by Angel Black
Please let me live long enough to fuck her.
I know I should be fearing for my life, thinking about the terrain, and preparing myself for battle. But I trust my body, and I trust my instincts. If I fret about it, I will over-think and make a mistake that shall cost me my life. So I must trust myself to do the right thing at the right moment.
But she is a distraction. A glorious, warm, inviting distraction who is afraid for her life right now and who needs me to protect her.
For if the bandits take her, who knows what they will do.
The anger wells up inside me, and that is good. The thought of them stripping her, laughing at her screams, and taking her is enough to make my blood boil. In this dark and scary thought, I find my wondrous, powerful rage. It can be pulled from deep inside me, when something I care about is threatened, and something I have the natural instinct to protect is taken away.
Chloe is the spark, and my rage is the fire.
I stroke my rage gently, not wanting to overdo it, and let the smoldering embers burn. An image flashes through my head of the bandits pulling her around by her braid naked and afraid, and I grow angry. I step back, not wanting to blow too hard and make myself fly into a blind rage, as I need to grow my hatred for these beasts carefully. I dwell on other, baser thoughts for a moment and I feel myself slip into a very dark place.
I am no longer angry, but I lust for preemptive vengeance.
They will be lucky to live past this day.
We ride down a gully through a wide, shallow river covered in flat rocks. The water gurgles by, and my horse explodes through the water. I pull us to a stop behind a copse of leafless trees, spin off the horse, and check behind us.
Four bandit scouts close faster than I will be able to put my armor on, or even my breastplate. There is not enough time.
Forty thieves follow behind in the main group. If the scouts die fast enough, we will have time.
“Down!” I pull her from the horse and shove her between two trees. She screams, but her fearful eyes tell me all I need to know. Do not worry, lass, you shall live this day.
“Stay hidden!”
The four scouts reach the other side of the stream, water flying up from their horse’s hooves, and their swords drawing as the men bear down on us like hungry wolves.
I narrow my eyes at the oncoming storm of death. “By the Elves of Iceforest and the lost dwarves of the mountains and their great-father Dvergr I stand before thee. Give me the strength of stone and the swiftness of wind this day.”
My words are spoken to no one but the gods themselves.
I take four steps onto a large rock, draw my broadsword, and I don’t even have the chance to scream as I deflect the first sword-blow intended for my neck.
Death is upon us this day.
And I am it.
Chapter 6:
Spells and Verse
They rode together, yet in their thoughts alone.
Robes of the deepest cobalt blue and purest white covered her full-breasted form, her gold-trimmed hood covering her locks of long blond hair. The wind chilled her lips and cheeks, and the rolling hills around them seemed never to end.
Her companion sat proud on her saddle beside her, long locks of silver-white hair blowing in the wind, and a stringed lute upon her back. Her companion’s silver blue-tinged hair belied her age, for most people’s hair turned white at old age, her companion’s was white since she was born. Some would call this a god-mark, a sign from the gods this person would be blessed by some power or destiny to fill.
She looked away at the ceaseless dry road, the long billows of cold dust hanging in the air behind their horses. This trip had been draining for her in body and spirit, and she hoped they would find a warm place to camp away from the bitter autumn wind this night.
If we have a windstorm again tonight which keeps me awake I shall surely die of exhaustion. One more night before we are at Dragon’s Reach and a warm place to bed in the Mage’s Quarter. I so look forward to that bed, one which I lost myself away from the world in before.
“Oh, the road; oh, the road,” her companion started to sing with the blessedly rhythmic voice of hers, which was beautiful in every way. Even as she spoke normally, the words would come out as if they were sung, pitch perfect and iambic with a sweet resonance which pleased to the deepest parts of her soul.
“Oh, the road is a lone-ly place of which we ride,” she sung, and Astrid smiled, her curled red lips barely visible from under her hood, “for it lies before us winding a-long. Oh the road, life behind, life ahead, and we ride. We ride.”
Her blue eyes lit up when she sung, proud and happy, like nothing else in this world mattered when she broke out in verse and tune. Of course, the woman’s frame was as lithe and shaped as one could imagine, but her breasts were too big for her smallish frame. Her bardic companion wore a suede coat trimmed by fur, and under that a white shirt which pulled between her voluminous breasts like the nape of a high-valley bridging mounts.
For the snow-haired and god-touched Frost Songweaver was her companion, and a traveling bard which brought light to her days and songs to her heart. She could imagine no other companion which could make a hard ride like this a little more pleasant. Frost didn’t seem to mind either, she loved the company of mages, and she loved travel and getting lost among the land and its people.
“Oh, the road is a lone-ly place of which-”
Silence.
“Astrid, did you hear that?” Frost said, blinking.
Astrid looked down the road, the silence of the rolling hills around them deafening. “I was lost in your verse, no.”
“There it is again!” Frost stood in her saddle, looking around. “What a curious sound.”
Astrid closed her eyes and focused, feeling the magic well up inside her tired body. She cleared her thoughts, and pushed the runic symbols which drew power from the arcane well of mana which she could tap from her mind. Focus. Listen.
Nothing.
She didn’t like giving up, so Astrid doubled her focus and really listened. A bit of wind, and maybe something shrill, like a bird. What was that?
No, it was nothing.
She looked over at her companion, and Frost was already looking off to the north, eyes wide and her mouth open.
“There is no way you didn’t hear that!” Frost looked at Astrid with shock.
Astrid instead couldn’t help from staring at the bard’s full breasts. She had to wrench her eyes away from them and up into the blue pools of her eyes. She couldn’t help it, and she wanted to so badly. Frost’s body was perfect, her god-touched nature so special, and her attitude so positive and endearing.
I can’t.
I can’t fall in love with her.
“Despite your proclivity for all manner of sound and tune, bard, I hear nothing but the wind,” Astrid said, finding it hard to speak clearly as she stared into the clear-blue vistas of her eyes, the soft luscious red of her lips, and the gentle curves of her neck and warm, inviting bosoms below.
Stop it.
Yet, as sure as snow would come in mere weeks, Astrid felt that familiar stir within her loins. Wetness in her sex. A growing cock above her slit under her blue mage robes.
“Stop!” Frost snapped at her, blue eyes turning to ice. “Do not give me that look again, Astrid, Sister of Gundir and sorceress of Magetower! Your mind on the road instead of your loins, please. I swear you Sisters are as fresh as a Marshton tavern full of drunken peat cutters on the night before God’s Day.”
Astrid lowered her head. “I apologize, Frost, please accept my-”
“Shh!” Frost gasped, head turning another direction to the north. “There it is again. Do you not hear this?”
Astrid bit her lip and shook her head, looking down in defeat but her eyes wandering up towards the bard’s breasts again.
Frost pointed. “Battle. Men. To the north. Horses too.”
Astrid looked in the silent direction and covered her eyes. She spied hills, rocks, tw
isted trees sitting alone, and nothing else. She spotted a hawk circling something, and focused her vision upon the bird high in the sky.
One circle, two spun through her head as she brought up the next circle of illusion magic to the forefront of her mind.
“So say what you see shall I!” Astrid said, letting the magic flow and the hood blow off her long blond hair. She reached out and drew two spread fingers across her eyes and the distant hawk.
In moments, her vision was magically the hawk’s, and she could spy the land for miles around.
A hawk’s vision is quite different than a human’s or even a Sister’s, so she took time getting used to the wider angle of view the bird had with eyes on each side of it’s head, and how the colors and sights were different and quite alien to her senses. She got used to this quick, having done this with pigeons at Magetower during her training.
It was a nifty trick if you can learn not to vomit afterward.
Sure as snow, a band of forty men, possibly bandits, were riding towards a lone figure making a valiant stand on the banks of a stone-filled stream. It was a she, and there was possibly another lone figure with her. Another woman.
She let the hawk’s vision go just as quick, and steered her horse to the north. The bile rose in her throat as her vision returned to normal, but the pain of the sudden shift in sight and being on a moving horse stuck like nails in her temples.
“Frost! Come!” Astrid shouted, as her horse’s hooves thundered. “We ride! Pray we are not too late!”
Chapter 7:
Two Paths
My sword strikes true but the bandit’s shield is a bit more so. Shattered splinters of his wooden shield fly into the air as I spin, paying some attention to the other bandit behind me who thought he could sneak a stab in while his friend kept me busy.
Bad for them I know how to fight when I am surrounded.
Bad for me that I am.
My feet plunge into the ice-cold river as I slice my blade across the second man’s scarred weapon. The impact rattles his grip as I take the opportunity to pull my boot free from the sucking water and kick the bastard squarely in the chest.
The second bandit flies and lands ten steps away in a splash.
I feel the blade of the shield armed man come in towards my exposed back. Chloe’s scream from her now-unhidden spot among the twisted roots of two trees confirms my peril.
Don’t worry, lass.
I spin, bringing my blade up to the right spot as I crouch low and buy myself an extra inch or two of room. I end up on my knees before a man, a position which I do not favor unless I am giving head to him. This man wants to kill me, so I shall be taking heads today.
The extra room gives me space to bring my sword up and parry. His blow is that much more stronger, and the clang of the metal sings inches from my cheek and the shock numbs my arms. I feel bits of metal pepper my face from the impact, and out of the corner of my eye notice his sword as damaged as mine from the strike.
That must be some good steel.
And you must be rich enough to pay for that.
His eyes give away his next move, and he slides his sword quickly down the edge of my blade towards the side of my head. Despite being a feeble attempt to draw blood it wouldn’t affect me unless he hits my eye. All I have to do is push up, free my hand, and grab his wrist while rising.
Once I have his arm, I sling the bandit over my back in a violent spin, twist his arm until it breaks, and hurl the man like a sack of potatoes into the nearby river.
Forget the water.
I aim for the rocks.
He lands a dozen paces from me in a pile as the rocks break his fall. I barely hear his cries, but I can feel the snapping of his bones through the crushing sound in the air.
If you live, let this be a lesson.
Never mess with the Sisters.
Two bandit scouts remain, an archer on a low hill waiting for the now clear shot he wants to take, and a third swordsman advancing to me with murderous intent.
Forty more bandits close on us, and this battle will be over soon enough.
Why do I fight? If I am to die, I shall make a mark on this world and live to the glorious legend of myself which I have in my head. For to never challenge fate is to accept its cruelty.
And I can be crueler than this so-called fate could ever be.
The arrow misses as I step sideways, and the once-lethal shot splashing in the river behind me as I see the disgust on the archer’s face ring true. The next thing his face sees is my boot-knife tumbling end over end towards his chest, and the blade sinks deep with a rose of crimson as the archer falls backwards on the river’s bank.
In the next life, do not miss.
The final swordsman screams a rage-filled dirge as he charges me, his feet kicking up a spray of water around him. I prepare myself for his fury, steeling my sword, and locking my teeth together as my eyes fix upon him in an embrace of death and hatred.
I shall kill you like I killed the thieves of Daggerford whom ambushed me in the dead of night by that lakeside city to the south and east of here. You are all the same, lying, backstabbing, rotten men with flesh as corrupt as spoiled fruit.
I shall crush you like a maggot-filled apple.
You may have laughed with these vile men, dined with them this morn, and pillaged with them, my friend. You may have known them for years. You may have shared in their crimes and their vices. But now they are dead, dying, and broken.
And you shall join them soon, I promise.
The world stops. The sun comes to the earth as a massive fireball shatters man, horse, and steel as the side of the hill the forty bandits occupied moments ago is turned into a blistering inferno of death.
The shock wave and incredible heat hit me before the next beat of my heart, and I am nearly taken off my feet. My ears are ringing from the sound and fury. The bandit facing me stumbles, and I reward his surefooted stride with a sword to his gut.
I’m sorry about your friends.
You might as well join them.
Bodies fall to earth, some without limbs, limbs without bodies, and everything is torched and trailing fire in a macabre scene of death that only magic could bring about.
Magic.
My eyes trace the source, and a blue and white robed sorceress stands upon a high hill with her hand raised towards the heavens and raining fire. Another fireball screams forth, crackling through the air like a snapping tree trunk, leaving a visible heat-trail hanging in the air like a comet’s tail. The fireball takes a heartbeat to sail into the survivors, and a second explosion closer than the first sends me spinning as the blast rips apart the rest of them and has me ducking for cover.
This time I feel the singe hit my skin and my ears ring from the pressure that sends me stumbling towards the far bank. The wind is pushed out of my lungs, and the force of this blast stuns me.
The groups of bandits split in two, those still on their horses bolt and charge for safer ground. Even the horseback bandit archers with their recurve bows bolt instead of returning fire.
I need to escape this hell.
Recurve bows? They must have been rich bandits.
A skinless head singed to forever scream splashes into the river next to me, the water quenching the stenching flames with a hiss.
And dead.
I need to get Chloe to her father before we become the same.
The screams of the dead and dying fade away to the sounds of fire. The fireball above rolls into the sky, the flames dying out much like those below, the black cloud plainly visible for miles. The thunder of the blasts echo back across the valley, and moments later, back again in a softened roar. Everyone will know we are here. This madness cannot be good.
I run towards the far bank, searching for her, finding her wrist, and pulling her to my frightened horse as fast as my feet can take us. In moments, she is holding onto my back for dear life, and I try to put as many trees between us and the murderous and ignorant mage as I c
an manage.
I pray another fireball does not follow us. We ride fast, dodging trees and fleeing deeper into the woods.
Magic.
Madness.
Toying with the power of the gods.
Callous death. The power to take and give life at whim. I feel my eyes narrow and my heart harden.
You are not a god, mage.
And I hate your magic.
Chapter 8:
Truth in Death
Frost shields her eyes as we pick my way through the smoking carnage I wrought. We stroll among shattered bodies, ripped-apart horses, and the stench of burning death hangs above us in a gruesome pall.
“Did you have to, sorceress? Please, warn them next time.”
She stands yards away, too squeamish to enter this fresh graveyard of smoldering death.
“This was my warning shot, by Eldi’s grace, mother of fire,” I say, adding a short prayer to the gods, “they just ran into it. You need to toughen up, I am sorry to say. The world is not a nice place full of joy and song.”
“It is if I choose it to be,” she says, turning away, “and I am not sorry, nor should I be. I do not approve of this senseless killing, Astrid of Magetower.”
I push a smoking arm, the flesh burned off, to the side, checking the man’s armor. “Bandits likely. Nothing here and the others ran. Local vagrants most likely.”
I wade out of my morbid handiwork, picking my way past broken bodies and melted steel. The magic this took drains upon me, and I need to get on my horse soon or collapse. Fireballs do not come easy, nor do they hit that way.
Frost is kneeling beside a burned man, holding his hand, tears flowing down her face. His clothes are nearly burned off, and his flesh sticking to the metal of his armor. Why the pity for murderers, woman?
“Tell her I love her,” the man says, his words weak, his soul fleeting, “tell her I didn’t…choose…life, hard, it-”
Gone.
Frost is sobbing, letting the man’s hand go as she shuts his eyes and sings a burial hymn as she rocks back and forth on her heels.
Why?
