaking figure. “What’s she doing here?”

  Punching the tender hallow in front of Ella’s shoulder, the Nymph didn’t even blink. “Answer him, Troll.”

  “I’m trying to get out.” The jab hurt, but it pissed Ella off more.

  “That doesn’t answer—”

  “Come on,” the Satyr tapped the Wood Nymph’s arm. “Guards are coming.”

  After glancing to the left, down t
he corridor where Eli had disappeared, they turned right and bolted away.

  After the fact, she wished she had thought to ask what in the hell was going on. Ella leaned against the wall, afraid to close her eyes, uncaring of the rock’s dagger points digging into her skin. If soldiers captured Eli while breaking into a room, there’s no telling what would happen. She hated her brother, but that didn’t mean she wanted him thrown into the lower grotto either.

  Shouts and curses filled the air. A mob attacked the Centaur soldiers from behind, buying her a little time.

  Ella grabbed the moment. Her toes dug into the soil and she streaked for Eli, who opened a door and disappeared inside.

  Skidding to a stop next to where the door stood ajar, her body grew shaky and cold.

  It was Kempor Aleksander’s room.

  Twenty-Four

  “Bomani, take two companies and go in through the main entrance. Petros, take your men through the military entrance. I’ll go in with the remaining company through the southern tunnel. Any questions?” Aleksander expected none, and none came.

  “No, sir,” they answered.

  He looked from one Centaur to the other and clasped their shoulders. “For the Crown and Queen Savella. Move out.”

  Bomani jogged to the group of waiting lieutenants, chose two, and led his platoons directly west.

  Colonel Petros held back a moment and spoke quietly. “Good to go?” Years of experience highlighted the concern in the colonel’s eyes.

  Security of the palace hung in jeopardy, and all Alek could focus on was the wellbeing of two particular mythic females. Petros was right, time to get his head back in the game.

  He nodded. “I’m squared away.”

  “See you on the inside, then.” Petros motioned to one of the lieutenants and led the warriors due north.

  The remaining lieutenant trotted over and awaited his orders.

  Alek read the determination etched in the officer’s battle-scarred face. “We have fifteen minutes to reach the southern wall. Let’s hit it.”

  After the three platoons received their orders, they moved out in double-time, headed south. Utilized extensively during the Great War, Centaur military forces rarely used the single file tunnel these days. Mythological people thought it more of a myth, as few knew of its location or existence.

  Onward, they poured through the forest, encouraged along the way by Wood Nymph soldiers. Those with four legs galloped ahead to scout, while Centaurs in human form protected the rear. Synchronized in movement, they appeared to civilians as a daily patrol, rather than a killing machine of one hundred strong.

  The sheer cliff rose up out of the dark. Black contour images of hardy plants grew from the sparse soil found in pockets of rock. High above, Centaurs in lookout posts called down, giving rebel positioning inside the palace.

  While the soldiers jostled to queue themselves for a rushing entry, Aleksander took a deep breath and ran his fingers along a fissure in the granite wall. The last time he’d galloped through this entrance was near the end of the Great War.

  Back then, the enemy chased behind him.

  His fingers touched the tab, and he depressed it. Smooth hydraulics opened the Centaur’s secret passage. Born after the war, there were many warriors who’d never before used the tunnel. Let this be the only time they’ll have need of it.

  Narrow and tall, the door opened to reveal an interior darker than a moonless night. A few seasoned warriors stepped forward, familiar with the tunnel and eager to be on their way.

  “Let’s do this,” Aleksander said in a low voice. In the still of the dark, his voice carried far. He counted twenty soldiers on both hoof and foot to pass before entering the first chamber.

  Dirt muffled their steps, but as they entered the winding tunnel, it gave way to a solid rock floor. Sharp clatter of galloping hooves and fast running boots filled the underground passage, bouncing in repercussion off the walls and ceiling.

  The decibel level rose, along with his heart rate and anxiety over what they would find at the other end. Alek didn’t need his eyes to navigate the twists and turns in near pitch black. Memory was an odd thing; it stirred emotions and directed his hooves.

  Moist air temperature built the further in they went, minerals lights glowed brighter. Flying over the sharp rocks, he drew his sword at the last bitter turn that spewed the Centaur warriors into the large atrium.

  Aleksander’s lip curled as he galloped across the bluegrass carpet, his eyes skimming occupants of the ground floor. Minotaurs in the palace!

  Bodies on the floor lay like broken dolls. Thankfully, none were Centaur. Civilians who lived and worked in the palace had vacated the park-like setting. On the far side, near the corridor to the mall, the fountain bubbled eerily in merry delight. Carved from stone, the marble Centaur blew his war horn, from which the water poured.

  Above him, on the second level, hand-to-hand combat ensued. In front of the colossal jade arches that preceded the marble staircase, sprawled the first casualty. Crumpled in true form, the young guard Takis lay splayed out. Feathered arrows pierced his protective armor and embedded deep in his equine chest. A savage slash had nearly severed his front legs. Even in death, Takis kept a tight grip on his long, blood-tipped pike.

  Aleksander slowed his gallop and visually identified the penetrating arrows’ top silver band. Symbols of the twin scythes indicated it belonged to the palace armory. It appeared the insurgents had raided the munitions room.

  Pounding of a hundred hooves caused the green stone arches to tremble. Bits of dirt and the dead guard’s pike vibrated on the floor. Centaur warriors flowed past him like a warm-blooded stream, splitting into two groups at the landing to divide and conquer the invading enemy.

  Alek took a last look at the young guard cut down in his prime, and then continued up the stairs, three at a time. With every leap forward, he propelled himself with hindquarter muscles that burst with adrenaline-laced energy.

  At the wide, flat landing where the staircase split into two, he veered to climb the flight of steps on the right. Rebels resembled enraged ants, their weapons lowered, bodies rushing.

  No sooner had he topped the stairs than a Minotaur, who had squeezed into Centaur body armor, barreled toward him with a crossbow posed to shoot.

  Alek pulled a shuriken from his vest pocket and threw it across the distance.

  The deadly star hit its mark and embedded in the bull’s shoulder. Blanching, the mud-grey Minotaur staggered back a step and looked confused. Only mildly hindered by the steel pentagram, the male rebel swung his weapon in fire-ready position—but it was too late.

  Alek grabbed the muzzle of the cross bow and used it to drag the male closer. The rebel loosened his hold, stumbled forward, and fell onto the point of Aleksander’s outstretched sword.

  Alek shoved the guy off his blade with a sharp hoof kick to the Minotaur’s chest, picked up the discarded crossbow and fired it one-handed into the back of a Satyr with a knife.

  If fear was a great motivator, then his men were in peak form. One after another, mutinous traitors staggered and fell. He’d been in tight situations before—he hoped he’d come out of this alive.

  A smashing karate chop, then a shove. One, two, three. Rebels piled up like the autumn leaves of Boronda, strewn facedown and motionless on the grassy floor.

  Alek sheathed his sword and notched another crossbow arrow into place. He kicked a Wood Nymph out of his way, then raced down the hall to Ella’s room.

  After the last turn in the wild palace maze, he glanced down the hallway. Heart lodged in his throat, as it had been since he realized his tactical error, Aleksander slowed to a trot. Every hoofstep of the way he’d heard gunshots and saw the battle rage. Over all of it, the pounding of his heart and the clatter of his hooves thrummed a mad rhythm.

  More than anything, he trusted his instincts—sight, hearing, and listening to his gut.

  Ella’s corridor had seen battle, gauging by the newly formed strike
marks sliced into the rock walls. At the other end of the passageway, the hind end of a Centaur laid half in and half out of a room.

  Sonofabitch…Ella’s stallroom.

  Aleksander reached the fallen guard in a matter of seconds. The acrid air hung redolent with the thick scents of blood, sulfur, and ever present moistness of an underground cave.

  The Centaur in true form lay on his side, a bloody towel pushed against his horrific stomach wound. With his bushy beard and smashed beaker of a nose, Alek knew this to be Gerard, a seasoned warrior.

  “Gerard.” Aleksander went down on a front foreleg and gripped the man’s shoulder. When he gained no reaction, he slid two fingers to the artery at the neck. Slight and weak, a beat pulsed beneath the surface. He shook him gently. “Gerard.”

  This time a moan escaped the soldier, and he opened pain-filled eyes.

  “Did you see the female in this stallroom?” Alek asked.

  Gerard nodded, then swallowed. “She tried to help me—pull me inside. Too heavy.”

  That sounded like Ella, and despite the fear trumpeting through his equine body, pride for his brave little Troll filled his heart.

  He glanced inside the room, but knew she wasn’t there. A medium-sized brown canvas bag lay on the floor near the bathroom. Next to it, sat her purple purse and tote bag, and he wondered where she’d planned to go.

  “Gerard.” He called the male’s name when his eyes started to close. “Where is she now?”

  “Went to get help.” The Centaur’s lids became too heavy, and he shuttered them completely.

  Alek felt for his pulse and found it growing fainter.

  Two soldiers turned the corner and came barreling toward them, both splattered with blood.

  “One of you. Get a medic, quick,” Alek commanded. “I want the other to guard Gerard.”

  “Yes, sir.” The four-hoofed soldier galloped off to find medical aid, his black tail streaming out behind.

  The other infantryman squatted down and used the towel to apply direct pressure to Gerard’s gaping wound. “I’ll stand guard until the medics arrive.”