Mastertank1
2nd Level Yellow Feather
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The Old Scholar
The evening was quiet, and pleasant enough for being passed in the undertown of Gilgarr the Wicked, wanton queen city of the Devil Coast. The southern shore of the Sea of Disquiet had well earned its infamy.
The Six Haggard Sisters, as the cities of the coast were known, gained the wealth they flaunted by a combination of land piracy, waterborne piracy, unethical trade practices, commercial warfare and dark magic. The chief wizards of all six were conjurers, which meant that the power they owned rested on the demons they could call forth and control. There were likely to be several dozen minor to mid-level devils wandering about on missions for diverse masters at any given moment. These devils were always willing to delay the mission long enough to play painful games with any human individual hapless enough to cross their path. Thus the sobriquet Devil Coast.
The most orderly tavern in the undertown was the “Mark’s Lament” on Thief Street. The sparse and over used back garden, with its unexpectedly serene view of the sea outside the breakwaters which sheltered the harbor, was the old scholar’s usual resort these days. Evening had succeeded twilight, yet the studious elder continued his pursuit of knowledge. He read and compared arcane bits of information from the tomes and scrolls piled loosely on his table, reading by the oddly steady light of an amazingly well shielded lamp. Also arrayed on the table were a rough wooden platter holding the remaining half of a stack of exotic and well-prepared snacks, alongside a battered wood and leather flagon of a far finer wine then most habitués of the Lament would recognize or appreciate.
A well trodden, broad path ran around the far edge of the garden, between the Lament’s grounds and the steep muddy slope leading down to the sea. Along this path now there hurried two exceptional, striking women. Both were tall, strong, lithe and muscular. Both had the bodies of trained athletes and faces lovely enough to grace hetaerae of the highest class. No one would mistake either of this pair for one of those highly paid and respected intimate entertainers.
Each of the women wore tunic and leggings of dark maroon leather, patterned with plates, curved bars and studs of bronze for added protection. The black oiled leather calf high boots both wore were stiffened with brass reinforcements at strategic spots. They each bore a different set of minor scars on the exposed flesh of forearms calves, shins and neck, including one small but clearly visible scar on each lovely face.
The 5’9” brunette carried a middling length Tulwar ahead of her left hip and a flame bladed Jambiya ahead of her right hip. The 5’7” strawberry-golden blonde bore a single edged Claidhbeg slung across her back with the basket hilt protruding above her right shoulder and a Dirk sheathed at the small of her back, pommel to her left.
The weapons and garments were all obviously very well maintained, but all had obviously seen much hard use. These were no hetaerae or courtesans, but veteran mercenary fighters dressed and equipped for work. They advanced to the center of the open space and wheeled, facing the path from which they had just emerged. Shoulder to shoulder, they loosened the weapons in their sheaths and backed across the open space by the banks of the ocean, preparing for some danger that they expected to emerge from the overgrowth beyond the tavern garden. The old scholar briefly raised his gray head to look. His eyes showed rueful appreciation of the beauty before him, then he returned to his studies.
First to emerge from the brush was a quartet of sturdy young men dressed as temple guards. These spread out into a semicircle, convex towards the two women, and moved forward. Another four temple guards emerged and took up flanking positions to left and right. There next stepped forward a priest in common regalia, followed by a final quartet of guards. The two women drew their weapons and prepared to defend themselves. Despite the odds, they showed no fear.
When the first temple guards appeared, the old scholar paused and tried to discern the badges that would indicate the name of the god whose temple they served. As he began to suspect the identity of that deity, the elder started to put his materials aside as if preparing to leave. When the priest showed himself and the sigils of the rat god Scarmyr became visible, the old scholar’s mild brown eyes ignited with a rage that was terrible to see.
The watching innkeeper was astonished to see the fat old man lift the eight seated table full of books and scrolls up and put it aside with his left hand while grasping his oddly heavy leather jacket and swinging it into place across his broad shoulders with his right. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, the graybeard shrugged the garment into place as he strode toward the developing combat.
The scholar’s handsome face twisted with loathing as he bellowed;
“Eaters of rat droppings!!” at the temple contingent, his voice loud enough to distract all the players in the scene.
The women only glanced briefly toward him, then returned their attention to the temple forces. The two left flankers and the leftward pair of the rearguards edged into positions to block the old scholar’s access to the priest. The priest, who had been mentally sorting through the spells he had ready to cast, shot him a short glare of intense annoyance. The priest then flicked his right ring finger at the old scholar before returning to his spell choosing.
Because he was not paying attention, the priest did not see the course of the formless bolt of raw destructive force he had sent at the old man with that contemptuous finger flick. The priest expected that bolt to kill the target it was aimed at, whom he assumed to be undefended against magic. The priest assumed the same about the warrior women he and his minions were confronting. He was wrong on both counts.
The priest decided to cast a paralyzing spell, so the women could be taken before his hierarchical superior as living, helpless captives for the next sacrifice. That spell would have dissipated harmlessly through the antimagical wards built into the battle gear the women wore, had the priest had a chance to cast it. He should have been watching the force bolt he sent at the scholar.
A few inches from the fat man’s chest, the bolt stopped, seeming to first spread and then vanish. The magical shield which stopped it momentarily glowed a faint dull red over an area of several square inches, but showed no other effect. Had he been watching this event, the priest would have been alarmed enough to turn his efforts from the women to the old man, possibly in time to defend himself, though most likely not.
A channeling shield, such as the ones the warrior women had purchased from a hedge-wizard, were the easiest to build, and the weakest. Next would come a dissipative shield, which would scatter a hostile spell. Then would come a deflective shield, which would bounce attacking spells away at random. Next to the best would be a reflective shield; this type would throw hostile magic straight back at the point it had come from.
The strongest type of shield was absorptive, incorporating the power of any hostile magic impacting it into its own strength. Only a truly first class mage could create an absorptive shield, and that was the kind that had swallowed up the priest’s force bolt. The wearing of such a shield indicated that the old scholar either was or had the protection of such a mage.
The old man wore four silver rings on each hand. He extended his right hand. The three stripes of milk lapis stones set into the top of the ring on his third finger emitted a single pulse of brilliant color, starting as red and passing through the visible spectrum to become invisible as it expanded into a flowing convex wavefront. Where that wavefront passed, all magic casting was temporarily nullified.
On closer scrutiny, the old scholar no longer appeared as a harmless old man. He was huge of shoulder, massive of limb, and deep of chest. As he strode toward the would be combatants, the women and the more experienced of the temple guards knew by the way he moved that there was a vast mass of muscle under that fat. They could also tell by the body language that here was a highly experienced fighter.
The priest was still trying to fling spells, wondering why none of them worked, when he was startled by the sudden clash of metal. The old scholar had drawn a pair of glittering steel fighting forks (called Saiyas) from sheaths hidden in the sides of his leather jacket. Each had an eight inch sharkskin wrapped handle ending in a flatheaded cylindrical pommel. Just above the sharkskin wrap, each weapon divided into three tines, all circular in cross section. The center tine extended straight out for about 24 inches to a needle point. The side tines, directly opposite each other, extended about 15 degrees forward rather than straight out. About 3 inches out, both side tines curved sharply to almost parallel the center tine, still diverging slightly as they ran 2 inches more, then flared out at a wider angle for the last inch of their length to end in two more needle sharp points.
The twin weapons had been drawn with a flourish, deliberately clashed to draw the enemy’s attention and then spun in the hands to show easy mastery of their use. The wide swinging arm motion involved had caused the knee length jacket to rattle, revealing the fact that armoring of some kind was hidden between the inner and outer layers of leather.
The sergeant commanding the temple squad saw that magic seemed not to be playing a part in this combat, and snapped out a string or orders to his men. The four front men were told to engage and hold the two women. The left flankers and the four rearguards were sent against the old man, while the sergeant and his strongest fighter guarded the priest and acted as a reserve.
The old man shifted to his right and stepped forward quickly to engage the nearest flanker before the rearguards could join the fight. A twist of his powerful right wrist trapped the bronze blade of the temple guard’s sword between the outer and center tines of one Saiya, breaking the weaker blade off near the hilt. Even as his left hand Saiya parried the other flanker’s sword, binding it near the tip but not breaking it, the old scholar killed the first flanker with a quick in and out thrust of his right hand Saiya while the guard was still startled by the loss of his blade. The right hand Saiya then swept across, the knob of the handle striking the bound and stressed blade of the second flanker near the hilt to shatter it. Suddenly released from the impediment of the blade it had bound up, the left hand Saiya shot forward, killing the other temple flank guard.
With three running strides, the old man was upon the nearer pair of rearguards while their late comrades were still falling. Seeming to dispatch this pair without breaking stride, the terrible old man was soon upon the last two rearguards.
The sergeant ordered two of the foreguards, who had not yet engaged the warrior women, back to protect the priest while he and his champion attacked the old man from behind while he was fighting the last pair of rear guards. Alas for the sergeant, by the time he arrived the old man had slain the last of the rearguards and turned to face the two new attackers.
The fight lasted less than another minute. The sergeant and his champion lived to clash their blades against the Saiyas five or six times before dying on the tines. The women by then had each killed her first opponent and engaged the last two temple guards who were protecting the priest. The dying scream of their disemboweled champion startled the last guards just enough for the Tulwar and Claidhbeg of the warrior women to slip past their defenses and end their lives. The arrogant young priest was still futilely trying to cast spells when the knob of one of the old man’s Saiyas caved in the back of his skull.
The three victors were cleaning blood and brains from their weapons and catching their breath. The old man, sheathing his Saiyas, slowly approached the warrior women. The tall brunette muttered sarcastically under her breath so that only her companion could hear;
“Here comes our aged knight errant, undoubtedly thinking to claim the traditional reward due to one who has saved the lives of two damsels in distress.”
Her blonde comrade in arms replied;
“I hope he takes disappointment well.”
“I hope so too.” Came the reply.
“He wiped out eight of these rat worshippers in the time we took to do in four of them, and he seems to have raised less of a sweat then we did. I’m inclined to show respect to one of my elders for the first time I can remember. I don't think fighting this old man would be any fun at all.”
“Hmmm. I do see your point.” The blonde concurred.
“Let’s hear him out.”
Beginning with a deep, courtly bow, the old scholar addressed the young warriors;
“My name is Mikran of otherwhere, and I wish to tender my apology for interfering in your affairs. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”
The women were taken aback by this unexpected introduction. The blonde was the first to regain her composure enough to speak.
“I am Lady Sharona of Engarth, Baronette of the Scythian Empire. My companion is the Demoiselle Tirane de la Montaigne. Do I understand correctly that you wish to apologize to us? For what?”
The warrior-scholar, with a grave expression on his craggily handsome countenance, replied;
“You did not request my assistance. Therefore, I had no right to intervene in what was clearly an affair between yourselves and the minions of the Temple of the Rodent. Just because I happen to loathe and despise the Rat God and all his works, and everyone who has anything to do with him or his temples, or the foul rites that pass for worship therein, that is no excuse for my uninvited interference in your personal dispute.
In order to give myself the satisfaction of dispatching several of the eaters of rat droppings, I deprived you of the pleasure of killing them yourselves. It was selfish and wrong of me to do such a thing, and I sincerely ask your forgiveness, and perhaps a chance to make amends.”
Tirane began to sputter;
“But, but, you saved...OW!”
Sharona, who had elbowed Tirane sharply beneath her bottom rib, smoothly cut in;
“We accept your apology of course. What sort of amends did you have in mind?”
“Something substantial, to be sure. I had hoped to begin by purchasing dinner for both of you. Over dinner, we might discuss what more substantial reparations I might offer.”
“That sounds acceptable. Does this Tavern have good food?”
“Gods above no! I keep my own private stock of wine and snacks behind the counter. I pay the inn to serve me at that table because I find the view conducive to my studies. We shall take the modified war cart I use for transportation to a better part of town, where truly excellent food and drink may be obtained.”
The five man war cart was indeed heavily modified. A vehicle intended to carry five fully armed and armored warriors standing into battle now had a luxuriously padded seat for one very large driver. The space where the other four warriors would have stood was now occupied by two extremely solid and magically warded chests. The lids of these chests were heavily padded to serve as seats.
Mikran drove his two lovely companions to the university quarter of Gilgarr, through the courtyard of The Open Book Inn to the stableyard. There the stableboys took care of the matched team of four magnificent roan war stallions. He then led the way up the back stairs to his suite of rooms, remarking that it would be wise to wash off the blood and gore before appearing in a dining room frequented mainly by visiting scholars and academics.
Mikran offered Sharona and Tirane the use of the master washroom, which was larger than the guest lavatory he used at the same time. When the women emerged, freshly scrubbed, he was ready with female scholars robes to conceal their armor and weapons. Appropriately, their robes were the steel gray of students of military history. Mikran’s was the midnight blue of a scholar of magic, marked with the five silver velvet bands of a professor emeritus.
Descending the ornate front stairs to the main dining room, Mikran was greeted warmly by the innkeeper, who stated that his favorite table had been kept open for him since the dining room opened for the evening. This proved to be a spacious round table in a semi-enclosed corner decorated with copies of historically important maps and documents. The waiter bustled over to explain in loving detail the days’ offerings, including comments on whether ‘his honor the professor’ would or would not like certain dishes. As the waiter left with the order the winemaster at once took his place, to be followed by the busboy with ‘distilled water, as you prefer it, sir’, and an assortment of appetizers ‘on the house’. Tirane remarked;
“The staff here certainly seem fond of you.“
“I overtip. Grossly.” Came the deadpan reply.
Over truly superior appetizers, soups, main courses of fish, fowl and meat, vegetable side dishes, salad and dessert, the three exchanged personal histories, all highly edited. Finally, over fine aged brandy and salted roasted nuts, Sharona got down to business:
“Let’s talk about those amends you wanted to make.”
“By all means let’s.”
“I have reason to believe you to be a first order wizard, and as such can render us a valuable service.”
Mikran, smiling, asked;
“What gave me away?”
“First, you wear an absorptive shield against hostile magic. Only a major wizard can cast one of those, and I can’t think of anything that would induce such a mage to cast one upon anyone other than himself. Second, you flicked off a nullify magic area spell as if it were nothing, and that kind of spell takes a second level battle mage a week to prepare. Need I go on? I know you have to be something special in the way of battle magicians.
Tirane and I are going to be pursued hard by the ratboy priests and their soldiers. We didn’t know the rat temples have a dogma that all women are supposed to be slaves, and that women warriors are anathema to them. We especially didn’t know that all six of the Haggard Sisters had passed laws against women warriors.
If you really think you still owe us for interfering without being asked, you can pay that off by giving us protection against hostile magic now that we are asking.”
“Aha!” Tirane thought. “That’s why she’s had us both trying to charm his trousers off all evening. Once again, we confirm that Sharona is the brains of the outfit.”
Mikran looked serious.
“For how long will you require such protection?”
“Until we can get out the Six Sister’s territory.”
“We’re in the dead center of that territory now, unless we leave by ship. The rats will be coming after you with every bit of power they have. Protection against the full force of the rat temples for even a day should square our account, and this will take longer than that, even by ship. You know they’ll pursue in their war galleys if we go by sea, and we don’t want to have to deal with attack from a major water elemental demon while facing off with half a dozen war galleys. We’d best go by land, if we go at all. You are asking rather a lot in recompense for a relatively small offense.”
Tirane blurted;
“Then you won’t do it?” In evident dismay.
“I will do it. In part to spite the ratlovers. After I succeed in getting us all safely out of this part of the world, we can discuss payment.”
“We don’t have a great deal of coin.” Tirane said apprehensively.
“Don’t worry. I know you’re not courtesans, and that’s not what I had in mind anyway. From time to time I have items of property or people whose safety against physical rather than magical attack is of concern to me. I may ask you to act as guards to someone or something I value highly. Will that be acceptable?”
Sharona replied for them both;
“Certainly. No problem with that, as long as it’s out of the Sister’s lands.”
The three retired to Mikran’s suite. Mikran offered Tirane and Sharona the guest bedroom, bade them good night and retired to his own. The two mercenaries, following their usual habit, spent some time going over the day’s events before turning in. The purpose was to make note of right or wrong moves they had made, and to decide if they could have done better and how. In this way they made continual improvements to their warcraft and fieldcraft.
About half an hour after they had turned off the lamps, Sharona got up from her side of the huge guest bed and drew on a warm nightrobe provided by the inn. Tirane woke at once. Opening one eye, Tirane asked;
“What’s up, Shar? Can’t sleep?”
“The usual ,Tir. Worried about the run for the border. Residue of the battle high. Other stuff.”
Tirane suggested;
“Horny as a toad?”
“Tir!”
“Well, you did say the usual. I know how you get about good looking, masculine, tough older men. Besides, every woman in the hundred kingdoms has heard the tales of what first class mages are like in bed.”
“You know me entirely too well. Tir.”
“It’s O.K. Shar. We’ve been partners for five years now. If I seriously objected to any of your predilections, you’d have heard about it long since. Go have fun. But go easy, he’s not young any more.”
“Tir, if he’s the kind of mage I think he is, he hasn’t been young for several centuries now, and that won’t detract from his performance one bit.”
“See you in the morning, partner.”
“If I’m lucky tonight.”
Sharona entered Mikran’s bedchamber. Three steps in, the door swiftly and soundlessly shut behind her. The chamber lamps all came up to high flame, and a web of invisible force lines enwrapped and immobilized her. Mikran sat up in his bed, instantly wide awake. Sharona looked Mikran in the eyes, and said;
“I mean you no harm, Mikran.”
“I know. If you did, your eyes and mouth would be covered by a shield opaque to light and sound. My room wards can read intentions.”
Tilting his head as though listening to something unseen hovering in the air, Mikran’s eyes suddenly widened. With an arcane gesture he dismissed something from his presence. Then he said;
“All of you; patrol outside the walls of this room for the rest of this night. Starting now.”
With another gesture, Mikran dissipated the web of force holding Sharona. With a third gesture, he lowered the lamps to a dull amber glow. In response to Sharona’s questioning glance, Mikran grinned and said;
“My room ward spirits just told me exactly what they read of your intentions.”
Sharona returned Mikran’s grin;
“I take it you have no objection to my intentions?”
“None whatsoever. However, my conscience compels me to warn you of something.”
Sharona’s expression turned serious.;
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re under some kind of curse or something?”
“Nothing like that, my dear. Only that my ward spirits have also informed me that you are extremely ticklish, and I happen to have a raging addiction to tickling my lovers while making love. So, my conscience demands that I give you the opportunity to change your mind and withdraw before it’s too late.”
Sharona’s grin returned, wider than before. She walked to the bed, dropping the nightrobe. She spun the quilt off the bed, revealing the fact that Mikran, like herself, slept nude. Whispering;
“I love to be tickled while making love. It really gets me going.”
Sharona stretched out beside Mikran on the bed. She added, still grinning;
“If you’re going to tickle me, maybe you’d better put that restraint spell back on. I squirm pretty hard when I’m tickled.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, sweet one. Strong as you are, you’ll still be like a leopard trying to squirm out of the embrace of a cave bear.”
Sharona was to Mikran’s left. He gently extended her arms at full length above her head. Then he slid his massive left arm over Sharona’s left biceps, behind her neck and over her right biceps so her head rested on his biceps. He slid his huge left leg under her knees, swung his right leg across over her knees, and crossed his thick ankles. When he bore down with his left arm and both thighs, Sharona was firmly but comfortably pinned in place, leaving his right hand free to tickle.
Mikran began by lightly teasing the taut skin of Sharona’s muscular belly. She went through all the stages of smiling, grinning, squirming, giggling and chuckling before giving in to full throated laughter. When Mikran leaned over to gently but deeply kiss her helplessly laughing mouth, Sharona’s last coherent thought, before deliberately losing herself in sheer sensation, was;
“I could fall in love with this man if I don’t watch out.”
Realizing that Sharona was a very strong woman, Mikran realized he could go all out without harming her. He gestured and produced a soft, pointed feather from mid air. Mikran grazed the feather all over Sharona’s 6-pack belly and groin, keeping her giggling, laughing and squirming in happily growing distress.
He inserted the tip of the feather into Sharona’s navel, and made slow circles with it. That drove Sharona wild. She was now bucking and writhing with all her might, but it was all in vain. Mikran’s magically augmented strength was superhuman. He easily held her quite helpless without even having to squeeze hard enough to bruise or hurt. That, of course, turned Sharona on even more.
Now Mikran did something that scared Sharona a little; he left the feather to torment her belly button on it’s own while his hands began tickling her ribs. Sharona wondered how far this might go!
Shortly thereafter Sharona was held in a hog-tie position by invisible magical restraints. A total of sixteen magically moving feathers were teasing her insanely ticklish bare feet; on each foot one feather made circles on her heels, one made ovals around the greater and lesser balls of her foot, one ran it’s edge up and down the flat of her sole. Another teased the pads of her toes, another the crooks of her toes, another the desperately sensitive tips of her toes, another between her toes. The eighth feather on each foot slowly, excruciatingly drew its edge up and down her unbearably ticklish arches. The feathers paused.
Mikran placed himself comfortably inside Sharona, lying propped up against the headboard with Sharona on top of him in her hog-tied position. Mikran adjusted his size and shape to accomplish two things. First, any movement of his or Sharona’s hips would provide the most delightful friction of the surrounding flesh against her clit. Second, his member’s thickest part, right at the head, was directly in contact with her G spot. That way, any movement by either of them would give her the most delicious sensations from both of her most sensitive and responsive erogenous zones.
Mikran now set out to make her move those lovely hips. With all ten fingers he began very lightly and teasingly to the sweet curves of Sharona’s buttocks. Taken by surprise, Sharona at once began giggling and started to squirm uncontrollably. She was startled at the twin waves of pleasure that began to spread as soon as she started to move.
Completely unable to regain control of her body’s responses, Sharona kept giggling harder and wriggling more wildly until her nervous system exploded into a shattering orgasm. She lay there gasping while Mikran, unknown to her, counted off thirty seconds. He knew that the climax would release a flood of hormones which would make her temporarily twice as ticklish as usual.
Reaching 30, Mikran sent forth a thought which made all the feathers resume the gentle, maddening stroking all over Sharona’s now hypersensitized feet. It tickled so intensely, Sharona instantly lost it and let out a scream, which Mikran stifled by kissing her.
Sharona had climax after climax after climax, each better than the one before, while Mikran’s skilled hands tickle tortured different spots on her body. Her ribs, her sides, her breasts, her underarms, the sides of her neck, under her chin, each got tickled until she came, then the next target came under the teasing caresses. Mikran even gently but firmly turned her head, tickling each ear in turn with his wickedly effective tongue until she climaxed before moving on. When Mikran climaxed for his third time (he was, after all, a wizard) and Sharona for about the thirty second time, he and she were both sated and done.
Tirane was getting a glass of wine from the sideboard in the main room of the suite. Hearing a sudden rising shriek of feminine laughter from behind Mikran’s door, then hearing it suddenly muffled, Tirane smiled briefly. Returning to bed with the wine, Tirane thought to herself;
“My smart little partner did get lucky. She never tells them to tickle her feet, but that sounded like this one figured it out for himself. Then she was suddenly muffled. Like he kissed her. Hmmm. What position would that have to be?”
Sharona and Tirane really did know everything about each other. Finishing her wine, Tirane murmured;
“No need to speculate. She’ll tell me all about it tomorrow. If I can judge by the sound, it’ll be at least a week till the smirk leaves her face.”
The three rose at midmorning, quickly bathed and took off in Mikran’s modified war wagon, with several days road provisions packed by the inn’s kitchen staff. They left by the west gate as though proceeding toward the next “Sister” city along the coast, Vanture.
As soon as they passed from the sight of any watchers on the city walls, Mikran checked for any observers, human or demonic. Assured that there were none, he cast a cloaking spell. At the next road junction they turned south, and then gradually around to the East. They made a wide circuit of the city Gilgarr, heading due east on a secondary road about forty miles south of the seacoast. The horses evidently had some magical assistance, because the cart covered as much distance in one day’s travel as normal travelers could make good in three.
They stopped for the night in a remote grove of pine trees. Rather than open the storage chests under the seats of the cart, Mikran amazed his warrior companions by opening a door in mid air. Rummaging around inside he drew out a tent perfectly colored to blend in with the colors of the surrounding grove and earth.
While the mercenaries pitched the tent, Mikran reached farther in to his door to nowhere and emerged with his arms full of hot, freshly prepared food. He also produced a table, chairs and utensils. As they all sat down to a feast while ward spirits kept watch, Mikran explained;
“This is one of the most useful spells I ever invented. The door I opened leads to a miniature world of my own creation, where time does not pass. I can store anything there, for as long as I wish, and when I retrieve it, it will not have aged by so much as one second. I can open this door from anywhere, and upon any part of my miniature world.”
“The meal we are eating was prepared by the master chef of the Hotel De Bourbon, in the City of Paris, in a country called France, on another world. France in general, and Paris in particular, are renowned for fine food and drink. The wine is also from France, of a type called Medoc. As soon as I received the prepared meal from the kitchen staff, I stored it away at once in my timeless storage world. When I retrieved it just now, it was still just as fresh, just as hot, and just as tasty, for no time at all had passed where the food was stored.”
Tirane observed; “truly, a very useful spell.”
“It has immense potential as a tactical tool as well.” Sharona mused.
Mikran replied; “I thought you’d catch that right away. I have used it as a place to store a force of fighters away when I’m in one location, and then bring them forth in another place. Usually a place where the enemy would rather they weren’t.”
“Exactly my thought.” Sharona replied. ”I also would use it as place to rest and recover from wounds, assuming that you can exempt yourself from the non-passage of time within. Then, after having spent as many hours or days as needed to recuperate, return to the same moment of the same fight you had departed from. Perhaps with repaired or improved armor and weapons.”
“You have experience as a force commander, haven’t you?” Mikran asked. At Sharona’s nod he asked; “How large a force?”
“Two to three hundreds, on several occasions.”
“When we get back to my own lands, I will have employment for you as a commander. I am very lucky, to have acquired allies of far greater value than I knew at the time.”
By unspoken agreement, they each slept separately while in the field and on the run. The trio continued their journey as they had started, making wide detours around cities and major towns. When they needed to renew their supplies they would pause so that Mikran could disguise them with an illusion spell. Then they would go into a town small enough to have neither a local temple with a full time priest, nor a resident wizard on the municipal payroll.
While nothing fancy was available in such towns, fresh and wholesome provisions could be obtained quickly and easily. Hot meals from Mikran’s timeless storehouse were reserved for occasions when the trio was forced to camp close to a garrison town or a fortified temple. The problem was that no matter how good a cloaking spell Mikran might cast, smoke and cooking aromas wafted on the breezes would eventually drift beyond the spell’s reach and might then be detected.
When it was safe to cook, the trio took turns. Mikran’s storehouse produced the native spices, herbs and condiments of both the Scythian Empire (when it was Sharona’s turn to cook) and the County De La Montaigne (when it was Tirane’s turn). Each time Mikran’s turn came he presented dishes from a different one of the many lands he had sojourned in during the long centuries of his life. Some of his offerings were strange and delicious, others merely strange. All were at least interesting.
Sharona and Tirane had each thoroughly mastered her own native cuisine, and all in all the trio ate nutritiously at every meal, and for the most part tastily as well. The exceptions to the latter consisted of some of Mikran’s odder decoctions.
Mikran’s spells of cloaking and concealment were aided by the superb scouting skills of Tirane and Sharona. Between them, they managed to evade the steadily increasing hue and cry raised after them by the Rat Temples until they were less than a day’s travel from the well guarded border of the Kingdom of Dalgorra.
The Dalgorrans despised and detested the denizens of the Six Haggard Sisters. Sanctuary was automatically offered to any who seemed to be fugitive from what the Sister’s passed off as justice.
When they started the journey, they had the advantage of a few days head start because they had left no survivors of the temple party in the fight at the Mark’s Lament. The only witnesses had been the staff and patrons of the Lament, and none of those worthies had any inclination to share information with authority of any kind, temple authority least of all.
It had taken the better part of a week for a witness to decide that informing one of the Rat Temple enforcement troopers of the identities of the slayers of his colleagues at the Lament might gain enough reward to pay for a day or two of the informer’s chosen drug. If the poor fool’s mind had not already been befuddled, he would have anticipated what actually happened.
The temple trooper listened well and made careful note of all that was said. The trooper then asked keen, searching questions to elicit additional details. Once satisfied that no more useful information was to be had from this informant, the temple soldier executed the man for having delayed so long in coming forward.
The temple enforcer then reported the information gleaned to his own superiors, stating that he had unearthed it by careful and painstaking investigation. His reward was a promotion, and he was placed in charge of the pursuit. He was given a letter of command entitling him to appropriate added resources as needed to accomplish his mission. Every day he used this letter, adding more soldiers and low level wizard priests to the net he was casting.
It was sheer chance that one day brought one of his patrols across the path of the fleeing trio shortly after they had broken camp to begin their day’s run. The patrol was numerous and included several spellcasting priests, and the three friends (for such they had become) stopped the war cart and dismounted to prepare to fight.
Mikran’s first move was to cast a stronger and wider-area version of the magic nullifying spell he had used at the fight in Gilgarr. Then, while the two warriors mapped out a route to stealthily round the enemy left flank Mikran opened the door to his storehouse and drew forth the finest battle armor and weapons set the women had ever seen.
Most real fighting men wore either chain mail of interlocking rings or scale mail of overlapping plates, in either case mounted on a backing of leather. Generals, nobles and tournament knights wore suits of plate armor. Mikran’s battle suit consisted of scale mail mounted on a backing of chain mail, with plate reinforcements at locations where flexibility was not required. The immense weight of this suit was reduced to nearly nothing by spells that had been cast during the forging of the armor.
This armor was complemented by magnificent weapons. Protruding above Mikran’s left shoulder was the straight hilt of a huge Claidheammor, big brother to Sharona’s Claidhbeg. Above his right shoulder loomed the bottom of the haft of a twinheaded Labyrys, the fearsome battleaxe of the guardians of the temples of the Magna Mater, the Great Earth Mother goddess. In a double row of sheathes brazed to the scales of the byrnie front were six matched throwing daggers and four triplets of throwing stars. The broad belt of linked plates that girded Mikran’s waist carried a sheathed Khazar Kindjal at either hip. Mounted crosswise at the small of his back, Mikran wore a quiver of forty huge clothyard war arrows, each shaft designed to be drawn a full 37 inches, tipped with adamant and fletched with gray eagle.
Last of all, Mikran took from his magical storehouse an awe-inspiring bow. It was five inches longer then Mikran’s 6’1” height. It was crafted wondrously from a wood which the women recognized as a variety of Yew, but with a fineness, density and straightness of grain that were unheard of. The great bow was strung with the foreclaw sinew of a cave bear. The women watched in amazement as Mikran bent the bow and strung it with little visible effort. Sharona asked;
“May I Try?”
When Mikran nodded, she reached for the bow. Unlike the armor, it was as heavy as it looked. Trying the draw, her considerable strength barely moved the string. Sharona asked;
“What is the draw of this monster?”
“Four hundredweights.”
“Merciful Goddess!! You wouldn’t have a spell on the bow to lighten the draw, that would let an enemy who picked it up be able to use it. But no normal man could possibly draw this thing! How?”
“Among the first spells I learned were spells to increase my own physical strength, stamina, endurance, constitution and general health. Since learning these spells, I’ve cast them on myself as often as possible, sometimes more than once a day.”
“That explains that last night in Gilgarr, why you didn’t need that restraint spell when you...”
Tirane interrupted her partner’s musings with a loud faked cough. Sharona briefly blushed. Then she made a gesture to indicate that she and Tirane would circle the enemy flank while Mikran held the foe’s attention. Mikran nodded and drew an arrow from the quiver. Just before they vanished into a ravine that would conceal them until they passed the enemy left flank, the warriors noticed that every time Mikran drew an arrow from the quiver another appeared in it’s place. They were not in position to observe the fact that the arrows Mikran shot were traveling an unbelievable distance, nor that every one struck it’s target.
When the mercenary fighters emerged from the ravine, three fourths of the temple soldiers were down, pierced by the mighty arrows. The priests were completely distracted, angrily trying to make their spells work. The deadly pair were upon the priests before they knew their long sought quarry were present. The priests were dispatched by the time their remaining guards knew of the threat
Before the disconcerted guards could decide to attack the women, Mikran had mounted his war cart and ordered his intelligent team to charge. Mikran froze the enemy survivors with a blood-curdling battle scream while he resumed skewering them with arrows. The few who remained alive fled.
Mikran steered his war cart to meet the warrior women, slowed to let them jump in, and brought his team back to full speed. He shouted to them over the rumble of the war cart;
“I hope we can reach the Dalgorran border before those survivors bring their reserves down on us, but I don’t expect that. The ratlovers may not have mundane troops in position to intercept us, but they may be able to get a message to one of their top rank demon callers.”
Sharona replied;
“You can deal with them, can’t you?”
“In any of a number of ways. I have a notion that may take the demons by surprise.”
“How? They’ll be expecting almost any possible form of magical attack or defense. These are ancient beings, and will have fought first rank human mages before.”
“Demons expect humans to defend against them or attack them with spells. They’ve probably never encountered a human whose physical abilities and skills are artificially enhanced by magic the way mine are. If we encounter demons, I’ll dismount and physically attack them while you two drive on towards the border.
My team are as intelligent as average humans. I’ve already warned them that if I dismount and leave you two on board, they’re to obey whichever of you takes the reins.
There’s an enchanted crossbow under the left side seat, with two hundred quarrels. The enchantments have the following effects; first, each time you shoot the crossbow will instantly redraw and reload itself. Second, the quarrel will strike the target you intend to hit, if you point it anywhere near that target. Third, the quarrel will penetrate any armor unless that armor is augmented by defensive spells stronger than the offensive spells I put on the bolts. That last condition is highly unlikely.”
“What about you?” Tirane asked; “We don’t want to lose you now.”
“I have a semi-divine war-horse waiting in my timeless storehouse, all saddled and accoutered for battle. I’ll mount him to fight the demons, and after the fight he’ll catch me up to you in short order.”
“It gripes me sorely to flee from a foe, leaving a man to fight my battle for me like some delicate, vaporing maiden.” Sharona stated;
“Is there no place in your battle plan for us to assist you?”
“Not against demons. You would throw your lives away to no purpose.
I know you’re worried for my safety. After all, we are comrades in arms, friends and lovers Sharona. You speak of the demons being ancient, and thus having great experience of combat against human mages. When you mention this, I see in your eyes fear, not for your own safety but for mine.
Set your mind at ease. I myself may be quite fairly described as an ancient being. I have lived far more years than you have guessed. I have fought and slain demons a plenty ere now, and beings far mightier than demons. On some of the many worlds I have walked, folk call me the godslayer. I will tell you the tales another time. Let it suffice to say not that I do not fear demons, but rather that I have no cause to fear demons.
If at the last I find myself overmatched, I have two final pieces to play. A mighty ally to call, and a transformation I can perform. Have no fear for me. The greatest aid you can render to me is to absent yourselves from the field of battle.”
Sharona replied;
“That, we can do.”
To herself, she added;
“And I’ll bet I can find something more to contribute, lover mine.”
They had crested a ridgeline and caught their first sight of the Dalgorran border fortifications when demons began to appear on a hilltop to the right of the shortest path to the boundary. Mikran reined to a halt and dismounted. He opened and entered his enchanted storehouse, to emerge a few seconds later astride the mightiest, most massive stallion either of the warriors had ever seen.
Mikran introduced the women to his jet black warsteed Windstrider and he to them, just as if Windstrider were a human ally. The horse seemed to acknowledge the introduction much in the manner of a preoccupied human fighter engaged in the mental preparation for combat.
Sharona was on the driver’s bench, Tirane had the ensorcelled crossbow ready in her hands, cocked and loaded. The fighting partners had also found a number of throwing javelins in the compartment under the right side seat and had set them ready to hand in the rows of sockets along both rails.
Mikran rode to the war cart and extended his right hand for the forearm clasp of battle comrades with Tirane. When Mikran extended his hand to Sharona, she grasped it to pull herself up on the rail cart and kissed him full on the mouth;
“Come back alive, even if less of a hero. We’ve only made love once, and I want more.”
Mikran grinned;
“If I had no reason to before, you’ve surely given me good reason now Sharona.”
“That stream flows both ways, Mikran.”
Sharona then addressed the great stallion;
“Windstrider, we are about to become battle-comrades. Can I count on you to guard my man as you bear him through the coming fight?”
The great war-horse nodded his head, with a whinny that sounded very much like the words;
“I will, comrade.”
Mikran rode directly at the growing band of demons while Sharona steered the warcart away at right angles, headed for a more distant part of the borderline. Tirane stood in the back, crossbow armed and in hand, scanning for enemy targets.
The demons had assumed a great variety of forms, ranging from five to fifteen feet in height and from emaciated to massively muscle-bound or grossly obese in girth. They took on the semblance of every variety of human and animal, and many grotesque or gross combinations thereof. They were equally likely to be sexless, male, female, or hermaphrodite.
Five of the demons, whose forms sported wings, flapped off after the cart. Mikran stood in the stirrups to wield his deadly longbow, sending gleaming arrows into four of the flying demons. Each shot brought the unlucky recipient crashing to earth dead. The fifth was slain by a rapid burst of five quarrels from the crossbow wielded by Tirane. All five buried themselves fletching deep in the chest of the unnatural creature.
Mikran saw that the fifth shaft he had readied was not needed in that quarter. With no visible hesitation, he shifted targets and put that arrow through the eye of yet another winged demon. This one had soared high overhead and was stooping on the lone rider like some monstrous, misshapen hawk.
Opening a door in mid air, Mikran put away his bow and quiver and drew forth a twelve foot Khazar warlance. Leveling this fearsome weapon, Mikran spoke to Windstrider and they charged the demons. The demons were taken aback by this. In all their long experience, humans ran, cowered, or hurled spells. Never had a human physically attacked any of them successfully. Now a group of humans had slain six demons by physical attack. Mikran soon added three more, tearing gaping rents in their flanks with the razor edges of the three foot long lance head.
Leaving the lance buried through the chest and spine of a fourth demon, Mikran grasped the haft of his huge Labyrys axe and began to swing it in whistling arcs. The twin bladed axe removed limbs and heads from demons at every stroke. After a few minutes, the only living demons in sight were a handful who had run off in a futile attempt to intercept the war cart.
Of the three who were fast enough to intercept, two were felled by Tirane’s expertise with the crossbow while the last was killed by a javelin cast to the throat from Sharona’s strong arm. The others in that group failed to reach the warcart before it came under the protective spells of the Dalgorran border forts. Two could not stop or turn in time to avoid the border spells, and vanished in puffs of greasy smoke and flame. The survivors gave up and returned their attention to Mikran.
As they closed on Mikran they were joined by more of their ilk, called up by their rat-priest masters. The rat priests were also concentrating all their attention on Mikran, whom they thought was the only opponent still in play. This was their last, fatal mistake.
Instead of galloping hard for the gate of the nearest Dalgorran fort, as expected, Sharona reined sharply to the right and drove in behind the rat priests facing Mikran, remaining within the aegis of the Dalgorran boundary spells. Expert at reading terrain for tactical use, Sharona spotted a shallow valley, just deep enough to conceal the war cart and it’s occupants as they maneuvered into position.
When the rat priests were directly between Mikran to their front and Sharona and Tirane to their rear, Sharona drove the cart right up the side of the valley and straight at the priest’s backs. The pair of mercenary fighters annihilated the priests in a hail of crossbow quarrels and javelins.
As the priests who controlled them died, most of the demons turned on the nearest humans, who happened to be the hapless temple guards who had so dismally failed in their task of protecting the priests from mundane attack. Only one demon, newly conjured and in the form of a lizard 18 feet tall, continued toward Mikran.
Dismounting, and requesting Windstrider to guard his back against intervention by any other stray demons or temple guards, Mikran left his Labyrys strapped across Windstrider’s saddle and drew the huge two handed Claidheammor from it’s sheath across his back. Windstrider crushed one demon’s skull with a forefoot, tore out the throat of another with his teeth and caved in the chest of a third with his mighty hind hooves.
Meanwhile, Mikran took one of the legs out from under his vast opponent with a single swing of his six foot blade. The backstroke removed the front half of the monster’s lower jaw. As the still dangerous supernatural beast teetered on one leg and it’s great tail, reaching for Mikran with it’s foreclaws, Mikran allowed the momentum of the backstroke to carry him around in a spiral that drew him in closer to his foe. Then, putting all the ponderous power of his magically augmented arms, shoulders, back, torso, hips and legs into the swing, Mikran lopped off the creature’s head, then jumped back to avoid it’s death throes.
Windstrider nudged Mikran in the back and knelt for him to mount while Sharona swung the warcart around behind them both. Pointing in the direction Mikran had charged from, Sharona shouted;
“Look, on the ridge. That’s at least a battalion of Rat Temple cavalry. A force that size will have spellcasters as well as demon callers in it’s ranks. I think we’re unwelcome here. I think we should leave.”
“Your eyes are as sharp as they are lovely, my dear.” Mikran replied. Then, mounting, he added;
“Let’s see if Dalgorra offers better hospitality.”
The trio fled for the border as fast as they could ride and drive. They crossed the protected line in time for the first volley of spells hurled at them to rebound from the Dalgorran boundary shield spell in a spectacular blast of colored fire.
Mikran dismounted atop a knoll between two Dalgorran border forts and turned to face the ratlovers. Planting his feet wide and raising his right fist on high, Mikran gathered flows of power, manifested as thick ropes of brightly colored light, running up both of his legs and down his right arm. This power seemed to gather in the crook of Mikran’s left elbow, in a growing, glowing ball. In this ball, the pure colors of the flows blended, blurred and muddied into something frightfully ugly.
When the glowing ball seemed about to explode with the sheer concentration of power, Mikran thrust his left fist forcefully at the advancing enemy. The ball of arcane energy flowed into an expanding sheet of raw power flying at the Rat Temple forces. This sheet twisted and roiled as it flew in a queasy, disturbing manner.
When the magical attack struck, it tore and shredded its targets horribly. If any of the mages with the temple regiment had shields or other protections in place, those were blasted apart like a straw hut struck by a tornado. Those who lived through that blow fled in terror.
Windstrider was waiting for Mikran to remount. Sharona drove up in the warcart. Tirane called up to Mikran;
“I know a great inn not half an hour’s drive from here. How about it?”
Mikran replied;
“Sounds fine to me. What say you, Sharona?”
Sharona replied;
“I want a bath, a good meal, some good wine, a soft bed, and you to warm it with me.”
“In that order?”
“Approximately, but I’m flexible.”
“I noticed that back in the Open Book. Sounds like a good substitute for heaven to me. Lead on”
Tirane took the reins, and the three friends headed for some well-earned rest and recreation. Which is part two of the tale, in which the sensual and exotic Tirane is persuaded to sample the pleasures of tickle submission, and becomes an enthusiastic convert.
The End
Authors note; As always, all comment and critcism welcome, and if any artist wishes to illustrate feel free.
The evening was quiet, and pleasant enough for being passed in the undertown of Gilgarr the Wicked, wanton queen city of the Devil Coast. The southern shore of the Sea of Disquiet had well earned its infamy.
The Six Haggard Sisters, as the cities of the coast were known, gained the wealth they flaunted by a combination of land piracy, waterborne piracy, unethical trade practices, commercial warfare and dark magic. The chief wizards of all six were conjurers, which meant that the power they owned rested on the demons they could call forth and control. There were likely to be several dozen minor to mid-level devils wandering about on missions for diverse masters at any given moment. These devils were always willing to delay the mission long enough to play painful games with any human individual hapless enough to cross their path. Thus the sobriquet Devil Coast.
The most orderly tavern in the undertown was the “Mark’s Lament” on Thief Street. The sparse and over used back garden, with its unexpectedly serene view of the sea outside the breakwaters which sheltered the harbor, was the old scholar’s usual resort these days. Evening had succeeded twilight, yet the studious elder continued his pursuit of knowledge. He read and compared arcane bits of information from the tomes and scrolls piled loosely on his table, reading by the oddly steady light of an amazingly well shielded lamp. Also arrayed on the table were a rough wooden platter holding the remaining half of a stack of exotic and well-prepared snacks, alongside a battered wood and leather flagon of a far finer wine then most habitués of the Lament would recognize or appreciate.
A well trodden, broad path ran around the far edge of the garden, between the Lament’s grounds and the steep muddy slope leading down to the sea. Along this path now there hurried two exceptional, striking women. Both were tall, strong, lithe and muscular. Both had the bodies of trained athletes and faces lovely enough to grace hetaerae of the highest class. No one would mistake either of this pair for one of those highly paid and respected intimate entertainers.
Each of the women wore tunic and leggings of dark maroon leather, patterned with plates, curved bars and studs of bronze for added protection. The black oiled leather calf high boots both wore were stiffened with brass reinforcements at strategic spots. They each bore a different set of minor scars on the exposed flesh of forearms calves, shins and neck, including one small but clearly visible scar on each lovely face.
The 5’9” brunette carried a middling length Tulwar ahead of her left hip and a flame bladed Jambiya ahead of her right hip. The 5’7” strawberry-golden blonde bore a single edged Claidhbeg slung across her back with the basket hilt protruding above her right shoulder and a Dirk sheathed at the small of her back, pommel to her left.
The weapons and garments were all obviously very well maintained, but all had obviously seen much hard use. These were no hetaerae or courtesans, but veteran mercenary fighters dressed and equipped for work. They advanced to the center of the open space and wheeled, facing the path from which they had just emerged. Shoulder to shoulder, they loosened the weapons in their sheaths and backed across the open space by the banks of the ocean, preparing for some danger that they expected to emerge from the overgrowth beyond the tavern garden. The old scholar briefly raised his gray head to look. His eyes showed rueful appreciation of the beauty before him, then he returned to his studies.
First to emerge from the brush was a quartet of sturdy young men dressed as temple guards. These spread out into a semicircle, convex towards the two women, and moved forward. Another four temple guards emerged and took up flanking positions to left and right. There next stepped forward a priest in common regalia, followed by a final quartet of guards. The two women drew their weapons and prepared to defend themselves. Despite the odds, they showed no fear.
When the first temple guards appeared, the old scholar paused and tried to discern the badges that would indicate the name of the god whose temple they served. As he began to suspect the identity of that deity, the elder started to put his materials aside as if preparing to leave. When the priest showed himself and the sigils of the rat god Scarmyr became visible, the old scholar’s mild brown eyes ignited with a rage that was terrible to see.
The watching innkeeper was astonished to see the fat old man lift the eight seated table full of books and scrolls up and put it aside with his left hand while grasping his oddly heavy leather jacket and swinging it into place across his broad shoulders with his right. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, the graybeard shrugged the garment into place as he strode toward the developing combat.
The scholar’s handsome face twisted with loathing as he bellowed;
“Eaters of rat droppings!!” at the temple contingent, his voice loud enough to distract all the players in the scene.
The women only glanced briefly toward him, then returned their attention to the temple forces. The two left flankers and the leftward pair of the rearguards edged into positions to block the old scholar’s access to the priest. The priest, who had been mentally sorting through the spells he had ready to cast, shot him a short glare of intense annoyance. The priest then flicked his right ring finger at the old scholar before returning to his spell choosing.
Because he was not paying attention, the priest did not see the course of the formless bolt of raw destructive force he had sent at the old man with that contemptuous finger flick. The priest expected that bolt to kill the target it was aimed at, whom he assumed to be undefended against magic. The priest assumed the same about the warrior women he and his minions were confronting. He was wrong on both counts.
The priest decided to cast a paralyzing spell, so the women could be taken before his hierarchical superior as living, helpless captives for the next sacrifice. That spell would have dissipated harmlessly through the antimagical wards built into the battle gear the women wore, had the priest had a chance to cast it. He should have been watching the force bolt he sent at the scholar.
A few inches from the fat man’s chest, the bolt stopped, seeming to first spread and then vanish. The magical shield which stopped it momentarily glowed a faint dull red over an area of several square inches, but showed no other effect. Had he been watching this event, the priest would have been alarmed enough to turn his efforts from the women to the old man, possibly in time to defend himself, though most likely not.
A channeling shield, such as the ones the warrior women had purchased from a hedge-wizard, were the easiest to build, and the weakest. Next would come a dissipative shield, which would scatter a hostile spell. Then would come a deflective shield, which would bounce attacking spells away at random. Next to the best would be a reflective shield; this type would throw hostile magic straight back at the point it had come from.
The strongest type of shield was absorptive, incorporating the power of any hostile magic impacting it into its own strength. Only a truly first class mage could create an absorptive shield, and that was the kind that had swallowed up the priest’s force bolt. The wearing of such a shield indicated that the old scholar either was or had the protection of such a mage.
The old man wore four silver rings on each hand. He extended his right hand. The three stripes of milk lapis stones set into the top of the ring on his third finger emitted a single pulse of brilliant color, starting as red and passing through the visible spectrum to become invisible as it expanded into a flowing convex wavefront. Where that wavefront passed, all magic casting was temporarily nullified.
On closer scrutiny, the old scholar no longer appeared as a harmless old man. He was huge of shoulder, massive of limb, and deep of chest. As he strode toward the would be combatants, the women and the more experienced of the temple guards knew by the way he moved that there was a vast mass of muscle under that fat. They could also tell by the body language that here was a highly experienced fighter.
The priest was still trying to fling spells, wondering why none of them worked, when he was startled by the sudden clash of metal. The old scholar had drawn a pair of glittering steel fighting forks (called Saiyas) from sheaths hidden in the sides of his leather jacket. Each had an eight inch sharkskin wrapped handle ending in a flatheaded cylindrical pommel. Just above the sharkskin wrap, each weapon divided into three tines, all circular in cross section. The center tine extended straight out for about 24 inches to a needle point. The side tines, directly opposite each other, extended about 15 degrees forward rather than straight out. About 3 inches out, both side tines curved sharply to almost parallel the center tine, still diverging slightly as they ran 2 inches more, then flared out at a wider angle for the last inch of their length to end in two more needle sharp points.
The twin weapons had been drawn with a flourish, deliberately clashed to draw the enemy’s attention and then spun in the hands to show easy mastery of their use. The wide swinging arm motion involved had caused the knee length jacket to rattle, revealing the fact that armoring of some kind was hidden between the inner and outer layers of leather.
The sergeant commanding the temple squad saw that magic seemed not to be playing a part in this combat, and snapped out a string or orders to his men. The four front men were told to engage and hold the two women. The left flankers and the four rearguards were sent against the old man, while the sergeant and his strongest fighter guarded the priest and acted as a reserve.
The old man shifted to his right and stepped forward quickly to engage the nearest flanker before the rearguards could join the fight. A twist of his powerful right wrist trapped the bronze blade of the temple guard’s sword between the outer and center tines of one Saiya, breaking the weaker blade off near the hilt. Even as his left hand Saiya parried the other flanker’s sword, binding it near the tip but not breaking it, the old scholar killed the first flanker with a quick in and out thrust of his right hand Saiya while the guard was still startled by the loss of his blade. The right hand Saiya then swept across, the knob of the handle striking the bound and stressed blade of the second flanker near the hilt to shatter it. Suddenly released from the impediment of the blade it had bound up, the left hand Saiya shot forward, killing the other temple flank guard.
With three running strides, the old man was upon the nearer pair of rearguards while their late comrades were still falling. Seeming to dispatch this pair without breaking stride, the terrible old man was soon upon the last two rearguards.
The sergeant ordered two of the foreguards, who had not yet engaged the warrior women, back to protect the priest while he and his champion attacked the old man from behind while he was fighting the last pair of rear guards. Alas for the sergeant, by the time he arrived the old man had slain the last of the rearguards and turned to face the two new attackers.
The fight lasted less than another minute. The sergeant and his champion lived to clash their blades against the Saiyas five or six times before dying on the tines. The women by then had each killed her first opponent and engaged the last two temple guards who were protecting the priest. The dying scream of their disemboweled champion startled the last guards just enough for the Tulwar and Claidhbeg of the warrior women to slip past their defenses and end their lives. The arrogant young priest was still futilely trying to cast spells when the knob of one of the old man’s Saiyas caved in the back of his skull.
The three victors were cleaning blood and brains from their weapons and catching their breath. The old man, sheathing his Saiyas, slowly approached the warrior women. The tall brunette muttered sarcastically under her breath so that only her companion could hear;
“Here comes our aged knight errant, undoubtedly thinking to claim the traditional reward due to one who has saved the lives of two damsels in distress.”
Her blonde comrade in arms replied;
“I hope he takes disappointment well.”
“I hope so too.” Came the reply.
“He wiped out eight of these rat worshippers in the time we took to do in four of them, and he seems to have raised less of a sweat then we did. I’m inclined to show respect to one of my elders for the first time I can remember. I don't think fighting this old man would be any fun at all.”
“Hmmm. I do see your point.” The blonde concurred.
“Let’s hear him out.”
Beginning with a deep, courtly bow, the old scholar addressed the young warriors;
“My name is Mikran of otherwhere, and I wish to tender my apology for interfering in your affairs. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”
The women were taken aback by this unexpected introduction. The blonde was the first to regain her composure enough to speak.
“I am Lady Sharona of Engarth, Baronette of the Scythian Empire. My companion is the Demoiselle Tirane de la Montaigne. Do I understand correctly that you wish to apologize to us? For what?”
The warrior-scholar, with a grave expression on his craggily handsome countenance, replied;
“You did not request my assistance. Therefore, I had no right to intervene in what was clearly an affair between yourselves and the minions of the Temple of the Rodent. Just because I happen to loathe and despise the Rat God and all his works, and everyone who has anything to do with him or his temples, or the foul rites that pass for worship therein, that is no excuse for my uninvited interference in your personal dispute.
In order to give myself the satisfaction of dispatching several of the eaters of rat droppings, I deprived you of the pleasure of killing them yourselves. It was selfish and wrong of me to do such a thing, and I sincerely ask your forgiveness, and perhaps a chance to make amends.”
Tirane began to sputter;
“But, but, you saved...OW!”
Sharona, who had elbowed Tirane sharply beneath her bottom rib, smoothly cut in;
“We accept your apology of course. What sort of amends did you have in mind?”
“Something substantial, to be sure. I had hoped to begin by purchasing dinner for both of you. Over dinner, we might discuss what more substantial reparations I might offer.”
“That sounds acceptable. Does this Tavern have good food?”
“Gods above no! I keep my own private stock of wine and snacks behind the counter. I pay the inn to serve me at that table because I find the view conducive to my studies. We shall take the modified war cart I use for transportation to a better part of town, where truly excellent food and drink may be obtained.”
The five man war cart was indeed heavily modified. A vehicle intended to carry five fully armed and armored warriors standing into battle now had a luxuriously padded seat for one very large driver. The space where the other four warriors would have stood was now occupied by two extremely solid and magically warded chests. The lids of these chests were heavily padded to serve as seats.
Mikran drove his two lovely companions to the university quarter of Gilgarr, through the courtyard of The Open Book Inn to the stableyard. There the stableboys took care of the matched team of four magnificent roan war stallions. He then led the way up the back stairs to his suite of rooms, remarking that it would be wise to wash off the blood and gore before appearing in a dining room frequented mainly by visiting scholars and academics.
Mikran offered Sharona and Tirane the use of the master washroom, which was larger than the guest lavatory he used at the same time. When the women emerged, freshly scrubbed, he was ready with female scholars robes to conceal their armor and weapons. Appropriately, their robes were the steel gray of students of military history. Mikran’s was the midnight blue of a scholar of magic, marked with the five silver velvet bands of a professor emeritus.
Descending the ornate front stairs to the main dining room, Mikran was greeted warmly by the innkeeper, who stated that his favorite table had been kept open for him since the dining room opened for the evening. This proved to be a spacious round table in a semi-enclosed corner decorated with copies of historically important maps and documents. The waiter bustled over to explain in loving detail the days’ offerings, including comments on whether ‘his honor the professor’ would or would not like certain dishes. As the waiter left with the order the winemaster at once took his place, to be followed by the busboy with ‘distilled water, as you prefer it, sir’, and an assortment of appetizers ‘on the house’. Tirane remarked;
“The staff here certainly seem fond of you.“
“I overtip. Grossly.” Came the deadpan reply.
Over truly superior appetizers, soups, main courses of fish, fowl and meat, vegetable side dishes, salad and dessert, the three exchanged personal histories, all highly edited. Finally, over fine aged brandy and salted roasted nuts, Sharona got down to business:
“Let’s talk about those amends you wanted to make.”
“By all means let’s.”
“I have reason to believe you to be a first order wizard, and as such can render us a valuable service.”
Mikran, smiling, asked;
“What gave me away?”
“First, you wear an absorptive shield against hostile magic. Only a major wizard can cast one of those, and I can’t think of anything that would induce such a mage to cast one upon anyone other than himself. Second, you flicked off a nullify magic area spell as if it were nothing, and that kind of spell takes a second level battle mage a week to prepare. Need I go on? I know you have to be something special in the way of battle magicians.
Tirane and I are going to be pursued hard by the ratboy priests and their soldiers. We didn’t know the rat temples have a dogma that all women are supposed to be slaves, and that women warriors are anathema to them. We especially didn’t know that all six of the Haggard Sisters had passed laws against women warriors.
If you really think you still owe us for interfering without being asked, you can pay that off by giving us protection against hostile magic now that we are asking.”
“Aha!” Tirane thought. “That’s why she’s had us both trying to charm his trousers off all evening. Once again, we confirm that Sharona is the brains of the outfit.”
Mikran looked serious.
“For how long will you require such protection?”
“Until we can get out the Six Sister’s territory.”
“We’re in the dead center of that territory now, unless we leave by ship. The rats will be coming after you with every bit of power they have. Protection against the full force of the rat temples for even a day should square our account, and this will take longer than that, even by ship. You know they’ll pursue in their war galleys if we go by sea, and we don’t want to have to deal with attack from a major water elemental demon while facing off with half a dozen war galleys. We’d best go by land, if we go at all. You are asking rather a lot in recompense for a relatively small offense.”
Tirane blurted;
“Then you won’t do it?” In evident dismay.
“I will do it. In part to spite the ratlovers. After I succeed in getting us all safely out of this part of the world, we can discuss payment.”
“We don’t have a great deal of coin.” Tirane said apprehensively.
“Don’t worry. I know you’re not courtesans, and that’s not what I had in mind anyway. From time to time I have items of property or people whose safety against physical rather than magical attack is of concern to me. I may ask you to act as guards to someone or something I value highly. Will that be acceptable?”
Sharona replied for them both;
“Certainly. No problem with that, as long as it’s out of the Sister’s lands.”
The three retired to Mikran’s suite. Mikran offered Tirane and Sharona the guest bedroom, bade them good night and retired to his own. The two mercenaries, following their usual habit, spent some time going over the day’s events before turning in. The purpose was to make note of right or wrong moves they had made, and to decide if they could have done better and how. In this way they made continual improvements to their warcraft and fieldcraft.
About half an hour after they had turned off the lamps, Sharona got up from her side of the huge guest bed and drew on a warm nightrobe provided by the inn. Tirane woke at once. Opening one eye, Tirane asked;
“What’s up, Shar? Can’t sleep?”
“The usual ,Tir. Worried about the run for the border. Residue of the battle high. Other stuff.”
Tirane suggested;
“Horny as a toad?”
“Tir!”
“Well, you did say the usual. I know how you get about good looking, masculine, tough older men. Besides, every woman in the hundred kingdoms has heard the tales of what first class mages are like in bed.”
“You know me entirely too well. Tir.”
“It’s O.K. Shar. We’ve been partners for five years now. If I seriously objected to any of your predilections, you’d have heard about it long since. Go have fun. But go easy, he’s not young any more.”
“Tir, if he’s the kind of mage I think he is, he hasn’t been young for several centuries now, and that won’t detract from his performance one bit.”
“See you in the morning, partner.”
“If I’m lucky tonight.”
Sharona entered Mikran’s bedchamber. Three steps in, the door swiftly and soundlessly shut behind her. The chamber lamps all came up to high flame, and a web of invisible force lines enwrapped and immobilized her. Mikran sat up in his bed, instantly wide awake. Sharona looked Mikran in the eyes, and said;
“I mean you no harm, Mikran.”
“I know. If you did, your eyes and mouth would be covered by a shield opaque to light and sound. My room wards can read intentions.”
Tilting his head as though listening to something unseen hovering in the air, Mikran’s eyes suddenly widened. With an arcane gesture he dismissed something from his presence. Then he said;
“All of you; patrol outside the walls of this room for the rest of this night. Starting now.”
With another gesture, Mikran dissipated the web of force holding Sharona. With a third gesture, he lowered the lamps to a dull amber glow. In response to Sharona’s questioning glance, Mikran grinned and said;
“My room ward spirits just told me exactly what they read of your intentions.”
Sharona returned Mikran’s grin;
“I take it you have no objection to my intentions?”
“None whatsoever. However, my conscience compels me to warn you of something.”
Sharona’s expression turned serious.;
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re under some kind of curse or something?”
“Nothing like that, my dear. Only that my ward spirits have also informed me that you are extremely ticklish, and I happen to have a raging addiction to tickling my lovers while making love. So, my conscience demands that I give you the opportunity to change your mind and withdraw before it’s too late.”
Sharona’s grin returned, wider than before. She walked to the bed, dropping the nightrobe. She spun the quilt off the bed, revealing the fact that Mikran, like herself, slept nude. Whispering;
“I love to be tickled while making love. It really gets me going.”
Sharona stretched out beside Mikran on the bed. She added, still grinning;
“If you’re going to tickle me, maybe you’d better put that restraint spell back on. I squirm pretty hard when I’m tickled.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, sweet one. Strong as you are, you’ll still be like a leopard trying to squirm out of the embrace of a cave bear.”
Sharona was to Mikran’s left. He gently extended her arms at full length above her head. Then he slid his massive left arm over Sharona’s left biceps, behind her neck and over her right biceps so her head rested on his biceps. He slid his huge left leg under her knees, swung his right leg across over her knees, and crossed his thick ankles. When he bore down with his left arm and both thighs, Sharona was firmly but comfortably pinned in place, leaving his right hand free to tickle.
Mikran began by lightly teasing the taut skin of Sharona’s muscular belly. She went through all the stages of smiling, grinning, squirming, giggling and chuckling before giving in to full throated laughter. When Mikran leaned over to gently but deeply kiss her helplessly laughing mouth, Sharona’s last coherent thought, before deliberately losing herself in sheer sensation, was;
“I could fall in love with this man if I don’t watch out.”
Realizing that Sharona was a very strong woman, Mikran realized he could go all out without harming her. He gestured and produced a soft, pointed feather from mid air. Mikran grazed the feather all over Sharona’s 6-pack belly and groin, keeping her giggling, laughing and squirming in happily growing distress.
He inserted the tip of the feather into Sharona’s navel, and made slow circles with it. That drove Sharona wild. She was now bucking and writhing with all her might, but it was all in vain. Mikran’s magically augmented strength was superhuman. He easily held her quite helpless without even having to squeeze hard enough to bruise or hurt. That, of course, turned Sharona on even more.
Now Mikran did something that scared Sharona a little; he left the feather to torment her belly button on it’s own while his hands began tickling her ribs. Sharona wondered how far this might go!
Shortly thereafter Sharona was held in a hog-tie position by invisible magical restraints. A total of sixteen magically moving feathers were teasing her insanely ticklish bare feet; on each foot one feather made circles on her heels, one made ovals around the greater and lesser balls of her foot, one ran it’s edge up and down the flat of her sole. Another teased the pads of her toes, another the crooks of her toes, another the desperately sensitive tips of her toes, another between her toes. The eighth feather on each foot slowly, excruciatingly drew its edge up and down her unbearably ticklish arches. The feathers paused.
Mikran placed himself comfortably inside Sharona, lying propped up against the headboard with Sharona on top of him in her hog-tied position. Mikran adjusted his size and shape to accomplish two things. First, any movement of his or Sharona’s hips would provide the most delightful friction of the surrounding flesh against her clit. Second, his member’s thickest part, right at the head, was directly in contact with her G spot. That way, any movement by either of them would give her the most delicious sensations from both of her most sensitive and responsive erogenous zones.
Mikran now set out to make her move those lovely hips. With all ten fingers he began very lightly and teasingly to the sweet curves of Sharona’s buttocks. Taken by surprise, Sharona at once began giggling and started to squirm uncontrollably. She was startled at the twin waves of pleasure that began to spread as soon as she started to move.
Completely unable to regain control of her body’s responses, Sharona kept giggling harder and wriggling more wildly until her nervous system exploded into a shattering orgasm. She lay there gasping while Mikran, unknown to her, counted off thirty seconds. He knew that the climax would release a flood of hormones which would make her temporarily twice as ticklish as usual.
Reaching 30, Mikran sent forth a thought which made all the feathers resume the gentle, maddening stroking all over Sharona’s now hypersensitized feet. It tickled so intensely, Sharona instantly lost it and let out a scream, which Mikran stifled by kissing her.
Sharona had climax after climax after climax, each better than the one before, while Mikran’s skilled hands tickle tortured different spots on her body. Her ribs, her sides, her breasts, her underarms, the sides of her neck, under her chin, each got tickled until she came, then the next target came under the teasing caresses. Mikran even gently but firmly turned her head, tickling each ear in turn with his wickedly effective tongue until she climaxed before moving on. When Mikran climaxed for his third time (he was, after all, a wizard) and Sharona for about the thirty second time, he and she were both sated and done.
Tirane was getting a glass of wine from the sideboard in the main room of the suite. Hearing a sudden rising shriek of feminine laughter from behind Mikran’s door, then hearing it suddenly muffled, Tirane smiled briefly. Returning to bed with the wine, Tirane thought to herself;
“My smart little partner did get lucky. She never tells them to tickle her feet, but that sounded like this one figured it out for himself. Then she was suddenly muffled. Like he kissed her. Hmmm. What position would that have to be?”
Sharona and Tirane really did know everything about each other. Finishing her wine, Tirane murmured;
“No need to speculate. She’ll tell me all about it tomorrow. If I can judge by the sound, it’ll be at least a week till the smirk leaves her face.”
The three rose at midmorning, quickly bathed and took off in Mikran’s modified war wagon, with several days road provisions packed by the inn’s kitchen staff. They left by the west gate as though proceeding toward the next “Sister” city along the coast, Vanture.
As soon as they passed from the sight of any watchers on the city walls, Mikran checked for any observers, human or demonic. Assured that there were none, he cast a cloaking spell. At the next road junction they turned south, and then gradually around to the East. They made a wide circuit of the city Gilgarr, heading due east on a secondary road about forty miles south of the seacoast. The horses evidently had some magical assistance, because the cart covered as much distance in one day’s travel as normal travelers could make good in three.
They stopped for the night in a remote grove of pine trees. Rather than open the storage chests under the seats of the cart, Mikran amazed his warrior companions by opening a door in mid air. Rummaging around inside he drew out a tent perfectly colored to blend in with the colors of the surrounding grove and earth.
While the mercenaries pitched the tent, Mikran reached farther in to his door to nowhere and emerged with his arms full of hot, freshly prepared food. He also produced a table, chairs and utensils. As they all sat down to a feast while ward spirits kept watch, Mikran explained;
“This is one of the most useful spells I ever invented. The door I opened leads to a miniature world of my own creation, where time does not pass. I can store anything there, for as long as I wish, and when I retrieve it, it will not have aged by so much as one second. I can open this door from anywhere, and upon any part of my miniature world.”
“The meal we are eating was prepared by the master chef of the Hotel De Bourbon, in the City of Paris, in a country called France, on another world. France in general, and Paris in particular, are renowned for fine food and drink. The wine is also from France, of a type called Medoc. As soon as I received the prepared meal from the kitchen staff, I stored it away at once in my timeless storage world. When I retrieved it just now, it was still just as fresh, just as hot, and just as tasty, for no time at all had passed where the food was stored.”
Tirane observed; “truly, a very useful spell.”
“It has immense potential as a tactical tool as well.” Sharona mused.
Mikran replied; “I thought you’d catch that right away. I have used it as a place to store a force of fighters away when I’m in one location, and then bring them forth in another place. Usually a place where the enemy would rather they weren’t.”
“Exactly my thought.” Sharona replied. ”I also would use it as place to rest and recover from wounds, assuming that you can exempt yourself from the non-passage of time within. Then, after having spent as many hours or days as needed to recuperate, return to the same moment of the same fight you had departed from. Perhaps with repaired or improved armor and weapons.”
“You have experience as a force commander, haven’t you?” Mikran asked. At Sharona’s nod he asked; “How large a force?”
“Two to three hundreds, on several occasions.”
“When we get back to my own lands, I will have employment for you as a commander. I am very lucky, to have acquired allies of far greater value than I knew at the time.”
By unspoken agreement, they each slept separately while in the field and on the run. The trio continued their journey as they had started, making wide detours around cities and major towns. When they needed to renew their supplies they would pause so that Mikran could disguise them with an illusion spell. Then they would go into a town small enough to have neither a local temple with a full time priest, nor a resident wizard on the municipal payroll.
While nothing fancy was available in such towns, fresh and wholesome provisions could be obtained quickly and easily. Hot meals from Mikran’s timeless storehouse were reserved for occasions when the trio was forced to camp close to a garrison town or a fortified temple. The problem was that no matter how good a cloaking spell Mikran might cast, smoke and cooking aromas wafted on the breezes would eventually drift beyond the spell’s reach and might then be detected.
When it was safe to cook, the trio took turns. Mikran’s storehouse produced the native spices, herbs and condiments of both the Scythian Empire (when it was Sharona’s turn to cook) and the County De La Montaigne (when it was Tirane’s turn). Each time Mikran’s turn came he presented dishes from a different one of the many lands he had sojourned in during the long centuries of his life. Some of his offerings were strange and delicious, others merely strange. All were at least interesting.
Sharona and Tirane had each thoroughly mastered her own native cuisine, and all in all the trio ate nutritiously at every meal, and for the most part tastily as well. The exceptions to the latter consisted of some of Mikran’s odder decoctions.
Mikran’s spells of cloaking and concealment were aided by the superb scouting skills of Tirane and Sharona. Between them, they managed to evade the steadily increasing hue and cry raised after them by the Rat Temples until they were less than a day’s travel from the well guarded border of the Kingdom of Dalgorra.
The Dalgorrans despised and detested the denizens of the Six Haggard Sisters. Sanctuary was automatically offered to any who seemed to be fugitive from what the Sister’s passed off as justice.
When they started the journey, they had the advantage of a few days head start because they had left no survivors of the temple party in the fight at the Mark’s Lament. The only witnesses had been the staff and patrons of the Lament, and none of those worthies had any inclination to share information with authority of any kind, temple authority least of all.
It had taken the better part of a week for a witness to decide that informing one of the Rat Temple enforcement troopers of the identities of the slayers of his colleagues at the Lament might gain enough reward to pay for a day or two of the informer’s chosen drug. If the poor fool’s mind had not already been befuddled, he would have anticipated what actually happened.
The temple trooper listened well and made careful note of all that was said. The trooper then asked keen, searching questions to elicit additional details. Once satisfied that no more useful information was to be had from this informant, the temple soldier executed the man for having delayed so long in coming forward.
The temple enforcer then reported the information gleaned to his own superiors, stating that he had unearthed it by careful and painstaking investigation. His reward was a promotion, and he was placed in charge of the pursuit. He was given a letter of command entitling him to appropriate added resources as needed to accomplish his mission. Every day he used this letter, adding more soldiers and low level wizard priests to the net he was casting.
It was sheer chance that one day brought one of his patrols across the path of the fleeing trio shortly after they had broken camp to begin their day’s run. The patrol was numerous and included several spellcasting priests, and the three friends (for such they had become) stopped the war cart and dismounted to prepare to fight.
Mikran’s first move was to cast a stronger and wider-area version of the magic nullifying spell he had used at the fight in Gilgarr. Then, while the two warriors mapped out a route to stealthily round the enemy left flank Mikran opened the door to his storehouse and drew forth the finest battle armor and weapons set the women had ever seen.
Most real fighting men wore either chain mail of interlocking rings or scale mail of overlapping plates, in either case mounted on a backing of leather. Generals, nobles and tournament knights wore suits of plate armor. Mikran’s battle suit consisted of scale mail mounted on a backing of chain mail, with plate reinforcements at locations where flexibility was not required. The immense weight of this suit was reduced to nearly nothing by spells that had been cast during the forging of the armor.
This armor was complemented by magnificent weapons. Protruding above Mikran’s left shoulder was the straight hilt of a huge Claidheammor, big brother to Sharona’s Claidhbeg. Above his right shoulder loomed the bottom of the haft of a twinheaded Labyrys, the fearsome battleaxe of the guardians of the temples of the Magna Mater, the Great Earth Mother goddess. In a double row of sheathes brazed to the scales of the byrnie front were six matched throwing daggers and four triplets of throwing stars. The broad belt of linked plates that girded Mikran’s waist carried a sheathed Khazar Kindjal at either hip. Mounted crosswise at the small of his back, Mikran wore a quiver of forty huge clothyard war arrows, each shaft designed to be drawn a full 37 inches, tipped with adamant and fletched with gray eagle.
Last of all, Mikran took from his magical storehouse an awe-inspiring bow. It was five inches longer then Mikran’s 6’1” height. It was crafted wondrously from a wood which the women recognized as a variety of Yew, but with a fineness, density and straightness of grain that were unheard of. The great bow was strung with the foreclaw sinew of a cave bear. The women watched in amazement as Mikran bent the bow and strung it with little visible effort. Sharona asked;
“May I Try?”
When Mikran nodded, she reached for the bow. Unlike the armor, it was as heavy as it looked. Trying the draw, her considerable strength barely moved the string. Sharona asked;
“What is the draw of this monster?”
“Four hundredweights.”
“Merciful Goddess!! You wouldn’t have a spell on the bow to lighten the draw, that would let an enemy who picked it up be able to use it. But no normal man could possibly draw this thing! How?”
“Among the first spells I learned were spells to increase my own physical strength, stamina, endurance, constitution and general health. Since learning these spells, I’ve cast them on myself as often as possible, sometimes more than once a day.”
“That explains that last night in Gilgarr, why you didn’t need that restraint spell when you...”
Tirane interrupted her partner’s musings with a loud faked cough. Sharona briefly blushed. Then she made a gesture to indicate that she and Tirane would circle the enemy flank while Mikran held the foe’s attention. Mikran nodded and drew an arrow from the quiver. Just before they vanished into a ravine that would conceal them until they passed the enemy left flank, the warriors noticed that every time Mikran drew an arrow from the quiver another appeared in it’s place. They were not in position to observe the fact that the arrows Mikran shot were traveling an unbelievable distance, nor that every one struck it’s target.
When the mercenary fighters emerged from the ravine, three fourths of the temple soldiers were down, pierced by the mighty arrows. The priests were completely distracted, angrily trying to make their spells work. The deadly pair were upon the priests before they knew their long sought quarry were present. The priests were dispatched by the time their remaining guards knew of the threat
Before the disconcerted guards could decide to attack the women, Mikran had mounted his war cart and ordered his intelligent team to charge. Mikran froze the enemy survivors with a blood-curdling battle scream while he resumed skewering them with arrows. The few who remained alive fled.
Mikran steered his war cart to meet the warrior women, slowed to let them jump in, and brought his team back to full speed. He shouted to them over the rumble of the war cart;
“I hope we can reach the Dalgorran border before those survivors bring their reserves down on us, but I don’t expect that. The ratlovers may not have mundane troops in position to intercept us, but they may be able to get a message to one of their top rank demon callers.”
Sharona replied;
“You can deal with them, can’t you?”
“In any of a number of ways. I have a notion that may take the demons by surprise.”
“How? They’ll be expecting almost any possible form of magical attack or defense. These are ancient beings, and will have fought first rank human mages before.”
“Demons expect humans to defend against them or attack them with spells. They’ve probably never encountered a human whose physical abilities and skills are artificially enhanced by magic the way mine are. If we encounter demons, I’ll dismount and physically attack them while you two drive on towards the border.
My team are as intelligent as average humans. I’ve already warned them that if I dismount and leave you two on board, they’re to obey whichever of you takes the reins.
There’s an enchanted crossbow under the left side seat, with two hundred quarrels. The enchantments have the following effects; first, each time you shoot the crossbow will instantly redraw and reload itself. Second, the quarrel will strike the target you intend to hit, if you point it anywhere near that target. Third, the quarrel will penetrate any armor unless that armor is augmented by defensive spells stronger than the offensive spells I put on the bolts. That last condition is highly unlikely.”
“What about you?” Tirane asked; “We don’t want to lose you now.”
“I have a semi-divine war-horse waiting in my timeless storehouse, all saddled and accoutered for battle. I’ll mount him to fight the demons, and after the fight he’ll catch me up to you in short order.”
“It gripes me sorely to flee from a foe, leaving a man to fight my battle for me like some delicate, vaporing maiden.” Sharona stated;
“Is there no place in your battle plan for us to assist you?”
“Not against demons. You would throw your lives away to no purpose.
I know you’re worried for my safety. After all, we are comrades in arms, friends and lovers Sharona. You speak of the demons being ancient, and thus having great experience of combat against human mages. When you mention this, I see in your eyes fear, not for your own safety but for mine.
Set your mind at ease. I myself may be quite fairly described as an ancient being. I have lived far more years than you have guessed. I have fought and slain demons a plenty ere now, and beings far mightier than demons. On some of the many worlds I have walked, folk call me the godslayer. I will tell you the tales another time. Let it suffice to say not that I do not fear demons, but rather that I have no cause to fear demons.
If at the last I find myself overmatched, I have two final pieces to play. A mighty ally to call, and a transformation I can perform. Have no fear for me. The greatest aid you can render to me is to absent yourselves from the field of battle.”
Sharona replied;
“That, we can do.”
To herself, she added;
“And I’ll bet I can find something more to contribute, lover mine.”
They had crested a ridgeline and caught their first sight of the Dalgorran border fortifications when demons began to appear on a hilltop to the right of the shortest path to the boundary. Mikran reined to a halt and dismounted. He opened and entered his enchanted storehouse, to emerge a few seconds later astride the mightiest, most massive stallion either of the warriors had ever seen.
Mikran introduced the women to his jet black warsteed Windstrider and he to them, just as if Windstrider were a human ally. The horse seemed to acknowledge the introduction much in the manner of a preoccupied human fighter engaged in the mental preparation for combat.
Sharona was on the driver’s bench, Tirane had the ensorcelled crossbow ready in her hands, cocked and loaded. The fighting partners had also found a number of throwing javelins in the compartment under the right side seat and had set them ready to hand in the rows of sockets along both rails.
Mikran rode to the war cart and extended his right hand for the forearm clasp of battle comrades with Tirane. When Mikran extended his hand to Sharona, she grasped it to pull herself up on the rail cart and kissed him full on the mouth;
“Come back alive, even if less of a hero. We’ve only made love once, and I want more.”
Mikran grinned;
“If I had no reason to before, you’ve surely given me good reason now Sharona.”
“That stream flows both ways, Mikran.”
Sharona then addressed the great stallion;
“Windstrider, we are about to become battle-comrades. Can I count on you to guard my man as you bear him through the coming fight?”
The great war-horse nodded his head, with a whinny that sounded very much like the words;
“I will, comrade.”
Mikran rode directly at the growing band of demons while Sharona steered the warcart away at right angles, headed for a more distant part of the borderline. Tirane stood in the back, crossbow armed and in hand, scanning for enemy targets.
The demons had assumed a great variety of forms, ranging from five to fifteen feet in height and from emaciated to massively muscle-bound or grossly obese in girth. They took on the semblance of every variety of human and animal, and many grotesque or gross combinations thereof. They were equally likely to be sexless, male, female, or hermaphrodite.
Five of the demons, whose forms sported wings, flapped off after the cart. Mikran stood in the stirrups to wield his deadly longbow, sending gleaming arrows into four of the flying demons. Each shot brought the unlucky recipient crashing to earth dead. The fifth was slain by a rapid burst of five quarrels from the crossbow wielded by Tirane. All five buried themselves fletching deep in the chest of the unnatural creature.
Mikran saw that the fifth shaft he had readied was not needed in that quarter. With no visible hesitation, he shifted targets and put that arrow through the eye of yet another winged demon. This one had soared high overhead and was stooping on the lone rider like some monstrous, misshapen hawk.
Opening a door in mid air, Mikran put away his bow and quiver and drew forth a twelve foot Khazar warlance. Leveling this fearsome weapon, Mikran spoke to Windstrider and they charged the demons. The demons were taken aback by this. In all their long experience, humans ran, cowered, or hurled spells. Never had a human physically attacked any of them successfully. Now a group of humans had slain six demons by physical attack. Mikran soon added three more, tearing gaping rents in their flanks with the razor edges of the three foot long lance head.
Leaving the lance buried through the chest and spine of a fourth demon, Mikran grasped the haft of his huge Labyrys axe and began to swing it in whistling arcs. The twin bladed axe removed limbs and heads from demons at every stroke. After a few minutes, the only living demons in sight were a handful who had run off in a futile attempt to intercept the war cart.
Of the three who were fast enough to intercept, two were felled by Tirane’s expertise with the crossbow while the last was killed by a javelin cast to the throat from Sharona’s strong arm. The others in that group failed to reach the warcart before it came under the protective spells of the Dalgorran border forts. Two could not stop or turn in time to avoid the border spells, and vanished in puffs of greasy smoke and flame. The survivors gave up and returned their attention to Mikran.
As they closed on Mikran they were joined by more of their ilk, called up by their rat-priest masters. The rat priests were also concentrating all their attention on Mikran, whom they thought was the only opponent still in play. This was their last, fatal mistake.
Instead of galloping hard for the gate of the nearest Dalgorran fort, as expected, Sharona reined sharply to the right and drove in behind the rat priests facing Mikran, remaining within the aegis of the Dalgorran boundary spells. Expert at reading terrain for tactical use, Sharona spotted a shallow valley, just deep enough to conceal the war cart and it’s occupants as they maneuvered into position.
When the rat priests were directly between Mikran to their front and Sharona and Tirane to their rear, Sharona drove the cart right up the side of the valley and straight at the priest’s backs. The pair of mercenary fighters annihilated the priests in a hail of crossbow quarrels and javelins.
As the priests who controlled them died, most of the demons turned on the nearest humans, who happened to be the hapless temple guards who had so dismally failed in their task of protecting the priests from mundane attack. Only one demon, newly conjured and in the form of a lizard 18 feet tall, continued toward Mikran.
Dismounting, and requesting Windstrider to guard his back against intervention by any other stray demons or temple guards, Mikran left his Labyrys strapped across Windstrider’s saddle and drew the huge two handed Claidheammor from it’s sheath across his back. Windstrider crushed one demon’s skull with a forefoot, tore out the throat of another with his teeth and caved in the chest of a third with his mighty hind hooves.
Meanwhile, Mikran took one of the legs out from under his vast opponent with a single swing of his six foot blade. The backstroke removed the front half of the monster’s lower jaw. As the still dangerous supernatural beast teetered on one leg and it’s great tail, reaching for Mikran with it’s foreclaws, Mikran allowed the momentum of the backstroke to carry him around in a spiral that drew him in closer to his foe. Then, putting all the ponderous power of his magically augmented arms, shoulders, back, torso, hips and legs into the swing, Mikran lopped off the creature’s head, then jumped back to avoid it’s death throes.
Windstrider nudged Mikran in the back and knelt for him to mount while Sharona swung the warcart around behind them both. Pointing in the direction Mikran had charged from, Sharona shouted;
“Look, on the ridge. That’s at least a battalion of Rat Temple cavalry. A force that size will have spellcasters as well as demon callers in it’s ranks. I think we’re unwelcome here. I think we should leave.”
“Your eyes are as sharp as they are lovely, my dear.” Mikran replied. Then, mounting, he added;
“Let’s see if Dalgorra offers better hospitality.”
The trio fled for the border as fast as they could ride and drive. They crossed the protected line in time for the first volley of spells hurled at them to rebound from the Dalgorran boundary shield spell in a spectacular blast of colored fire.
Mikran dismounted atop a knoll between two Dalgorran border forts and turned to face the ratlovers. Planting his feet wide and raising his right fist on high, Mikran gathered flows of power, manifested as thick ropes of brightly colored light, running up both of his legs and down his right arm. This power seemed to gather in the crook of Mikran’s left elbow, in a growing, glowing ball. In this ball, the pure colors of the flows blended, blurred and muddied into something frightfully ugly.
When the glowing ball seemed about to explode with the sheer concentration of power, Mikran thrust his left fist forcefully at the advancing enemy. The ball of arcane energy flowed into an expanding sheet of raw power flying at the Rat Temple forces. This sheet twisted and roiled as it flew in a queasy, disturbing manner.
When the magical attack struck, it tore and shredded its targets horribly. If any of the mages with the temple regiment had shields or other protections in place, those were blasted apart like a straw hut struck by a tornado. Those who lived through that blow fled in terror.
Windstrider was waiting for Mikran to remount. Sharona drove up in the warcart. Tirane called up to Mikran;
“I know a great inn not half an hour’s drive from here. How about it?”
Mikran replied;
“Sounds fine to me. What say you, Sharona?”
Sharona replied;
“I want a bath, a good meal, some good wine, a soft bed, and you to warm it with me.”
“In that order?”
“Approximately, but I’m flexible.”
“I noticed that back in the Open Book. Sounds like a good substitute for heaven to me. Lead on”
Tirane took the reins, and the three friends headed for some well-earned rest and recreation. Which is part two of the tale, in which the sensual and exotic Tirane is persuaded to sample the pleasures of tickle submission, and becomes an enthusiastic convert.
The End
Authors note; As always, all comment and critcism welcome, and if any artist wishes to illustrate feel free.
