Mastertank1
2nd Level Yellow Feather
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Mikran at the Fane of the Magna Mater
Lord Mikran the Hammer had just taken a very light breakfast, by his usual standards. He faced a morning of heavy physical exertion and did not want to be weighed down.
Mikran was about to teach swordplay and general use of weapons in close combat to a class of young officer cadets at the Military Academy of Arkania. Arkania was the capital of the Matriarchy of Adacanna, and all the cadets were young women.
Contrary to what a typical male chauvinist soldier would believe, this made the job more rather than less strenuous. While a group of young men of the same age and class might have had greater muscular strength, the women averaged faster, more agile, and superior in endurance.
This made it necessary for the teacher to be in superb physical condition. In all honesty, if it were not for the spells he had been using for most of his life to gradually and permanently enhance his own physical abilities, Mikran doubted he would have been up to the task.
Mikran enjoyed teaching the course, in particular because it paid his tuition at the General Staff War College. In that exclusive institution, some of the greatest military minds of the age taught tactics and strategy.
Although a growing number of his young students sighed and attempted to flirt when they encountered him outside of class, Mikran was far more attracted to the older, more experienced women who taught the classes where he was a student. Some of them were so attractive it required all of Mikran’s formidable self discipline to concentrate on his lessons, but concentrate he did.
Mikran was generally acknowledged to be one of the best students the War College had ever trained. One professor, renowned for the scarcity of praise from her lips, had paid him the high complement of stating publicly that he was capable of thinking like a woman when he had to.
Mikran reflected, as he strode along, how he had earned himself the invitation which had brought him here. He had been passing through the territory of Tannalure, a Veramine Empire trading outpost on the Slave Coast of the Greater Inland Sea. The inland lobe of the kidney shaped parcel that formed Tannalure’s hinterland covered the only pass through the Foolkiller Range which remained practicable at that time of year.
Mikran had paused for some lunch, resting on the roots of a huge oak halfway up the side of a bend in the pass. Between the foliage of the ancient tree and the bushes a bit lower on the slope, Mikran was well screened from anyone using the trail at the bottom of the natural cut in the rocky earth while still being able to see them with ease. Mikran’s war-horse, Windstrider, had gone to investigate some berries higher up the slope and was even better hidden from the view of any one below.
Mikran was mentally debating weather to light up a pipeful of pipeweed when he heard a large party, moving fast, coming from the same direction he had come from. They raced into view and proved to be a column of Veramine slavers, about 20 strong, accompanied by a company of mercenaries. The latter were clearly second raters, ill assorted by nationality, age, and equipment. Most likely a pickup unit recruited in ones and twos from the taverns of some city with an extensive underworld. There were about 40 of these, for a total of 60 fighters.
The slaver band hastily rounded the bend and went to cover in five separate groups. There were about 10 on either flank of the road. Another 10 took cover directly below Mikran’s vantage point, which was on the outside curve of the bend to the left made by the pass. 15 more went to ground at the head of the straight stretch beyond the bend, just where the pass turned back to the right. The 15 remaining were a motley assortment of distance weapon specialists; archers, crossbowmen, javelineers, slingers, and one or two wizards, hidden on a brushy ledge almost as high up the left-hand slope of the straight stretch as Mikran was up the right-hand slope of the bend. Clearly, an ambush intended to trap a sizable armed force.
About twenty minutes after the ambush was fully set, Mikran saw the intended victims approaching from the same direction the ambushers had come from. A troop of two dozen of what appeared to be regular cavalry apparently guarding an ornate open coach, which held six more riders including the drivers. All were muffled in long, hooded gray riding cloaks, trimmed with gray fur.
Mikran had a particular dislike of slavers, and resolved to interfere. Hefting an egg-shaped smooth stone of about a pound, Mikran hurled it upward on a carefully chosen trajectory. It came almost straight down among the hidden shooters on the opposite slope of the pass, causing one crossbow to discharge prematurely. The quarrel skipped off a stone in the road, half a dozen feet from the lead horse, which shied. The rider shouted “Ambush!” in a loud, bell-like, and distinctly feminine voice. The riders all threw off their cloaks while drawing swords and saddleaxes. The wagoneers doffed their own cloaks while drawing short, recurved hornbows. The party under attack was now revealed to be a sextet of Priestesses of the Magna Mater under escort by a half troop of Adacannan Royal Household cavalry. All were women.
Not yet fully in the trap, the group could have run, but the men directly below Mikran, intended to block retreat, started a small rockslide which broke the rear right wheel on the wagon. Mikran now saw that the open carriage held a giant, decorated scroll, adorned with holy emblems of the Goddess. He knew that none of the women now fighting below him, Priestess or Soldier, would abandon the sacred relic while she still drew breath.
Mikran called out; “Ladies! Would you be willing to accept some help?”
The senior Priestess inquired “At what cost?”
“To be agreed on later.” He replied.
One of the others, readying a spell, called up; “No need, I think.”
At that moment one of the slaver wizards cast an area nullify magic spell against the Adacannans. The Mage-priestess said; “We’ll take that help now, kind sir.”
The first slaver wizard had exhausted himself with the powerful area nullify magic spell, even though it was specific only to magicks invoking the Magna Mater. His colleague, however, was ready to throw a paralyzing spell, enabling the slavers to take all the women alive. Acting in a heartbeat, one of the two deeply carved silver rings on Mikran’s left hand pulsed a deep, virulent green, and blanketed the area in a general nullify magic spell. The slaver’s magicks were stillborn.
Windstrider had come of his own volition to Mikran’s side, sensing the battle beginning, and then Mikran, rapidly stringing his own massive warbow and nocking a steel-headed bronze arrow, began speeding shafts at the archers, crossbowmen, slingers and javelineers of the slaver band. Each arrow skewered one, two, or three of the foe, till the enemy missilefire fell away to nothing.
By this time, half of the slavers directly below Mikran’s position had turned and were beginning to climb toward him, blades at the ready. Mikran drew a curved, razor edged Katana called Frostfang, and a shorter but similar Tachi called Fireclaw. Using a martial art known as Iaido, learned at the Two Swords School in the kingdom of Hokkaido on a different world, Mikran descended upon his five immediate foes like some apocalypse, leaving them all dismembered in under a minute.
Mikran had now slain 17 of the slavers, while the Adacannans had taken out 10 in return for 7 of theirs wounded beyond immediate fighting. This left 33 to 23. Mikran estimated that the Adacannans would win, but just barely.
Sheathing his swords, Mikran mounted Windstrider and drew a great war-sledge named Rage and a saddleaxe called Fury from their saddle scabbards. Whispering instructions to Windstrider and then carefully bracing himself, Mikran and Windstrider leapt from the side of the cut to its floor in a single bound, placing themselves amid the slavers. Windstrider lashed out with steel shod hooves, magically strengthened teeth, and the spikes extending from his armored nosepiece and chest plate while Mikran laid about himself with Fury and Rage.
Five minutes later the five slavers still able to move were fleeing for their lives, each leaving a trail of blood which would draw four legged predators upon all and sundry long before they could win clear of the Foolkiller Range. Mikran, cleaning and scabbarding his weapons, approached the Adacannans to introduce himself more formally to the High Priestess and claim his recompense. Mikran was willing to wager a lot that they would be surprised by the price he would name as his reward.
Mage-priestess Lyrae gazed about the battlefield intently, gauging the results. The Royal Adacannans and priestess-warriors had ten wounded, half seriously. They had slain 27 slavers. The massive, well-armed and courteous stranger had killed 28 slavers and appeared unscathed. A very impressive showing for a lone fighter. The remaining slavers had fled , all wounded, and would soon be dead. Time to tend to their own wounded.
Lyrae gave orders to gather the injured Adacannans and make sure none of the downed slavers lived. She began tending the worst injured. It looked like some might yet die. Mikran approached, and without preamble stated;
“I have substantial abilities as a healing mage. I will gladly assist in tending your injured, if you wish.”
Lyrae considered. “What deities and powers do your healing spells invoke?” she inquired.
Mikran replied “A variety of nature spirits and elemental forces. All are neutral as to good and evil. Most favor chaos over order, but not to any great extent. NONE are in any way hostile to the Great Mother in any of Her avatars or manifestations. I myself frequently make offerings to Her avatars known as Cybele and The Morrigan. I use no healing magicks which She would take exception to. Some of my battle spells invoke forces rougher and less civilized or refined than She might like, but none who are Her foes. If She does not fully approve, neither has She ever explicitly disapproved.”
Lyrae said; “In that case, your aid is welcome. In instances such as you mention, She is apt to judge by intent rather than association. If a good cause is threatened by evil, She Herself is likely to resort to means She would normally disdain as ‘rough’, ‘uncivilized’ or ‘unrefined’. Please, name thyself to us. I would liefer not refer to you as ‘strange warrior’.
Mikran, with a broad grin, replied; “Many who know me well refer to me as a strange warrior, for diverse reasons. My name, however, is Mikran.”
As he spoke, the two deeply carved silver rings on Mikran’s right hand pulsed beams of pure white and lambent blue. These intermingled to form a pale blue glow, which fell upon the most grievously injured cavalrywoman. The wounds visibly healed, cleaned, and closed as the amazed Lyrae watched. She noted the two silver rings on either hand, and connected the available facts.
“You are Lord Mikran the Hammer!” Lyrae exclaimed. “Known as the Hammer of Hell.”
“I am proud to have been given that title by my foes. To them, I undoubtedly seem to have been sent by some fiend as a plague in human form.”
During this brief conversation, he had completed the healing of the worst injured of his new allies and begun on the next worst injured. The first was already flexing restored limbs and beginning to rise. Now Lyrae was truly astonished.
“I have never seen such fast and powerful healing spells. Earlier, were you responsible for the general nullify magic spell that trumped the slaver’s ace?” Lyrae asked.
“Aye. That was my doing.”
“By the Mother! You must be one of the mightiest of battle mages.”
“Well, I’ve been doing it longer than most. A matter of fifteen millennia at least.”
By now, Mikran, Lyrae and the other three uninjured priestesses had between them healed all the injured Adacannans. Lyrae drew a deep breath and turned to face Mikran, bracing herself for unpleasantness. She clearly expected him to ask for something ungrantable.
“Now, good sir, what price will you ask for aiding us, both in the fight and the healing?”
“Allow me to apply to become a student at the Adacannan War College. If I am accepted, I will gladly pay my tuition in any acceptable coin.”
“Is that all you ask?” Lyrae asked, incredulous. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.” Mikran confirmed.
“A male warrior of surpassing skill and power wishes to study strategy and tactics from female teachers? Why?”
“Because they happen to be the best teachers of those subjects available in this world. I would not waste my time learning from anyone less than the best. They are not only superior practitioners of their subjects, but excellent teachers as well. The two do not often occur in the same individual. My original purpose in coming to this part of the world was to try to buy or earn my way into that school.”
“The price of your tuition will be to instruct our young warriors, both trainees and veterans, in the use of weapons. They will all be women. Will you teach them?”
“Happily! I have long believed that all women who are so inclined have a right to be taught how to fight! If that is the only tuition you require, I pay it gladly. I regard it as an honor and a privilege, not merely an obligation.”
The party then proceeded on their way, reaching their destination of Arkania in Adacanna with no further incident. During the ride, the senior priestess had asked Mikran endless questions, eliciting much information about his history and background. Mikran was willing to be interrogated; he knew the Adacannans needed to know a lot more about him before allowing him to study at their famed war college and teach their warriors. He deliberately told them of activities in his recent past which would be easy for the Adacannan diplomatic or intelligence services to verify.
Jogtrotting over a steep hill to help warm up, from the crest Mikran saw a large number of war galleys approaching the harbor in formation. Using a farseer spell, Mikran discerned that they flew the war banners of the Iranistani Empire. He also saw that they were jammed to the gunwales with armed troops. These were no second rate pickup force of mercenaries such as the slavers on the Veramine road had employed; these were Iranistani regular infantry with a few battalions of the elite Iranistani Imperial Marines for stiffening. He was observing a major invasion force.
Charging down the far slope of the hill at a full run, Mikran sent a mental summons for Windstrider to join him with his full battle harness. The two met at the edge of downtown Arkania. Mikran leapt into the saddle, and relieved Windstrider of the bundle of weapons and armor the intelligent stallion had been carrying in his massive teeth. Together, they galloped to Royal Army Headquarters, just outside the palace south gate. As soon as he came within the considerable range of his mighty voice, Mikran bellowed;
“Guard captain! Tell the officer of the day that a full Iranistani invasion fleet is one hour’s hard row from the harbor mouth, coming this way and flying battle flags! I estimate twelve thousand infantry and three thousand marines! She’ll know what to do!”
The guard captain, a classmate of Mikran’s at the war college, yelled back, pitching her voice low to carry far as she had been trained to do;
“Got it Mikran! Where will you be?”
“At the Gymnasium!” Mikran replied; “I’m going to organize my students into a reserve unit. They’ve had regular infantry training, and were sent to me for extra personal combat instruction before receiving their permanent assignments to units. None of them belong to a unit yet, but they can fight well, both as individuals and teams. I’ll shake them out into platoons, squads and teams and march them to the arsenal to draw regular weapons. They’ll all have their personal armor on already, because this week of lessons were all about fighting in armor. Once they’re ready, I’ll take them down to Harbor Market Square to await orders. That’ s a good central location for a reserve unit to be stationed, to move to where ever they’re needed.”
As Mikran said these words, at full bellow, he kept on at a gallop in the direction of the gymnasium. As the guard captain turned towards the office of the officer of the day she muttered; “Professor Cordelia was right: he can think like a woman. Using his class as a reserve unit is brilliant.”
By the time Mikran galloped into the gymnasium exercise yard and pulled up, his whole class was goggling at him in astonishment. He had never done anything like this before. Ten minutes later, Mikran still on horseback, the class were enroute to the arsenal. On their arrival at the arsenal, they found that the officer of the day had sent a runner to tell the arsenal commander to issue weapons to Mikran’s class without delay. While the girls of the class picked out swords, daggers, shields, slings, javelins, bows and spears Mikran donned his own armor and weapons harness, all the while calling out reminders;
“Everyone takes whatever missile weapon they’re best with, as well as sword, dagger or shortsword, and shield. Javelineers grab a spare sheaf of darts. Archers take a spare quiver of arrows, and make sure they’re all armor piercing chisel points, no hunting broadheads. Those broadheads’ll just bounce off armor. Slingers take a second pouch of bullets. Spearwomen carry a second spear in your shield hand. Don’t anyone get ambitious and grab an axe; we’re not fighting as cavalry today, and none of you have the size and power to be effective with a two handed Berdiche or Lochaber. Leave those to the giantesses of the Royal Life Guards. If you’re one of the ones who are good at throwing daggers, and you know who you are, take at least three pairs and hide them about your clothing and armor. Remember all the places I showed you; down the neck, both ends of the vambrace, top of the greave, small of the back, and a small one in the crotch. Make sure the sheaths are all firmly in place so they don’t move around and chafe. Especially if you’re putting on a crotch sheath. We won’t carry rations because we’re fighting in our home city today, but everyone take two extra waterskins and refill the damn things every chance you get. If we’re pinned in the hot sun, you can always pee and let it run out of your armor cup, but you’ll need to replace it right away to avoid dehydration. Everyone make damn sure you have a salt lick in your pouch. It’s a hot summer day, and if you sweat away all your salt without replacing it you faint, and that’s not a sexist remark; it happens to men more often than women. It happened to me when I was twenty years old and stupid.”
With all the officer cadet/students armed and Windstrider as well as Mikran fully battle armored, the class moved to Harbor Market Square. There they found that the officer of the day had been busy; the merchants had all been warned and were moving their goods out of harm’s way. Many were arming themselves, either to defend their property or perhaps to assist in defending the city. Army messengers were buzzing back and forth like bees. Mikran noticed something suspicious and gestured one of the messengers over to have his suspicions relayed to the commander of the city garrison. Mikran had noticed an unusually large number of Iranistani merchants arming themselves, and didn’t think they intended to help defend Arkania against their countrymen. There were far too many of them, and their equipment far too good and too similar to each other.
They also seemed to fall into what looked suspiciously like regular units, and all had the bearing of military men. The few Iranistani merchants who seemed not to be part of this abnormally organized activity kept glancing fearfully at their fellow ‘merchants’ as they bundled up their goods and hustled them out of sight. The overly organized ‘merchants’ seemed to be far too numerous for the relatively sparse merchandise offerings visible in their booths. There was also the odd fact that none of the organized Iranistani were making any effort to pack up, move or hide their goods.
Under the pretense of drill, Mikran positioned his cadets around the Marketplace so that these ‘merchants’ could be intercepted, whichever direction they went, and delayed until the other cadet companies could hit them from behind. Then he ascended to the observation tower of the constable of the market, which gave him a view over the city walls to the harbor beyond. There he saw that the two massive capstans mounted to either side of the harbor mouth were being turned by their teams of oxen, raising the huge iron chain from it’s concealment in the mud at the bottom of the harbor mouth to lie just inches below the surface. There the chain would tear the bottom out of any vessel attempting to enter the harbor. When the chain was at full stretch, twelve nine foot long, two foot thick iron pegs were inserted through the center holes of six links to either side of the harbor entrance, locking the chain immovably in place.
The leading Iranistani war galleys, clearly hoping to take the city defenses by surprise, tried to run the gap at full ramming speed and were wrecked. They sank almost instantly, the soldiers in armor and the slaves chained to their rowing benches inevitably drowning. The rest of the invasion fleet made a hard turn to port, and landed at the fisherfolk beach and private docks beyond the city defenses just east of the basalt headlands that framed the entry to the harbor. The invaders formed up, and began maneuvering for what was clearly to be an attack on the northeast land gate of the city.
A messenger from the garrison commander found Mikran at that moment. She brought orders, and Mikran fairly flew down the tower stairs. As soon as he reached the ground, Mikran began bellowing orders. He gathered the cadet battalion and moved them out due north toward the main harbor docks. No sooner were they well out of sight from the marketplace than their direction changed. They took up concealed positions that would allow them to block the most direct route from the market to the northeast land gate.
One of the senior cadets asked Mikran;
“Teacher? What if the Iranistani have a different objective?”
“Four companies of garrison infantry and a troop of Household cavalry are approaching the square from the directions of the barracks and the palace respectively. Whoever encounters the so called merchants first will hold them and send for us and the other regular units to hit them in the flanks and rear.” Was his answer. As she walked back to her company, Mikran thought he heard her mutter;
“Wish you were interested in my flanks and rear.”
Mikran grinned. She was a very attractive young woman, but he was more interested in mature beauties like Priestess Lyrae or Professor Cordelia. Oh, well. Back to business. Mikran ascended to the roof of a building that was two stories higher than the rest of the neighborhood. As he had expected the vantage point gave him a view back to the market.
The Iranistani ‘merchants’ had almost abandoned pretense; they had formed an obviously military formation. The market constabulary were eyeing them uneasily, and were receiving contemptuous stares in return. The policewomen had been told not to try to stop the concealed enemy, that moves to check them had already been taken. The police were to stay out of the disguised soldiers’ way, and just make sure that none of the real foreign merchants tried any looting in their wake.
Shortly, the attempted escalade of the northeast land gate began. As soon as the din of battle reached the Harbor Market Square, the Iranistani regulars disguised as merchants set off for that gate, clearly intending to hit the defenders from behind. Mikran came down from his rooftop perch and got his young troops ready for a fight.
The Iranistani were moving at a full run, galloping up the main street leading to the northeast land gate. The street was forty eight feet wide, and the troops ran up it ten abreast with no crowding or jostling, holding formation like trained veterans.
Mikran had chosen a broad square for the action. As the foe passed through, Mikran opened the fight with his mighty Scythian war bow. That was the signal for all the cadets to cut loose with javelins, arrows, quarrels and sling bullets. The Iranistani reeled to a halt, taken by complete surprise. Mikran dropped his bow and led a double company of the strongest, best close combat fighters among his cadets to block the way to the gate before the enemy recovered enough to charge past the ambush.
The Iranistani officers got their men moving again in about two minutes, but they had already taken serious losses by then. Rather than await the charge, Mikran ordered a countercharge, leading it himself. This allowed the greater speed of the young Adacannans to offset the greater bulk of the Iranistanis.
The initial collision stopped both charges, and before the Iranistani mass could start things moving their way, they were hit from behind by the Royal Adacannan Cavalry and from the right by four companies of regular infantry. Mikran bellowed for the rest of the cadets to come down from their shooting stations and pile on.
It looked as if the Iranistani were going to be wiped out on the spot when a group of about 50 headed for a gap between infantry companies. When a platoon moved to block them, a wizard among the Iranistani revealed himself with a power blast. They escaped from the square.
They were not trying to reach the gate; it was now clear that without the expected aid from inside the walls the attack would fail. It already sounded as if the foe were retiring toward their beached ships, and the Adacannan flotilla in the harbor was making ready to sortie and harass them as they fled. The sound of war galleys scraping down the wooden launching rails was unmistakable.
Mikran leapt onto Windstrider, drew Rage and Fury and cut his way through the middle of the enemy. In his wake, the now disordered foe threw down their arms and surrendered. Mikran gathered a few horsewomen with gestures in battle sign language and raced to get ahead of the fleeing group led by the wizard.
Mikran, with half a troop of crack cavalry behind him, intercepted the wizard’s party in the square before the temple of the Magna Mater. The 50 enemy soldiers were cut down quickly, but the wizard drew an ornate shortsword, encrusted with both bloodstones and blood. He raised the sword on high, gripped the hilts in both hands, and, shrieking an arcane, blood-chilling chant, plunged it into his own chest.
There ensued a flash of eldritch lightning, and from the ragged, gaping wound in the mage’s breast there emerged a huge weasel, 25 feet long. This was one of the lesser avatars of the rat god, whose worshippers abominated any female warrior. It slithered into the temple.
Mikran deduced at once that the infernal weasel’s aim was to desecrate the Fane, possibly even to try to harm the Goddess herself. He leapt from Windstrider’s back right through the now destroyed portals of the temple. Gaining his footing, Mikran reversed his hands and clapped his four rings together, producing a vast clap of divine thunder while shouting OYAMASAMA, Japanese for Great Mountain Lord.
Mikran took on the aspect of that mountain war God, and called up his attribute of divine battle madness. Then, drawing Frostfang and Fireclaw, he charged after the weasel demon.
Finding the demon about to bite the statue of the Goddess, Mikran, running full tilt, vaulted over the demon’s back. Mikran landed facing the weasel’s muzzle, blocking its access to the Goddess. Coming down, Mikran’s armored boots had bruised the giant weasel on his tender snout. It hissed in fury and reared to strike, but Mikran forestalled him, flying into the huge mustelid in a blur of flying steel. The supernal cold of Frostfang and the stellar heat of Fireclaw, both fully awakened by the presence of the avatar of the war God Mikran had called up, did far more damage than the mere steel could have.
The huge, infernal weasel fought back savagely, with tooth and claw. Even as a divine avatar, Mikran could not quite match the animal form’s speed or strength, but he was more agile and quicker of thought. The fight seemed at first to favor the manifestation of the Rat God. Gradually, it became clear that the demonic mustelid reacted to every cut and blow like the animal it was, while Mikran’s iron willpower allowed him to ignore the wounds, many and some dreadful, that he was taking, fighting on as if unhurt. The battle turned in Mikran’s favor.
The battle lasted half an hour before the demon weasel was slain. By now, the battles inside and outside the city walls were over, and the Adacannan local flotilla was pursuing the Iranistani task group across the sea. Mikran, reeling from dozens of claw and fang wounds, let go of the avatar and dropped to the bloodstained, cracked, blackened and smoking marble floor.
Near a hundred priestesses had witnessed this epic fight. All had been prepared to interpose their own bodies to protect the image of their Goddess, knowing full well they would die for doing so. None had been forced to do so, thanks to Mikran. Lyrae was among them.
Lyrae hurried forward to see to Mikran’s wounds, and gasped in dismay. They were far beyond her ability to heal, dripping with demonic venom as they were. Already beginning to mourn the loss of so brave and righteous a warrior, she prepared to weave a spell to ease the pain, when she was distracted by the collective gasp of the other priestesses.
Whirling to see what portended, Lyrae gasped herself. The lovely, granite, marble, precious metal and gemstone statue of the Magna Mater had come to life, clearly animated by the presence of the Goddess herself. The Magna Mater spoke:
“Lyrae, be not distressed. I shall not permit so brave a man to die for lack of healing, when he fought so selflessly to protect me, even though I am not of his primary pantheon. When he has fully recovered, I shall inhabit your person as we perform the ceremony of consecration upon him. For the first time in two thousand years, I have found a man worthy to be appointed as Guardian of My Fane.”
The Goddess then cast a mighty healing spell upon Mikran, and the priestesses reverently bore him to the infirmary. The story of Mikran’s fight with the weasel-demon-god spread through the city like wildfire, and crowds gathered to bless him as he was carried to the house of healing for his convalescence. Soon a new title was being added to “The Hammer” and “Hammer of Hell”. The people of the city, and shortly other peoples far beyond its walls, now spoke of “Mikran the Godslayer”.
Three weeks later, Mikran was back in full health. His rigorous exercise programs helped speed his full recovery. The damage done to the city by the Iranistani attack had by now been repaired and cleaned up.
The remains of the demon weasel god were long since gone, gathered and cleaned up, and ritually disdained and destroyed. The Goddess had informed Lyrae that the rat god would never again be able to use that particular avatar. Mikran had actually slain a deity.
Now Mikran stood on the raised platform next to the statue of the Magna Mater in the great Fane. He was watching the ceremonies with great interest. Lyrae stood beside him, looking beautiful and solemn. This night he would be consecrated as the Guardian of the Fane, the first man to be so honored in 2,000 years.
Mikran, in plain but elegant robes of state, whispered to Lyrae;
“I’ve seen priest consecrations before; these ceremonies don’t have that feel. They seem more like a divine wedding to me.”
“Didn’t anyone explain that?” Lyrae replied; “The Guardian becomes the husband of the Goddess. She will inhabit my body tonight when we consummate the marriage.”
“I suppose you mean we will consummate the marriage symbolically?”
Lyrae, blushing all the way down to her toes, said:
“No. I mean we will actually consummate the marriage. Carnally. You and I. In the Goddess’ bedchamber behind the Fane.”
“And She will be present within you? “
“Observing only. She will not overshadow my personality with her own, only lend her presence. She expects us to enjoy ourselves. That strange War God from another world, ....”
“ You mean Oyamasama?”
“Yes. Him. He will be invited to lend his presence to you also. As we consummate the marriage here, the two deities will do so in the heavens at the same time, creating an alliance between them.”
“Hmmm. An alliance between the Great Earth Mother and a Mountain War God. That should be interesting. I wonder if they’ll produce offspring, and what the nature of the new young God or Goddess will be.”
“They will. It’s in Her nature. She always conceives when she mates, even if her mate is normally infertile.”
“And will you also conceive?”
“For me it will be a matter of chance, as with any man and woman.”
“And we are to enjoy ourselves, to have a good time?”
“Yes. That’s a necessary part of the ritual.”
“Then why are you so solemn and nervous, so anxious......Oh. Don’t tell me. You’re a virgin? At your age? For ritual reasons?”
Lyrae blushed again, even more deeply than before;
“Yes. Still a virgin at 35. If this ceremony had not come up, it would have been my turn to represent the Goddess at the next harvest festival, where a virgin of 35 always represents Her aspects as Virgin and Mother to invoke her blessing for the fertility of the fields.”
“But you have been made aware of what will happen? What the pleasure and completion will feel like, except for the actual penetration?”
“Yes and no. I have witnessed lovemaking, between men and women, between women and women, between men and men, but have never been allowed to partake, nor to experience the completion.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never been allowed to have even one orgasm in your entire life? You never cheated and gave yourself some relief of tension?”
“The goddess would have known.”
“No wonder you’re so tense.”
“Oh, it’s even worse than that. The representative of the Mater must be ready and eager on this night, of all nights. She must not be held back by fear and lack of experience.”
“And they achieve this how?”
“For the past ten days, every night before sleeping and every morning upon rising three female attendants teased me to the brink but did not let me complete. They remained with me to see to it that I did not complete myself. The past two days, and thrice today, they have had to hold my hands away until the intensity of my need subsided.”
“Three times today?”
“On the day of the ritual, it is done every two hours from sunrise until the rite begins.”
“Have mercy! In some places, that would be called torture!”
“It is, truly.” Blushing more than ever; ”I look to you to relieve me of this torment tonight.”
Ironically, Mikran grinned; “In every possible sense of the word, that will be my pleasure. In case no one has ever mentioned it to you, you are one of this world’s loveliest women, and attractive in personality and intellect as well. I have wanted to make advances to you all the time I’ve been here, but held back because I did not know the etiquette surrounding a wizardess/priestess of your order.”
Lyrae’s blush, impossibly, deepened still further, but now she smiled;
“You could have any of dozens of our younger women, you know.”
“I know. But I wanted you.”
“Well, tonight we shall have each other. I am glad it was my turn when you were to be consecrated. I would have been desperately jealous had any other been in the place I occupy in this ceremony.”
Her smile faded and she again looked solemn and nervous as the ceremonial wound on to its conclusion. The wedding-like ceremonial concluded with the investment of the new Guardian Of The Fane with the great Labyrys, the mighty double bladed war axe sacred to the Magna Mater. The shape and decoration of the twin blades suggested the genitalia of an aroused woman. At last, Mikran and Lyrae walked through the doors to the ceremonial bedchamber of the Goddess. Mikran handed the Labyrys to an attendant who was also a teacher at the War College. She would convey it to Mikran’s quarters, to be added to his store of personal weapons. The doors were finally closed and locked behind them.
Turning to Lyrae with a grave expression, Mikran said;
“Now, oh desired one, we must get two things off of you as soon as possible.”
“Two?”
“First, these stifling clothes.” As he spoke those words he surely, swiftly, and gently disrobed her, revealing in full her breathtaking beauty. Then, his expression changing to one of playful glee; “Second, that somber face!”
Mikran swept the now nude Lyrae up in his arms, deftly shook her sandals off, and laid her upon the wedding couch. She squealed in delight. He doffed his own clothing in disregardful haste, and stretched out along her right side.
Firmly but gently, Mikran extended Lyrae’s arms over her head, then placed his own massive left arm across both of them. Gently lifting her head with his right hand, he slid his left arm down until her head was pillowed comfortably on the firm mass of his left biceps. Next, he lifted her exquisite legs with his right hand, slipping his left leg under both of hers. Lowering her legs to drape across his left one, he swung his right leg over to lie across both of hers and crossed his ankles. A very slight squeeze made Lyrae realize she was as helpless as if bound to a rack, and yet she found the contact with his powerful limbs pleasant and comforting. She was enjoying this. Then she noticed that he still had his right hand and arm entirely free, and his left hand and arm free from the elbow down.
Lyrae noticed because Mikran began, ever so lightly, to tickle her belly, her loins, her thighs and the upper slopes and sides of her breasts with the tips of his fingers, making her giggle and squirm. He extended the tickled area to her throat, her neck, and under her chin. When he leaned and kissed her, deeply and warmly, while he still tickled, the rush of erotic sensation startled Lyrae. All solemnity was forgotten.
Mikran paid close attention to Lyrae’s responses. If she had ever seemed to be in any distress, he would have instantly stopped, but he could tell she enjoyed his ministrations. Her wriggling and squirming gradually changed in nature.
Where at first Lyrae had automatically twisted away from the tickling sensation, now she was unconsciously striving to bring her more sensitive spots directly under his teasing fingertips. Mikran was pleased. It was time for stage two.
Suddenly, Mikran spread his ten fingertips to cover ten different spots on Lyrae’s well defined ribcage. After pausing a moment to let her become aware of what would happen next, drolly raising and lowering his eyebrows in mock menace, he let those fingertips gently but firmly press, slide and wriggle. Instead of giggling, Lyrae found herself laughing out loud. No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop the laughter that pealed sweetly from her mouth. To her amazement, she found that, paradoxically, even though the loss of control made her feel helpless as she never had in her life, the sensation of being held warmly in his massive, powerful limbs made her feel safer and more fully protected than ever as well. She realized that if Mikran were to ask her if she wanted him to stop, and if she were able to speak, she would say no.
After five minutes that seemed like a sweet hour, Mikran switched to feather light stroking upon the undersides of her breasts. While this tickled slightly less, the eroticism of the sensation was wonderful to Lyrae. When he leaned in to kiss her while still softly tickling, she eagerly craned her neck upward to receive and return his kisses. When he lowered his kisses to her nipples, the sensations became even sweeter.
Five minutes later, Mikran moved his hands to Lyrae’s hips, poising the fingertips at the peaks. Then, still with a featherlike light touch, he swept those fingertips up her deliciously curved flanks to just beside her breasts, then back down again. Instantly, this made her laugh harder because it tickled more. He continued this treatment while his mouth rendered oral homage to her face, neck, throat and breasts. She was in ecstasy. She had never imagined how wonderful this might be.
Still using the five minute interval, Mikran let his hands continue a final upward stroke, so that his fingertips skated into her armpits. There the fingertips stayed, gliding around the tender flesh, tracing the shifting outlines of the happily squirming tendons and muscles under her skin, making her laugh harder still. Now, when his deep kiss stifled her uncontrollable laughter, the helpless sensation transmuted into feelings of submissiveness and affection.
Lyrae lost all track of time, floating in what seemed like an eternity of joyfully agonized bliss. It was, again, only five minutes until she realized, with a sense of disappointment, that the tickling had stopped. As she lay there regaining control of her breathing, Lyrae opened her eyes to see Mikran’s handsome face gently smiling down at her.
“Shall I enter you now, my darling?” He asked. Lyrae eagerly nodded her head, and said; “Yes. Yes! YES YES YES YES YES!”
Releasing Lyrae’s limbs from the loving bondage he had held them in, Mikran surprised her by placing her hands, palms up, beneath her own buttocks and lifting her legs so the backs of her ankles rested on his vast shoulders. He entered her in a smooth motion, penetrating her hymen with only the tiniest twinge of pain. The thickness of him gave her the most delicious sensations. She was right on the verge of climax.
The weight of his torso pressed her knees against her breasts, although he supported most of his mass on his own elbows. The weight of his hips pinned her hands under her own bottom. Then, with a mixture of delight and outrage, she burst into laughter again as his fingertips started to lightly and teasingly tickle the heels of her foot bottoms! Then, for the very first time in her life, Lyrae experienced an orgasm. Mikran was far from through with her though.
Keenly observant, Mikran knew she had climaxed and moved his fingertips from her heels to the softer, more sensitive balls of her feet and resumed tickling. This tickled more intensely. A few minutes later she climaxed again, and he switched targets to the flats of her soles, which tickled even more. Again, a few minutes of that saw her climax again, and now he was tickling her toes!
This tickled so much it made her hysterical. Tears of laughing delight began to trickle from her gorgeous eyes. When Lyrae came for the fourth time, Mikran began to stroke the delicate, classically shapely curves of her high and wide arches. This was the most ticklish place on her whole lovely form. Seeing that it made her frantic, Mikran whispered to her:
“It this too much for you, sweetheart?”
“NO!” in between peals of hysteria.
“Shall I stop tickling now?”
“Never! Not till YOU climax inside me!”
Now Mikran changed his technique; instead of steady strokes, he danced his fingertips around the deep arches like the legs of a mad spider. A few minutes later, laughing louder and harder than ever, Lyrae came yet again, for the fifth time, more powerfully than all the earlier four combined, and her muscle contractions drew Mikran’s powerful release, a sensation which seemed to amplify her own pleasure release to a still higher level.
On the celestial plane, in the palace of the Magna Mater, her angelic attendants were all agog. For almost half an hour now they had heard their mistress’s audible mirth emerging, louder and louder, without interruption, from behind the locked doors of her bedchamber. First in soft giggles, gradually growing to full throated laughter, the sounds amazed and pleased the attendants.
Marveling that the seemingly crude mountain deity who was her lover this evening should have a sense of humor that so appealed to the mother of all things, several of the angels listened shamelessly at the crack of the door. Strain their ears as they might, they could not hear what jokes Oyamasama might be telling, to provoke such gales of mirth from their Goddess. They were very pleased that she seemed to so enjoy his company.
Then, from behind those closed doors, came an earsplitting scream of pure pleasure and joy, accompanied a second later by a deep toned bellow of masculine completion that rocked the very plane. Somehow, the silence that now descended upon the palace of the Magna Mater held an element of smug, satisfied feminine contentment.
END
Author's comments; If anyone has opinions to express, please feel free. If any of the many great artists on TMF wish to illustrate any part or all of this story, I would be most appreciative!
Mastertank 1
"I am NOT a mercenary. Killing is more of a hobby."
Lord Mikran the Hammer had just taken a very light breakfast, by his usual standards. He faced a morning of heavy physical exertion and did not want to be weighed down.
Mikran was about to teach swordplay and general use of weapons in close combat to a class of young officer cadets at the Military Academy of Arkania. Arkania was the capital of the Matriarchy of Adacanna, and all the cadets were young women.
Contrary to what a typical male chauvinist soldier would believe, this made the job more rather than less strenuous. While a group of young men of the same age and class might have had greater muscular strength, the women averaged faster, more agile, and superior in endurance.
This made it necessary for the teacher to be in superb physical condition. In all honesty, if it were not for the spells he had been using for most of his life to gradually and permanently enhance his own physical abilities, Mikran doubted he would have been up to the task.
Mikran enjoyed teaching the course, in particular because it paid his tuition at the General Staff War College. In that exclusive institution, some of the greatest military minds of the age taught tactics and strategy.
Although a growing number of his young students sighed and attempted to flirt when they encountered him outside of class, Mikran was far more attracted to the older, more experienced women who taught the classes where he was a student. Some of them were so attractive it required all of Mikran’s formidable self discipline to concentrate on his lessons, but concentrate he did.
Mikran was generally acknowledged to be one of the best students the War College had ever trained. One professor, renowned for the scarcity of praise from her lips, had paid him the high complement of stating publicly that he was capable of thinking like a woman when he had to.
Mikran reflected, as he strode along, how he had earned himself the invitation which had brought him here. He had been passing through the territory of Tannalure, a Veramine Empire trading outpost on the Slave Coast of the Greater Inland Sea. The inland lobe of the kidney shaped parcel that formed Tannalure’s hinterland covered the only pass through the Foolkiller Range which remained practicable at that time of year.
Mikran had paused for some lunch, resting on the roots of a huge oak halfway up the side of a bend in the pass. Between the foliage of the ancient tree and the bushes a bit lower on the slope, Mikran was well screened from anyone using the trail at the bottom of the natural cut in the rocky earth while still being able to see them with ease. Mikran’s war-horse, Windstrider, had gone to investigate some berries higher up the slope and was even better hidden from the view of any one below.
Mikran was mentally debating weather to light up a pipeful of pipeweed when he heard a large party, moving fast, coming from the same direction he had come from. They raced into view and proved to be a column of Veramine slavers, about 20 strong, accompanied by a company of mercenaries. The latter were clearly second raters, ill assorted by nationality, age, and equipment. Most likely a pickup unit recruited in ones and twos from the taverns of some city with an extensive underworld. There were about 40 of these, for a total of 60 fighters.
The slaver band hastily rounded the bend and went to cover in five separate groups. There were about 10 on either flank of the road. Another 10 took cover directly below Mikran’s vantage point, which was on the outside curve of the bend to the left made by the pass. 15 more went to ground at the head of the straight stretch beyond the bend, just where the pass turned back to the right. The 15 remaining were a motley assortment of distance weapon specialists; archers, crossbowmen, javelineers, slingers, and one or two wizards, hidden on a brushy ledge almost as high up the left-hand slope of the straight stretch as Mikran was up the right-hand slope of the bend. Clearly, an ambush intended to trap a sizable armed force.
About twenty minutes after the ambush was fully set, Mikran saw the intended victims approaching from the same direction the ambushers had come from. A troop of two dozen of what appeared to be regular cavalry apparently guarding an ornate open coach, which held six more riders including the drivers. All were muffled in long, hooded gray riding cloaks, trimmed with gray fur.
Mikran had a particular dislike of slavers, and resolved to interfere. Hefting an egg-shaped smooth stone of about a pound, Mikran hurled it upward on a carefully chosen trajectory. It came almost straight down among the hidden shooters on the opposite slope of the pass, causing one crossbow to discharge prematurely. The quarrel skipped off a stone in the road, half a dozen feet from the lead horse, which shied. The rider shouted “Ambush!” in a loud, bell-like, and distinctly feminine voice. The riders all threw off their cloaks while drawing swords and saddleaxes. The wagoneers doffed their own cloaks while drawing short, recurved hornbows. The party under attack was now revealed to be a sextet of Priestesses of the Magna Mater under escort by a half troop of Adacannan Royal Household cavalry. All were women.
Not yet fully in the trap, the group could have run, but the men directly below Mikran, intended to block retreat, started a small rockslide which broke the rear right wheel on the wagon. Mikran now saw that the open carriage held a giant, decorated scroll, adorned with holy emblems of the Goddess. He knew that none of the women now fighting below him, Priestess or Soldier, would abandon the sacred relic while she still drew breath.
Mikran called out; “Ladies! Would you be willing to accept some help?”
The senior Priestess inquired “At what cost?”
“To be agreed on later.” He replied.
One of the others, readying a spell, called up; “No need, I think.”
At that moment one of the slaver wizards cast an area nullify magic spell against the Adacannans. The Mage-priestess said; “We’ll take that help now, kind sir.”
The first slaver wizard had exhausted himself with the powerful area nullify magic spell, even though it was specific only to magicks invoking the Magna Mater. His colleague, however, was ready to throw a paralyzing spell, enabling the slavers to take all the women alive. Acting in a heartbeat, one of the two deeply carved silver rings on Mikran’s left hand pulsed a deep, virulent green, and blanketed the area in a general nullify magic spell. The slaver’s magicks were stillborn.
Windstrider had come of his own volition to Mikran’s side, sensing the battle beginning, and then Mikran, rapidly stringing his own massive warbow and nocking a steel-headed bronze arrow, began speeding shafts at the archers, crossbowmen, slingers and javelineers of the slaver band. Each arrow skewered one, two, or three of the foe, till the enemy missilefire fell away to nothing.
By this time, half of the slavers directly below Mikran’s position had turned and were beginning to climb toward him, blades at the ready. Mikran drew a curved, razor edged Katana called Frostfang, and a shorter but similar Tachi called Fireclaw. Using a martial art known as Iaido, learned at the Two Swords School in the kingdom of Hokkaido on a different world, Mikran descended upon his five immediate foes like some apocalypse, leaving them all dismembered in under a minute.
Mikran had now slain 17 of the slavers, while the Adacannans had taken out 10 in return for 7 of theirs wounded beyond immediate fighting. This left 33 to 23. Mikran estimated that the Adacannans would win, but just barely.
Sheathing his swords, Mikran mounted Windstrider and drew a great war-sledge named Rage and a saddleaxe called Fury from their saddle scabbards. Whispering instructions to Windstrider and then carefully bracing himself, Mikran and Windstrider leapt from the side of the cut to its floor in a single bound, placing themselves amid the slavers. Windstrider lashed out with steel shod hooves, magically strengthened teeth, and the spikes extending from his armored nosepiece and chest plate while Mikran laid about himself with Fury and Rage.
Five minutes later the five slavers still able to move were fleeing for their lives, each leaving a trail of blood which would draw four legged predators upon all and sundry long before they could win clear of the Foolkiller Range. Mikran, cleaning and scabbarding his weapons, approached the Adacannans to introduce himself more formally to the High Priestess and claim his recompense. Mikran was willing to wager a lot that they would be surprised by the price he would name as his reward.
Mage-priestess Lyrae gazed about the battlefield intently, gauging the results. The Royal Adacannans and priestess-warriors had ten wounded, half seriously. They had slain 27 slavers. The massive, well-armed and courteous stranger had killed 28 slavers and appeared unscathed. A very impressive showing for a lone fighter. The remaining slavers had fled , all wounded, and would soon be dead. Time to tend to their own wounded.
Lyrae gave orders to gather the injured Adacannans and make sure none of the downed slavers lived. She began tending the worst injured. It looked like some might yet die. Mikran approached, and without preamble stated;
“I have substantial abilities as a healing mage. I will gladly assist in tending your injured, if you wish.”
Lyrae considered. “What deities and powers do your healing spells invoke?” she inquired.
Mikran replied “A variety of nature spirits and elemental forces. All are neutral as to good and evil. Most favor chaos over order, but not to any great extent. NONE are in any way hostile to the Great Mother in any of Her avatars or manifestations. I myself frequently make offerings to Her avatars known as Cybele and The Morrigan. I use no healing magicks which She would take exception to. Some of my battle spells invoke forces rougher and less civilized or refined than She might like, but none who are Her foes. If She does not fully approve, neither has She ever explicitly disapproved.”
Lyrae said; “In that case, your aid is welcome. In instances such as you mention, She is apt to judge by intent rather than association. If a good cause is threatened by evil, She Herself is likely to resort to means She would normally disdain as ‘rough’, ‘uncivilized’ or ‘unrefined’. Please, name thyself to us. I would liefer not refer to you as ‘strange warrior’.
Mikran, with a broad grin, replied; “Many who know me well refer to me as a strange warrior, for diverse reasons. My name, however, is Mikran.”
As he spoke, the two deeply carved silver rings on Mikran’s right hand pulsed beams of pure white and lambent blue. These intermingled to form a pale blue glow, which fell upon the most grievously injured cavalrywoman. The wounds visibly healed, cleaned, and closed as the amazed Lyrae watched. She noted the two silver rings on either hand, and connected the available facts.
“You are Lord Mikran the Hammer!” Lyrae exclaimed. “Known as the Hammer of Hell.”
“I am proud to have been given that title by my foes. To them, I undoubtedly seem to have been sent by some fiend as a plague in human form.”
During this brief conversation, he had completed the healing of the worst injured of his new allies and begun on the next worst injured. The first was already flexing restored limbs and beginning to rise. Now Lyrae was truly astonished.
“I have never seen such fast and powerful healing spells. Earlier, were you responsible for the general nullify magic spell that trumped the slaver’s ace?” Lyrae asked.
“Aye. That was my doing.”
“By the Mother! You must be one of the mightiest of battle mages.”
“Well, I’ve been doing it longer than most. A matter of fifteen millennia at least.”
By now, Mikran, Lyrae and the other three uninjured priestesses had between them healed all the injured Adacannans. Lyrae drew a deep breath and turned to face Mikran, bracing herself for unpleasantness. She clearly expected him to ask for something ungrantable.
“Now, good sir, what price will you ask for aiding us, both in the fight and the healing?”
“Allow me to apply to become a student at the Adacannan War College. If I am accepted, I will gladly pay my tuition in any acceptable coin.”
“Is that all you ask?” Lyrae asked, incredulous. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.” Mikran confirmed.
“A male warrior of surpassing skill and power wishes to study strategy and tactics from female teachers? Why?”
“Because they happen to be the best teachers of those subjects available in this world. I would not waste my time learning from anyone less than the best. They are not only superior practitioners of their subjects, but excellent teachers as well. The two do not often occur in the same individual. My original purpose in coming to this part of the world was to try to buy or earn my way into that school.”
“The price of your tuition will be to instruct our young warriors, both trainees and veterans, in the use of weapons. They will all be women. Will you teach them?”
“Happily! I have long believed that all women who are so inclined have a right to be taught how to fight! If that is the only tuition you require, I pay it gladly. I regard it as an honor and a privilege, not merely an obligation.”
The party then proceeded on their way, reaching their destination of Arkania in Adacanna with no further incident. During the ride, the senior priestess had asked Mikran endless questions, eliciting much information about his history and background. Mikran was willing to be interrogated; he knew the Adacannans needed to know a lot more about him before allowing him to study at their famed war college and teach their warriors. He deliberately told them of activities in his recent past which would be easy for the Adacannan diplomatic or intelligence services to verify.
Jogtrotting over a steep hill to help warm up, from the crest Mikran saw a large number of war galleys approaching the harbor in formation. Using a farseer spell, Mikran discerned that they flew the war banners of the Iranistani Empire. He also saw that they were jammed to the gunwales with armed troops. These were no second rate pickup force of mercenaries such as the slavers on the Veramine road had employed; these were Iranistani regular infantry with a few battalions of the elite Iranistani Imperial Marines for stiffening. He was observing a major invasion force.
Charging down the far slope of the hill at a full run, Mikran sent a mental summons for Windstrider to join him with his full battle harness. The two met at the edge of downtown Arkania. Mikran leapt into the saddle, and relieved Windstrider of the bundle of weapons and armor the intelligent stallion had been carrying in his massive teeth. Together, they galloped to Royal Army Headquarters, just outside the palace south gate. As soon as he came within the considerable range of his mighty voice, Mikran bellowed;
“Guard captain! Tell the officer of the day that a full Iranistani invasion fleet is one hour’s hard row from the harbor mouth, coming this way and flying battle flags! I estimate twelve thousand infantry and three thousand marines! She’ll know what to do!”
The guard captain, a classmate of Mikran’s at the war college, yelled back, pitching her voice low to carry far as she had been trained to do;
“Got it Mikran! Where will you be?”
“At the Gymnasium!” Mikran replied; “I’m going to organize my students into a reserve unit. They’ve had regular infantry training, and were sent to me for extra personal combat instruction before receiving their permanent assignments to units. None of them belong to a unit yet, but they can fight well, both as individuals and teams. I’ll shake them out into platoons, squads and teams and march them to the arsenal to draw regular weapons. They’ll all have their personal armor on already, because this week of lessons were all about fighting in armor. Once they’re ready, I’ll take them down to Harbor Market Square to await orders. That’ s a good central location for a reserve unit to be stationed, to move to where ever they’re needed.”
As Mikran said these words, at full bellow, he kept on at a gallop in the direction of the gymnasium. As the guard captain turned towards the office of the officer of the day she muttered; “Professor Cordelia was right: he can think like a woman. Using his class as a reserve unit is brilliant.”
By the time Mikran galloped into the gymnasium exercise yard and pulled up, his whole class was goggling at him in astonishment. He had never done anything like this before. Ten minutes later, Mikran still on horseback, the class were enroute to the arsenal. On their arrival at the arsenal, they found that the officer of the day had sent a runner to tell the arsenal commander to issue weapons to Mikran’s class without delay. While the girls of the class picked out swords, daggers, shields, slings, javelins, bows and spears Mikran donned his own armor and weapons harness, all the while calling out reminders;
“Everyone takes whatever missile weapon they’re best with, as well as sword, dagger or shortsword, and shield. Javelineers grab a spare sheaf of darts. Archers take a spare quiver of arrows, and make sure they’re all armor piercing chisel points, no hunting broadheads. Those broadheads’ll just bounce off armor. Slingers take a second pouch of bullets. Spearwomen carry a second spear in your shield hand. Don’t anyone get ambitious and grab an axe; we’re not fighting as cavalry today, and none of you have the size and power to be effective with a two handed Berdiche or Lochaber. Leave those to the giantesses of the Royal Life Guards. If you’re one of the ones who are good at throwing daggers, and you know who you are, take at least three pairs and hide them about your clothing and armor. Remember all the places I showed you; down the neck, both ends of the vambrace, top of the greave, small of the back, and a small one in the crotch. Make sure the sheaths are all firmly in place so they don’t move around and chafe. Especially if you’re putting on a crotch sheath. We won’t carry rations because we’re fighting in our home city today, but everyone take two extra waterskins and refill the damn things every chance you get. If we’re pinned in the hot sun, you can always pee and let it run out of your armor cup, but you’ll need to replace it right away to avoid dehydration. Everyone make damn sure you have a salt lick in your pouch. It’s a hot summer day, and if you sweat away all your salt without replacing it you faint, and that’s not a sexist remark; it happens to men more often than women. It happened to me when I was twenty years old and stupid.”
With all the officer cadet/students armed and Windstrider as well as Mikran fully battle armored, the class moved to Harbor Market Square. There they found that the officer of the day had been busy; the merchants had all been warned and were moving their goods out of harm’s way. Many were arming themselves, either to defend their property or perhaps to assist in defending the city. Army messengers were buzzing back and forth like bees. Mikran noticed something suspicious and gestured one of the messengers over to have his suspicions relayed to the commander of the city garrison. Mikran had noticed an unusually large number of Iranistani merchants arming themselves, and didn’t think they intended to help defend Arkania against their countrymen. There were far too many of them, and their equipment far too good and too similar to each other.
They also seemed to fall into what looked suspiciously like regular units, and all had the bearing of military men. The few Iranistani merchants who seemed not to be part of this abnormally organized activity kept glancing fearfully at their fellow ‘merchants’ as they bundled up their goods and hustled them out of sight. The overly organized ‘merchants’ seemed to be far too numerous for the relatively sparse merchandise offerings visible in their booths. There was also the odd fact that none of the organized Iranistani were making any effort to pack up, move or hide their goods.
Under the pretense of drill, Mikran positioned his cadets around the Marketplace so that these ‘merchants’ could be intercepted, whichever direction they went, and delayed until the other cadet companies could hit them from behind. Then he ascended to the observation tower of the constable of the market, which gave him a view over the city walls to the harbor beyond. There he saw that the two massive capstans mounted to either side of the harbor mouth were being turned by their teams of oxen, raising the huge iron chain from it’s concealment in the mud at the bottom of the harbor mouth to lie just inches below the surface. There the chain would tear the bottom out of any vessel attempting to enter the harbor. When the chain was at full stretch, twelve nine foot long, two foot thick iron pegs were inserted through the center holes of six links to either side of the harbor entrance, locking the chain immovably in place.
The leading Iranistani war galleys, clearly hoping to take the city defenses by surprise, tried to run the gap at full ramming speed and were wrecked. They sank almost instantly, the soldiers in armor and the slaves chained to their rowing benches inevitably drowning. The rest of the invasion fleet made a hard turn to port, and landed at the fisherfolk beach and private docks beyond the city defenses just east of the basalt headlands that framed the entry to the harbor. The invaders formed up, and began maneuvering for what was clearly to be an attack on the northeast land gate of the city.
A messenger from the garrison commander found Mikran at that moment. She brought orders, and Mikran fairly flew down the tower stairs. As soon as he reached the ground, Mikran began bellowing orders. He gathered the cadet battalion and moved them out due north toward the main harbor docks. No sooner were they well out of sight from the marketplace than their direction changed. They took up concealed positions that would allow them to block the most direct route from the market to the northeast land gate.
One of the senior cadets asked Mikran;
“Teacher? What if the Iranistani have a different objective?”
“Four companies of garrison infantry and a troop of Household cavalry are approaching the square from the directions of the barracks and the palace respectively. Whoever encounters the so called merchants first will hold them and send for us and the other regular units to hit them in the flanks and rear.” Was his answer. As she walked back to her company, Mikran thought he heard her mutter;
“Wish you were interested in my flanks and rear.”
Mikran grinned. She was a very attractive young woman, but he was more interested in mature beauties like Priestess Lyrae or Professor Cordelia. Oh, well. Back to business. Mikran ascended to the roof of a building that was two stories higher than the rest of the neighborhood. As he had expected the vantage point gave him a view back to the market.
The Iranistani ‘merchants’ had almost abandoned pretense; they had formed an obviously military formation. The market constabulary were eyeing them uneasily, and were receiving contemptuous stares in return. The policewomen had been told not to try to stop the concealed enemy, that moves to check them had already been taken. The police were to stay out of the disguised soldiers’ way, and just make sure that none of the real foreign merchants tried any looting in their wake.
Shortly, the attempted escalade of the northeast land gate began. As soon as the din of battle reached the Harbor Market Square, the Iranistani regulars disguised as merchants set off for that gate, clearly intending to hit the defenders from behind. Mikran came down from his rooftop perch and got his young troops ready for a fight.
The Iranistani were moving at a full run, galloping up the main street leading to the northeast land gate. The street was forty eight feet wide, and the troops ran up it ten abreast with no crowding or jostling, holding formation like trained veterans.
Mikran had chosen a broad square for the action. As the foe passed through, Mikran opened the fight with his mighty Scythian war bow. That was the signal for all the cadets to cut loose with javelins, arrows, quarrels and sling bullets. The Iranistani reeled to a halt, taken by complete surprise. Mikran dropped his bow and led a double company of the strongest, best close combat fighters among his cadets to block the way to the gate before the enemy recovered enough to charge past the ambush.
The Iranistani officers got their men moving again in about two minutes, but they had already taken serious losses by then. Rather than await the charge, Mikran ordered a countercharge, leading it himself. This allowed the greater speed of the young Adacannans to offset the greater bulk of the Iranistanis.
The initial collision stopped both charges, and before the Iranistani mass could start things moving their way, they were hit from behind by the Royal Adacannan Cavalry and from the right by four companies of regular infantry. Mikran bellowed for the rest of the cadets to come down from their shooting stations and pile on.
It looked as if the Iranistani were going to be wiped out on the spot when a group of about 50 headed for a gap between infantry companies. When a platoon moved to block them, a wizard among the Iranistani revealed himself with a power blast. They escaped from the square.
They were not trying to reach the gate; it was now clear that without the expected aid from inside the walls the attack would fail. It already sounded as if the foe were retiring toward their beached ships, and the Adacannan flotilla in the harbor was making ready to sortie and harass them as they fled. The sound of war galleys scraping down the wooden launching rails was unmistakable.
Mikran leapt onto Windstrider, drew Rage and Fury and cut his way through the middle of the enemy. In his wake, the now disordered foe threw down their arms and surrendered. Mikran gathered a few horsewomen with gestures in battle sign language and raced to get ahead of the fleeing group led by the wizard.
Mikran, with half a troop of crack cavalry behind him, intercepted the wizard’s party in the square before the temple of the Magna Mater. The 50 enemy soldiers were cut down quickly, but the wizard drew an ornate shortsword, encrusted with both bloodstones and blood. He raised the sword on high, gripped the hilts in both hands, and, shrieking an arcane, blood-chilling chant, plunged it into his own chest.
There ensued a flash of eldritch lightning, and from the ragged, gaping wound in the mage’s breast there emerged a huge weasel, 25 feet long. This was one of the lesser avatars of the rat god, whose worshippers abominated any female warrior. It slithered into the temple.
Mikran deduced at once that the infernal weasel’s aim was to desecrate the Fane, possibly even to try to harm the Goddess herself. He leapt from Windstrider’s back right through the now destroyed portals of the temple. Gaining his footing, Mikran reversed his hands and clapped his four rings together, producing a vast clap of divine thunder while shouting OYAMASAMA, Japanese for Great Mountain Lord.
Mikran took on the aspect of that mountain war God, and called up his attribute of divine battle madness. Then, drawing Frostfang and Fireclaw, he charged after the weasel demon.
Finding the demon about to bite the statue of the Goddess, Mikran, running full tilt, vaulted over the demon’s back. Mikran landed facing the weasel’s muzzle, blocking its access to the Goddess. Coming down, Mikran’s armored boots had bruised the giant weasel on his tender snout. It hissed in fury and reared to strike, but Mikran forestalled him, flying into the huge mustelid in a blur of flying steel. The supernal cold of Frostfang and the stellar heat of Fireclaw, both fully awakened by the presence of the avatar of the war God Mikran had called up, did far more damage than the mere steel could have.
The huge, infernal weasel fought back savagely, with tooth and claw. Even as a divine avatar, Mikran could not quite match the animal form’s speed or strength, but he was more agile and quicker of thought. The fight seemed at first to favor the manifestation of the Rat God. Gradually, it became clear that the demonic mustelid reacted to every cut and blow like the animal it was, while Mikran’s iron willpower allowed him to ignore the wounds, many and some dreadful, that he was taking, fighting on as if unhurt. The battle turned in Mikran’s favor.
The battle lasted half an hour before the demon weasel was slain. By now, the battles inside and outside the city walls were over, and the Adacannan local flotilla was pursuing the Iranistani task group across the sea. Mikran, reeling from dozens of claw and fang wounds, let go of the avatar and dropped to the bloodstained, cracked, blackened and smoking marble floor.
Near a hundred priestesses had witnessed this epic fight. All had been prepared to interpose their own bodies to protect the image of their Goddess, knowing full well they would die for doing so. None had been forced to do so, thanks to Mikran. Lyrae was among them.
Lyrae hurried forward to see to Mikran’s wounds, and gasped in dismay. They were far beyond her ability to heal, dripping with demonic venom as they were. Already beginning to mourn the loss of so brave and righteous a warrior, she prepared to weave a spell to ease the pain, when she was distracted by the collective gasp of the other priestesses.
Whirling to see what portended, Lyrae gasped herself. The lovely, granite, marble, precious metal and gemstone statue of the Magna Mater had come to life, clearly animated by the presence of the Goddess herself. The Magna Mater spoke:
“Lyrae, be not distressed. I shall not permit so brave a man to die for lack of healing, when he fought so selflessly to protect me, even though I am not of his primary pantheon. When he has fully recovered, I shall inhabit your person as we perform the ceremony of consecration upon him. For the first time in two thousand years, I have found a man worthy to be appointed as Guardian of My Fane.”
The Goddess then cast a mighty healing spell upon Mikran, and the priestesses reverently bore him to the infirmary. The story of Mikran’s fight with the weasel-demon-god spread through the city like wildfire, and crowds gathered to bless him as he was carried to the house of healing for his convalescence. Soon a new title was being added to “The Hammer” and “Hammer of Hell”. The people of the city, and shortly other peoples far beyond its walls, now spoke of “Mikran the Godslayer”.
Three weeks later, Mikran was back in full health. His rigorous exercise programs helped speed his full recovery. The damage done to the city by the Iranistani attack had by now been repaired and cleaned up.
The remains of the demon weasel god were long since gone, gathered and cleaned up, and ritually disdained and destroyed. The Goddess had informed Lyrae that the rat god would never again be able to use that particular avatar. Mikran had actually slain a deity.
Now Mikran stood on the raised platform next to the statue of the Magna Mater in the great Fane. He was watching the ceremonies with great interest. Lyrae stood beside him, looking beautiful and solemn. This night he would be consecrated as the Guardian of the Fane, the first man to be so honored in 2,000 years.
Mikran, in plain but elegant robes of state, whispered to Lyrae;
“I’ve seen priest consecrations before; these ceremonies don’t have that feel. They seem more like a divine wedding to me.”
“Didn’t anyone explain that?” Lyrae replied; “The Guardian becomes the husband of the Goddess. She will inhabit my body tonight when we consummate the marriage.”
“I suppose you mean we will consummate the marriage symbolically?”
Lyrae, blushing all the way down to her toes, said:
“No. I mean we will actually consummate the marriage. Carnally. You and I. In the Goddess’ bedchamber behind the Fane.”
“And She will be present within you? “
“Observing only. She will not overshadow my personality with her own, only lend her presence. She expects us to enjoy ourselves. That strange War God from another world, ....”
“ You mean Oyamasama?”
“Yes. Him. He will be invited to lend his presence to you also. As we consummate the marriage here, the two deities will do so in the heavens at the same time, creating an alliance between them.”
“Hmmm. An alliance between the Great Earth Mother and a Mountain War God. That should be interesting. I wonder if they’ll produce offspring, and what the nature of the new young God or Goddess will be.”
“They will. It’s in Her nature. She always conceives when she mates, even if her mate is normally infertile.”
“And will you also conceive?”
“For me it will be a matter of chance, as with any man and woman.”
“And we are to enjoy ourselves, to have a good time?”
“Yes. That’s a necessary part of the ritual.”
“Then why are you so solemn and nervous, so anxious......Oh. Don’t tell me. You’re a virgin? At your age? For ritual reasons?”
Lyrae blushed again, even more deeply than before;
“Yes. Still a virgin at 35. If this ceremony had not come up, it would have been my turn to represent the Goddess at the next harvest festival, where a virgin of 35 always represents Her aspects as Virgin and Mother to invoke her blessing for the fertility of the fields.”
“But you have been made aware of what will happen? What the pleasure and completion will feel like, except for the actual penetration?”
“Yes and no. I have witnessed lovemaking, between men and women, between women and women, between men and men, but have never been allowed to partake, nor to experience the completion.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never been allowed to have even one orgasm in your entire life? You never cheated and gave yourself some relief of tension?”
“The goddess would have known.”
“No wonder you’re so tense.”
“Oh, it’s even worse than that. The representative of the Mater must be ready and eager on this night, of all nights. She must not be held back by fear and lack of experience.”
“And they achieve this how?”
“For the past ten days, every night before sleeping and every morning upon rising three female attendants teased me to the brink but did not let me complete. They remained with me to see to it that I did not complete myself. The past two days, and thrice today, they have had to hold my hands away until the intensity of my need subsided.”
“Three times today?”
“On the day of the ritual, it is done every two hours from sunrise until the rite begins.”
“Have mercy! In some places, that would be called torture!”
“It is, truly.” Blushing more than ever; ”I look to you to relieve me of this torment tonight.”
Ironically, Mikran grinned; “In every possible sense of the word, that will be my pleasure. In case no one has ever mentioned it to you, you are one of this world’s loveliest women, and attractive in personality and intellect as well. I have wanted to make advances to you all the time I’ve been here, but held back because I did not know the etiquette surrounding a wizardess/priestess of your order.”
Lyrae’s blush, impossibly, deepened still further, but now she smiled;
“You could have any of dozens of our younger women, you know.”
“I know. But I wanted you.”
“Well, tonight we shall have each other. I am glad it was my turn when you were to be consecrated. I would have been desperately jealous had any other been in the place I occupy in this ceremony.”
Her smile faded and she again looked solemn and nervous as the ceremonial wound on to its conclusion. The wedding-like ceremonial concluded with the investment of the new Guardian Of The Fane with the great Labyrys, the mighty double bladed war axe sacred to the Magna Mater. The shape and decoration of the twin blades suggested the genitalia of an aroused woman. At last, Mikran and Lyrae walked through the doors to the ceremonial bedchamber of the Goddess. Mikran handed the Labyrys to an attendant who was also a teacher at the War College. She would convey it to Mikran’s quarters, to be added to his store of personal weapons. The doors were finally closed and locked behind them.
Turning to Lyrae with a grave expression, Mikran said;
“Now, oh desired one, we must get two things off of you as soon as possible.”
“Two?”
“First, these stifling clothes.” As he spoke those words he surely, swiftly, and gently disrobed her, revealing in full her breathtaking beauty. Then, his expression changing to one of playful glee; “Second, that somber face!”
Mikran swept the now nude Lyrae up in his arms, deftly shook her sandals off, and laid her upon the wedding couch. She squealed in delight. He doffed his own clothing in disregardful haste, and stretched out along her right side.
Firmly but gently, Mikran extended Lyrae’s arms over her head, then placed his own massive left arm across both of them. Gently lifting her head with his right hand, he slid his left arm down until her head was pillowed comfortably on the firm mass of his left biceps. Next, he lifted her exquisite legs with his right hand, slipping his left leg under both of hers. Lowering her legs to drape across his left one, he swung his right leg over to lie across both of hers and crossed his ankles. A very slight squeeze made Lyrae realize she was as helpless as if bound to a rack, and yet she found the contact with his powerful limbs pleasant and comforting. She was enjoying this. Then she noticed that he still had his right hand and arm entirely free, and his left hand and arm free from the elbow down.
Lyrae noticed because Mikran began, ever so lightly, to tickle her belly, her loins, her thighs and the upper slopes and sides of her breasts with the tips of his fingers, making her giggle and squirm. He extended the tickled area to her throat, her neck, and under her chin. When he leaned and kissed her, deeply and warmly, while he still tickled, the rush of erotic sensation startled Lyrae. All solemnity was forgotten.
Mikran paid close attention to Lyrae’s responses. If she had ever seemed to be in any distress, he would have instantly stopped, but he could tell she enjoyed his ministrations. Her wriggling and squirming gradually changed in nature.
Where at first Lyrae had automatically twisted away from the tickling sensation, now she was unconsciously striving to bring her more sensitive spots directly under his teasing fingertips. Mikran was pleased. It was time for stage two.
Suddenly, Mikran spread his ten fingertips to cover ten different spots on Lyrae’s well defined ribcage. After pausing a moment to let her become aware of what would happen next, drolly raising and lowering his eyebrows in mock menace, he let those fingertips gently but firmly press, slide and wriggle. Instead of giggling, Lyrae found herself laughing out loud. No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop the laughter that pealed sweetly from her mouth. To her amazement, she found that, paradoxically, even though the loss of control made her feel helpless as she never had in her life, the sensation of being held warmly in his massive, powerful limbs made her feel safer and more fully protected than ever as well. She realized that if Mikran were to ask her if she wanted him to stop, and if she were able to speak, she would say no.
After five minutes that seemed like a sweet hour, Mikran switched to feather light stroking upon the undersides of her breasts. While this tickled slightly less, the eroticism of the sensation was wonderful to Lyrae. When he leaned in to kiss her while still softly tickling, she eagerly craned her neck upward to receive and return his kisses. When he lowered his kisses to her nipples, the sensations became even sweeter.
Five minutes later, Mikran moved his hands to Lyrae’s hips, poising the fingertips at the peaks. Then, still with a featherlike light touch, he swept those fingertips up her deliciously curved flanks to just beside her breasts, then back down again. Instantly, this made her laugh harder because it tickled more. He continued this treatment while his mouth rendered oral homage to her face, neck, throat and breasts. She was in ecstasy. She had never imagined how wonderful this might be.
Still using the five minute interval, Mikran let his hands continue a final upward stroke, so that his fingertips skated into her armpits. There the fingertips stayed, gliding around the tender flesh, tracing the shifting outlines of the happily squirming tendons and muscles under her skin, making her laugh harder still. Now, when his deep kiss stifled her uncontrollable laughter, the helpless sensation transmuted into feelings of submissiveness and affection.
Lyrae lost all track of time, floating in what seemed like an eternity of joyfully agonized bliss. It was, again, only five minutes until she realized, with a sense of disappointment, that the tickling had stopped. As she lay there regaining control of her breathing, Lyrae opened her eyes to see Mikran’s handsome face gently smiling down at her.
“Shall I enter you now, my darling?” He asked. Lyrae eagerly nodded her head, and said; “Yes. Yes! YES YES YES YES YES!”
Releasing Lyrae’s limbs from the loving bondage he had held them in, Mikran surprised her by placing her hands, palms up, beneath her own buttocks and lifting her legs so the backs of her ankles rested on his vast shoulders. He entered her in a smooth motion, penetrating her hymen with only the tiniest twinge of pain. The thickness of him gave her the most delicious sensations. She was right on the verge of climax.
The weight of his torso pressed her knees against her breasts, although he supported most of his mass on his own elbows. The weight of his hips pinned her hands under her own bottom. Then, with a mixture of delight and outrage, she burst into laughter again as his fingertips started to lightly and teasingly tickle the heels of her foot bottoms! Then, for the very first time in her life, Lyrae experienced an orgasm. Mikran was far from through with her though.
Keenly observant, Mikran knew she had climaxed and moved his fingertips from her heels to the softer, more sensitive balls of her feet and resumed tickling. This tickled more intensely. A few minutes later she climaxed again, and he switched targets to the flats of her soles, which tickled even more. Again, a few minutes of that saw her climax again, and now he was tickling her toes!
This tickled so much it made her hysterical. Tears of laughing delight began to trickle from her gorgeous eyes. When Lyrae came for the fourth time, Mikran began to stroke the delicate, classically shapely curves of her high and wide arches. This was the most ticklish place on her whole lovely form. Seeing that it made her frantic, Mikran whispered to her:
“It this too much for you, sweetheart?”
“NO!” in between peals of hysteria.
“Shall I stop tickling now?”
“Never! Not till YOU climax inside me!”
Now Mikran changed his technique; instead of steady strokes, he danced his fingertips around the deep arches like the legs of a mad spider. A few minutes later, laughing louder and harder than ever, Lyrae came yet again, for the fifth time, more powerfully than all the earlier four combined, and her muscle contractions drew Mikran’s powerful release, a sensation which seemed to amplify her own pleasure release to a still higher level.
On the celestial plane, in the palace of the Magna Mater, her angelic attendants were all agog. For almost half an hour now they had heard their mistress’s audible mirth emerging, louder and louder, without interruption, from behind the locked doors of her bedchamber. First in soft giggles, gradually growing to full throated laughter, the sounds amazed and pleased the attendants.
Marveling that the seemingly crude mountain deity who was her lover this evening should have a sense of humor that so appealed to the mother of all things, several of the angels listened shamelessly at the crack of the door. Strain their ears as they might, they could not hear what jokes Oyamasama might be telling, to provoke such gales of mirth from their Goddess. They were very pleased that she seemed to so enjoy his company.
Then, from behind those closed doors, came an earsplitting scream of pure pleasure and joy, accompanied a second later by a deep toned bellow of masculine completion that rocked the very plane. Somehow, the silence that now descended upon the palace of the Magna Mater held an element of smug, satisfied feminine contentment.
END
Author's comments; If anyone has opinions to express, please feel free. If any of the many great artists on TMF wish to illustrate any part or all of this story, I would be most appreciative!
Mastertank 1
"I am NOT a mercenary. Killing is more of a hobby."
Christ, these are too good. Please don't ever stop writing them 
