The Pillaging of an Empire

by Amanda Clover

  “Gods below,” she breathed.

  Not a building over a story still stood. The palace that had once been the jewel of the empire stood, blasted, little more than foundations. The mighty walls that had kept back the armies of the monsters for weeks were laid low. Rubble covered the lands in brick and spar and more. Even as she stood there she could see the bodies of monsters and men, scattered like broken playthings, crushed beneath the rubble, their blood soaking into the dust of the city.

  She turned about. Forests had once grown close to the city, but they had been reduced to matchsticks, blasted down and burned to cinders by the dark sorcery of the mages. Without the trees, the city, or anything more she seemed to be able to see to the very end of the world.

  As she stood there a pale, hulking shape pushed its way out of the hatch behind her. Ghostheart, the orcish warlord walked up and surveyed the destruction. Not even this touched him, his face beneath the white paint of a skull expressionless, his dark eyes as indifferent as glass to the suffering wrought upon the world.

  The Red Witch turned as the air at the foot of the war wagon coiled and sparked. It seemed to part and the Duke of Ashes stepped out once more into reality. He blinked against the sun’s glare, the light turned crimson by the dust and smoke. He looked slowly about himself and the destruction wrought.

  The Red Witch watched his expression, but it betrayed nothing. As set as stone as he looked out over the nation he had set out to conquer, now reduced to ash.

  “Duke?” she said carefully.

  The Duke of Ashes shook his head. “Typical. How human of them. If they can’t have it, no one can.”

  “You okay?”

  He glanced their way, then grinned. “Of course!” he said, walking up the creaking steps of the war wagon. “Don’t you see? We have won!”

  “Won what, exactly?” the Red Witch asked.

  “The war, my witch. We won the war!”

  The Red Witch let out a soft whistle. “Fuck,” she said. “If this is winning, then I’d hate to lose.”

  The Duke laughed. “Droll as ever. But no,” he said, his thumb stroking the silver eye which topped his cane. “Did you think that this war was the end? Oh no, my friends. This was merely the beginning.”

  “Hm?” the Witch said. Even Ghostheart turned to the sorcerer with curiosity.

  “Did you really think I was content with merely destroying Istanov?” the Duke asked. “Our victory here was merely the first stepping stone. The opening act of the true war! We have to look to the future, my friends. And the future still holds such promise!”

  “It does?”

  “Of course! Istanov has fallen. But we’re not done. Oh no. We won’t be until every human in this world has been conquered. Until every kingdom of men has been torn down. Until every woman has been brought into the fold, used to bring in the new generation of monster!

  “And our next step,” the Duke said, pointing with his cane. “Lies before us.”

  The Red Witch and Ghostheart turned towards the distant mountains, the pass climbing them like a snake through the crags.

  “…Heimsvak?” the Red Witch said.

  “Hrm,” Ghostheart grunted.

  “Exactly!” the Duke said, chuckling. “Heimsvak! Our next target. Our next victim.”

  “That might be tough, with just us,” the Red Witch noted.

  “It’s never just us,” the Duke said, walking to the edge of the battle wagon and looking out over the ruins of the world. “The monsters of Istanov were thought destroyed once before, my friends. And look how that turned out! From every corner of this land they came. In numbers enough to raze the empire which had so long oppressed them. Yes! They will rise again. They will have survived even this, and we shall gather them anew. A new horde to march against Cleavegrad and over the pass, and into Heimsvak. The women of Istanov shall breed us a new army, and we will conquer that land as surely as we did this. We will bring the dark things that lurk in the corners of Heimsvak into the day with our passing, and we shall crush the king and breed his daughter.

  “We are not done!” the Duke said, and to the Red Witch, it seemed as if he were shouting at the ruins of the palace. “We shall triumph yet! The monster shall rule this world. All kingdoms shall fall. All the world shall kneel!”

  The Duke raised his arms over his head, his shadow stretching long over the ruins of Moskov, thrown far by a crimson sun staring down like a baleful eye. “The time of man is done. This is the age of the Monster! And we will not be stopped!”

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  Epilogue

  The Gates of Desolation

  The humans called the wide valley between the northern and southern ranges of the snow-capped Barrier Mountains “the Gap.” The mountains divided the continent roughly in half and for centuries armies had been forced to pass through the Gap, conquering Istanov to the west or Heimsvak to the east.

  When the massive fortress of Cleavegrad was built - with its layers of curtain walls, towers, artillery platforms and a castle that was said to have walls of stone thicker than an arm’s length – the Gap became a much more perilous passage for invaders. Heimsvak had held the fortress for decades and had kept Istanov at bay. Any army that wanted to invade Heimsvak from the west would have to first defeat the mighty fortress of Cleavegrad.

  But could that impressive fortification hold back the invasion of the Duke of Ashes and his reformed army of monsters?

  The Duke was willing to bet that it could not. He thought of the valley not as a gap, but as the gates of desolation. They opened onto the cursed land of Istanov, destroyed by the magic of the Red Mages two years earlier, but the desolation was not the destination. He smiled grimly as he gazed out upon the fortress from one of the turrets of his massive headquarters wagon.

  No, desolation would pour fourth from the gates and bring ruin to one of the last great empires of mankind.

  “Duke,” said a soft voice behind the Duke.

  Ghostheart had silently climbed the stairs into the turret. The Duke’s orc lieutenant was his right hand as surely as the Red Witch was the Duke’s left hand. They had both helped him rally his scattered horde after the ritual of the Red Mages had incinerated cities and villages across what was once Istanov. Damn those fools, though the Duke, but they had given him a new army, a better one consisting of only the hardiest and most brutal killers.

  “What is it?” The Duke asked in his raspy voice.

  “Scouts say King of Heimsvak bring entire army. Too big for us to drive from the Gap even with the giants from the coast.”

  “You are right,” said the Duke, his smile cruel. “Heimsvak is not ruled by decadent fools like Istanov. They consider themselves warriors. They are ready for us. They are also prideful. And we shall use that pride against them.”

  “How?” asked Ghostheart, his expression seeming incurious despite the question.

  “Fetch me the witch,” said the Duke, turning back to Cleavegrad with its blue-and-yellow Corven banners fluttering on the ramparts. “And tell her to bring her summoning salts.”

  Bastion

  King Janus Corven stood upon the ramparts of the great fortress of Cleavegrad. He was a broad-shouldered man at the tail end of his prime, with thick hair and beard turning slowly to white. His blue eyes narrowed. He knew the Duke’s army had gathered in force, but he could not see them. The distant landscape was blasted of its trees, the earth itself parched and discolored to an ugly, bruised yellow. Here and there where smoldering craters where artillery had been fired from the fortress at motion called out by spotters. If they had hit anything, it had been completely obliterated, because there was no sign of the enemy force.

  “They are there,” muttered King Janus.

  “By the thousands,” agreed Brigadier Haverly. “They’re no trouble to us now, but they will continue to gather until they become a problem. Unless we stomp them out.”

  The old soldier had served the king’s father an
d now the king as his chief military adviser. He was tall and lean and had the hard-eyed look of a man that would never waiver no matter the odds. Alongside him was Lord Dovane. A knight and friend of the king, Ciril Dovane was a slight man, famously good with sword, bow, and, more infamously, his cock. His shock of blond hair stirred in the dry air coming from the blasted foothills.

  “Janus, it’s a trap,” said Lord Dovane. “We’re safe and sound here in the fortress. Let him come to us. We’ll break him upon Cleavegrad’s walls.”

  “Mmm,” said Brigadier Haverly, leaning against the ramparts as if he intended to launch himself into the wasteland to hunt down the Duke personally.

  The king might have been inclined to agree with his friend years ago, but knowing what the Duke of Ashes did to the empress had turned the heart of King Janus to fire. He did not know precisely what had happened to Damera in the final days of Istanov, but he knew enough. He knew she suffered before she likely died in the conflagration created by the Red Mages. And the king yearned to avenge his secret lover’s demise.

  But he had also seen enough death and destruction and he would not commit his forces foolishly. His heart agreed with Brigadier Haverly, but the moment must be right.

  “Let him show himself first,” said the king. “When the coward reveals himself, then we will know if it is the time to strike.”

  “How did the bastard even survive?” asked Lord Dovane, gripping the ramparts with his gloved hands.

  “He possesses power you cannot even fathom.”

  The words were spoken by a soft, sweet, and unmistakably feminine voice. All three men wheeled to face the source and found themselves looking at the Red Witch. Her lustrous scarlet hair swirled about her shoulders and her ample breasts were barely contained by the bodice she wore. A dark cloak fluttered around her, turn and singed in places, and her pale body seemed to glow with an unnatural light. Violet fire danced in the comely witch’s eyes.

  She would have been beautiful, but a terrifying power radiated from the Red Witch.

  Brigadier Haverly and Lord Dovane drew their swords at once. The king rested his hand upon the pommel of his own sword, but did not draw.

  “How did you pierce the magical shielding, witch!?” Brigadier Haverly demanded.

  The king gestured for his men to calm their anger.

  “Julyana Stavov,” said the king. For just an instant, surprise registered on her face that the king knew her full name. Then her mocking smile returned.

  “I come under flag of truce,” said Julyana, holding a white silk handkerchief and flopping it in one hand. “The Duke of Ashes has a gift for you, King of Heimsvak.”

  “His kind has never respected a flag of truce,” snorted the brigadier. “We should put this treacherous woman to the sword.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with the brigadier,” said Lord Dovane. “We should at least restrain her.”

  “What is this gift?” demanded the king.

  The Red Witch reached slowly under her cloak and produced a black velvet hat box that seemed far too large to have been hidden within the tattered folds of her garment. She bowed her head and held the box out to the king. Lord Dovane snatched the box from her hands. She glanced at him with amusement, her eyes sparkling beneath heavy lids and long lashes.

  “Careful with that!” snapped the brigadier.

  Lord Dovane took a few steps from the king before gingerly opening the lid of the box. He stared into the box for a moment before reaching inside.

  “Well? What in the blazes is it?” Brigadier Haverly demanded.

  “A pair of field glasses,” said Lord Dovane, lifting the pair of brass binoculars from the hat box. He turned them over in his hands. The lenses were covered with brass caps emblazoned with strange symbols. Lord Dovan tried to remove the caps, but they would not budge. “I cannot remove these. What in the blazes is this? Some sort of prank?”

  “Those see places your eyes would never reach,” said the Red Witch. “They are not the gift. The gift is the view they provide.”

  “Your gifts and your white handkerchief will not save you, witch,” said the king. “Your master has sent back the heads of enough emissaries for this exercise to be ridiculous.” He took the field glasses from Lord Dovane and leaned close to his friend. “Take her down to the dungeon. Summon the Order of the Shield to help watch over her. If she gives you any trouble, you have my explicit permission to bury your sword in the witch’s heart.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Dovane. The Red Witch was already holding her hands out, wrists together, inviting Lord Dovane to bind her wrists. Instead, he drew his sword again and shoved her towards the stairs. She moaned softly as if she liked the way he was treating her. He jabbed the point of his sword in the small of her back, walking behind her as he commanded, “Keep quiet!”

  King Janus inspected the field glasses. They seemed well-made, but other than the caps being sealed over the lenses, they were otherwise unremarkable. He put them to his eyes and groaned as a sense of vertigo overtook him.

  He was presented with a view of a vast plain teeming with monsters of all size and descriptions. Orcs, gertlings, ghouls, lumbering giants, and demons of all description crowded around a crude platform of timbers. The gaunt, dark-haired figure of the Duke of Ashes stood upon the platform, addressing his horde. The perspective shifted closer, as if the king were seeing through the eyes of a bird circling lower and lower towards the wooden platform. As if the glasses wanted the king to see something.

  There. A snatch of red hair. A dirt-smeared body with pale flesh barely covered by a ragged gown. Damera. She lived!

  “What is it? What do you see?” Brigadier Haverly demanded.

  “He…he has her,” whispered the king. “The empress.”

  The brigadier said something else, but King Janus was distracted by strange noises. It was as if he was hearing the grunt of monsters and the distant words of the duke as he tried to will the view through the glasses closer. Yes. He could hear!

  “…a show for you today! Something to entertain you before the battle to come!” The Duke of Ashes gestured to the stairs up to the platform as his lieutenant, the skull-painted orc called Ghostheart, led the bound empress up onto the stage.

  The king’s heart drummed wildly in his chest. She was bruised and scraped, her shapely body barely covered by the tatters of her gown, but she was alive. Bless the gods, she was alive! She even walked with her head held high, as if she was unbroken. After two years with the duke, the Damera’s spirit was still strong.

  “Indomitable,” murmured the king.

  The monsters began cheering as Damera was forced onto the stage and it became difficult to hear what the Duke of Ashes was saying. The vile wizard caressed Damera and ran his fingers through her hair. She jerked her head away from the Duke of Ashes.

  When the wizard spoke again, his voice was barely louder than a whisper, but King Janus could easily hear what he was saying.

  “I could take you again, my sweet. As I have so many times before. Reveled in your tight cunt. Felt your mouth upon my cock. But that would hardly entertain these brutes.” He pressed his cheek against hers and gazed out at the throng of monsters. “No, these are the worst of the worst. Connoisseurs of cruelty. For them, on the cusp of battle, I must present something special.”

  The platform began to shake. Something huge was walking up behind the empress. The view of the stage pulled back and the king cried out at what he saw waddling up the stairs. The porcine demon must have been as heavy as a draft horse. Its body jiggled and swayed grotesquely, its huge belly overhanging its thick pink thighs. Its back was covered with sores and a vestigial pair of wings. Its beady eyes were almost hidden under an oversized brow and its slimy pig’s snout sported a pair of yellow tusks. It snorted and grunted as it shambled behind the empress.

  “Here you are, Pleqoluth,” said the Duke of Ashes, stepping back from the empress. “Have your fun.”

  The empress trembled as the
pig demon leaned over her, slime dripping from its jaws onto her back and shoulders. It reaches two fat, clawed hands around her body and seized hold of her tattered garment. It undressed her with a single yank and rip of her gown, her breasts bouncing free and her pale body revealed to the cheers of the monsters.

  King Janus seethed. His stomach twisted into a not. But he could not look away.

  “P-prepare the army,” he growled to Brigadier Haverly. “Prepare to sally forth.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Haverly, his boots thumping down the stairs as he departed.

  King Janus hardly heard him go. His mind was in the vision he was seeing through the field glasses. His heart was in his throat as the empress was shoved down to the floor of the stage. The monsters pressed closer, leering at her with bulging eyes as Plegoluth began to lick at her pussy and ass with slow drags of his huge, slimy tongue. She wailed, her fingers, scrabbling at the planks beneath her. The pig demon grasped her hips in his huge hands and did not let her escape.

  “Gods protect her,” whispered King Janus. But no gods intervened. As he watched, Plegoluth revealed the massive, slimy purple length of his cock, the fat tip frilled with strange white protrusions. The porcine demon’s eyes flashed as it impaled the fallen empress on his massive cock. Her eyes rolled back as the foul beast began to rut into her pussy, stretching it wide around his massive member. His huge belly jiggled and slid over her ass as Plegoluth pounded her helpless pussy. Her plump tits swung beneath her, matching the rhythm of the vile demon’s thrusts.

  The carnal display drove the horde of monsters into a frenzy. They cheered and whooped. Some closest to the stage began to pleasure themselves or tried to claw their way onto the stage to have a turn. A shimmering wall of force kept them back, its surface flashing and rippling with magical energy whenever one tried to climb onto the stage. Plegoluth pounded relentlessly into the empress, his bulk seeming to swallow her up as his huge cock disappeared into her cunt and reappeared sheathed in her spilling nectar.