Magic has Benefits Ch. 01

Author's Notes:

Howdy all! This is my first story I've ever published... ever! In all my years of writing privately, this will be the first thing I have ever posted to a public website. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! If it is recieved well, I may write the full story.

Disclaimer: All characters are above 18, and there is some dubious consent in this one, along with a mild dose of sadism and other fuckery. Have fun!

edit: clarified some details of continuity

PS. if it helps to think of it this way, Relleon is classic English dialect and Salvoron is kinda French

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Horace Gullstand had just pulled off the biggest raid of his lifetime, which was certainly saying something.

Horace had been a criminal for almost all of his forty years of life. It had started small when he was younger, like pickpocketing and other kinds of petty theft. However, over his decades long crime spree, he had grown to be one of Relleon's most notorious bandits. He now had a crew of battle hardened criminals under his command. They respected and feared him in equal measures.

Captain Gullstand was impressive indeed. Not just anyone could rob a caravan traveling under the banner of King Ethan Evernore. Yet here he was, in his fortress, surrounded by the king's treasures.

His 'fortress' was actually an abandoned castle within the Faetossed Forest. The large walls and many roomed interior was perfect for him and his group of vicious criminals. It was rumored that the old inhabitants were whisked away by a band of disrespected fairies, though Horace wasn't sure if he believed that.

No ghost story was going to scare him out of his fortress.

At the current moment, he found himself situated in the treasury of his castle, admiring thier most recent prize. A veritable hill of gold and jewels were laid out in front of him in this cold stone room, glittering in the torch light that sputtered from the six sconces. There were even some stranger treasures, like dresses and what looked like an old wooden amulet.

The hill of gold was about as high as his shoulders, which meant it was nearly six feet tall at its highest point. Gullstand was a full head taller than the gold pile. His scarred, black bearded face looking at it with a broken grin of satisfaction. Atop his head was a jagged dark gray crown, fashioned from the breastplate of the last bandit leader he had killed for his followers. He had a fur cape made from the pelt of a wolf he had killed with his bare hands, and a newly acquired, ruby hilted sword sat on his hip.

He looked at the gold pile with a look of accomplishment on his face. He was about to start looking through the less obvious treasures to ascertain their value, when a knock erupted from the large doors behind him.

He sneered and turned back, looking every ounce of the terrifying bandit that he was. He strode towards the door, his heavy leather boots making a thunderous noise as he wrentched the doors open.

Standing behind it was one of his bandits, Owen Felton. If there was such a thing as a second in command in Horace's force, it was this man. An older, balding human man that could take orders well, but was too weak willed to oppose or challenge him.

Just the way he liked his captains.

Horace glared at Owen with every bit of terrifying spite he casually carried in his deep brown eyes, "What da yew want, Felton? I was jus' about to start countin' up the value o' this hoard."

"I'm very sorry sir," Owen bowed and had already began to sweat slightly at this briefest of interactions, "But, yer men have found someone at da edge ah de camp, mi lord..."

That got Horace's attention. He narrowed his eyes, "Is it one of tha king's men?"

"I don't think so, mi lord," Owen continued, barely raising his head, "He ain't spoke a word of the King's Common."

Horace set his jaw, "Yew'd better take me too him. I'd like to interrogate him myself."

"As you wish, mi lord," and with that, Owen turned and quickly shuffled through the recently cleaned halls of this once abandoned keep.

Horace easily kept up with the comparatively weaker and slower pace of his captain. As he did, he considered what this might possibly mean. If the man wasn't speaking the King's Common, then it was possible that it wasn't a scout of King Ethan. But then again, it could be a spy. He resolved to not let his guard down.

As they arrived in the courtyard of the keep, it was easy to see where the new prisoner was. He had almost two hundred men in his force. At this time, they should be manning the walls or practicing thier martial skills on the dummies set up at his barracks. And while some were still doing that, at least fifty of them were gathered in the center of the courtyard, yelling and laughing like a collection of rowdy attendants at a city theater.

Horace sneered and then took in a deep breath.

"Git back to yer fuckin' posts!" He bellowed at the gathered crowd, "Every last one ah yah!"

The vast majority of the crowd scurried off in different directions like a gang of roaches that had suddenly had a lantern shine on them. Only three men remained. Two were holding the prisoner and one more was simply watching.

Horace was about to tell the lingering bandit to shove off when he got his first serious look at the prisoner.

Owen had claimed they had caught a man, and for a ridiculous instant, Horace thought he'd been lied to. The individual in front of him couldn't be older than twenty, was much shorter than all but his shortest of men, and a half elf to boot. At a quick glance, they couldn't be more than five and a half feet tall. Long silver hair ran to just beyond their shoulder blades and a set a ridiculously pretty blue eyes shone with a slight look of panic, but mainly of defiance.

Hells, even their clothing would suggest they were a woman. They were wearing what looked like practical (if expensive) clothing of leather pants and a vest, but that was under a fancy dress of blues and silvers. Silver earrings with sapphire studs were in their ears and they even had some simple makeup on their face, black eyeliner and mascara making the blue of their eyes shine even brighter. That being said, the dress was torn and filthy at the hem and the makeup has started to run slightly.

But in Horace's opinion, it was still working for em.

That being said, having been told this was a man, Horace scanned for tell tale signs of it. The only thing he could really notice was the slight protrusion halfway down the neck. It was incredibly subtle, but Horace picked up on it.

Strange.

Still, Horace approached, but decided to address the additional man that was in the group. He was a recent addition to his bandit crew, a young human man by the name of Trav.

"I told yew tah git back to yer post," Horace sneered at Trav, "You hard a hearin' boy?"

Trav glanced between the prisoner and Horace and said in a low tone, "Mi lord... I'm sorry but... we ain't had no womin here or in da last crew fir ages. I was just hopin'..."

"Boy, that ain't a woman there," Horace rolled his eyes, as if he wouldn't have been fooled if Owen hadn't told him.

Trav furrowed his brow, "It ain't?"

"Git back to yer post," Horace borderline snarled, "Or I'm hangin' yew by yer toes in front ah tha main gate."

Trav took a quick glance back at the prisoner, as if trying to figure out in what way he was a man, but decided against questioning Horace. He looked to the ground and hurried off back to the barracks.

Horace turned to the two men holding the prisoner, "Where did yah find him?"

"He was wanderin' round the woods mi lord!" One said. He was a Dwarven man and he slightly shook the prisoner's arm as he spoke.

"We thoughts he was a womin," the other said, also a half elf, but far more rugged, "We jumped 'im and he started screamin' in some strange language. We ain't been understanding a single word of it mi lord!"

"He looked real outta sorts," the first one said, "ain't too used to wanderin' through tha woods by his self, I reckon."

Suddenly, the prisoner started to struggle slightly in the grasp of the two bandits. They laughed as he seemed to be giving it his all, which wasn't much with his frail body.

"He's weak as an early spring sprig, mi lord," one of the bandits chuckled.

The prisoner began to speak then. Horace didn't understand what he was saying, but it sounded angry and indignant. Above it all, it was as feminine as the rest of him.

"Mi lord," Owen spoke up, "That language is Salvoron. I do not speak it, but I recognize the dialect."

"Salvoron?" The second bandit furrowed his brow, "Ain't those the blokes that eat baguettes an all that?"

The prisoner turned to that bandit as he said it and sneered, "Zat is a stupid rumor! Though I can not be too surprised by your idiocy!"

The two guards blinked, obviously taken aback.

"So you do speak the King's Common?" Horace advanced finally, standing less than a foot away from his new prisoner, towering over him.

Despite the obvious size difference and position the prisoner found himself in, he looked at Horace with obvious irritation, "Your King's Common! Eveyvhere else et es called Relleonish!'

Horace couldn't help but chuckle. With this new prisoner, he decided to opt for a more royal way of speaking. Whoever this was, they were not used to being treated this way, "Pardon me, I did not mean to offend you or your country."

"Vell, et es too late for zat," the prisoner glared at him.

"Let's try this again, but with manners this time," he snapped his fingers at the two guards with a subtle flourish that he had drilled the meaning of into their thick skulls.

They let go of the prisoner and took a couple of steps back. He cautiously looked between them and rubbed his arms where they had been gripping him tightly.

"What is your name, dear stranger?" Horace asked, a mask of polite courtesy applying itself to his face as he took on a much more proper Relleonish dialect.

The prisoner eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but said, "I am Prince Bellasora Jestin from the Avardor Providence of Salvoron. I am on a diplomatic mission for ze throne of my father, King Halacor Jestin."

Horace couldn't prevent the large grin that stretched across his face at those words. He couldn't believe his luck. This effeminate fool had just told a bandit chief that he was the son of a king. He could already picture the carriage of gold a king would pay in ransom for a prince.

"Well Prince Bellasora, I am Lord Horace Gullstand. And you are now safely within the confides of my keep."

"Gullstand?" The young man furrowed his brow slightly, "I could have svorn zat I have heard zat name before..."

"I'm quite the notable lord, young prince," Horace smiled wide, "Now, why don't we git you inside? How long have you been traveling by your lonesome anyhow?"

Bellasora set his jaw slightly, "Zis is unacceptable. I 'ave to return to my caravan. Et should be around 'ere somevhere."

"I'll tell you what, my dear Prince. I will send some of my men to look fir yah caravan. I promise you, they are much more fit fir that kinda grunt work than a Nobel such as yourself. They will tell them that you are here as soon as they find them."

The prince squinted at Horace with obvious distrust in his eyes. But he turned to looked at the rougher men beside him and the slowly darkening woods beyond the walls. He bit his lip and pondered this.

Horace felt a shuddered go down his spine at the sight of it. He tried to shake the feeling. Maybe he had gone too long without the company of a woman himself.

"Fine," the prince said, "Zis should be fine. But if zey do not find zem vithin ze next couple days, I vill zet out on my own again."

Horace bowed slightly at this, "a very reasonable request, my dear Prince. If I may suggest, you look as if you've been grappling with a wild wolverine. Would you like to clean up in my personal bath?"

"Zis vould be acceptable, yes," the prince looked back at the men, "Though I vill need my bag if I am to renew my makeups."

"Very well," he snaps at one of the bandits and he nods, taking the prince to retrieve his bag.

While they were distracted, Horace turned to Owen, "Take this naive bitch to the nice baths. Do everything in your power to convince them that this is a Nobel keep. The more convinced he is that this place is safe, the less likely he runs away, and the easier it will be to ransom him back to his father."

"So I am tah treat him more like a guest than a prisoner, mi lord?" Owen asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, fir now," he put the polite mask back on as the prince approached, a small silk shoulder bag hanging off one shoulder.

"Zank you for your hospitality," Bellasora said, his face much more relaxed than it had been.

"You're very welcome, dear Prince," Horace smiled wide again, "Please, follow Owen. He is my... uhh... manservant. He will lead you to a place to clean up and lend you a change of clothing."

Owen, who had looked temporarily aggravated at being called a manservant, instead smiled and led Bellasora away towards the keep.

As the two got well put of ear shot, he turned to one of the bandits, "Grab three dozen of our swiftest men. Spread out into tha woods and look fir a travellin' caravan lookin' fir a runaway prince. If yah find them, tell em we got their boy and are looking to trade fir him. Let me know their response when yah git it."

"Yes mi lord!" The man turned towards the barracks and started shouting out for names.

Horace turned towards the keep and smiled wide. This would make two kings he would be managing to rob from within as many weeks.

He really was a bandit lord.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where is our... house guest?"

Horace had spent the last two hours waiting for news from his scouts. So far, the only ones that had returned had been empty handed. He'd spent the rest of the time sifting through the hoard of gold, admiring some of the pieces and looking with a bit of incredulousness at some of the treasures that had been within king Ethan's hoard. One thing in particular seemed to be a wooden amulet with a very simple, nonsensical symbol etched into the face of it. It looked like something that would have sold for three copper pieces at a big city bazaar.

Now, he stood in front of Owen, arms crossed. He had not seen Bellasora since he entered the keep earlier and he was not in the precense of his second in command. His eyes bore into Owen with brimming intensity.

"He... uhh... wanted to explore the keep, mi lord..." Owen said nervously, "And I told him that I could give 'im the tour, but then he gave me tha slip he did. The young prince is surprisingly slippery..."

"Whatever, I will go find him. Wait for word from my scouts."

With that, he turned, his wolf pelt cape swishing around him as he stormed around his keep, looking for the young man.

He eventually found him, near the barracks. Horace had told his men that none of them were to so much as approach or speak to the Prince. If anything could give their admittedly feeble ruse away, it was any singular one of those bumbling idiots telling them that they were an outlaw. Still, a small crowd were staring at Bellasora as he walked through the keep.

Not that Horace could really blame them.

His makeup had been redone and Owen had given him one of the more beautiful dresses that had been within the hoard of King Ethan. It was the colors of Relleon, of red and gold, and the silky fabrics complimented his smooth skin perfectly. In this small filthy keep, Bellasora stood out as a true diamond in the rough

"Get back to work!" Horace shouted at the other bandits, which scurried off to their various posts.

Bellasora hardly gave Horace a glance. He was running his fingers through various ropes that were coiled in and on the barrels at the edge of the barracks, murmuring something in a different language. Horace was no expert, but he suspected he was speaking Salvoron.

"Hello, young prince," Horace smiled wide again as he approached him, "Is my humble little keep to yer liking?"

"Et ez a bit small," Bellasora claimed coldly, "But comfortable enough..."

"I can only imagine it is small compared to what you must be used to," Horace said in a low voice. He hid the sneer that had tempted to betray his outrage at the attack on his pride.

"Indeed," Bellasora turned to him, and finally gave a small smile.

It was the first time he had shown any emotion on his face other than disdain or defiance. The soft lips curled in a sweet little smile that seemed to hint at the Prince's true personality. The one he typically had outside of the extreme circumstance he had found himself in. A beautiful smile that cause Horace to catch his breath ever so slightly. The growing moonlight catching the strands of silver hair only served to increase the strange feelings of attraction he had for this young man

"But I appreciate your hospitality none ze less," Bellasora claimed, "I doubt you vere in much of a position to take on someone of my stature. And yet you took to ze task anyhow. I am appreciative of your efforts."

"Of course, dear prince," Horace regained his composure, "Only the best for such an esteemed guest."

Bellasora let their face drop to a more neutral expression again, much to Horace's questionable disappointment, "Yet I have not heard vord from my caravan. Are you sure your men are still looking for et?"

"Absolutely," Horace assured him, "Prince Bellasora, it is not right for someone of yer stature to worry about such matters. Please, I will lead you around the keep so that you may have a proper tour."

And with that, Horace put a hand on Bellasora's back and pushed him, leading him towards the keep again. The man was easily led around. With the size difference in height and muscle, Horace could easily manhandle the much smaller man. And the more he was around him... the more he touched him... the more he smelled him... the more he wanted to do just that. He smelled sweet, of flowers and honey. It must have been some kind of perfume he had in that small silk bag of his.

As Bellasora would lean on a windowsill to admire the view or lean over a fence to pet one of the various animals kept in the small interior farm, Horace would imagine more and more scenarios that he could use the boy... throwing him around his room... tossing him down... pinning him...

The more he looked at those curved sides... those feminine swaying hips... that round ass that he'd only ever seen on women before... the more he...

"Are you even listening Lord Gullstand?"

The soft voice snapped Horace out of his day dreaming. He turned to look at the young prince, who was pouting a bit.

Those lips... so kissable... such a smackable face...

"I'm sorry Prince Bellasora," he smiled somewhat sheepishly, "I've been fairly distracted with recent matters. What were you askin'?"

"I vas inquiring as to your lack of decoration," Bellasora said, waving at the bare walls of the keep.

"Oh, well we've just acquired this particular keep," Horace claimed quickly, "We have brought over a few decorations, but we have yet to set them up."

"Hmm..." the prince thought a moment, then shrugged, "If you vill allow et, Lord Gullstand, I could give my advice on such zings. Interior decoration es a passion of mine. Zat vas my job in my father's castle before I became a diplomat, after all."

Horace grinned, realizing this as a chance to show off his hill of gold to this young prince, "Of course! Right this way."

With that, Horace led the beautiful young man towards his treasury, trying not to imagine all the various ways he would like to ravage him.

He opened the large doors and pushed into the room with all the swagger he could manage. He spun around with a flourish of his cape and bowed, gesturing towards the massive pile of gold with a smug grin on his face.