Tales of the Huntsman

by M Palmeri

  “A cloak was thrown over her, and she felt her bonds cut away. When she pulled her blindfold off, it was the Noble Huntsman standing over her, his gun still smelling of powder.

  “’It’s all right, girl,’ he said to her, trying to be comforting despite the shock in his voice. ‘That monster is dead. I killed him.’

  “The words filled the girl with a cold, empty dread. She gathered herself up, trembling, covering herself with the Huntsman’s cloak, getting her feet back under her while he turned away, trying to ignore her nudity and the condition he found her in.

  “She stared at his back for awhile, as he stood there facing the wall, not wanting to look at her, his gun hanging from his hand. She saw where her blade had fallen, not far from the still-open door. Quietly, she picked it up, and with the assurance of her building rage, she turned with it toward the Huntsman’s back…”

  Chapter Eighteen: The Wolf

  Claire stopped her story then, suddenly snapped to alertness by something Marie could not sense. Her mouth curled into a little grin of satisfaction.

  “We are not alone…”

  Marie froze, following Claire’s gaze as she tracked the darkness beyond the reach of the firelight. There was nothing at first, but then Marie almost cried out when she saw the glow of eyes: first one, then more—half-a-dozen pairs—closing on them slowly from all sides. The horses began to start and tug on their reigns, which tied them to the trees.

  Marie drew the big Seax from her belt, surprised that her hands were not shaking a lot more than they were. She realized that she wasn’t sure if this were the right response—Claire had apparently “summoned” the wolves with her little spate of masturbation—but found herself affirmed by the fact that Claire had also drawn her sword and dagger (though had done so without Marie noticing). Following the huntress’ lead, Marie got slowly and smoothly to her feet, keeping the blade partly concealed in the folds of her cloak.

  “Keep your back to me, girl,” Claire told her quietly. “If that fails, keep your back to the fire. And keep that blade down close to you until you strike—they learn fast just how long you can reach. Otherwise, just pretend it’s me coming after you.”

  She barely got to finish. The low growl of the pack exploded into a chorus of feral snarling that froze Marie where she stood, and the wolves charged from all sides at once. Fortunately, her training took hold as soon as she saw Claire move, her red cloak gliding like a ghost to meet the charge, then spinning like a whirlwind as her weapons lanced her attackers as they passed.

  Marie remembered her instructions just in time to turn and duck the leap of one of the wolves that would have had her by the neck. She stabbed into its flank as it sailed over her shoulder, almost knocking her down as it snagged her cloak on the way. She didn’t have time to see what damage she’d done: her arm came back just in time to chop at another’s snout. Its growl was cut short into an angry yelp as it retreated. And then a third (or was it the first back for more?) was almost on top of her when she turned back. She caught the animal on the wide point of the blade, impaling it, the force of its leap wrenching the Seax from her hands and taking her off her feet.

  “Claire!!!” She shouted reflexively when she found herself sitting on the ground, looking straight into the teeth of a charging wolf. The Huntress spun in a whirl of red cloak and Marie caught a flash of metal in the firelight as her dagger flew and sunk deep into the animal’s neck.

  “Up!” Claire ordered, sounding only a bit annoyed, but her distraction was enough for one of the remaining still-capable predators to slam into her from the side, taking control of her sword arm as she tried to shake it free.

  Marie clawed for the seax’s grip as she got her feet back under her, twisting it out of the dying wolf and taking it in a continuous arc into the hindquarters of the one that had attached itself to Claire. When it didn’t let go, she hacked again, this time aiming for the creature’s spine. Still, it would not release. Marie was just about to strike again when she saw the point of Claire’s sword come out through its back, twisting and ripping until what was left finally let go.

  Marie spun around and around, looking for some new attack, forgetting all about concealing the reach of her weapon as she swiped at the shadows with it. The growls and yelps had faded, replaced by the sound of mad, winded giggling. It took her a moment to realize that she was not the only one doing it.

  Four gray-fur bodies lay strewn about their makeshift camp, steaming from their wounds. Claire herself was also on the ground, her giggling barely masking her pain as she favored her right arm, holding it wrapped to her body with her cloak as she angrily stabbed with her good hand at the corpse of the wolf that had mauled her—how badly, Marie could not see.

  “Horses…” Claire hissed.

  Their mounts had been rearing at their hitches but had begun to settle, still skittish and hyper-vigilant. Marie realized that the entire attack had lasted only a few seconds, giving the horses little time to panic before the threat was driven off. Marie tried to calm then and checked them for injuries, finding none. Claire, meanwhile, was gingerly examining her own wounds—still wrapped out of Marie’s sight in the cloak, its color effectively concealing how much she may have been bleeding. The Huntress’ face, however, grew paler in the firelight as she scowled at the arm. Then she wrapped it tight and considered the fallen wolves.

  “Pity…” she grated out, “…hacked those two up pretty badly…less value in the hides…heh…I’d help you dress the others, but I don’t have use of the hand I’d do with…”

  Despite the chill in the air, her face was damp with sweat.

  Marie considered the wolf-bodies for a moment, then Claire, who was starting to shiver despite forcing a feral grin.

  “You said the horses knew the way home?”

  Claire was in no shape to put up much of a fight. Marie dragged her up and helped her back into her saddle, then fetched their weapons before mounting her own horse. She ignored Claire’s protests about leaving the dead wolves as she took the lead.

  They managed less than a mile when Marie turned and found Claire slumped in her saddle, barely staying in it. She stopped long enough to switch horses, slinging herself up behind Claire, holding her up and steady for the ride. And trying to keep her awake, she prodded:

  “Your story… That was the end?”

  Claire laughed weakly and shook her head.

  “…where…oh…

  “The Huntsman. The Girl. She went to strike him with her big knife… To stab him in the back. But the Huntsman was fast—so much faster than she had anticipated, as fast as the Wolf had been—and he took hold of her and pinned her up against the wall.

  “‘What does this mean?’ he demanded, twisting the knife from her grip. ‘The foul beast violates you, and you would avenge him?’

  “But the girl only glared with hatred in answer.

  “‘Then go to him, if he means so much to you!’ And he threw her out the door.

  “But there was no body. She ran to and froe, but there was no body. Only the Huntsman’s own horse. And there, she saw a shimmer of black from one of the saddlebags. Pulling at it, she found the cloak and mask of her bandit lover. Then strong hands seized her from behind.

  “And then she could smell herself on him: on his face, on his fingers, still fresh as he held her tight, his face buried in her red hair, breathing her scent. Then she felt his teeth on her again, on her neck. And he whispered in her ear:

  “‘Do you choose the Wolf?’

  “He held her wrists behind her back with one hand while the other opened the borrowed cloak that was her only clothing, baring her body to the world, while he explored her with his other hand. And she arched backwards to let him, grinding herself wet into his fingers, which he brought fresh to his lips. Then, still holding her wrists, he came around the front of her and knelt between her legs, and devoured her again where she stood in the open air. And when she could barely stand any longer, he let her go, and she did
not fight, did not flee. So he slipped the cloak from her bare shoulders, spread it on the ground, and pulled her down to kneel on it, bending her over on all fours like an animal, and rent her maidenhead just like that, fucking her brutally, fucking her breathless. And then he lay down beside her and told her how beautiful she was right there under the sky and the trees, and he asked her again:

  “‘Do you choose the Wolf?’

  “And she did, with all her heart.

  “He carried her off that day, back to his castle—because he was not the huntsman of a noble, but a noble himself—and he made her his huntress…”

  Claire fell into a kind of contented silence in the saddle, relaxing into Marie’s arms like she might be happy to sleep there. Her breathing came steadily, so Marie let her drift, hoping sleep might be the best thing. And asleep like this, in Marie’s protective embrace, Claire was no longer the warrior, the wild-child. She was just a girl, a young woman.

  They cleared the forest at first light, and Marie beheld something she had not seen on their journey in: a magnificent citadel, dominating a hilltop town, surrounded by fertile fields, just on the horizon. Either she had missed it in the darkness last evening, or the horses had brought them out a different way than they had come. She gently nudged Claire awake.

  “That estate,” Marie indicated. “Do you know it? Is it closer than home?”

  “Yes and yes,” Claire almost hissed. “But we will find no succor there. It is the castle of Duke Charles.”

  “The Duke?” Marie questioned. “But Mayleen…?”

  “Would have no sway over him in this matter, trust me. He is a proud man, and I am living testament to one of his more personal humiliations. One day you may yet visit his Keep, girl, and may it be a good and pleasant visitation. But it will be without my company. And today, I’m afraid I do need you to see me home.”

  Marie felt Claire’s forehead. She was cold and clammy.

  “Good girl…” Claire whispered when Marie took the indicated road with no further argument, and promptly melted into her arms.

  They made it back to the pentagonal castle by afternoon, and a handful of maids came running to meet them as soon as the sentries announced Claire’s apparent condition. Despite her weak protests, she was carried back within the Keep, and Marie followed, leaving the horses for others to attend.

  The Huntress was taken to what was apparently her own room: it was decorated with an array of horns and pelts, the bed thick with furs. Assorted blades and bows hung on the walls—it was almost an armory—and there was one sturdy but small eating table, like one would find in a peasant’s cottage, old and worn and bare. But then Marie noticed that ropes hung from each leg.

  The Countess met them there as Claire was being put to bed. Rose checked quickly to ensure that Marie was not injured, then went directly to Claire’s makeshift dressings, which were stuck to her arm with blood. The maids brought clean cloths and boiled water, and warm spiced ale which they helped between Claire’s dry lips.

  Marie caught sight of the tears in Claire’s flesh when Rose cleaned them. They still bled, though not nearly as profusely. Marie worried that this was more a result of there being less left to bleed: when Claire was finally made to shed her cloak, it became clear how soaked with blood it was just by how heavily it fell to the floor. Worse: her pale flesh was streaked with crimson discoloration. Rose ordered herbs and liniments brought to fight infection.

  “Meat eaters do not have the cleanest of mouths,” she heard Rose grumble as the maids worked to scrub and treat the wounds, ignoring mercy in their need for thoroughness. Claire only closed her eyes, but Marie could see her jaw grind. Then Rose took over, heating a threaded needle in the flame of a candle and taking the torn arm in her lap.

  Marie backed away from the surgery as Rose began to stitch the most open wounds like she was working on a tapestry, and in doing so she fell back into familiar arms. Richard was there, taking hold of her tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair as if confirming she was real. But only half of his attention was on her, Marie realized. He was also intently monitoring Rose’s work.

  “Your wild one will have some new scars, husband,” Rose groused as she finally finished. “Let us hope her prey wasn’t rabid. Otherwise, I expect she will sweat this out in the next few nights. Too bad: I know how much you like her when she returns from the hunt, but she is in no shape for you this time.”

  She stopped when Claire opened her eyes and raised her good arm toward Marie with a weak grin, gesturing her closer. Richard followed beside. Claire found Marie’s hand and squeezed it, then looked at Richard.

  “She’s a tough one, my mate. Strong… Maybe strong enough to substitute for me, at least for tonight.” She took Marie’s hand and put it in Richard’s. “But just for tonight… I heal fast…”

  Richard nodded and touched her face, and stayed by her side until she slept again. Then he took Marie by the hands and led her back to their room.

  “I am glad you are back unharmed.”

  “But… I haven’t bathed…”

  Marie tried to protest as she was pinned to the wall as soon as they were alone. Richard kissed her deeply and then began to devour her, starting from her neck, peeling her dress away as he went. Then he fell to his knees and buried his face between her legs, breathing her musk hungrily before using the fingers of one hand to pull her clit up to where it was most vulnerable to his tongue, spreading and entering her lips with the fingers of his other hand, pumping her wet and lapping up every drop as she tried to keep her balance. He craned his neck back, shoving his mouth up into her from below, lashing at her madly keeping a merciless rhythm until she was about to explode.

  He suddenly got to his feet, spun her around and pushed her breasts into the cold stone, pulling her arms behind her back. He didn’t tie them, but she knew to leave them where he put them as he pulled her hips back, parted her thighs. Then he was thrusting himself into her from behind. He pulled her arms back to force her back against his assault all the harder, fucking her violently, slamming his hips into hers, and she realized she was screaming—no, roaring—much like a feral animal.

  He withdrew and spun her around, throwing her across the bed on her back. He took her by the waist and dragged her halfway off, so that her hips and legs hung in mid air, then bent and began to devour her yet again, going at her wildly, like he meant to strip the flesh from her bones with his lips and tongue, his grip on her slamming her into his mouth as he attacked. And Marie realized that this was the same ferocity she had seen him use with Claire.

  Still supporting her hips off the edge of the bed, he impaled her, again using his hold on her to slam her against him. It was like he was trying to break her, and Marie’s mind flashed on images of the fate of young girls on the former Count’s tower cross: to be ravaged with shattered bones, torn apart…

  And she thought of other young maidens she would like to see in similar straights: spoiled, pampered, delicate flowers subjected to the worst she had happily experienced.

  She realized she was grinning up at Richard, her mouth twisting into an animal snarl, growling hungrily as she slammed herself back against him. Her hands reached down and she began to assist the process, masturbating herself, kneading her own breasts, pinching her own nipples, sucking her musk off her own fingers, then slicking them wet to fill her ass, delighting in how her wanton display fed her lover’s passion even further.

  He shoved his fingers in her mouth for her to suck, almost smothering her, and that seemed to make his ardor even more intense. His hand slid down and took her by the throat like he meant to strangle her, and she pressed back against it, daring him to, all the while masturbating herself to compliment his hammering her. She lost her breath and was starting to pass out when she finally exploded under him, losing herself entirely in the most violent orgasm she had yet had. And in her breathless delirium, she begged him to take his turn, and she told him how to do it.

  On the edge of bursting
, he pulled out and climbed up her body, taking her head in his hands and forcing her mouth open. Using his hands to control her lips and jaw, he fucked her mouth almost to the point of suffocating her gain, before she felt his seed pump down her throat. She fought her gag reflex and impaled herself on him, feeling his member slip into her throat as she sucked and licked his shaft, holding him there all the way down until she could bear no more, then collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air.

  He fell beside her, holding her and kissing her until she succumbed to sleep in his arms, realizing in that moment before oblivion that she was, indeed, happy.

  “Claire told me the Duke would never allow her in his castle.”

  They lay together until the next morning, Marie savoring their time alone before the morning maids arrived (bringing breakfast and inevitably wanting Richard’s attention in return).

  “After the death of the Duke’s first wife,” Richard idly explained, “the prior Baroness—Therese—tried to manipulate herself into his graces by procuring him well-trained courtesans. A special gift was named Lena: a strawberry maid of exceptional aggression, but also ambition—she aspired to be more than a royal whore. But when it became clear that Charles did not intend to make her his wife, she set her sights on opportunity: throwing herself at a visiting Highland laird. He was only too happy to use her, but left without regret or good-bye. Unfortunately for Lena, he had been careless, and left his seed to sprout. The baby—a girl—was born, and her red hair and freckled skin attested clearly to her paternity, and to Lena’s indiscretion.

  “Charles drove Lena from his court in shame. He still cared just enough for her, however, to provided her a cottage on the edge of the wood, and a modest pension, which she quickly squandered. She gave her daughter up to her sister, who worked at a nearby logger-camp, because she wanted to be free to ply the highway traffic for whatever prospect it could bring her, and also because the girl’s striking appearance was a constant reminder of her downfall.