"Damaris, Angel of Joy" Part Five (Adult Fantasy Tickling Story) REPOST 2009
Brewing of a Storm
Ta'lia was a village woman of the Southlands.
On the outskirts of the Southlands bordering the Wyldelands, her village had been spared much of the horror of the Darque invasion. The men and women of the village were staunch supporters of King Tepik and when it was heard that the castle had fallen, the men of the village took their arms, kissed their wives and daughters goodbye and set out to fight this new evil.
Weeks had passed and they had not returned. Many of the villagers were lured into the larger communities where it was said the Darque was being generous and kind to those who supported their cause. Her village which once teemed with life was now practically abandoned.
She did not fear however. She could fend for herself and her daughters who were young wives themselves. They shared their mother's view that the village must be held until the Darque was vanquished and their noble men could return. They had an important part to play, and of that Ta'lia was convinced.
In that sense, she was not to be disappointed.
The princess and the Summerlander arrived at the village one fateful morning.
They were exhausted and hungry and worn down.
The Summerlander was reluctant to make their presence known nor to pause for respite, but princess X'mena, daughter of good King Tepik, insisted that they needed rest and shelter and that the people of this village were loyal beyond a ghost of a doubt.
They were both limping on injured ankles. Both on the left ankle which Ta'lia found quaint. The Summerlander did not ask for care for his own injury but insisted they tend to Princess X'mena's injury. Ta'lia removed the boot the princess wore and saw the swollen ankle. She was skilled in the healing arts and she was convinced that she could cure the ankle so at least she might continue on her journey.
Ta'lia touched the foot and it twitched wildly as X'mena struggled to keep from laughing. What was stranger yet was that the Summerlander became extremely uncomfortable as well.
“This might tickle a bit,” Ta'lia said, preparing to touch her sole and release the bad energy in her ankle and help heal the ankle.
X'mena laughed loudly as Ta'lia pressed her fingers on her sole releasing energy but also laughter. The Summerlander joined the laughter although it did not seem he was laughing at her predicament but more that he was laughing on his own accord.
“My daughters are as ticklish as you, my dear,” Ta'lia said as her daughters giggled at the predicament. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
When she had finished, the swelling had gone down dramatically and both the princess and the Summerlander walked with barely a limp. Ta'lia did not ask about the mysterious connection.
They slept a few hours and gathered supplies and when they left they were very grateful and promised to return once the Darque had been vanquished.
Ta'lia knew the safest routes into the Wyldelands and she shared this knowledge with the pair as they set off North.
It might have ended there, but there was another event that would mark Ta'lia's life forever.
A day later another visitor arrived at the village.
She did not make her presence known. One by one, she captured Ta'lia's daughters, sending them into deep slumber with magic that they could not resist. Ta'lia could sense the magic and she tried to resist, but as she chanted charms to protect her from magic, she could not foresee the arm that wrapped itself tightly around her neck and squeezed firmly but gently until everything went dark.
When she finally recovered her senses she was at her home resting on her back on a table in front of the fireplace. Her arms and legs were tied down tightly to the legs of the table. She struggled in her bondage but she could detect no possibility of escape.
In the next room she could see her daughters on their tiptoes tied and gagged and suspended from a beam on the roof.
“You didn't have any more tables,” a mysterious woman said, warming her hands at the fireplace. “So I improvised with your daughters. They are not quite as comfortable as you are and for that I apologize.”
She was dressed in black and had strange markings on her face. Her white skin and very light blond hair contrasted greatly with the dark garments. Ta'lia did not doubt for a moment that she was in the presence of an important minion of the Darque.
“I will be brief. Two fugitives entered this village a mere day ago. Their track was easy to follow up to here, but from here it is less apparent which way they continued North. You will tell me that and I will leave you and your daughters and your own devices.”
“I will never betray them. You are of the Darque and know this: I will never tell you which way they went,” she said proudly.
“I could burn the information out of you,” the woman said, lifting a hot piece of coal from the fireplace and holding it in her hand, “but I know your kind. There are more effective methods.”
The woman cut open Ta'lia's tunic revealing a dark brown torso which was quite fit considering Ta'lia's age. The woman ran her sharp nails all over Ta'lia's body trying to tickle her with expert fingers, but there was absolutely no reaction. Disappointed, she traced over the legs and darted her fingers over her bare soles which hung fixed in place at the table's legs.
“Kill me if you must, but I will never say,” Ta'lia vowed as she seemed immune to the sensations the woman applied to her skin.
“Killing you will not serve my purposes,” the mysterious woman said with a smile.
She stood up and silently went to the next room where the terrified daughters hung suspended and casually closed the door behind her.
“They know nothing!” Ta'lia cried, understanding the woman's intent.
Laughter was heard and her daughters who were extremely ticklish everywhere started a chorus of laughter and pleas for mercy. For five minutes they laughed, protested and spewed senseless nonsense. Ta'lia was certain it must be gibberish because her daughters did not know the way the fugitives had taken. Finally the woman returned.
“They could tell you nothing,” Ta'lia said, smiling with satisfaction.
“They could tell me enough,” the woman said as she drew near circles around Ta'lia's brown breasts with her fingers.
“I'm not ticklish like my daughters,” she said as the woman continued to tickle. “They get that from their father's side.”
“Your daughters say otherwise,” she said, tracing her underarms and testing once more her belly. “They say that there is a place, a special place that one must really search for and touch with just the right amount of pressure.”
She started to count Ta'lia's ribs from below her breast and Ta'lia went pale in realization.
“One, two, three,” the woman counted before pressing her fingers in between the ribs in a point that had gone overseen during the first pass. She was ticklish in only one place and now the woman knew.
The reaction was electrifying and Ta'lia screamed as if a hot coal had been put to her body.
Ta'lia broke into a horrid frenzy of laughter. The table jumped with her violent bucking but she remained fixed to the table.
“I know your type,” the woman said as she danced her fingers on Ta'lia's ribs with expert precision. Never had Ta'lia been restrained and tickled and the sensation was quite overwhelming. “You seem strong and of iron will, but you need only to persuaded the proper way and you become quite malleable.”
In a minute she had confessed where the fugitives had gone. After an hour, drenched in sweat and hoarse from screaming and laughing she had sworn allegiance to the Darque. After two hours, she was a faithful servant to the Darque. She did not have the will to resist and the woman's touch and words were powerful.
“I must be on my way,” the woman said to the daughters who continued suspended from the ceiling as she prepared to pursue the fugitives. “I have left you with your mother who now sees the Darque in a different light. I trust you'll join her.”
Ta'lia entered the room, her eyes poisoned with evil and her daughters cried in vain.
The cries turned to laughter and the woman was certain that within a few hours there would be new loyal Darque subjects.
“Darque and ruin,” she said as she left the house.
The woman smiled as a crow perched on her shoulder and they set out after the fugitives.
* * * * *
Aaron Longheart was assigned to the Sliver which was the tallest tower of the Summercastle and the ideal position to watch out for the arrival of the Darque. The tower was cold and dank most of the year. A set of stocks was kept up there for certain prisoners who the King wished to punish by showing them their freedom from atop the Sliver and of course denying it to them.
So Aaron sat alone on the edge of the stocks and watched out in all directions for the enemy, ready to alert at the moment he detected the approach of the forces of the Darque.
The castle was soon to be assaulted and there was heavy activity below. He was a young soldier and he had never done any battle yet. Not even with the yearly bouts with the Wyldlander raiders. He was scared and he felt doubt fill him and poison his heart.
A falcon appeared on the ledge of the tower and it seemed to study him intently.
That was strange, he thought and the falcon did not leave. It only stayed there perched on the ledge and watched him.
Having no one else to speak with, Aaron spoke to the falcon. He told it his fears and insecurities before the battle. How he wished he'd been more courageous and could have told his dear Shelly how much he loved her. Now she might never know. He went on and on mentioning fears and shortcomings and such.
The falcon entered the tower after having listened to him and if this was not unusual enough, the falcon transformed into a tall beautiful woman.
“A Wytch!” he cried trying to reach the cord that would ring the bell far below to alert his countrymen then realizing that she was standing between him and the alarm.
“Yes I am, but I am not your enemy,” the woman said soothingly. Her hair was raven black and her eyes a beautiful green.
“How can you prove that?” he said, pulling out his sword and pointing it feebly at the Wytch.
“You're alive, are you not?” she reasoned.
“You might be trying to distract me from a Darque attack.”
She pointed out to a heavy fog on the horizon.
“That's no natural haze,” she explained. “There is nothing that you will see until the Darque decides you should see it. And they will not attack in daylight so you can settle down and try to relax.”
“Relax,” Aaron said cynically. “My nerves are wrecked. I'm trembling like a child and I tell my weaknesses and shortcomings to a Wytch. I'm a soldier of the Royal Army of Summerland and I disgrace my charge with my cowardice. I might as well jump out the window than go on with this farce.”
“That would be a waste,” the Wytch said. “Summerland will need every last able man to survive this night. I, myself, could care less what happens to Summerland and its citizens. I've been persecuted more times than I can remember by Summerlander lads like you out to get some glory by slaying a Wytch.”
“What do you care then if I threw myself out and ended my misery before the Darque comes and slays us all?”
“I have my reasons,” the woman said smiling. Her beautiful green eyes smiled as well. “I can help you.”
“How?” he asked skeptically.
She took his sword and put it aside on a table.
“You'll need to trust me,” she said, pushing him gently back on the stocks.
He did not resist. Somehow he could not resist and it did not take her much effort for her to removed his boots and secure his ankles in the heavy stocks. She took his arms by the wrists and raised them above him, securing them with shackles above.
“I've been here before,” you see she said comfortingly. “In these very stocks. They torture Wytches here. The screams of terror are carried by the wind as a warning to other Wytches. I know. I have screamed the warning out onto the wind myself.”
Aaron shook his head and came to his senses as he heard the last shackle click. He instantly thought of the worst and that he had made a crucial mistake trusting the Wytch. He could swear that he could hear his sergeant and the rest of his troop climbing up the steps would come through the door.
“I'm going to be very good to you, Aaron,” she said seductively. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don't want your soul, I don't want your loyalty. I just want YOU for a little while.”
“I'm so nerve wrecked that not even your charms can do much for me I fear,” he said. Not even a beautiful seductive woman like this Wytch could stir his chilled blood. Not even Shelly, who he loved so intensely, could calm him.
“Nerves that are tense will hardly do for battle,” the Wytch said approaching. “If you go into battle like that, you will be sure to fall. We must do something to relieve that tension.”
She said nothing more and then suddenly, without warning, she tickled him. She started with his feet and he was so surprised he almost yelped. He laughed hard and helplessly. He knew he was ticklish but he had never been tickled in such a manner.
She raked his soles gently with her sharp nails and tickled between his toes with expert knowledge of the workings of the ticklish foot.
“They'll hear below,” he protested anxiously.
“I scream much louder than you and I assure you, no one below is more the wiser,” she said. “The King himself tickles the Wytches. He takes special relish to the act. I hope you don't mind if I imagine you are the King and I am tickling his ticklish flesh.”
She paused only for a moment to unfasten his leather armor and open his shirt revealing his bare chest.
“The men might come looking for me,” he said looking at the trapdoor where his fellow men might come through at any moment.
The Wytch muttered a quick spell and the door locked itself magically.
“I... told... you... to... stop... worrying,” she said, poking him in between a rib with each word and then scrambling her fingers all over his rib cage. He went mad with laughter, but not once did he beg her to stop. The battle seemed further away as he laughed desperately. His worries were gone and the only thing that mattered was that he was alone in a tower with a woman. Not a Wytch. A woman of hot flesh and blood.
He felt his blood warm and he felt his desire grow. She detected this perfectly and she kissed him to kindle his arousal.
She freed him and Aaron tore her clothes off in a frenzy. He made love to her like he had never made love before to any woman. It was hard and violent and passionate.
The cold tower was no longer cold to Aaron as he lay next to the Wytch.
“You must let me tickle you,” Aaron said.
“I hate being tickled,” she said, sitting and preparing to dress.
“I will be gentle,” Aaron promised.
“That is what they all say,” the Wytch said. “But once they realize they have the power and control, they can't resist pushing one to and past her limits. Nay, I cannot trust you.”
“I trusted you,” Aaron countered.
“There's not much time,” the Wytch said, seeing his logic reluctantly.
“Night is still hours away,” Aaron said.
The Wytch finally accepted and she climbed into the stocks she was obviously familiar with.
Aaron latched the wooden stocks shut on the Wytch's ankles and then secured her wrists above her head.
“I could turn you over to the King and reap a great reward,” Aaron said, tempted by the idea.
“You could,” she said. “But I trust you.”
“I said gentle,” he said smiling before placing his fingers on her soles.
The Wytch twisted in the stocks in anticipation.
Aaron felt the sensation of control and domination swell. She was helpless and he could make her feel ticklish sensations she could not resist. A powerful Wytch was now at his mercy.
True to his word, he was gentle. He traced his fingers slowly up and down her soft soles and she did not scream. She laughed pleasantly but very tensely. He continued this for some time tempted to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of her soles but more inclined to keep his promise.
He twisted his index finger in between her toes and the Wytch screamed at first but then returned to a metered laughter as he held back from tickling more than she could handle.
He went up her naked body. Her knees and hip were so ticklish he could only brush them softly with his fingertips. He placed his finger in her navel and she screamed and shivered but he realized she screamed of pleasure and not terror.
He tickled her underarms and she swung desperately from side to side laughing now less nervously but still very loud.
He tickled her breasts and reached under them to tickle her ribs ever so gently.
She laughed with pleasure and she did not protest his tickling at any point.
Content that he had had his opportunity to tickle the Wytch, he released her.
He was calm. Somehow being tickled and then tickling the Wytch had relieved him of a heavy weight on his shoulders. He realized that he could die, but he accepted it and resolved to make the best of his predicament.
“You'll do well tonight,” the Wytch said dressing. “And when it is all over you must give Shelly all your love. You are true to your word and there are few such as you that are not Demons.”
“What makes you think I will survive?” Aaron asked.
“I trusted you, now you must trust me,” she said with a wink.
Aaron watched as she transformed again and flew out the window.
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly out the window.
Aaron would survive the battle. And he went on to declare his love to Shelly who he later took for his wife. He never hunted a Wytch just for the fact she was a Wytch and was prone to let them go if they promised to steer clear of Summerland.
“A promise is good enough for me,” he'd say, certain that they would keep their word.
It was no surprise to Aaron, but they always did keep their word.
* * * * *
Garvis heeded the warning Damaris had given him that fateful day she had taken his mare and disappeared from Summerland not to be seen again. He gathered everyone to the Summercastle where he planned to make a last stand against the forces of the Darque. The few scouts who returned from reconnaissance reported terrible destruction of villages and razing of people who did not bow down to the iron fist of the Darque.
Garvis was surrounded by generals who debated the options for withstanding the siege when he heard a strange musical sound.
He stepped away from the generals and excused himself.
The music seemed to come from below. He asked other people if they could hear the singing but they would only shake their heads wondering if the stress of the battle was getting to the old man.
He followed past the kitchens and deep into the cellars. The cellar was quiet and dark and he needed a torch to find his way about. The singing was clearer now and he remembered now the voice to whom the singing belonged.
Damaris!
She was there in the darkness. Her red hair shined in the torchlight but more so her beautiful white wings. She was armed and had a silver helm on her head, but Garvis did not feel threatened.
“Damaris,” he gasped. “I knew you were not a Wytch.”
“No, good friend,” Damaris answered. “I've come ahead of my Sisters to tell you that there is hope. Unknown, even to me, is a cache of weapons here that will give you hope in the battle against the Darque. Behind that wall, if you bring men and tools you will find a stash of weapons that the Summerlanders used centuries ago to vanquish the Darque.”
“You are truly an Angel, Damaris if ever there was one,” he said thankfully. “I will tell the rest you are here. The King and his generals will want to speak with you of course.”
“Alas, that will not be so,” Damaris said. “You will remember my message, but you will not remember me. Tis the boon and the curse of an Angel.”
“Bah, that cannot be so. I cannot forget you,” he said.
“You have and you will again,”Damaris said sadly. “Now that I am an Angel once more you will not be able to remember me once I step out of your sight. I will always be Phillip's lost wife to you.”
“The day I found Phillip,” Garvis said. “Laying in the forest. He was not alone in the woods, was he?”
“I was there and we spoke,” Damaris acknowledged. “You do not recall. You cannot.”
“That is a shame,” he said gruffly. “Is Phillip safe?” he asked.
“He is alive,” Damaris said evenly. “And I will do everything I can to bring him home.”
“Will I remember that assurance?” he asked.
“You shall. And you shall not know why, but you will know that somewhere Phillip is alive and he has his guardian angel looking after him.”
Damaris stepped back into the shadows and Garvis suddenly shook his head as if to clear it of some cobwebs.
He looked around the cellar and then studied one of the walls intently.
“I can't explain it, but there is something behind this wall,” he said gruffly to himself. “I'll get a hammer and we'll see what is behind it.”
He left the cellar leaving a lone hidden Angel.
She would cry, but there were no tears she could shed for grief.
* * * * *
Areli was concerned.
She had told Damaris of the weapons cache in the Summercastle.
Instead of returning to the swelling ranks of the Covenant, she chose to warn the Summerlanders of the cache of weapons which they could use in their favor.
Areli could not be sure she would return. And now she stood before the Archangel Micaela who burned with anger. If Damaris did not return soon, Areli feared that she would be the target of her mistress's fury.
Damaris did return to the assembled Angels and Areli breathed a sigh of relief.
Micaela was angry. She wore a red tunic under a shiny plate of armor. Her body was perfectly sculpted. She had hard and powerful muscles and despite this power she remained definitely feminine. Her hair was dark and long. Her eyes were a steely grey and her face betrayed no emotion other than anger.
No one had ever heard her laugh, while most Angels had laughed themselves senseless under her swift tickling fingers.
“Damaris,” Micaela said with her words laced in fury.
“My liege,” Damaris replied.
“You lie,” Micaela said venomously. “If I were your liege, you would not disobey the orders of the Covenant. If I were your liege, you would report back to me instead of going first to warn your mortal friends. If I were your liege, you would love me over that mortal who so obviously has your heart captive.”
“The Summerlanders needed to be warned and I knew you wanted me for such a purpose,” Damaris answered despite the brewing fury of the Archangel. “I've come to help, but yes, you are right, once this battle is done I will return to my lover to whom I have given my heart. And once I have rescued him and he is safe, I will be yours to do with as you please.”
“As I please?” Micaela repeated so loudly Areli flinched. “You are an Angel and you are mine to command.”
“I have won the Right of Passage,” Damaris said. “I am free to continue my way.”
Micaela's steel grey eyes flashed at Areli and she nodded in shame.
“You are free to decide to leave,” Micaela acknowledged. “But I will not have you poisoning my ranks. You reek of Wytch and that cannot be allowed.”
“The Wytch does not serve the Darque...” Damaris said in protest.
“Silence!” Micaela boomed. She held up her right hand and in it five swirling spheres of intense blue glowed.
Areli and all the Angels present fixed their eyes on the spheres. They were known simply as the Empyrean. They possessed very powerful magic and an Archangel used them to wage battle and cast powerful spells. They were a symbol of her rank.
Damaris became silent, but she evidently resisted the power of the spheres that moved in circles on the palm of Micaela.
“You have your Right of Passage,” Micaela decided. “I will not break the rules of the Covenant as you have broken them. But I demand purification to stand among my ranks. And this, you shall not deny me.”
Damaris was mesmerized by the spheres. Her blue eyes were fixed on their peculiar movement and she could not resist.
“Who has your heart, Damaris?” Micaela asked.
“Phillip of Summerland,” Damaris answered.
“We shall remedy that,” Micaela said. “We can purify by water, by fire and by blood. But time conspires against us and we must settle for purification by laughter!”
The spheres glowed more intently on her palm and Damaris was raised in the air. Her sandals were unfastened and her feet rendered bare.
“I know every ticklish spot of yours, Damaris,” Micaela said. “I know you better than that mortal. What has it been? Five years? A blink of an eye for us. He will be a forgotten memory.”
Micaela placed her fingernails on Damaris's foot. The Empyrean seemed to bond with her fingernails.
The Archangel tickled the bare sole and Damaris instantly began to laugh. Her beautiful laughter instantly brought smiles to the faces of the angels assembled.
But not to Micaela. Her face was stone. She tickled with no emotion. She took to both soles and she tickled them perfectly. She tickled the most ticklish spots on the feet expertly. Areli knew Damaris's feet were especially ticklish.
“Who has your heart, Damaris?” Micaela asked once more as she tickled Damaris.
“Phillip of Summerland,” Damaris answered again breathlessly.
Micaela betrayed no emotion. If she was disappointed or frustrated she did not choose to display it.
“Areli,” she said, addressing the Angel. “Take care of Damaris.”
Areli stood to attention. She immediately called out the names of five Angels she trusted more than any other to be ruthless.
She felt sorry for Damaris, but Micaela's orders were to be followed to the letter. Such was the way of the Covenant.
She ordered Angels to Damaris's feet and others to her legs and her torso and underarms. But the most difficult part, Areli left for herself.
The head.
Damaris was still suspended in the air, but no longer was she mesmerized by the Empyrean. She looked at Areli with pleading eyes.
But there was no choice. She felt sorry for Damaris but she could show no mercy.
Areli nodded to the other Angels and they each took their part of Damaris's ticklish body and they tickled her viciously.
Damaris screamed and laughed hopelessly.
Areli then joined in and Damaris's hopes of resisting were crushed. Areli traced the helpless Angel's neck with her nails and gently stimulated her ears. Areli had hoped maybe somehow Damaris could resist, but she was so ticklish everywhere that even poor tickling would have her laughing madly. She watched Damaris's resistance fade away and when the six angels had finished, they presented a disheveled and wasted version of Damaris. Her red hair was stuck to her forehead in sweat and tears streamed down her cheeks. She knelt obediently before the Archangel.
Micaela stepped forward with the Empyrean and this time Damaris did not resist. Her will was once again one with the Covenant. Micaela would creep into her soul and she would eradicate any trace of her mortal lover. She would do so with no remorse, trampling emotions and dear memories as if they were dried fallen leaves under her feet.
“Who has your heart?” Micaela thundered.
“You do, Sister Micaela,” Damaris answered with no deliberation.
“We've been commanded to stop the Darque from taking the Summercastle,” Micaela said. “Do you know what that means?”
“War,” Damaris answered without emotion as she placed her helm on her head and gathered her gear.
“Yes,” Micaela answered. “We are born and bred for war, not love. You are my finest warrior. You will hold my right as we engage the enemy. When the smell of battle reaches your nostrils and the din of battle reaches your ears, you will wonder however was it so you could find any fascination in a mere mortal.”
Damaris was ready with sword and shield in full readiness.
“Sisterhood!” Micaela called out to the scores of Angels assembled. “We are off to war! I wish you all death! To die in battle is a privilege! But before we die let us purge this world of the Darque once more and make them rue the day they left their hellish realm.
“For Death and Glory!” Micaela cried, raising her mighty sword with her left hand as the hundreds of Angels followed suit with their own bloodthirsty cries.
They rose into the air as a flock of beautiful birds might.
But this was not a flock of gentle birds.
It was a legion of avenging Angels.
“Woe to he who stands in the path of Angels. Better to never have been born than to witness their terrible wrath. For there is nothing as beautiful nor anything as terrible.”
To be continued...
NEXT: "Battle in the Darque"
Brewing of a Storm
Ta'lia was a village woman of the Southlands.
On the outskirts of the Southlands bordering the Wyldelands, her village had been spared much of the horror of the Darque invasion. The men and women of the village were staunch supporters of King Tepik and when it was heard that the castle had fallen, the men of the village took their arms, kissed their wives and daughters goodbye and set out to fight this new evil.
Weeks had passed and they had not returned. Many of the villagers were lured into the larger communities where it was said the Darque was being generous and kind to those who supported their cause. Her village which once teemed with life was now practically abandoned.
She did not fear however. She could fend for herself and her daughters who were young wives themselves. They shared their mother's view that the village must be held until the Darque was vanquished and their noble men could return. They had an important part to play, and of that Ta'lia was convinced.
In that sense, she was not to be disappointed.
The princess and the Summerlander arrived at the village one fateful morning.
They were exhausted and hungry and worn down.
The Summerlander was reluctant to make their presence known nor to pause for respite, but princess X'mena, daughter of good King Tepik, insisted that they needed rest and shelter and that the people of this village were loyal beyond a ghost of a doubt.
They were both limping on injured ankles. Both on the left ankle which Ta'lia found quaint. The Summerlander did not ask for care for his own injury but insisted they tend to Princess X'mena's injury. Ta'lia removed the boot the princess wore and saw the swollen ankle. She was skilled in the healing arts and she was convinced that she could cure the ankle so at least she might continue on her journey.
Ta'lia touched the foot and it twitched wildly as X'mena struggled to keep from laughing. What was stranger yet was that the Summerlander became extremely uncomfortable as well.
“This might tickle a bit,” Ta'lia said, preparing to touch her sole and release the bad energy in her ankle and help heal the ankle.
X'mena laughed loudly as Ta'lia pressed her fingers on her sole releasing energy but also laughter. The Summerlander joined the laughter although it did not seem he was laughing at her predicament but more that he was laughing on his own accord.
“My daughters are as ticklish as you, my dear,” Ta'lia said as her daughters giggled at the predicament. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
When she had finished, the swelling had gone down dramatically and both the princess and the Summerlander walked with barely a limp. Ta'lia did not ask about the mysterious connection.
They slept a few hours and gathered supplies and when they left they were very grateful and promised to return once the Darque had been vanquished.
Ta'lia knew the safest routes into the Wyldelands and she shared this knowledge with the pair as they set off North.
It might have ended there, but there was another event that would mark Ta'lia's life forever.
A day later another visitor arrived at the village.
She did not make her presence known. One by one, she captured Ta'lia's daughters, sending them into deep slumber with magic that they could not resist. Ta'lia could sense the magic and she tried to resist, but as she chanted charms to protect her from magic, she could not foresee the arm that wrapped itself tightly around her neck and squeezed firmly but gently until everything went dark.
When she finally recovered her senses she was at her home resting on her back on a table in front of the fireplace. Her arms and legs were tied down tightly to the legs of the table. She struggled in her bondage but she could detect no possibility of escape.
In the next room she could see her daughters on their tiptoes tied and gagged and suspended from a beam on the roof.
“You didn't have any more tables,” a mysterious woman said, warming her hands at the fireplace. “So I improvised with your daughters. They are not quite as comfortable as you are and for that I apologize.”
She was dressed in black and had strange markings on her face. Her white skin and very light blond hair contrasted greatly with the dark garments. Ta'lia did not doubt for a moment that she was in the presence of an important minion of the Darque.
“I will be brief. Two fugitives entered this village a mere day ago. Their track was easy to follow up to here, but from here it is less apparent which way they continued North. You will tell me that and I will leave you and your daughters and your own devices.”
“I will never betray them. You are of the Darque and know this: I will never tell you which way they went,” she said proudly.
“I could burn the information out of you,” the woman said, lifting a hot piece of coal from the fireplace and holding it in her hand, “but I know your kind. There are more effective methods.”
The woman cut open Ta'lia's tunic revealing a dark brown torso which was quite fit considering Ta'lia's age. The woman ran her sharp nails all over Ta'lia's body trying to tickle her with expert fingers, but there was absolutely no reaction. Disappointed, she traced over the legs and darted her fingers over her bare soles which hung fixed in place at the table's legs.
“Kill me if you must, but I will never say,” Ta'lia vowed as she seemed immune to the sensations the woman applied to her skin.
“Killing you will not serve my purposes,” the mysterious woman said with a smile.
She stood up and silently went to the next room where the terrified daughters hung suspended and casually closed the door behind her.
“They know nothing!” Ta'lia cried, understanding the woman's intent.
Laughter was heard and her daughters who were extremely ticklish everywhere started a chorus of laughter and pleas for mercy. For five minutes they laughed, protested and spewed senseless nonsense. Ta'lia was certain it must be gibberish because her daughters did not know the way the fugitives had taken. Finally the woman returned.
“They could tell you nothing,” Ta'lia said, smiling with satisfaction.
“They could tell me enough,” the woman said as she drew near circles around Ta'lia's brown breasts with her fingers.
“I'm not ticklish like my daughters,” she said as the woman continued to tickle. “They get that from their father's side.”
“Your daughters say otherwise,” she said, tracing her underarms and testing once more her belly. “They say that there is a place, a special place that one must really search for and touch with just the right amount of pressure.”
She started to count Ta'lia's ribs from below her breast and Ta'lia went pale in realization.
“One, two, three,” the woman counted before pressing her fingers in between the ribs in a point that had gone overseen during the first pass. She was ticklish in only one place and now the woman knew.
The reaction was electrifying and Ta'lia screamed as if a hot coal had been put to her body.
Ta'lia broke into a horrid frenzy of laughter. The table jumped with her violent bucking but she remained fixed to the table.
“I know your type,” the woman said as she danced her fingers on Ta'lia's ribs with expert precision. Never had Ta'lia been restrained and tickled and the sensation was quite overwhelming. “You seem strong and of iron will, but you need only to persuaded the proper way and you become quite malleable.”
In a minute she had confessed where the fugitives had gone. After an hour, drenched in sweat and hoarse from screaming and laughing she had sworn allegiance to the Darque. After two hours, she was a faithful servant to the Darque. She did not have the will to resist and the woman's touch and words were powerful.
“I must be on my way,” the woman said to the daughters who continued suspended from the ceiling as she prepared to pursue the fugitives. “I have left you with your mother who now sees the Darque in a different light. I trust you'll join her.”
Ta'lia entered the room, her eyes poisoned with evil and her daughters cried in vain.
The cries turned to laughter and the woman was certain that within a few hours there would be new loyal Darque subjects.
“Darque and ruin,” she said as she left the house.
The woman smiled as a crow perched on her shoulder and they set out after the fugitives.
* * * * *
Aaron Longheart was assigned to the Sliver which was the tallest tower of the Summercastle and the ideal position to watch out for the arrival of the Darque. The tower was cold and dank most of the year. A set of stocks was kept up there for certain prisoners who the King wished to punish by showing them their freedom from atop the Sliver and of course denying it to them.
So Aaron sat alone on the edge of the stocks and watched out in all directions for the enemy, ready to alert at the moment he detected the approach of the forces of the Darque.
The castle was soon to be assaulted and there was heavy activity below. He was a young soldier and he had never done any battle yet. Not even with the yearly bouts with the Wyldlander raiders. He was scared and he felt doubt fill him and poison his heart.
A falcon appeared on the ledge of the tower and it seemed to study him intently.
That was strange, he thought and the falcon did not leave. It only stayed there perched on the ledge and watched him.
Having no one else to speak with, Aaron spoke to the falcon. He told it his fears and insecurities before the battle. How he wished he'd been more courageous and could have told his dear Shelly how much he loved her. Now she might never know. He went on and on mentioning fears and shortcomings and such.
The falcon entered the tower after having listened to him and if this was not unusual enough, the falcon transformed into a tall beautiful woman.
“A Wytch!” he cried trying to reach the cord that would ring the bell far below to alert his countrymen then realizing that she was standing between him and the alarm.
“Yes I am, but I am not your enemy,” the woman said soothingly. Her hair was raven black and her eyes a beautiful green.
“How can you prove that?” he said, pulling out his sword and pointing it feebly at the Wytch.
“You're alive, are you not?” she reasoned.
“You might be trying to distract me from a Darque attack.”
She pointed out to a heavy fog on the horizon.
“That's no natural haze,” she explained. “There is nothing that you will see until the Darque decides you should see it. And they will not attack in daylight so you can settle down and try to relax.”
“Relax,” Aaron said cynically. “My nerves are wrecked. I'm trembling like a child and I tell my weaknesses and shortcomings to a Wytch. I'm a soldier of the Royal Army of Summerland and I disgrace my charge with my cowardice. I might as well jump out the window than go on with this farce.”
“That would be a waste,” the Wytch said. “Summerland will need every last able man to survive this night. I, myself, could care less what happens to Summerland and its citizens. I've been persecuted more times than I can remember by Summerlander lads like you out to get some glory by slaying a Wytch.”
“What do you care then if I threw myself out and ended my misery before the Darque comes and slays us all?”
“I have my reasons,” the woman said smiling. Her beautiful green eyes smiled as well. “I can help you.”
“How?” he asked skeptically.
She took his sword and put it aside on a table.
“You'll need to trust me,” she said, pushing him gently back on the stocks.
He did not resist. Somehow he could not resist and it did not take her much effort for her to removed his boots and secure his ankles in the heavy stocks. She took his arms by the wrists and raised them above him, securing them with shackles above.
“I've been here before,” you see she said comfortingly. “In these very stocks. They torture Wytches here. The screams of terror are carried by the wind as a warning to other Wytches. I know. I have screamed the warning out onto the wind myself.”
Aaron shook his head and came to his senses as he heard the last shackle click. He instantly thought of the worst and that he had made a crucial mistake trusting the Wytch. He could swear that he could hear his sergeant and the rest of his troop climbing up the steps would come through the door.
“I'm going to be very good to you, Aaron,” she said seductively. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don't want your soul, I don't want your loyalty. I just want YOU for a little while.”
“I'm so nerve wrecked that not even your charms can do much for me I fear,” he said. Not even a beautiful seductive woman like this Wytch could stir his chilled blood. Not even Shelly, who he loved so intensely, could calm him.
“Nerves that are tense will hardly do for battle,” the Wytch said approaching. “If you go into battle like that, you will be sure to fall. We must do something to relieve that tension.”
She said nothing more and then suddenly, without warning, she tickled him. She started with his feet and he was so surprised he almost yelped. He laughed hard and helplessly. He knew he was ticklish but he had never been tickled in such a manner.
She raked his soles gently with her sharp nails and tickled between his toes with expert knowledge of the workings of the ticklish foot.
“They'll hear below,” he protested anxiously.
“I scream much louder than you and I assure you, no one below is more the wiser,” she said. “The King himself tickles the Wytches. He takes special relish to the act. I hope you don't mind if I imagine you are the King and I am tickling his ticklish flesh.”
She paused only for a moment to unfasten his leather armor and open his shirt revealing his bare chest.
“The men might come looking for me,” he said looking at the trapdoor where his fellow men might come through at any moment.
The Wytch muttered a quick spell and the door locked itself magically.
“I... told... you... to... stop... worrying,” she said, poking him in between a rib with each word and then scrambling her fingers all over his rib cage. He went mad with laughter, but not once did he beg her to stop. The battle seemed further away as he laughed desperately. His worries were gone and the only thing that mattered was that he was alone in a tower with a woman. Not a Wytch. A woman of hot flesh and blood.
He felt his blood warm and he felt his desire grow. She detected this perfectly and she kissed him to kindle his arousal.
She freed him and Aaron tore her clothes off in a frenzy. He made love to her like he had never made love before to any woman. It was hard and violent and passionate.
The cold tower was no longer cold to Aaron as he lay next to the Wytch.
“You must let me tickle you,” Aaron said.
“I hate being tickled,” she said, sitting and preparing to dress.
“I will be gentle,” Aaron promised.
“That is what they all say,” the Wytch said. “But once they realize they have the power and control, they can't resist pushing one to and past her limits. Nay, I cannot trust you.”
“I trusted you,” Aaron countered.
“There's not much time,” the Wytch said, seeing his logic reluctantly.
“Night is still hours away,” Aaron said.
The Wytch finally accepted and she climbed into the stocks she was obviously familiar with.
Aaron latched the wooden stocks shut on the Wytch's ankles and then secured her wrists above her head.
“I could turn you over to the King and reap a great reward,” Aaron said, tempted by the idea.
“You could,” she said. “But I trust you.”
“I said gentle,” he said smiling before placing his fingers on her soles.
The Wytch twisted in the stocks in anticipation.
Aaron felt the sensation of control and domination swell. She was helpless and he could make her feel ticklish sensations she could not resist. A powerful Wytch was now at his mercy.
True to his word, he was gentle. He traced his fingers slowly up and down her soft soles and she did not scream. She laughed pleasantly but very tensely. He continued this for some time tempted to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of her soles but more inclined to keep his promise.
He twisted his index finger in between her toes and the Wytch screamed at first but then returned to a metered laughter as he held back from tickling more than she could handle.
He went up her naked body. Her knees and hip were so ticklish he could only brush them softly with his fingertips. He placed his finger in her navel and she screamed and shivered but he realized she screamed of pleasure and not terror.
He tickled her underarms and she swung desperately from side to side laughing now less nervously but still very loud.
He tickled her breasts and reached under them to tickle her ribs ever so gently.
She laughed with pleasure and she did not protest his tickling at any point.
Content that he had had his opportunity to tickle the Wytch, he released her.
He was calm. Somehow being tickled and then tickling the Wytch had relieved him of a heavy weight on his shoulders. He realized that he could die, but he accepted it and resolved to make the best of his predicament.
“You'll do well tonight,” the Wytch said dressing. “And when it is all over you must give Shelly all your love. You are true to your word and there are few such as you that are not Demons.”
“What makes you think I will survive?” Aaron asked.
“I trusted you, now you must trust me,” she said with a wink.
Aaron watched as she transformed again and flew out the window.
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly out the window.
Aaron would survive the battle. And he went on to declare his love to Shelly who he later took for his wife. He never hunted a Wytch just for the fact she was a Wytch and was prone to let them go if they promised to steer clear of Summerland.
“A promise is good enough for me,” he'd say, certain that they would keep their word.
It was no surprise to Aaron, but they always did keep their word.
* * * * *
Garvis heeded the warning Damaris had given him that fateful day she had taken his mare and disappeared from Summerland not to be seen again. He gathered everyone to the Summercastle where he planned to make a last stand against the forces of the Darque. The few scouts who returned from reconnaissance reported terrible destruction of villages and razing of people who did not bow down to the iron fist of the Darque.
Garvis was surrounded by generals who debated the options for withstanding the siege when he heard a strange musical sound.
He stepped away from the generals and excused himself.
The music seemed to come from below. He asked other people if they could hear the singing but they would only shake their heads wondering if the stress of the battle was getting to the old man.
He followed past the kitchens and deep into the cellars. The cellar was quiet and dark and he needed a torch to find his way about. The singing was clearer now and he remembered now the voice to whom the singing belonged.
Damaris!
She was there in the darkness. Her red hair shined in the torchlight but more so her beautiful white wings. She was armed and had a silver helm on her head, but Garvis did not feel threatened.
“Damaris,” he gasped. “I knew you were not a Wytch.”
“No, good friend,” Damaris answered. “I've come ahead of my Sisters to tell you that there is hope. Unknown, even to me, is a cache of weapons here that will give you hope in the battle against the Darque. Behind that wall, if you bring men and tools you will find a stash of weapons that the Summerlanders used centuries ago to vanquish the Darque.”
“You are truly an Angel, Damaris if ever there was one,” he said thankfully. “I will tell the rest you are here. The King and his generals will want to speak with you of course.”
“Alas, that will not be so,” Damaris said. “You will remember my message, but you will not remember me. Tis the boon and the curse of an Angel.”
“Bah, that cannot be so. I cannot forget you,” he said.
“You have and you will again,”Damaris said sadly. “Now that I am an Angel once more you will not be able to remember me once I step out of your sight. I will always be Phillip's lost wife to you.”
“The day I found Phillip,” Garvis said. “Laying in the forest. He was not alone in the woods, was he?”
“I was there and we spoke,” Damaris acknowledged. “You do not recall. You cannot.”
“That is a shame,” he said gruffly. “Is Phillip safe?” he asked.
“He is alive,” Damaris said evenly. “And I will do everything I can to bring him home.”
“Will I remember that assurance?” he asked.
“You shall. And you shall not know why, but you will know that somewhere Phillip is alive and he has his guardian angel looking after him.”
Damaris stepped back into the shadows and Garvis suddenly shook his head as if to clear it of some cobwebs.
He looked around the cellar and then studied one of the walls intently.
“I can't explain it, but there is something behind this wall,” he said gruffly to himself. “I'll get a hammer and we'll see what is behind it.”
He left the cellar leaving a lone hidden Angel.
She would cry, but there were no tears she could shed for grief.
* * * * *
Areli was concerned.
She had told Damaris of the weapons cache in the Summercastle.
Instead of returning to the swelling ranks of the Covenant, she chose to warn the Summerlanders of the cache of weapons which they could use in their favor.
Areli could not be sure she would return. And now she stood before the Archangel Micaela who burned with anger. If Damaris did not return soon, Areli feared that she would be the target of her mistress's fury.
Damaris did return to the assembled Angels and Areli breathed a sigh of relief.
Micaela was angry. She wore a red tunic under a shiny plate of armor. Her body was perfectly sculpted. She had hard and powerful muscles and despite this power she remained definitely feminine. Her hair was dark and long. Her eyes were a steely grey and her face betrayed no emotion other than anger.
No one had ever heard her laugh, while most Angels had laughed themselves senseless under her swift tickling fingers.
“Damaris,” Micaela said with her words laced in fury.
“My liege,” Damaris replied.
“You lie,” Micaela said venomously. “If I were your liege, you would not disobey the orders of the Covenant. If I were your liege, you would report back to me instead of going first to warn your mortal friends. If I were your liege, you would love me over that mortal who so obviously has your heart captive.”
“The Summerlanders needed to be warned and I knew you wanted me for such a purpose,” Damaris answered despite the brewing fury of the Archangel. “I've come to help, but yes, you are right, once this battle is done I will return to my lover to whom I have given my heart. And once I have rescued him and he is safe, I will be yours to do with as you please.”
“As I please?” Micaela repeated so loudly Areli flinched. “You are an Angel and you are mine to command.”
“I have won the Right of Passage,” Damaris said. “I am free to continue my way.”
Micaela's steel grey eyes flashed at Areli and she nodded in shame.
“You are free to decide to leave,” Micaela acknowledged. “But I will not have you poisoning my ranks. You reek of Wytch and that cannot be allowed.”
“The Wytch does not serve the Darque...” Damaris said in protest.
“Silence!” Micaela boomed. She held up her right hand and in it five swirling spheres of intense blue glowed.
Areli and all the Angels present fixed their eyes on the spheres. They were known simply as the Empyrean. They possessed very powerful magic and an Archangel used them to wage battle and cast powerful spells. They were a symbol of her rank.
Damaris became silent, but she evidently resisted the power of the spheres that moved in circles on the palm of Micaela.
“You have your Right of Passage,” Micaela decided. “I will not break the rules of the Covenant as you have broken them. But I demand purification to stand among my ranks. And this, you shall not deny me.”
Damaris was mesmerized by the spheres. Her blue eyes were fixed on their peculiar movement and she could not resist.
“Who has your heart, Damaris?” Micaela asked.
“Phillip of Summerland,” Damaris answered.
“We shall remedy that,” Micaela said. “We can purify by water, by fire and by blood. But time conspires against us and we must settle for purification by laughter!”
The spheres glowed more intently on her palm and Damaris was raised in the air. Her sandals were unfastened and her feet rendered bare.
“I know every ticklish spot of yours, Damaris,” Micaela said. “I know you better than that mortal. What has it been? Five years? A blink of an eye for us. He will be a forgotten memory.”
Micaela placed her fingernails on Damaris's foot. The Empyrean seemed to bond with her fingernails.
The Archangel tickled the bare sole and Damaris instantly began to laugh. Her beautiful laughter instantly brought smiles to the faces of the angels assembled.
But not to Micaela. Her face was stone. She tickled with no emotion. She took to both soles and she tickled them perfectly. She tickled the most ticklish spots on the feet expertly. Areli knew Damaris's feet were especially ticklish.
“Who has your heart, Damaris?” Micaela asked once more as she tickled Damaris.
“Phillip of Summerland,” Damaris answered again breathlessly.
Micaela betrayed no emotion. If she was disappointed or frustrated she did not choose to display it.
“Areli,” she said, addressing the Angel. “Take care of Damaris.”
Areli stood to attention. She immediately called out the names of five Angels she trusted more than any other to be ruthless.
She felt sorry for Damaris, but Micaela's orders were to be followed to the letter. Such was the way of the Covenant.
She ordered Angels to Damaris's feet and others to her legs and her torso and underarms. But the most difficult part, Areli left for herself.
The head.
Damaris was still suspended in the air, but no longer was she mesmerized by the Empyrean. She looked at Areli with pleading eyes.
But there was no choice. She felt sorry for Damaris but she could show no mercy.
Areli nodded to the other Angels and they each took their part of Damaris's ticklish body and they tickled her viciously.
Damaris screamed and laughed hopelessly.
Areli then joined in and Damaris's hopes of resisting were crushed. Areli traced the helpless Angel's neck with her nails and gently stimulated her ears. Areli had hoped maybe somehow Damaris could resist, but she was so ticklish everywhere that even poor tickling would have her laughing madly. She watched Damaris's resistance fade away and when the six angels had finished, they presented a disheveled and wasted version of Damaris. Her red hair was stuck to her forehead in sweat and tears streamed down her cheeks. She knelt obediently before the Archangel.
Micaela stepped forward with the Empyrean and this time Damaris did not resist. Her will was once again one with the Covenant. Micaela would creep into her soul and she would eradicate any trace of her mortal lover. She would do so with no remorse, trampling emotions and dear memories as if they were dried fallen leaves under her feet.
“Who has your heart?” Micaela thundered.
“You do, Sister Micaela,” Damaris answered with no deliberation.
“We've been commanded to stop the Darque from taking the Summercastle,” Micaela said. “Do you know what that means?”
“War,” Damaris answered without emotion as she placed her helm on her head and gathered her gear.
“Yes,” Micaela answered. “We are born and bred for war, not love. You are my finest warrior. You will hold my right as we engage the enemy. When the smell of battle reaches your nostrils and the din of battle reaches your ears, you will wonder however was it so you could find any fascination in a mere mortal.”
Damaris was ready with sword and shield in full readiness.
“Sisterhood!” Micaela called out to the scores of Angels assembled. “We are off to war! I wish you all death! To die in battle is a privilege! But before we die let us purge this world of the Darque once more and make them rue the day they left their hellish realm.
“For Death and Glory!” Micaela cried, raising her mighty sword with her left hand as the hundreds of Angels followed suit with their own bloodthirsty cries.
They rose into the air as a flock of beautiful birds might.
But this was not a flock of gentle birds.
It was a legion of avenging Angels.
“Woe to he who stands in the path of Angels. Better to never have been born than to witness their terrible wrath. For there is nothing as beautiful nor anything as terrible.”
To be continued...
NEXT: "Battle in the Darque"
