Silver

Chapter 1: A meeting of minds and bodies

The cold, pale light of Atryx, the azure moon, lent a pearly glow to alabaster skin, reflecting a sapphire lambence from the dreamy eyes that looked into her twin. The full sized mirror was a rarity, a marvel of construction to equal any in the imperial palace. The frame was heavy and thick, expertly carved with roses, thorny vines and twisting silhouettes of great serpents, a construct of burnished silver wrested from the depths of Servesti’s mines. The clear crystal was formed, legend said, from a crystallized tear of a forgotten goddess. The mirror’s perfection, however, was but a pale shadow of the image it presented at that moment. The woman who stood dream-gazing was young, fresh and so fair that she might well be mistaken for a goddess. Vampire-white skin, soft and creamy, contrasted sharply with ebon curls that caressed delectable shoulders and framed features that defied description. Delicate, one might say, dainty another would argue. Few men, faced with her unclad, would spare more than a momentary glance for a face that might still a heart, and had stolen many. Of average height, that was the only average thing an onlooker would find. Slender, nearly too thin for her build, the swell of her breasts and hips was maiden-like rather than lush, the only color gracing her pale body displayed by a pair of pinkish, virginal nipples and a line of tangled dark hair between thighs that might well raise a corpse to rigid attention. Perfection of form and face would have held another spell bound, but the girl paid her reflection not an iota of attention. Vain she might be, but she was well inured to such sights, for her relatives were as attractive, and could surpass her easily with the glamours they employed with great frequency. Appearances were a shell a sorceress could look behind and beyond and a trained mind was not easily led astray by unearthly beauty. Still and all, she was distracted. A long fingered hand, nails trimmed with meticulous attention, fingered the cause – the single ornament she wore, an eggshaped glittery-black stone the size of a child’s thumb joint, threaded upon silver wire around her swan’s neck, nestled in the hollow of her throat. The black pendant was no ordinary jewel or trantle, and its weight carried a heavy promise of power coupled with a threat that lay even heavier upon a restless mind.

Sapphire eyes snapped into focus, sharp edged, awakened from her dreaming with a veritable slap as the mirror clouded, and a view to otherwhere materialized. “Sister! Such a surprise,” collided with the chime-like chuckle of the lady who sat, revealed, upon a throne of pale marble threaded with veins of ochre. “Preparing for an assignation, Elorie? Listen well then. There’s been an attack on Avoy, mercenaries and bandits. A ruse, to distract Halanthra and permit an assassin’s poisoned bolt to strike. The poison,” the seated woman, a more mature version of Elorie in an elaborate and revealing gown of black and silver, frowned, the tone of her voice promising death, “was imbued with a spirit sacrifice. Not long thereafter, the mines at Telanther collapsed. According to the circle of stone, those responsible were taken by the web of defence as it lashed out in response, but the force of their strike was too great for it to absorb. I don’t need to tell you what this means for our wealth and prestige. You know what needs to be done.” Face frozen into a mask, the girl merely nodded, black curls swishing against bare skin, already considering which faction or temporary alliance might be responsible. “This is truly HER mirror then? You would not have used it otherwise,” her thin eyebrows rose in question. “Yes, Elorie, that is correct. Even the link might be broken or eavesdropped upon. But none can interfere with the Lady’s artifacts. Except, perhaps, you – if you prove worthy”. “If I survive, you mean,” she responded with an overtone of bitterness. “But perhaps they are one and the same. Fair fortune, Alysin, until we speak again,” she said breathily, the mirror misting and fading to clarity as her hot breath reached it.

Pacing back and forth on the lush carpet of bedchamber, she considered and planned, plotted and…

A tentative knock on the door to her chambers brought a curve to Elorie’s lips, a smile of mischief and anticipation. While she had little need to prepare, an assignation was precisely what she had planned. Alysin did know her well… The thin, rune inscribed metal barrier swung open noiselessly as she turned to face the door, and the black fist that would have struck once more, with greater force, threw the robed figure off balance for a moment, before a warrior’s instinct took hold. The ambassador to the imperial court from the distant jungles of Amhadir was an inch or three over six feet, a thick and impressive figure. His coal black skin reminded her of the bodyguards she had been forced to leave behind, and indeed they derived from the same stock. Benendar was clean shaven, dressed in the traditional diplomat’s robe of shimmering gray, the enchantment on the fabric designed to keep him comfortable in what was, to him, a chilly environment, and he wore it as well as he bore his years. Though approaching middle age, there was no give in his muscles and little gray in his hair, and no courtier who survived it underestimated him twice. Stepping into the room, he oriented himself quickly and found her almost immediately, freezing at the naughty smile on her face, not with desire but with surprise. The Aillard women were best admired from a distance, and centuries of experience had shown exactly how dangerous they could be. The rumours whispered that none survived their embrace who were not bonded and sworn to them, and those that did were devoted slaves, doomed. On the other hand, it was almost unknown for a man to refuse their importuning, the beckoning of the hypnoticly seductive quickly drawing the thorn of peasant superstitions. Benendar had known what to expect of the night, eagerness mixed with apprehension, but the lack of preliminaries left him unbalanced. Thinking quickly, Benendar muttered “Ah… I thought we were…”. “There is no need to think,” Elorie whispered huskily, and the blood rose to his face as she stepped closer, his eyes surveying the wealth of female flesh before him, halting at the joining of her thighs. Suddenly, he was naked, his robe and underclothes lying on the ground, and she licked her lips at his massive erection, stepping within hand’s reach and stretching her arm to caress his taut stomach. Reaching a decision quickly on this most unusual field of battle, Benendar growled, promising himself that he would enjoy himself to the utmost, as his hands closed upon her waist and lifted her close, shifting one dark calloused hand to grasp her pale behind and support her as he brought her lips to his, thick fingers cupping her buttocks and entering the crack between. Lips met in a crackle of enchantment, as the fires of passion built, and his tongue quested between her open lips, probing for the softest point in her mouth, and finding it, dallied there until a moan rose from the sorceress's throat. His hands pressed her closer to his body, pressing upon the small of her back and her behind with his full strength. Lifting her momentarily, his dark lips closed over a virginal nipple, white teeth worrying at alabaster flesh, and Elorie’s hands tangled in the thick mane of his hair as she parted her thighs and wrapped her legs around him, binding them closer yet, the pressure of his erection against her lower stomach titilating both. Her back arced as he feasted on the tender flesh of her full, high breasts, and she jerked back and forth against his firm grip. Satiated for the nonce, he startled a shriek out of her as he hurled her, full force, upon the satin clad bed, large enough to hold half a dozen amorous couples. “Humph,” she muttered indignantly against the soft covers, “that’s no way to treat a lady”, and turned over to find Benendar seated at her side and bending down, hands stretching forth. He began to pinch, poke and prod at every sensitive spot on her body, from her soft vulnerable belly to the upthrust breasts with their rigid nubs, the moist lips of her sex, the velvety smooth length of her back and the yielding flesh of her ass. Quivering beneath the ungentle shadow, limned by the moon’s light, she moaned and gasped, jumping with reaction as fingers touched her mound and reached beneath, lapping at the gathering moistness. Finally, he could stand it no more. The writhing girl’s magnificence had aroused him to a fever’s pitch, his pole pointing skyward as it has not for some years, harder than mithral steel. Grasping her slim wrists firmly, he pulled her towards the centre of the bed, entangling her head in a mass of pillows, and crouched between her parted thighs and thrust, the tingling tip of his massive coal black cock finding a warm welcome between her sweet nether lips. Her hips rose in response, and she was fully impaled, purring in impatient desire as he lowered himself over her, darkness eclipsing her moonglow, catching his weight upon raised elbows. Thrust and withdraw, the ancient rhythm soon took hold, her fingers raking his back, legs spread in wanton abandon, his face full of the warm and spicy scent of her silky hair, breaths stolen between gasps and grunts. Stiffening suddenly, the heat quickened in his loins and he came, torrents of seed spilling into the tight embrace of her cunt, his weight pressing down on her pale slenderness. Wriggling out from underneath, she moulded herself against him, breasts flattening against the dark expanse of his muscled back, tongue lapping against the side of his neck, as he lay supine in repose, recovering. Sitting back, she straddled him, rubbing herself against him, leaving trails of moisture, and began massaging him with expertise and a strength surprising from such a slip of a girl. “Ahh…”, he moaned, “that is very good. Almost as good as..”, he chuckled, and rose in surprise and shock as her longfingered hand reaches beneath, cradling his spent member. “Hush,” she pushed him down gently, kissing him full on the mouth, “we are not yet done.” Lowering her mouth to join her fist, she elicited a series of blasphemous utterances as her expert tongue restored his vigor in a matter of moments. Courtesan training is a requisite in the training regimen of her house, one of the courses she enjoyed most, and excelled at. Holding his black shaft at attention, her rosebud mouth engulfed his moist glans, fingers drawing trails of fire on his flesh. Benendar had to engage all his discipline to keep from himself from directing her mouth, reaching to grasp her curls and control her motion, as her tender ministrations were driving him to the edge. “And what shall we do with this?”, she asks in mock innocence, brandishing his slick cock, sapphire eyes dilated with lust. Roaring in near anguish, he seized her shoulder, turning her on her side. Hardened black hands met soft buttocks with a smack, and he knelt behind her reddened behind, almost blind in his eagerness, fumbling at first in his search for her slit, covered as it is in raindrenched brush of softest black. Mounting her at last, he reached forward to fondle and cup her breasts, her paleness driving him wilder. He pumped his manhood into her with abandon, and the lovers nearly toppled to the floor. Clamping tightly onto the thickness penetrating her, she never noticed, the heat spreading from her sex to bloom in her skull as she exploded in orgasm, nearly unleashing the spiritual fire and ecstasy in an aura of consuming energy. Reining herself in sternly, she milked him with practiced skill until he collapsed, withdrawing from her sex, trailing a stream of semen. With a glance at the moon, she sighed regretfully and whispered a convoluted enchantment, hands weaving a complicated tapestry of air. Silvery motes of light sprang from her fingertips and thickened into a blanket that engulfed the now sleeping Benendar. The light grew brighter and brighter, and suddenly shrank, seeming to eat the ambassador. The aura faded, leaving a tiny obsidian statue of a nude man on the sheets. Rising from the bed, one hand snaking out to snatch the figurine, Elorie regreted that there was no more time, not even for a bath, if she was to finish her business for the night. Dressing in haste, she flung on the tightfitting black leather outfit and hooded mask meant for nightwork and placed rings and bracelets, earrings and toerings, jeweled pins and woven gloves that thrummed with leashed power on her person. Teleportation and magical eavesdropping being impossible within the imperial palace’s wards, she thinned herself into a cloud of wispy gray smoke, and left her rooms through a specially drilled hole that led to the corridor in the level above. The mist, nearly invisible even in the well lighted corridors leading to the guest suites of ambassadors and important dignitaries, flowed with incredible speed along the ceiling – people rarely look up – and entered a certain chamber, coalescing into the dark-clothed sorceress. A small figurine, seemingly carved from obsidian, lay on her palm, and she brought it to her lips, kissing it softly and lingeringly. Tossing it onto the bed, she whispered a word, and the sudden snore from the sleeping form of Benendar startled her into a backstep, hand raised in a prelude to a magical strike. Laughing softly at herself, Elorie shifted into mist, and rode the winds to the Aillards’ greatest secret within the palace walls, the spymaster: a seemingly innocent globe of gleaming crystal set in the library to provide scholars with a convenient tool to order meals. Kalistra’s collection, it was called by those few in the know, as subtle and dangerous a tool as Elorie had ever seen, a gift from her predecessor at the court. The crystalline repository generated an enormous number of spies, tinier than most insects, that crawled, flew and crept everywhere. Should they be sighted, they automatically disintegrated, leaving those of keen eye wondering at their imagination. Little more than eyes, ears and a means of locomotion, upon their return to ‘mother’, every bit of information was collected and collated by a spirit creature loyal to Aillard, a creation of Kalistra, a sorceress who had disappeared more than two millenia ago. Coiling about the orb, Elorie absorbed all she needed to know in order to formulate her plan, and a blur of a shadow leaped forth.

Chapter 2: An execution and a discovery

The dancers were beautiful. Twins, they were identical in all things but for the location of the brand, and they wove in and out of each others’ fluid motions so that the eye was frequently deceived, unable to tell which one had gone which way. Red hair fell across the gauzy material of their flowing garb, a rare shade of molten copper with highlights of darker hue, and their bare feet made no sound as they sank into the luxurious carpet. Reclined at his ease on the heavily padded sofa, Ezril Dur sipped from his golden goblet of bluish-white moonwine and looked with rapt attention at his lovely and talented slaves, thinking happy thoughts. A large man in his early thirties, Ezril was nearly bald and quite thick in the middle, gone to seed in the licentious atmosphere of the court, in sharp contrast to his earlier service as a cavalry officer assigned to what was euphemistically called ‘harvesting’, the gathering of slaves from outside the breeding farms, one of his house’s major sources of income. His practice as a redsword raider and a skilled tactician had served him well in the sharp edged environment of the imperial palace, as his trade in favors and more concrete items, blackmail and the occasional pre-arranged accident had increased his house’s wealth and notoriety in a manner pleasing to his superiors. Any failure or blunder had been skillfully shunted aside, blamed on a servitor or ally, and the future looked bright. For the immediate future, he banished considerations of power and position, and crooked a finger at the girls, summoning them closer. The twins halted their spin obediently, leaving their dancing garb on the floor with a twist of movement that brought a hint of drool to the corner of Ezril’s mouth, and stepped within arm’s reach. For a moment, he looked over their lush bodies, his eyes drawn to full breasts and long legs, muscles sharply defined by years of relentless gymnastic and athletic exercise, and settled on their brands, an axehead in blood-red on pale skin, burned onto their thighs. It was the development of the brand that had granted his house the stranglehold on the slave trade. His many times great-uncle (who had left not a single child of his own), the brilliant and sadistic wizard Kartus ‘the Flayer’ had researched a magic that subjugated the spirit so completely that less than one in a thousand could successfully resist. Those who managed it earned a worse fate by far, taken to laboratories wherein experiments so dread that only whispers had reached even Ezril took place, their purpose to find the source of will, to finally crush any resistance. The multilayered magics of the slave sign meant that only the greatest of sorcerers could remove it safely, and even then only a select few survived to attain freedom. Not zombies, the branded were willing and even eager to obey their masters, and a ritual kept secret by the Dur was the only way to transfer obedience and thus true allegiance. The only reason slave armies were not kept these days was that magic had proved capable of disrupting the bond on a large scale, casting confusion and rebellion amongst the ranks. The priesthood of Adur, the bright lady of light, laughter, friendship and liberty had pronounced a holy war against the scions of Dur upon the first instance of widespread use of the brand, but with their order under proscription since the battle of Stormlight and the death of empress Tilanthia, their means were limited. Still, it was a rare year when a cousin or three were not burnt to ashes by light bolts from the hands of the faithful, and raids on the farms were commonplace, but mercenaries were cheap, especially when they rarely lived long enough to collect their pay.

Fleshy hands reached out, one cupping and fondling a breast and the other, thick fingers gathered in a wedge, invading the sanctum of bare and puffy lips, entering the exposed and hairless twat of the righthanded of the twins, who could not contain a gasp of pain and reeled in place, agony painted starkly on her face, as he used his grip on her breast to bring her closer, bruising her tender mammary and breathing in her pain with his mouth on her lips. At a hissed word, her sister kneeled and reached out slowly and carefully, well aware that mishandling his privates would earn her a very painful ordeal, and drew out his cock, warmth filling her hand, the reddish rod suffused with blood, fully erect after watching their performance of the Flaming Fountain, a dance originally conceived by the courtesan Illishtia the Nightfox, its purpose to inflame the senses. Her full, bee stung lips enveloped his pole and her cheeks grew gaunt as she breathed inward, the suction and moist warmth exciting him. Impatient with her gentle method, he withdrew his fingers from her twin’s cunt, cradled her fire topped skull with a blood and fluid soaked hand, and pressed her down with firm and irresistable strength, filling her mouth and intruding into her throat, burying her face in his thick, musky pubes. Pushing her back and forth, her gag reflex gone with the long abuse she had suffered, he roared into her sister’s mouth with the delectable sensation of her throat massaging his manhood, and took his hand from her bruised breast, placing it upon the firm globe of the ass, fingers sliding in-between, entering the now lubricated cunt and the tightness of her anus, pressing her forward as his teeth feasted on the softness of her breast, her scream filling the room as he bit down and nearly severs the darkish-brown nipple with orgasm shaking his bulk, spurting his seed into the crimson haired dancer’s throat before an errant blow of his quivering gut sent her down to the floor, stunned despite the thick carpeting, his hold having grown weak as pleasure grew. Calming with a slew of deep breaths, he laughed loudly and took a love bite out of the woman’s lips, drawing blood, before sending her sprawling upon the rug with a flick of his hand, joined with her twin upon the floor. Sighing lustily, Ezril discarded the flamboyant clothes he still mostly wore, and poured himself a generous goblet of maiden’s tears, grinning at the irony of the name. One of his favorite viands, a robust dark green confection of great potency and tart sweetness, it complemented his private practices perfectly, for rarely had a woman left his bed without tears in her eyes, and never as a maiden. Watching the two nude slaves plastered to the floor, he took sip after sip from the golden bejeweled cup, tastelessly overdecorated with sufficient wealth to buy the dancers three times over, and gradually grew aroused. The message had yet to arrive, and before he began annotating reports or having his skull nearly pounded to pieces by the telepathic shouts of Yeslan, he could play some more. A word of command brought his favorite whip to hand, a seven stranded catlash that was useful in battle no less than in the bedroom. A modification to the enchantment ensured that no playtoy died or suffered permanent damage, reducing her value and damaging her comeliness with unsightly scars. A terse command brought the girls to their knees, and he walked slowly closer, a spectre of pain with a gold and black seven stranded scythe of promised bloodmist. A half dozen strokes to one, six to the other, playing and holding back, and lines of blood covered and crisscrossed the pale canvas before him, tears leaking from banked coals of amber eyes, their fires quite gone. Striking hard, he sent them down on four, screams echoing from the chamber’s walls and bringing a spark of blood madness upon him. Checking it before succumbing and whipping them to unconsciousness, he frowned for a moment, grunting and gasping in his excitement, before his countenance brightened and he recalled Wizler’s gift. Before leaving the room to search his drawer of magical gewgaws he smiled at the bloodsoaked picture of his hosting room, wherein half the nobles of the court had guested at one time or the other, knowing that for the girls there was no respite – they would retain their tortured postures until hunger or thirst drove them to move, as the basic survival imperative could not be countermanded without producing mindless husks.

Finding the ring he had sought eventually, a incredibly detailed greenscaled serpent, coils forming the body of the trantle with the head of a hooded viper rising to strike, the circumference too big even for his own thick fingers, he closed the case and locked it. Returning to the redheads, he couched before their faces, cock gone flaccid, and donned the ring, sliding it over the bulbous head of his erection, enjoying their terrified looks enormously. Instead of a man’s penis, from his crotch a serpent undulated, cowled in scales of darkish green, veins rising prominently beneath the glittery cover. He hissed in mockery and rose, a lecherous grin of anticipation stretching his jowls, and lowered his bulk behind their crouched forms, fondling their asscheeks and prying at their holes with his fingers as he made his choice. Turning to the left, the eager snake head leaped forward, struggling to breach the tightness of her bloodsoaked behind, entering the puckered hole with a moan and a gasp, the incredible pressure and the eel-like sensation of shifting scales causing his eyes to cross with ecstasy.

A sharp ping! struck echoes from the inside of his head, and he withdrew, writhing in agony as the transfer interrupted his pleasure. Taking the serpent ring and throwing it at the wall, he howled in frustration and walked away, waddling ungainfully as his head slowly cleared. The amount of power necessary to breach the palace wards, even with so tiny an item as a thoughtstone, was more than enough to have a major impact upon non-magicians, even those protected by devices and screens such as those in the doors and walls of his suite. The rune circle recognized his bloodline and allowed him to retrieve the stone, and he slumped against the wall as images, words and commands assailed him, too much to take in all at once. Groaning in the process of collapsing onto a well padded seat, Ezril began the process of comprehending the message. He never noticed the slight breeze as a shadow formed of dark mist slipped into the room from a tiny hole beneath the full weight of the ivorwood desk, growing into a humanoid form. Coalescing behind him into fullness, it was no longer shadow, but the full carpet granted no warning whisper of heel upon floor, personal guards and wards helpless against the full shunting of a spell of shunning and oblivion, a dark fold of silence and death. The slim woman’s figure, a full head and a half shorter, stretched a pair of longfingered hands and clasped down firmly upon Ezril’s bull neck. The shout never made its way out of his throat, as inky darkness spread from still, steel-hard fingers to ruddy flesh, taking away all color in a feast of death and blackness. Struggle as he might, mortal strength, even augmented by those magical devices he retained, proved of no use against small hands firmer than adamant forged by the Smith himself. Slowly, the sands trickled in the hourglass, and darkness swallowed flesh, the light of cognizance fading with it. Finally, she rose from the shriveling black corpse as it faded from sight, nearly retching as the full weight of the beast’s memories lay siege to her mentality. One by one she discarded visions that brought her to the edge of madness, and she fell down, sick with vertigo. Slowly, breath by breath she forced it out, consuming the spirit as the pendant at her throat pulsed with ebony that transcended black, taking what useful knowledge she could find and incorporating it within the faultless library of her memory. Much of the past became clearer, but there was little of immediate use. Finally she came to that last message he had yet to decipher, and her superior mentality broke it down to its components in instants. A face that would have had the twin dancers locked away for their unsightliness broke into a precious and radiant smile, transforming a strained and shaken countenance to something that mocked perfection, and fist smacked into open palm with a force that would dent steel. “The first!”, Elorie shouted, caring not at all for whomever might hear. Containing herself for the nonce, she deliberately shattered the door leading to the workroom, and pursed her lips with anger as she came upon the twins. Taking a fist sized orb of burnished silver that glowed with an aura of power from somewhere (for her tightfitting shadowgarb showed not a hint of a pocket), she tossed it upward, and hugged herself protectively. With an explosion of light and thunder, every enchantment and locked spell with Ezril’s room was quenched. Hurrying now, Elorie pointed at the girls, no longer branded slaves, and beams of light leaped from outstreched fingertips, limning abused but no longer bloody figures with pale blue and drawing them inward, toward her palms. A delayed spell had them out of time and sight, cradled against the moment she left the palace, when they would be sent away, teleported to a sanctuary where they might be rebuilt. Perhaps they would prove useful, she mused, her mind on greater matters. A last look and a delighted grin at the mystery this would present any investigator, for all traces of anyone’s passage had been scoured away by the cutter’s web of unweaving, a spell that normally required a lesser circle for a proper result, and she began spinning in place, a hurricane of mistdrops forming only to take itself away, to the safety of her chambers. Change was here, the first clue in hand!

Excited and ebullient, she twirled and spun, somersaulting to stand upright upon the ceiling and proceeded to tumble and perform dazzling acrobatic maneuvers. A buzz in her ear from all the rapid movement, she concentrated sufficiently to change her clothes, dark clinging shadowstaff changing instantly to a breathtaking gown of spidersilk in her favorite shade of royal blue. Standing before the mirror, she nodded appreciatively, her apparel regal and truly suited to an imperial presentation, presenting a sophisticated and elegant noblewoman of grace and taste, while clingling to the lines of her figure in a most satistactory manner. Taking a deep breath to restrain her enthusiasm, she connected with the mirror’s power, astonished to find how in tune with her it truly was and the ease and... intimacy of the connection. Distracted for only a moment, her eyes narrowed and a younger version of herself, perhaps fourteen, appeared in the crystalline latticework of the Lady’s eye, clad in a pale green tunic and dress combination and lying in repose in a sunny garden, the very picture of innocence and youth, a book floating above her questing eyes, pages turning too quickly for any ordinary person to consider that, in truth, she was reading. “Celine!”, her excitement communicating itself through tone and posture to one who knew her well. “I need a replacement. I believe I’ve found the Princess Guard. Those Dur fools are not responsible for Halanthra, but they have managed to hide a small uprising in the Grey Hills. Those not so-former barbarians and bandits have banded under the leadership of a so-called prophet of one of their more obscure godlings, and managed to unseat the Order of the Axe from their citadel at Lantern. A number of counterattacks led by their house mages have had mixed results, without any significant accomplishment beyond establishing that this leader, a former hermit and shaman, wields a staff that answers the description of the Princess Guard. It may not be the rod itself, but it was hers.” Celine’s book had whisked itself away, presumably to the library, and as the words flowed out of Elorie in a torrent, she had taken lotus position, floating a finger or three above the grass. Her eyes, in sharp contrast to her youthful appearance, seemed to hold too much knowledge and memory, and Elorie could withstand her gaze by virtue of practice alone. “I’ll send Allasra. Valenta will have to protect the crafters on her own. Are you sure that this is wise? Going after it, all by your lonesome? At least visit the armory, or look to the circle of stone for the lay of the land. You shouldn’t…”, she closed her mouth into a thin and disapproving line as Elorie cut her off. “Nonsense, grandma! We’re talking about the Princess Guard here, remember. And that excrement, Ezril Dur, was completely certain that the idiot prophet was a man!”. Celine’s frown was wiped away by the light of understanding, a cruel and predatory smile baring perfect, even white teeth. “I see. Of course. You’ll bond to it,” she stated rather than asked. “And then what?”, her eyebrows quirked in question, and she answered herself. “I think you should spend some time with the crafters, coming to term with the bonding and studying true enchantments, before we send you to avenge Halanthra. Your guards will await you there. The Lady’s luck to you!”

Leaving what knowledge her successor would need to pursue her duties in the mirror, one place none who were not of the blood could desecrate, Elorie packed with lightning speed, almost breathless in her rush, and forced herself to walk sedately, so as not to generate too many rumours, to the hall of arrival, where those who came to court teleported or gated in. For others, it was a one way journey, but the weakness in the protections was more than sufficient for someone of her powers to depart. Nodding at the guards, she stepped within, and flesh and finery melted away into motes of glimmering silver, a spinning whirlwind that slowly diminished, leaving behind naught but a memory of light, and a sparkling laughter that would haunt every member of the guard detachment till the day they died.

Chapter 3: Telianthir

There are many like it on the more detailed maps, such as the very excellent ones issued to general officers of the imperial guard. A dot conjoined with a name, a place of habitation outside the mainstream of life, that none a score of leagues away could name or feel the lack thereof. Tellianthir was a town rather than a village or hamlet, near three thousand inhabitants nestled in the folds of mount Tellath, once a magnet for miners and seekers of adventure. But the stony tunnels now lie barren of ore, glittering treasure and hostile inhabitants alike, and all that remains of those days of blood, glory and cold sweat is the occasional trading party venturing from beneath or going into the depths, seeking wealth through the means of a long and perilous journey amidst the strange beings that live below and above – as it is, in the end, entirely a matter of perspective. Once a rowdy place of taverns, cat houses and peddlers of supplies, it is now a more sedate place by far. Most mining towns whose luck has run out, the Lords of Earth having chosen to withhold their bounty, become ghostlike, only a desperate few running roachlike through dusty streets abandoned by the sane and those who are not destitute of hope and means, gleaning from the trash heaps of glitter until they choke on the resulting offal or fall to predators or disease. A lucky few amongst the towns find a different mode of existence, if a strong local presence managed to invest the newfound wealth in something different, or merely attractive. Gambling towns, trade centers, outfitters for the hunt, the myriad ways of survival have all been practiced. Tellianthir, however, is different, holding a secret close to its bosom, a shy old maiden with a very sharp knitting needle to discourage the curious. For the town was a place of power, and visitors were not welcome. This was not power of nature, where a find of vithril rock or a place where Femtanin shoots flourished, bringing wealth unconceived, nor did it result from a magical font or a concentration of ley-lines, in the existence of which most learned sages cast doubt, for with the fall of the gods of magic in what the legends named ‘the Days of Thunder’ the natural balance had long since been disrupted by the greed of living beings for power, namely the ability to manipulate their surroundings and their fellows. Tellianthir was the place of crafters, simply thus, where the very best of them were gathered, quite willingly, and devoted their all to art, all their needs supplied with the customary grace in which the Aillard handled one and all. What did mere craftspeople have to do with power, you ask? A silly question, if you but reflect. These were not mere artisans, but the best that could be found, their work further enhanced by circles of magi focused through vithril crystals, the misnamed powerstones, which in truth held no power of their own, merely the ability to increase the purity and might of energy channeled through their greenish-white veins. One in three among the items of power in the realm, or perhaps one in six, for many such were kept hidden, came from here. Not only men and women who made and shaped things resided here, but also the best enchanters from those wizards who owed allegiance to the ladies of Aillard, whose agents plucked those blessed with talent and the skill and will to use it from wherever they might reside, sponsoring them to the great schools or teaching them in private in Valeron, that great city they held inviolate. Tellianthir was one of the great secrets at the heart of power, defended very aggressively indeed.

A dazzling bolt of lightning leaped from an outstretched finger and struck viciously, probing and failing to penetrate the raised spell-shield, sparks of frustrated electricity dancing over the revealed outlines of a disc-shaped field of magical force. Spikes of steels in their scores answered, and were deflected with a negligent wave of a tiny hand that did not quite manage to hide fatigue with nonchalance, perforating an innocent tree. Streams of coloured flame, flashes of sun bright light, lances of power and rains of acid, the swirling of shark-teeth, the howls of razor edged wind and the screech of pure power were overwhelmed momentarily by a shout that could only be produced by someone who had some practice in keeping bumbling recruits in line. “Children! Stop this at once!”, the huge and menacing black skinned warrior yelled, a hint of desperation in his tone. Needless to say, this bellow of admonition had not the slightest of effect on the mayhem, and Loric’s attempt to interfere in a more direct fashion was blocked by a field of force, a standard precaution in the case of mage-duels, his nose nearly shattering on the barrier as he ran toward the girls. Uttering a nonceasing stream of curses in a tongue spoken more than a thousand leagues due south, he drew a gigantic flamberge, a sword more suited to one of the mythical giants than to a man, even if he lacked only five inches from seven feet. A two handed swipe, so casual that any observer would judge that the blade weighed no more than a feather, and the barrier was gone. Advancing with a dreadful lack of worry (or is it a worrisome lack of dread?) into the midst of burgeoning magical disaster, he sliced through the battle magics with skill and precision that showed experience and training, indications of a natural talent that few could equal and fewer surpass. The spells he ignored, spheres of concussive force and arrows of flame, bounced off his blue-silver scale armor, doing no harm whatsoever. “Explain,” he crossed his arms and thundered at them, as the stream of spells slackened and halted, “or I’ll use a little something Miralys gave me to block your powers off until you explain this to your mother. Elorie will not find this amusing!”

Standing to either side of him in the meadow, avoiding his fuming countenance, were two pairs of shamefaced twins, youngsters of fourteen and twelve respectively. Only an expert eye would note the differences between the pairs, as they shared coloration and features, raven black hair and spritely blue eyes against a pale vista of alabaster complexion, beautiful children on their way to adulthood. One pair was perhaps a couple of inches taller, their cheekbones a trifle more angular, their feminine attributes considerably better developed. “Well… really,” Ellemir squirmed in place, “we just wanted to see…”, she bit her lip in a particularly fetching manner as an opponent interrupted rudely. “See! Ha! They were baiting us, insulting us, told us we weren’t better than apprentices, that we’d never pass…”, the tirade halted abruptly as Fey blushed visibly, clamping her mouth shut. “We just wanted to see if our defensive magics were good enough to withstand a full assault by lessers,” Avaereene said haughtily, her chin lifted in a peremptory manner, aping mannerisms she’d seen all her life with a considerable degree of success. Loric bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing, and clapped his hands loudly enough that the girls covered their ears in pain at the sonic assault, determined to prevent another explosion of Aillard tempers. Having dealt with their mother for more than a score of years now, the patterns of behaviour were quite familiar. Mentally cursing his worthy associate, who’d chickened out by insisting that the packbeasts and the camp had to be guarded, he prayed to Korkas the Battlemaster that the interminable journey end soon, and that he never have to deal with adolescent witches again. “Enough! At least Kalindra has sense enough not to offer excuses! There are no excuses for such behaviour. Valenta will deal with you soon, and she will not tolerate such stupidity. Your instructors will also be informed. Another problem, and you won’t be able to lift a pebble magically. I cannot imagine why Miralys considered you ready to depart Valeron, nor how the addlepated idea that your mother might like to see you again crossed her mind. We are going back to camp, and the four of you will stand sentry tonight.” Ellemir took a single step forward, toward Loric and the camp, and whispered quite audibly, a wicked smile on her lips, “You mean you aren’t going to spank us, uncle Loric?”. It was perhaps fortunate that blushes are quite invisible against ebon skin, and the warrior turned and took himself and the remnant tatters of his dignity back to camp, muttering imprecations against all beings divine, not forgetting to heap a respectable number of pejorative adjectives on his partner, Darrel.

Rubbing her aching neck, stretching to look up at the sky, her silky mane reaching down to her emerald sash, Valenta spared a moment for envy, wishing she had no need to rest or sleep, that fatigue and exertion meant nothing to her, as was the case with the child of prophecy. Shaking her head, she tossed the thought away, having no particular wish to pay the price. With the recent events and Allasra’s reassignment, she was the supreme commander in charge of Tellianthir’s defenses. To be fair, bonded foursome were in charge of the physical aspect of things, but the real barrier to invasion or attack were the immense magical wards that had been raised centuries ago and reinforced over the years by zealous guardians. Such as herself, she sighed, having just finished a complete inspection of the entire circumference, adding a number of nasty surprises and twists to the web with the paranoia of a professional. Have to log them properly, she reminded herself, covering a yawn with a raised palm, courtesy ingrained even when there was no one about to offend with the sight of her pink tongue. Disdaining use of the public baths and the incipient orgy and play (now that twilight was fading with the evening breeze, and the children otherwise engaged), with herself in such a state of general dishabille, Valenta whisked herself to her private chambers in the back byways of the house of spells, known colloquially as the Lady’s house, with a mental nudge that activated a the local teleportal, which was attuned to all the residents. Shrugging out of her soiled garments, leaving them on the floor for the wind servant to collect, she blessed whichever ancestor had been thoughtful enough to provide her and her sisters with a linked extra dimensional space that contained a marvelously relaxing pool, and stepped through the swirling mist that served as a gate, bare feet stinging from the abrupt change as cool marble faded to dew moistened bluegrass. The large expanse of water was clearly very hot on one side, evidenced by the plumes of vapor that rose from the surface of the fluid, with the other end of the pool offering cool water suitable for swimming. A pair of barrel sized black chests rose from the middle of the pool, as two impressively large and dangerous looking men were loudly arguing over the merits of Justrian’s proposed formation for light cavalry escorting supply caravans in hostile territory, from the XII volume of his masterwork ‘Strategies’. Unlulled by the pleasant surroundings, they noticed her arrival immediately, and smiled widely as they ceased their discourse. “Welcome, oh most munificent of noble ladies!”, Emerlask announced in a grand manner, “surely you have come baring gifts for these most deserving of your servants.” Already slipping into the pool, Valenta shook her head in bemusement, and floated toward the scalding waters, breasts floating enticingly, black hair outspread in a halo. “No frolicing, please and no puns! Have some mercy on a poor, abused and overworked witch. I went over the entire perimeter… aahhh”, she sighed in pleasure as the heat soaked into her, bleaching away the dull throbbing that overmuch use of power always sent through her bones. The two swam closer, Ferrand raising his brows at the lethargy Valenta expressed and displayed, quite a change from her usual playful self. “Surely a massage will ease your pains?”, he whispered in her ear, broad, calloused palm supporting her lower back. “Mmm..”, she murmured back, her head cradled in Emer’s arm, his hand twining through the length of her hair, “you’re spoiling me, you know. Quite ruins the image of the ruthless, barbaric warrior.” A manic grimace crossed Ferrand’s face in response, and he made as though to bite down on Valenta’s upthrust nipple, closing his mouth on her breast before Emer swatted him away. They growled at each other as the pale beauty floated serenely in the boiling water, white skin unreddened by the heat. The discomfort finally penetrated the banter of the two, and with the unison which experience and the clash of battle breed in veterans and comrades, they looked at her and nodded. Emer lifted her gently out of the water, smothering her soft-voiced protest with a gentle kiss, cradled her in his arms and took her out of the waters, laying her face down on the fragrant grass. Ferrand kneeled at her other side, and their hands began to roam over her backside, first caressingly and then with greater pressure, restraining their full strength and moulding her fine muscles, soft flesh and velvety skin. Four large hands stroked and pressed against the back of thigh and shin, the sides of her spine, down against collarbones and shoulderblades, drawing moans as the small of her back drew attention and a giggle as fingers strayed to play with the sweet rise of her buttocks, running between the tight swell of her asscheeks. Minutes went past, and only when the last hint of tension faded in the magnificent vision below them did the two relent, lifting the boneless Valenta and carrying her back through the gateway, setting her gently down in the center of the large bed, green and white covers thrown aside. Seeing that she was not asleep, they paused rather than depart, knowing well that had she wished to she would have drifted off to the realm of dreams. The effect of the hot bath had faded by now, and both were very aroused, their great black flagpoles at attention, and their intent had been to join the games at the public bath. “Ahem,” Ferrand coughed with assumed causualness. “One of the magesmith gave me a little thing to test, and now might be the perfect time. It might help you sleep better,” he half smiled. “Oh?”, Valenta inquired sleepily, long lashes lowered over orbs of sapphire, “and what might that be?”. Wordless, Ferrand displayed a pair of delicate golden shackles connected with a chain of thin finework links, a full grin pasted on his face, and likewise on Emer’s. “These are supposed to be able to hold a mage helpless, so that he cannot use his abilities. Would you…”, he moves his hands slowly, grasping both of her wrists, incongrously thin compared to his broad arm with its bulky musculature, and raised them above her, looking into her glittering eyes as he closed the clasps, two small chimes against the silent backdrop. “Alas,” Valenta mourns, “I cannot channel so much as a spark after my work, and cannot test them for veracity”. “So we’ll have to try them again, sometime,” Emer replies, his deeper voice not quite managing to sound innocent, “but at the very least, we’ll ensure that you’ll sleep well.” Her darkish nipples already hard, she spread her legs slightly, high breasts rising and falling with her breathing as Ferrand raised her bound hands and lodged them in the metal grillwork of the bed. “And now we feast,” Emer rumbled, tongue licking at thick lips before descending upon the luscious woman, trembling in her want. A pair of mouths, a pair of tongues, and the work was never done. Valenta was soon struggling weakly against the enchanted fetter, gurgling and releasing short, intense screams in response to their sampling of her charms, the perfectly aligned lips of her sex parted after a tongue finished inspecting the sweet surrounding flesh, bare of any follicle, and lapping every droplet of moisture produced by her tunnel of love. Teeth munched upon the vulnerable belly, tongue swirling around navel and rising to probe at the globes of her breasts, lapping at the stiff nubs of her nipples. As a stiffened spear thrust deeply into her cunt, angled to brush against her clit, they were surprised by an intense shudder of orgasm, the spasming of the sweatsoaked gorgeous body throwing them off stride for a moment, before they renewed their attack mercilessly, nipping and prodding, licking and caressing. Emer pressed his face against her tender throat, driving her wild before he moved to kiss her, deeply and intensely until breathless, and then again, tongues clashing. Below, Ferrand grasped her knees firmly and raised them, parting her thighs and exposing her crinkled lower hole to his view, a rosette that had him drooling. Her buttock raised lewdly, knees touching the soft fabric of the silk enfolding the mattress, he plunged his mouth down, running his tongue around her asshole, teasing, before ramming it in, eliciting a muffled shout as she shouted her orgasm into Emer’s mouth, going limp in their grasp. Setting her down, letting go, they grasped their raging manhoods, looking each other in the eyes, Ferrand conceding with a nod. Directing his black phallus between the slick lips of her cunt, Emer thrust in slowly, reveling in the tightness and special feel of his liege lady, to whom no one in the world could compare. Peaked, he could not hold on for long, and indeed did not wish to. A pair of quick thrusts, his dark bulk between her spread white thighs, and he came deep inside her, unloading his passion as an act of devotion, quickly followed by Ferrand. Rolling aside, they bestowed a kiss on her brow, before sleep claimed the three, limbs entwined.

Chapter 4: Information

A coin sized silvery glitter disturbed the tranquil air and had the hare transfixed, the verdant thickleafed bush suddenly rescued from its predations. The predawn brightening had begun to eclipse the stars, and it was quite cool here, in the shadows of the hill fort. The gray furred creature leaped away in panic as the tiny glow spread and rose, brightening and assuming bipedal form, before it flared silently. Elorie shook her head to clear her senses, her inhuman vitality not providing complete protection from the backlash resulting from her teleportation spell striking a area proof against such magics and the effort of redirecting the phasing-in a couple of hundred yards away. Her eyes flash blue as starlight struck them at a certain angle, and she turned, surveying the area, deliberately looking down from the skies. Atryx was receding, and moondark was but three days away. The cold hand of fear clutched her heart, and the intake of air grew ragged as she shivered at the thought of what awaited her. The price of power, it would drive her mad all too soon. The strongest of her kin had held on for half a century, and restraining her had cost the lives and spirits of five sisters, after a reign of terror that had claimed thousands of innocents. She had to find them all, and soon! Perhaps the Princess Guard would provide her with some protection, allow her to escape his clutches for at least part of the night, standing against the monstrous horde that always hurt her so, and would every time Khadi swallowed Atryx, for so long as Adur hid her rays behind the black curtain. Shaking the incipient hysteria away with an effort, she nodded appreciatively at the sturdy construction of the fortification, the perfect of it’s positioning and commanding view and the impressive defensive screens that protect what seemed like nothing more than another hill fort of a minor noble or rich merchant. Tossing her curls back with a single shake of her head, she moved deteminedly up the slope, deliberately walking on air, leaving behind footprints of blue-white moonflame that faded gradually.

He clutched his loaded crossbow tightly, the solid feel of the wood burning his palm, trying to stay awake. A hefty yawn escaped, and he tossed a guilty look at his two companions, standing statue-still at the gatehouse, scanning the area below for any threat. The brief look showed him that something was wrong with them, and his heart thudded fearfully as he took a step and then two, coming closer and ready to raise the alarm, even if it cost him his life… when he saw that they were not completely frozen, merely looking at something. He couldn’t help it – he looked, looked and stood motionless, jaw threatening to drop at his feet, eyes bulging in shock. Walking on air toward them, calm as can be, was the most perfectly beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mouth dried as he traced her curves, evident through the shimmery silk of the revealing black dress she wore, and his thoughts flew away altogether when his gaze settled on her face, wit drowning in those eyes that seemed to define the colour blue, delicate sculpted features inescapably leading to those knowing pools of glittery sapphire. Black slip on white skin on black hair, the harmony of motion and gliding dance were more powerful than any spell of paralyzation, and he drew in air with an agonized sigh as she came nearer, not even realizing that he had come close to drowning on perfection, having forgotten to breath. Nor did he notice that his crossbow was pointed at the valley between her breasts until she stepped over the barbican wall and landed soundlessly on the parapet, pale fingers moving the weapon aside. “Gentiran is high priest here,” she asked/announced in a melodious, breathy voice that did not quite serve to draw the three guards out of their trance of adulation. Not unused to such reaction in those who had never seen her like before, Elorie snapped her fingers, the sharp sound jarring them into motion. Predictably enough, limp hands dropped loaded crossbows, the sound of metal and wood shattering on the stone below slapping their ears. “Ah.. no lady, Gentiran was called away,” one sentry stuttered, “Jolana replaced him,” another added helpfully. “Jolana Stargard? Pretty blond girl?”, Elorie asked, amusement painted on her face, changing solemn beauty into a pixie-like look of delight. “Yes,” gulped one, the shock of hearing anyone calling the high priestess a pretty girl subsumed by the concentration he lavished on his attempt to fix the woman he looked upon as an image in his memory. “Well then, take me to her,” she said, grasping his wrist and pulling him off the walkway with her.

A scream choked back in Kersk’s throat as he floated gently down and away, borne by the wind towards the nearest open window large enough to accommodate an entry, the soft grip on his wrist insistent and unshakable. The two entered the main building, terror replacing adoration in Kersk’s thoughts, convinced as he was that some dark goddess in avatar form held him captive. He led her through twisting, empty corridors, brightly lighted with a sourceless pale opalescent light that seemed to seep from the very air, leaving not a trace of shadow against the whitewashed walls, eventually reaching a plain golden door. Before Kersk’s hesitant hand could reach out to knock, Elorie pushed the door open and stepped through. The sitting room was utilitarian, but hardly spartan, with a trio of bookcases sporting several score volumes, a number of comfortable looking chairs grouped around a pair of tables, and several trestles holding a number of items, ranging from an exquisite flower of golden metal to a blocky cauldron of ebonite, an aura of power the only common factor. The room sported a pair of doorways, one leading to a bedroom, the other to a balcony overlooking an inner courtyard/garden. Seated in one of the chairs, an intent look on her face as she read through a packet of papers, was a blond haired woman with a dark sun-scorched complexion, a mature figure beyond the first blush of youth who retained an attractiveness that went beyond mere loveliness, force of spirit evident in every move she made. Grey-green eyes grew flinty at the interruption, and the high priestess turned to castigate the intruder, for she had little enough time to herself. But when she glared at the newcomers to her room, words failed as her jaw sagged, eyes wide in astonishment. “You!”, she recovered quickly, standing upright. “Spawn of darkness, how dare you intrude upon holy ground!”

“My, but you’ve certainly grown pompous, love,” Elorie shot her a hot look, “I do believe you need something to puncture such idiocy. A spanking will do nicely, and you’ll thank me for it later,” she added, moving her fingers deftly in a practiced spell gesture, keeping Kersk from drawing his sword – or moving.

Jolana began to call upon Adur to destroy the upstart miscreant, but naught occurred.

“You forgot, my dear,” Elorie advanced upon her, a cruel smile casting a sinister light upon her visage, “that the lady of light favors me and my quest, such as it is. Only should I fail will your words prove accurate.” A pointed finger, and the priestess was thrown back upon the table.

Steel hard bands of air held him helpless, and he could only watch, growing more and more aroused as the act unfolded. Having discarded Jolana’s robe with a single sharp movement, the dark goddess had torn her panties away with a move so sharp and quick that it proved a mere blur to his his eyes, revealing the thick mass of dark blond curls that dismissed any rumours that she was aught other than a natural blonde. Her skin, once ivory, was sunstruck tan from the eye of the heavens, unusual in combination with such pale hair. Adur’s higher followers had all passed the test of flames, purifying and changing them, both physically and spiritually, not the least of benefits being an utter immunity of heat and flames. Full, voluptuous breasts jiggled at the movements, and Jolana’s hands were bound above her head in an invisible grip. Elorie turned her on her stomach, and true to her words began spanking her energetically, giggling with childish delight at the opportunity. The strokes followed one another quickly, and the priestess yelped, more in embarrassment than from pain, as the sorceress held back her full strength, small delicate hands that could shatter rock landing relatively featherlight lashes. Jolana began to squirm at the attention, blush muted against dark skin, and was turned on her back, Kersk gaping in astonishment as her legs spread of themselves, beads of passion clear on her pubic triangle. Without further invitation, the dark haired goddess leaned down, tongue peeking between sweet lips, laying trails of heat upon her thighs and belly, leading but not quite approaching Jolana’s treasure. The priestess bucked up and down, sweat dripping along athletic limbs, finally closing her legs, leading one pair of lips to another, groaning as soft fingers of one hand spread her open, tongue following in their wake, while another hand sought her breasts and upthrust nipples, teasing and pinching. A shout of exultation leaped from Jolana as her body shook with climax in response to Elorie’s clever tonguework, and she sank back to the warm wood of the table. “Let me go, witch,” she asked breathily, her voice no longer brimming with righteous indignation, and the fetters that held her arms faded. Sitting up on the table’s edge, her magnificent breasts sagged downwards as her eyebrows swept up, staring openmouthed at the guardsman who’d witnessed the whole affair. Kersk trembled within the tight confines of his bonds, unable to speak, his rod extended fully as he stared at her nudity. Elorie broke the tableau with a low, throaty laughter, advancing toward him, walking in a deliberately provocative fashion, hips swaying and head tilted to the side. “Now, we cannot leave you like this. Hmmm, not polite at all,” and with that, she drew his stone hard erection from his breeches, cradling it gently in a soft, warm palm. Jolana used the opportunity to roll aside, clutching her robe to her nakedness, muttering imprecations in a low voice as she covered herself. Elorie kneeled, and without pause took Kersk’s hairy balls in her mouth, his groan showing that at least part of the enchantment that bound him had faded. He began panting, struggling to move, but could not. The most delicious sensations chased themselves over his skin, raising goose bumps and sweat as he lost himself within her hot, wet mouth, tongue tracing circles around swollen shaft. It seemed a timeless place, a realm of ecstasy, but before pleasure turned to pain his soaring ended, jism spurting to the floor as slim fingers directed his unburdening. With the bindings gone, he sank to the floor, the strength leeched out of spasming muscles, leaning against the wall. Before he could speak a single word, in query or thanks, he found himself outside the golden door, reclining against the corridor’s stone in front of a painting that displayed a lion roaring at the sea from his perch at a clifftop. Licking his lips at the memory, he swore to himself that this was one tale he’d not share. Unless he was really, really drunk…

“… and so you see, if I fail I will be consumed, only the shell of my body left for a dark spirit to toy with. The Princess Guard is not of the regalia, but it is an item of great power that came from her hands, if our legends are true. What can you tell me?”

Jolana shook her head, saddened by what had happened to her companion of old. None should bear such a burden, especially so bright a spirit. “Targos’s bloodreavers, the entire chapter of the Order of the Axe, were slaughtered. You remember just how nasty those berserkers are… you are dealing with a true avatar here, no common lich-king or manifestation of power. According to my divinations, Breac-Calla has blanketed the area from divine magics. I didn’t even know that was possible. The god is actually a war hero of ancient times, raised due to ancestor worship and the like. You know how it goes. According to our histories, he was responsible for the bloom of the Ytridian dominion that rose in the vacuum left by Issirlia’s destruction, specifically the military side, the prime warlord of a so called Stormqueen, Gitana Marisk. He died slaying one of the great dragons, who perished using its lifeforce to fuel a last strike against him and his company. Standard theology, rose to the heavens, since there wasn’t anything left of the body. He was the patron of the bandits and raiders that were based here, as the locals are remarkably hot blooded and warlike, and had a small cult with occasional resurgences. This incarnation has virtually united them, and he has quite an army. That, however, is not much of a concern for you, if what you’ve told me of your powers is correct. More of a problem, he has managed to call Gitana back, so you also have to deal with a lich-queen and whatever minions and apprentices she’s gathered. Still, I don’t quite see where you stand a chance. With a full circle of your sisters, I’d lay odds on you, but alone against a deity? Even a minor one? It seems reckless suicide, which does not suit you.”

“I have an edge,” Elorie smiled, “something you need not know about. What can you tell me about him, specifically? Appearance, fightning style, whatever?”

Jolana frowned at her, and nodded at last. “As you say, then. He is eight or nine feet tall, so missing him should be somewhat difficult. He’s an a swordsman, uses a shield, with the occasional spear or thrown javelin. He’s not shy about utilizing magical items and abilities, but his exact powers are unknown. Your staff he used against the last assault by those Dur obscenities, drawing their magical strikes into it, channeling the power to Gitana, who used it for lightning strokes and shieldbreakers, destroying a full dozen wizards.”

“My thanks,” Elorie crowed, eyes glittering with glee, “that is all I need. I can take it, and it should not take too much time. Hopefully,” she qualified and tossed her drink down, standing as though ready to rush out immediately.

“You’re not going after it now, are you?!”, Jolana asked, a certain look in her eyes, shifting her posture to accentuate the swell of her breasts through her fleece robe. “Mmm,” Elorie cast her a considering glance. “Perhaps you might show me around your quarters,” she replied slyly, “that is the bedchamber, is it not?”, she pointed at the door. “Good idea,” the priestess answered with a grin, unbelting her robe and leaving it draped upon the chair, her firm behind undulating as she guided her friend to bed.

To be continued…

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Appendix I

The Gods themselves:

Adur – The lady of light, laughter, friendship, liberty and the sun.

Atryx – The azure moon, the moon maiden rules over change, prophecy, navigation (and by extension, helping the lost find their way) and the winds.

Dalanis – The dancer, silvertogue, lady of song and revelry, hopes and dreams.

Erekal – The harvester, lord of death, murder, disease and betrayal.

Ellysand – The bountiful, goddess of fertility, agriculture, earth and growth.

Hosten – The learned, master of scrolls, he is the god of knowledge, innovation and art.

Jalanthar – The dealer, lord of coins, god of trade, bargaining, merchants and wealth.

Khadi – The dark spirit, mistress of darkness, deceit, theft and loss.

Korkas – Battlemaster, lord of war.

Lys – Temptress, lady of beauty, love, vanity and passion.

Perkal – The balancer, lord of justice, truth, duty, law and balance. The bureaucrat’s god, he is called mockingly, his concern for law, order and the survival of civilization stand foremost.

Render – The smith, the crafter, lord of creation, fire and skilled shaping.

Sseth – The scaled one, king of reptiles and dragons.

Shadow – The name granted to the lady of secrets, ambition and intrigue, for so secretive is she that no one knows her name. It is thought that she is Khadi’s daughter, but as with everything that deals with the whisper in the dark, it is pure speculation.

Targos – The frenzied, the red-handed, his domains are madness, destruction, wrath and bloodlust.

Ullan – The wild spirit, chaos, wilderness, nature, gambling and luck are its domain. Everchanging, gender is variously assigned.

Vhergard – Sealord, master of sails, god of water, sailors and the sea. Most of his worshippers dwell beneath the waves.

Xergas – Bonemaster, who rules the undead and those who hunt and hurt for pleasure, the lichlord. Also known as the master of demons, but this is manifestly incorrect.

Note that only the greater gods, those universally known (if not necessarily worshipped) are listed. Each has his/her own unique divine servants.