Mud and Magic Ch. 01-03

"It's true. I'm not long for this world, my boy. But don't fret. Once you marry Celeste and make lots of babies, I can leave and sleep peacefully at Mercy's shapely bosom."

"Don't talk like that." Rhys protested.

Gran tousled his hair. "Got the book yet?"

The book was large and heavy. To protect it from vermin, it was wrapped in another blanket and a certain, unpleasant smell exuded from it. Dead bugs and other critters rustled off the book. He shoved them into the hollow and replaced the floor board.

Off the cloth came and Rhys looked at the cover, awestruck like every time he held the tome in his hands. It was old, no doubt, going by the faded runes on the cover, yet years of delicate handling and the protective sheath had kept some of the luster intact. The golden corners glinted with a warm radiance in the light of Gran's sputtering oil lamp.

The Tales Of Orran was written on the cover. He knew the runes by heart now.

"All right, Gran. What do you want me to read?"

"I think we all need a bit of cheer right now. How about 'Orran In The Mead Hall?'"

Rhys blushed. "The one where...?"

"Yes, the one where Froki the Rogue spikes the elven mead with a love potion and all the elven maids rush to bed them," Gran said, a wistful smile on her lips.

Rhys gently paged through the book. The thick parchment rustled under his fingers. Every page was a work of art, the margins done to fit the location of a particular incident and a wondrous, colorful picture at the beginning of each chapter. He finally arrived at his destination, shaking his head. On a table, mounted by not one but two lithe elven maids, their auburn tresses like banners in a breeze, was Orran the Warrior. Naked, immensely muscular and on his back, he still held one mead horn in one hand, his famous axe Boneshatter in the other while one of the elves straddled his face, the other his lap. Around them, scattered like leaves in the wind were the other elves, long, slender limbs entangled in twos, threes and fours. Men and women, men and men or women and women, in intricate knots on the floor or wound around marble pillars. Almost invisible in all the naked skin, the curves of breasts and asses and poking cocks was Orran's friend and nemesis, the wiry rogue Froki, digging under the Elf Queen's throne for her treasure.

"Cat got your tongue, Rhys?" Gran asked.

"I'm not sure if this is the right chapter, Gran. Not after Mirrin-"

"Hogwash. It's the right thing. Maybe it will help you sleep better tonight. So... 'When Orran-'"

Rhys turned the page and placed his finger under the first line, clearing his throat. Slowly, haltingly, he went along the runes. This was the book Gran had used to teach him but he sorely lacked practice. And to add insult to injury, he had never read this far. Some of the runes were new to him.

"When Orran and Froki arrived in Sun-and-Leaf, the Lady of the Court -- the Queen? - awaited them. Clad in leaves and gold, her breasts like freshly sprouted buds and her smile like the rising-of-the-sun."

"It's 'dawn,'" Gran helpfully added. "Don't read it too literally."

"Gran. You know the story by heart, word for word. Why-?"

"Please, Rhys. Humor your Gran, all right?"

"Oh well," Rhys sighed. "Orran said 'Have your bowmen lower their weapons, for we humans bear you no ill will...'"

* * * *

At least for the night, his mind was occupied. The raunchy tale, filled with heaving breasts, sucking mouths and warm, willing holes aching to be stuffed had him think about Celeste. In his dreams, he was Orran and she was one of the elven maids, doing all the things the author of old had put to the page. But as it always does, the next morning came and Rhys, along with his brothers, rose as soon as the first cockerel began to screech. Out in the yard, Padec took Rhys aside. Thanks to the salve, the bruise had receded somewhat but the rough yank hurt nonetheless.

"The lads are taking the animals out to graze. You know what to do," he snapped, tossing the old, bent pitchfork his way. "And Mercy preserve you if the stable isn't spotless when you're done."

"Yes, father," Rhys grumbled, trotting into the drafty, narrow stable. The all too familiar stench of warm manure awaited him. Carefully, he poked the butt end of the pitchfork into the corner where the other utensils normally were. There had been too many instances of muck-filled traps ready for him to trip. His poking soon revealed that the spade was gone, as was the large bucket he used to haul the manure to the dung hill across the yard. Rhys sighed. Probably Delf's idea of a practical joke. He left the stable and scoured the yard, under the hen house and inside the barn but the missing tools remained elusive.

"I can't believe he makes me shovel shit with my bare hands," Rhys growled, returning to the stable. He stabbed at the soiled straw, pushing it into a pile with the pitchfork. "I can't believe we just sit on our hands and bow our heads while Carver's dogs slowly kill us." Another stab. Hot anger flared inside him. "I can't believe no one even raised a finger to save Mirrin!" Stab. "Not even a word of protest!" Stab. "And all I can do is stand here and shovel shit with a ruddy, fucking pitchfork!"

The anger coiled in his gut, turning into a rock-hard knot. Disgusted, Rhys threw the pitchfork. The smell of manure was replaced with the acrid stench of a thunderstorm. Instead of tumbling from his hand and clattering against the rickety wood partition used to shelter the sheep from the cows, the pitchfork flew from his hand like a spear, punching a smoking, head-sized hole into the back of the stable. Rhys stood there, aghast.

"What the-"

Realization set in. Snarling, he waded through the muck and had a look. No doubt. The hole was real. He could feel heat radiate off the jagged edges where the pitchfork had torn through the old, rotten wood like Orran's fist through a goblin's face. And looking through it, he could see what remained of the fork, twenty feet away near the radishes. Only about half the shaft remained, a scorched, smoking ruin.

Rhys stumbled from the stable, clutching his shoulder. He must have sprained it when he threw the pitchfork because it throbbed and thumped worse than even after Delf's shoe had hit him. He looked around frantically. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed the thunderous impact. But now what? He didn't have any tools left now and the stable wall had a huge hole. This early, Padec would stalk the farm, whipping everyone into a working frenzy. His mother and sisters would spin wool into yarn for sale or weave fabric while his brothers had to do the heavy lifting, ploughing the three fields or tending to the animals. If Padec saw that he loitered around, no tools and with a huge hole in the stable, there would be hell to pay. Rhys cursed. How could that have happened in the first place? The pitchfork wasn't balanced for throwing at all.

"No time for that," he muttered to himself. He needed wooden boards, nails, a hammer or mallet and new tools to muck out the goddamn stable -- and he needed them before Padec returned. Agitated, Rhys looked around, hoping against hope he could find the missing tools by a sheer stroke of luck. A huge pillar of smoke caught his eye. Of course! The bonfire! If he was lucky, the makeshift table would still be there -- unless the guards had already thrown it into the fire. He then could ask Dara for a hammer and a few nails -- the inn was close to the village green.

Rhys sprinted from the yard, nearly losing one of his shoes in a pothole. They had been Lissy's once, the only ones who would fit his slender feet. She had passed them on to him when the heel broke and Delf's repair with a crudely wedged-in replacement made them hellish to walk in. But given the sorry state of the roads in the village, he'd limp in the shoes rather than not have them at all. Within ten minutes, he arrived at the village green. The bonfire had burned itself out, leaving only a pile of smoldering embers. The tents and banners were gone but the table was still there, kicked over and not close enough to the embers to catch fire. Rhys rejoiced. The boards had only been loosely hammered in place, it took barely any force at all to pull them from the barrels. Most of the nails were also in good shape. He pocketed them, wedged the boards under one arm and made his way to the inn. Even this early, close to sunrise, Dara and her brother Daffyd were busy cleaning up from the day before. Going by the amount of debris Daffyd was chucking out the door, last night's guests had been especially rowdy.

"Daffyd," Rhys called. Dara's brother was a huge, burly redhead, his shaggy hair reaching the midst of his back and his beard was bushy but well-kempt. He tossed two more broken stools onto a sizable pile of debris.

"What's up, Rhys?"

"It looks like you had a pretty wild night," Rhys said, nodding towards the pile.

"You know how it is. People are unhappy about the tithes and Carver's dogs drinking what little we have left didn't go down too well either. Things went a little crazy. What's that you got there?"

"The planks from the table. I wondered if I could have them. There's been a little mishap at our stable."

"They didn't burn them this time? What a surprise. Sure, take 'em. Did one of your cows kick down a rotten board again?"

"Yeah... something like that. Thank you. You don't have a hammer to spare, do you?"

"Don't you have tools?"

Rhys sighed. "I don't want Padec to notice. He always finds out when someone takes from his toolbox." He rubbed his lower back.

"Sorry, no can do. As you can see, I have half of the taproom to repair. But maybe you can find something at Old Harrol's. He's not gonna use it anymore." Daffyd looked grim. "A shame. Now I need to find someone else to buy Moonshine from."

"Not even a warning. Damn savages," Rhys snarled, earning a cautionary glare from Daffyd. The big man grunted and returned to the inside of the inn. Groaning as his shoulder acted up, Rhys picked up the boards and trotted back to the farm. He hid the wood behind the stable. Since there was no one screaming at him, it seemed Padec either hadn't returned yet or hadn't noticed the hole in the wall.

Old Man Harrol's farm was only across the empty, as of yet unplowed rye field. When he reached the crumbling fieldstone wall bordering his farm, Rhys saw a quartet of black riders arrive from the village. Carver's men. He hid behind the empty doghouse.

"You really think we'll find anything of use in this rat hole?" one of the men asked. "Instead of dragging us out here, we should drawn lots for one of the girls. There was this little redhead-"

"Shove it," another said, eyeing the door. He grunted, raised his boot and kicked down the old wood. "Anyone got a lightstone? I don't want to risk an open flame, smells like he doused the whole fucking place in spirits."

"Aah, now I understand. Instead of burying your cock in some nice, young farm wench, you'd rather drink their swill?"

"Do you have any idea how expensive that Storm Harbor liquor is? Not with our pay. I'll take free piss booze over no booze at all. You, keep an eye out. I'm sure they'll soon come to 'share' the dead guy's stuff amongst themselves. Fucking vultures."

Raucous laughter erupted. Three of the four riders went into Harrol's small hovel. Soon there were noises of upturned furniture and breaking crockery. A few moments later, they returned. The leader carried a box from which several metal tubes protruded. The sound of tinkling glass came every time he shifted its weight. The others looked none too happy. One of them jingled a small coin purse, the other had a beautiful, slightly bent rapier in his hand.

"I should have stayed behind and hoped for luck with the wenches," the man holding the rapier muttered. He slid the weapon into a loop at his horse's saddle then produced a tinderbox and a torch.

"Stop complaining and get the torch going already," the leader grumbled. "Apart from this still, there's hardly anything worth salvaging." He claimed the lit torch from his companion and tossed it into the hovel. "Let's go already. Maybe the herald has a book somewhere on how to make booze."

Laughing, they mounted and rode off. Rhys, who had held his breath, exhaled slowly. "Fucking vultures, huh? If you left us a bit more of what we work so hard for, we wouldn't have to scavenge from the dead to begin with," he whispered. The first flames licked from the front window.

Thankfully, Harrol had his tools stashed in a shed between the apple trees behind the house -- along with several earthen kegs which smelled very strong of herbs, fruit and alcohol. Had the black riders bothered to properly search, they would have found them. The shed was full of tools, all slightly rusty from long disuse but in much better shape than anything Padec had. With his lucrative side business, Harrol had coin to spare for good tools. A real shame he had been too frail to use them.

Rhys muttered a quick prayer for Harrol, asking Mercy to care for the old man's soul, before collecting a hammer, spade, pitchfork and bucket. A second quick prayer, this time asking Harrol for forgiveness, then he quickly made his way back to the farm. The sun had fully crept over the horizon and the clear sky promised one of the last warm days of autumn. Rhys couldn't help but smile, his luck so far had been nothing short of extraordinary. Still no sign of Padec, so he went to work behind the stable, boarding up the hole as best he could. It would have gone much smoother with another pair of hands but by now Rhys was so used to punishing tasks, he persevered. He hid the hammer under the hen house then went to work mucking out the stable. With the new and much sturdier tools, he was done before midday, including pouring out new, clean straw. By now it was pretty hot. Rhys sniffed and scowled. Of course he did stink like a freshly mucked stable. He turned to leave the yard for the river.

"And where do you think you're going?" Padec growled. He stumbled into the yard unsteadily.

"I have done as you asked, mucked out the stable real good. Now I'm going to take a bath and wash my clothes so your house doesn't stink like a cow's ass. Father," Rhys growled back.

"Don't you get smart with me, boy," Padec threatened, pushing past Rhys. A strong ale cloud surrounded him. Padec stomped into the stable and squinted before returning.

"Are you satisfied?" Rhys asked, hoping against hope for a bit of praise. Padec didn't disappoint. He grunted, waved his hand dismissively and stomped to the house.

"My pleasure," Rhys muttered behind his back then left the yard. He pulled a towel from a line next to the house and marched off towards the river.

* * * *

The water hit him with an icy fist. The sun might have been putting in an extra effort, but the river heralded the chill of winter with a vengeance. Rhys broke the surface and gasped for air. He would need to make this a quick bath if he didn't want to freeze his balls off. As usual, he had jumped into the water off the village green, upstream from where the lone bridge crossing the river was. People tended to toss all kinds of unpleasant surprises off the old stone arch and he was wise enough to give that place a wide berth. Not so with the riverbank by the green. It had been leveed and the overhanging willow trees made it a good spot for a bit of clandestine bathing. A few dozen yards downstream was a small quay where the riverboats would moor and which served as a favorite laundry spot for the village's women when none were present. Despite the chill water, Rhys swam, quick, strong strokes which brought him near the quay. This late in the day, it usually was deserted.

Not that day though. Someone sang exuberantly, if extremely off key, in time to a washing board. Intrigued, Rhys paddled closer. At the quay's edge, back to him, knelt Dara, the beautiful, red-headed innkeep. Today, she had her fiery tresses braided. She wore one of her colorful dresses and scrubbed at one of the inn's linen sheets, interspersing the verses of "The Ballad of Princess Saharel" with a few choice curses when she encountered an especially stubborn stain. She was barefoot and her dress fluttered in the soft breeze. Dara never outright said how old she was but she had hinted to Rhys that she and Celeste were around the same age. And, like most men in the village, Rhys had a fierce crush on her. It was not only her looks -- she could charm even the angriest of Carver's men with a glance from her emerald eyes and a bit of cleavage -- but her caring and carefree spirit. Even when everyone around her was miserable, Dara managed enough heart to make them smile eventually. Like Gran and Ilva, and now Celeste, she had never looked down on him.

Rhys remembered the last Winter Solstice dance, when she had taken him to the dance floor, his spindly chest pressed against the heaving orbs of her bosom, her cheek to his and her hips writhing against him. He never had the guts to ask if she was teasing him when she could have had every other man in the village at that moment.

Dara wrung out the sheet she had been manhandling and leaned over, grabbing another from her basket. Rhys caught a grand look at her pale thigh before her dress settled again over the curve of her behind. He debated if he should swim past nonchalantly and say hello but decided against it. The water was already getting cold and-

Wait. What happened? As his gaze again lovingly caressed the curve of her butt, he noticed the hem of her dress slowly rising. Tiny sparks, visible even in the bright midday sun, seemed to crawl along the fabric. Dara leaned forward, again cursing the bollocks of Prince Zharathal while struggling with an ale stain. There was no mistaking it. The dress slowly rose, seemingly in time with the heat crawling up Rhys' chest, neck and face. It had by now exposed most of Dara's thighs and Rhys could marvel at her creamy buttocks. She settled onto her calves again, wringing the sheet, but the fabric stayed where it was, like a small tent held up by invisible posts. Dara again leaned forward, soaking the sheet anew and the dress rose even higher, fully exposing the twin orbs of her butt and the puffy lips between her thighs. Rhys had to remind himself to shut his gaping mouth. His face was fully flushed and seemed to burn hotter than the autumn sun.

She was completely bare! Not like Missy and Lissy, with their fuzzy bushes he had seen a couple times when they had pranced through the house naked. Not a single red hair spoiled the look of pale skin. Watching her naked backside move and sway in time to her butchered song was one of the most mesmerizing views he had ever seen.

The song stopped in mid-curse and Dara's hand came around, touching the exposed skin of her behind. Rhys nearly fainted and he dove under the water. When he broke the surface again, a few dozen feet closer to the quay, the dress had returned to its initial state, draped around her shapely legs.

"Hey, Rhys! How long have you been here?" Dara asked, waving.

"I- uh... just happened to drift by," he said, praying to Mercy his face wouldn't betray him. A hard shiver ran through him.

"Get out of the water before you catch yet another cold," she suggested.

"Yeah, I-... I probably should."

"Daffyd said you came by earlier. Did you want to see me?"

"Of course!" Rhys smoothly lied. "I needed some wood and found the boards you brought to the Tithing yesterday. Daffyd let me have them."

"The way I see it," Dara said, drawing out the words, "you're having quite a log there yourself. Have you spied on me?"

"Me? Never!"

"Come closer. I need to tell you something spooky."

Obediently, he paddled closer, leaning on the warm stones of the quay like an especially emaciated merman. "What?"