Mud and Magic Ch. 07

Growing Pains

Author's Notes:

This chapter wouldn't have been possible without my lady love, beta reader Thornfoote and my faithful editor bikoukumori. For your help, support, input and tireless editing passes I offer my thanks.

All participants in sexual activities are adults in their respective species.

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Thick, warm mud sucked at the soles of his feet. The only noises he could hear were the cawing of the crows overhead and the wet, disgusting slurp whenever he pulled his foot from the mud for another sluggish step. The reddish-brown sludge seemed to fight his every move.

"Where are we?" Lishaka asked. The goblin sorceress trotted alongside him, wearing nothing more than a concerned expression. Her leaf-green skin was spattered with the same retch-inducing substance.

"Dunno," Rhys muttered. He looked down. He was naked as well, his slender body bleeding in numerous places. His right arm hung useless by his side, the forearm bent in a way it wasn't supposed to.

Strange. It should hurt like hell, Rhys thought. He raised his gaze and finally, his surroundings came into focus. He and Lishaka were slogging through a grisly forest made up of crosses lit by an infernal orange radiance. Not quite sunset. More like a flaming inferno.

The bodies on the crosses moaned in agony as they passed them. Unlike the previous time, no wooden plaques had been hammered onto their foreheads. Rhys could clearly see who they sloshed past.

Mirrin wailed as their eyes met. "Where were you when I needed you?" she screamed, each word like a lash. Rhys stumbled, crashing into the sticky mud. The cloying smell of blood and guts threatened to swallow him.

Lishaka's small hands were there, trying in vain to pull him up. "We can't stay here, Rhys," she pleaded, throwing panicked looks over her shoulder.

Rhys unsteadily came to his feet, his gaze following hers. There was nothing to see, only unending rows of crosses.

That's not quite true. There is someone, isn't there? But try as he might, he could not make out any details. Rhys held on to Lishaka's small, clawed hand and pulled her along in his wake.

"That's what you get for meddlin' in things you have no business meddlin' with." Padec, gutted from chin to crotch, gloated down on him. Even near death, his face was a mask of utter disgust as he stared at Rhys. "Everyone you know will die."

"What do you know?" Rhys snarled. "You were content to let yourself be slaughtered like cattle!" Snarling, he dragged Lishaka onwards. He had no idea where they went but he knew that getting there was of the utmost importance.

"I hope you're happy fucking a goblin," Jenny Billings hissed, her naked body writhing on the cross. "Instead of learning how to fight Carver, you're wasting time sticking that dick of yours-"

Rhys sloshed on, past the gleefully cackling girl. Her blood dripped into the mud, each drop pattering onto the ground with the sound of a pebble impacting water. He could feel something close in, a malicious presence aiming straight for him. His honed senses, attuned to the flow of magic, registered it. Massive, powerful, all-consuming. And it was coming closer. Snarling, Rhys snatched Lishaka off her feet and pressed her shivering, naked body against his, carrying her. He had no idea how he managed it with his shattered arm. Lishaka hugged herself close to him, her eyes burning with a strange mixture of fear, eagerness and lust. Step by torturous step, Rhys dragged his weary body past rows and rows of crosses.

"Don't let them fool you." The voice, coming not from a cross, but from straight ahead, stopped him harder than any blow to the head could. Sitting in the mud, swaddled in layers of blankets and with her pipe in hand, was Gran. Her smile was radiant and her eyes sparkled like Rhys had never seen before. The horrifying dent in her skull was there too, oozing blood and brain matter. But if Gran noticed the ghastly injury or not wasn't obvious. She took a long drag from her pipe.

"What... what is happening?" Rhys stuttered, going to a knee. Lishaka wriggled against him, her hands caressing his scarred back.

"Isn't it obvious?" Gran pointed with the stem of her pipe. "You're having a nightmare."

"I... I don't want to!"

Gran reached out and patted his knee. "Your subconscious is trying to cope with all the horrors you have endured. Fight the guilt, my little reed. There was nothing you could have done to prevent Dara's death."

"How do you know?"

"Her suffering is over, as is mine. We are both in Mercy's arms. It was about time she and I had a serious talk."

"Talk? What about?"

"You know I wasn't keen on that girl but seeing how much you have changed since she bedded you..." Gran chuckled. "I need to apologize. You would have made a fine innkeep, Rhys."

"If only that were true," Rhys whimpered. He crawled through the mud and pressed Gran's bony frame against his body. "I miss you so much."

"Now, now. No more tears, Rhys. Chin up." Gran's hands moved along his broken arm, setting bones, knitting flesh. The sound of bone chafing on bone was stomach-turning.

"You say it like it's the easiest thing in the world," Rhys sobbed. "Will the pain never end?"

"Losing someone you love hurts. That pain stays with you forever," Gran said, her own eyes misting over. "Ursa... my dear sister." She sniffled.

Rhys remembered something. "Say, Gran... the Witch blood..."

A sly, devious smile crept over Gran's lips. "Ah, you finally noticed, eh? Ursa and I were twins. Of course the blood ran in both of us." The smile was gone as quickly as it had shown up. "I had dreams, Rhys. Much like you are having now. Visions. And when I dreamed what would happen to Ursa, I hid my gift deep, deep inside where even I could not find it."

A moment later, Gran was gone. The moaning forest was gone, replaced by a single cross. Dara hung upon it. Rhys looked around. Lishaka was gone too, leaving him alone. The fearsome presence was closer than ever, a mausoleum's icy breath upon his bare shoulders. But he could not run away.

"Oh Dara," he moaned.

"Don't cry, Rhys. It's me own fault," Dara said, her bruised face distorted into what he hoped was a smile. "Maybe killing that black rider wasn't that smart after all." She sighed. "But he killed me dear brother. What was I supposed to do? Sit by and applaud?" Hot tears spilled from her eyes. "When you were gone, I didn't care anymore."

"Why? Don't tell me I am responsible for your death!"

"No silly. The only one responsible for my death... for all of this... is me. But when you left, you took something away I didn't know I needed." A small sob escaped her mutilated breast. "I must have loved you after all." She shook her head. "Never thought I'd say that. I wish you'd have stayed."

"And you would have died like all the others," Hilgrun snarled, towering over him. Her great sword was bloodstained and she was naked, her muscular body painted with blue and white stripes and swirls. The fetid winds whipping around the cross tossed her braid around.

"Your presence would have made no difference and without your magic, you wouldn't have stood a chance anyway." She bent low and yanked Rhys to his feet until she could hug him against her warm flesh. Locking eyes with the crucified Dara, she ground herself against Rhys.

"What are you doing?" the young sorcerer asked Hilgrun. His body reacted strongly to her, his member a hard and throbbing presence between them.

"You should not linger here," she said. Her voice had a soft, heartfelt tone, like the time when they had slept together. "Grief is all well and good but, instead of wishing for things to be different, use the memory of the fallen to strengthen your resolve. Whatever you do will not bring her back." She placed a gentle kiss on Rhys' lips. "Run, you fool."

She slapped his ass, hard. Rhys stumbled past Dara's cross but when he turned for one last look it was gone. He stood in the fields surrounding Padec's farm. A light drizzle trickled from leaden clouds but, on the horizon, brilliant rays of sunlight pierced the thick cover. The larch trees near Old Man Harrol's barn gleamed like emerald torches.

Head spinning, Rhys looked down. He wore his old, threadbare clothes and his feet hurt, wedged into Lissy's badly repaired clogs. He was freezing and the ominous menace tailing him seemed to be around him, cutting off every escape. Except one. Rhys trotted along the uneven path until he was back at the farm. It was just like he remembered it - before Carver's black riders had come through. Puddles sparkled in the yard, the chickens made a racket in the hen house and the familiar aroma of manure wafted from the stables. Rhys opened the door to the farm house. His mother, Mara, stood at the hearth, stirring the large kettle. Whatever she cooked, it smelled much better than anything she usually managed.

"I'm home," Rhys said. "This actually smells really nice."

"Have a seat," Mara said. He hesitated. Her voice was different. Not the soft, leaden tones he remembered.

"Come now. I've spared no expenses for you, my boy." She ladled food into a wooden bowl and turned to face Rhys. As she did so, her shape shifted. Gone was the bent-over woman with the blank face his mother had been, replaced with a tall, dark-haired beauty. Gone were the shabby clothes, replaced by glistening silks, just enough fabric to afford the illusion of modesty. Triangles of midnight black accentuated the swell of firm breasts and instead of covering her mound, the long, dark strip of fabric snaking its way between her thighs drew the eyes to the Y formed by her legs and crotch. A hood covered most of her head, yet long strands of lustrous black hair framed her face. Thin golden chains jangled softly as she sashayed closer and the mouth-watering smell of the food was replaced by a dark, sensual fragrance which seemed to go straight from Rhys's nostrils to his cock. He was achingly hard within a heartbeat.

Her eyes were of the deepest black imaginable, the lips red like fresh blood on snow and her skin was pale, with just enough of a rosy hue to dispel any ideas of her being undead. Her smile was warm and genuine as she placed the bowl in front of him. A silver spoon appeared on the table next to it.

"Who... who are you?" Rhys asked.

"I am everything you could ever want," she purred. Her face became indistinct. Rhys started as golden curls spilled from her hood. Elara looked at him. A moment later, the delicate elven face was replaced by Lishaka's wide grin. Another heartbeat, and Hilgrun's intense eyes locked gazes with him. Rhys blinked and Mirrin eyed him.

"I would never-!" he protested.

"Oh, I know better," the strange woman rasped, now wearing the angelic face of Borna. "I know everything, Rhys." Galdor grinned at him.

"You... you are Desire?"

The raven-haired beauty was back, lounging on the table. "Took you long enough," she said.

Rhys stood up and retreated, until his back connected with the rough rubble stone wall of the farm house. "What do you want?" he snarled. He balled his left fist, drawing on every energy source he could grasp until a trembling ball of force filled his palm.

"Come now, there is no need for hostility," Desire said, pouting. "Amidst all the guilt, all the self-flagellation, I heard your cries. Your desire to end Faedal rings loud and true, a clarion call I find irresistible. So, you have succeeded. I am here for you." She snapped her fingers and gone was the farm house, replaced with a large bed, the mattress extending to the horizon and beyond. She was naked save for the chains curled around her wrists and hips, her lips parted and her breasts heaved in anticipation. "I am here for you, Rhys."

Desire's long-fingered hand slithered down her body, between her breasts, over her navel, past the chains and over her hairless mound. She parted her labia.

Rhys crawled away from her and sat up. "This is all a bad nightmare."

"It was difficult to reach you, with all the guilt piled up around you," she whispered, gently caressing herself. "But now that I have found you, it does not have to be a nightmare. See?" Her free hand gestured and a moment later, Rhys was surrounded by naked bodies. Elara. Idunn. Galdor. Mirrin. Dara. Hilgrun. Celeste. Borna. Chassari. Even Najat, the catfolk priestess of Allura was there, meowing in heat. They all writhed against him, grasping for his rod, placing his hands on their bodies, kissing every inch of skin they could reach.

Desire was but a shadow behind the long limbs and naked bodies, her smile radiant as she fingered herself. "Name your wishes. I will do anything for you, Rhys," Mirrin whispered in his ear with Desire's voice.

"Stop that!" Rhys nearly choked on the words. Dara and Galdor were busy licking him, passing his throbbing hardness back and forth like a delicious treat.

"My gift not good enough for you?" Desire hissed. A moment later, the moaning, writhing bodies were gone, replaced by nothingness. Only the overpowering presence of Desire was there, an ominous glint in her eyes. "Better?" she breathed. Her tongue touched Rhys' ear.

"What do you want from me?" Rhys snapped. He was confused but the familiar hot rush of anger gained strength by the moment. "I don't want to be played with!"

"An understandable notion," Desire admitted. "Let us talk then, like adults. Every fiber in your being seeks revenge for all the horrible things Faedal has done."

Rhys growled.

"I can give you the power you need to find and defeat him."

Even in his confusion, Rhys couldn't help but laugh. "So? Isn't he your champion? Why would you sacrifice him?"

Desire sighed. "Champion? Hardly. Carver is my Chosen. He thinks. He has ambition. But Faedal? You know his handiwork by now." Images flashed past them, the blood-soaked octagonal hall under Storm Harbor. Celeste's broken body. The burning village. "Faedal has no ambition. He is content to squander my gifts in the pursuit of self-indulgence." She yawned, fanning herself with her fingers. "You, on the other hand, you have ambition. You want to change the world! I would be a fool not to pursue you."

"Even if you could raise Dara from the dead, I would say no!" Rhys said.

"You want that red-haired tavern wench?" Desire gestured. Dara appeared next to them, looking in confusion down her unblemished body. "I am a goddess, Rhys. Death has no meaning for me."

"Rhys? What is happening?" Dara asked, rushing to his side. "Why are we naked?"

Rhys gulped air into his lungs. She is toying with you, a voice in his head screamed. It's not real! Dara held on to his shaking body for dear life, whimpering in incomprehension. If this was a dream, it felt shockingly real. The shiver running through Dara, her hard nipples pressing against his back, even the warm breath on his neck.

"You can't stop toying with me, can you?" Rhys snarled. He pushed Dara away and locked gazes with Desire. "I told you - I don't like to be played."

"Your loss," Desire said, shrugging. She reached forward and a long, midnight-black blade shot from her palm, impaling Dara through the throat. Gasping for air as her lifeblood bubbled free, Dara went to her knees, eyes flicking between Rhys and Desire as she tried to stem the crimson tide spilling through her fingers.

"I would have let you have her for free even," Desire said. "Now you are indeed responsible for her demise." More blades flew from the goddess' hands, tearing large chunks out of Dara's flesh. Only when one pierced her eye did she stop gurgling and struggling.

"If beating Faedal means more pain and suffering then so be it!" Rhys yelled. "I don't want anything to do with you. You are the sole reason Carver can do what he does!"

Desire placed a long-fingered hand on her breast, her face a mask of aggravation. "You wound me, Rhys. But I am in a generous mood tonight. Swear allegiance to me and everything will be forgiven. You shall receive power few mortals were meant to wield. A paragon of purity like you should be able to manage whatever price I might ask, right?" She giggled softly.

"So, if I swear allegiance, you will return Dara to life, give me the power to kill Faedal and then what?" Rhys asked.

Desire's eyes lit up. "If that's what it takes..."

"What would be the price?" Rhys prodded.

"There is only one way to find out, dear, just Rhys." Desire beamed widely. Rhys had seen the same smile before. On Faedal's face, just as he slit a helpless elf girl's throat. "But I solemnly promise that it will in no way interfere with your self-appointed mission," Desire assured him. "I would never get in the way of you killing Faedal. Or all that delicious sex you seem to crave so much." Another gesture. The bed was back, along with all the naked, moaning bodies yearning for him.

Rhys closed his eyes, listening into himself. He could bring Dara back from the dead. He could be more powerful than even Thurguz himself. He maybe could even do what the old, tired half-orc couldn't do - stop Carver once and for all.

And by bending his knee to Desire, he would betray everything Gran had taught him. He would be no better than Padec, going to war for Carver, even offering his own daughter for a basket full of food. The decision was easy.

"I respectfully decline."

"Come now," Desire pleaded. "Are you sure? Even my patience has limits, boy."

"Among farmers, there is this saying: 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.' But I already know that this gift horse is a broken, sick and limping nag and would only cause more grief than it is worth. No. I don't want your help."

"Last chance, Rhys," Desire hissed, a dangerous note in her voice. She pulled her hand up to neck height and, at the same time, Dara's mutilated corpse rose up as well, like a puppet hanging from its strings. "I am not in the habit of front-loading offers like yours and renouncing me might have dire consequences. Especially since I came personally to visit you."

"I have heard enough tales of the prices you collect. Begone."

"As you wish. But don't say I didn't warn you." Dara's corpse burst into flames.

* * * *

A long, painful scream yanked Rhys awake. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own voice, reverberating off the walls of his room. There still was a distinct note of scorched flesh in his nose.

Trying to steady his breath, Rhys looked around. He was alone. Thankfully. The small oil lamp on his nightstand was the only illumination. Need to change that. He pulled a few strands of magic around his left hand and sent them out as flickering motes of flame. Three more lamps and the fireplace ignited.

Rhys patted his forehead. His skin was sweat-soaked, as were his sheets. He pulled the covers off and froze. His feet. They were caked in a reddish-brown sludge. Large puddles of that same stuff soiled the lower half of his sheets.

Ice-cold dread shot down his spine. That had to be a dream, right? It has to be! He dug his fingernails into his thigh. The pain was very real and it didn't yank him from another dream. The mud on his feet was as real as the cold stone floor. Close to a panic, Rhys yanked the sheets off the bed, balled them up and tossed them into the fireplace. He then hobbled into the bathroom and scrubbed at his feet until not a single speck of dirt was on them. When he returned to his room, he noticed something else. A small figurine stood on the low table between his armchairs. He picked up the item and inspected it. Two hands forming a bowl, bound by golden chains around the wrists. Desire's holy symbol. Disgusted, Rhys pulled his arm back to throw and shatter it in the fireplace. But then he hesitated.

The memories were crystal-clear. That was no ordinary dream. He shivered as his mind replayed what he had seen. Never! he thought in disgust as the image of naked Mirrin flashed past, grinding his hand against her sex. So... I refused Desire's offer. Maybe desecrating her holy symbol on top of that isn't such a good idea. He yanked open one of the drawers of his desk and tossed the figurine in. Disgusted, he slammed the drawer shut.