Mud and Magic Ch. 09

Grinning, she opened her eyes. The dark elf still knelt next to her in the basin, patiently waiting for her approval, a wet sponge in his hand. Next to her, Chassari writhed on the edge of the basin, Alheri's head between her thighs. The catgirl slurped enthusiastically at Chassari's sex and pumped two fingers into the purple serpentkind's butt.

"You may proceed," Lishaka said, giggling. "Wash me real good, please. And be gentle about it."

"By your command, Mistress." He began by gently wiping away the blood spatters from her face before tending to her aching body. His hands were very soft and nimble as he swabbed at her shoulders and breasts, each stroke with his sponge or wash cloth seemingly taking an ache away. Eventually, he leaned in, cheekily licking one of her stiff nipples. Their eyes met. One of his snowy eyebrows arched in a silent question. Next to her, Chassari and Alheri had both left the basin, the purple serpent-woman writhing on top of the very wet catgirl, her head buried between Alheri's strong thighs.

Lishaka snatched Thorn's hand and guided it between her own thighs. "Be gentle," she warned. His fingers were just that, gingerly exploring her folds and driving her up the walls in the process. Lishaka fished for his cock and found it impressively long and hard. Grinning, she played with it, stroking the black dong, teasing it with her talons. To her surprise, his reaction was swift and immediate, plastering thick ropes of his cream all over her chest and chin while his fingers played with her throbbing clit.

"My, that was quick," Lishaka remarked, licking his tip with her pointed tongue. He tasted different than Rhys, sweeter somehow. She promised herself another helping when her eyes weren't threatening to shut by themselves.

"My apologies," Thorn said. "It's been too long since someone grabbed a hold like that."

"What, no fun with the kitty over there?"

"No fun involving sharp claws," he said, leaning in and closing her mouth with a hungry kiss. He closed Lishaka's fist around his cock again so that her nails dug into the skin. Two of his fingers invaded her, quickly but gently fucking her wet tunnel. A third caressed her anus, begging for entry. The alien sensation - apart from Chassari's tongue, nothing but her own poop had ever been there - brought Lishaka to a very abrupt release. She clamped her thighs around his hand, her fingers leaving very deep marks on his meat. To her surprise, he came again, even fiercer than before. Lishaka didn't even squeal.

"Thank you. So much," Thorn gasped, gently fucking her hand. "Just say the word and I'll make you the happiest goblin on this side of the Sword Divide."

"You can bet your tasty ass on that," Lishaka said. A sudden yawn hit her. The hot water, the thick, fruity fragrance of all the soapy ointments and her sudden climax rapidly caught up with her. "I... I think I should leave the bath," the goblin muttered, trying to keep her eyes open. Thorn's strong arms were there, wrapping her trembling body into a fluffy towel. And suddenly, there was just darkness.

* * * *

Carver paced along his war table, critically inspecting the numerous banners and chess pieces placed upon a large map of the Western Continent. The forces of the Old Kingdoms, represented by blue and white pennants, had been pulled back, mainly defending the four major cities. A large crescent of his red pennants surrounded the cities save for a large wedge in the northwest, between Eronwood and Stoneridge. Carver had most of his troops pulled from that region and sent them into the elven woods. He had more than enough farming villages under his control to completely dictate the prices for grain and livestock in the Four Cities, plus his hold on the southern coast, including Horvath Point and the other, smaller ports meant that any deliveries would end up in his storage silos anyway. By leaving a quarter of the farming villages seemingly unoccupied, he hoped to coax the Four Cities into dissent while they tried to divide the seemingly cheaper food amongst themselves. He knew already that some radicals in Lordehome's Trader's Guild were openly discussing marching armed troops to claim those villages instead of trying to liberate those Carver had under his thumb.

They can throw torches at each other for all I care. Once I have all four Dragon Stones - or even one of them - there will be nothing stopping me from claiming Orran's throne for myself, Carver thought.

The Dragon Stones. Mystical elven relics used in their war against their oppressors, the legendary dragons of old. Each one was supposed to grant dominion over dragons, allowing the wielder to call upon and dominate dragons within reach. Also, each one was capable of stealing a particular draconic power and transfering it to the wielder. A shame we only know about the Stone of Flight. The Stone of Armor or Breath Attacks would be so much more useful but I'll take what I can get.

Carver watched the pennants stationed in the elven woods through half-closed eyes. He had sent in excess of two thousand men into these woods to find information about the relics but so far only one lead had shown up. He dearly hoped Faedal's sudden appearance there would not cause his blossoming dealings with House Dree'vex to spontaneously turn sour. Recently, his second-in-command had become restless.

One would think raping and eviscerating dozens of elves in preparation for the rituals would have sated his urges, Carver thought.

"Kierkov," he said aloud.

The old herald, who had been quietly reading a book nearby, raised his head. "Sire?"

"I want you to prepare a letter."

"To which effect, sire?"

"I think it is time we let Councilor Eramine know that the Trader's Guild of Lordehome is planning to march through Eronwood's sovereign territory to lay claim to their estates in the northwest. Send him and his wife my best regards and include a generous gift for his son. He should be close to finishing his knightly training. Maybe an enchanted blade."

"I will see to it."

"Also, let Duchess Silverhorn in Stoneridge know that Erronwood will move at least two companies of knights towards their borders for some unknown but less than honorable reason."

"Do you want me to include a gift as well?"

A thin smile tugged at Carver's lips. "Yes. Have Marissa craft a golden phallus for her. The poor Duchess will need all the diversions she can get in the near future. Don't forget the red bow."

"As you wish."

A sharp rap at the door interrupted Carver's thoughts.

"Enter!" he commanded.

A breathless guard sank to one knee and touched his insignia. "Mylord, excuse the interruption but there is a dark elven delegation demanding to see you."

"Demanding?" Kierkov said. "No one demands-"

Carver silenced the herald with a gentle gesture. "How much of a delegation?" he asked.

"A big one, sire. Two horrid spider things in front, one with a screaming witch on its back. And she had at least a hundred warriors with her. Some big lads too."

"We didn't receive word of their coming?" Carver asked his herald.

Kierkov shook his head emphatically. "I may be a bit slow these days, sire, but I would never forget to mention such a war host heading our way."

Carver sighed. "Well then. What banners were they flying?" he asked his soldier.

"Uh, banners? There was a lot of green. I don't remember any special insignia. Dark elf stuff, spiderwebs and such, everywhere."

An icy shiver of dread pearled down Carver's back. "See to it their leaders are brought into the reception hall without delay."

"What about their retinue?"

"East wing of the barracks. I'll see to it they will be properly entertained and cared for. Tell Theus to put his men on high alert. I don't want any nasty surprises."

"Yes, at once." The guard dashed from the room not even bothering to shut the door.

Carver moved to a mirror on the wall and waved his hand in a certain motion. His reflection vanished, replaced by the view of a crowded wizard's laboratory. Opposite him, an alchemical workbench bubbled and rattled, multi-colored liquids moved through a dizzying array of tubes, bent glass contraptions and bulbs. Despite the noises, he could hear others, frantic kisses and the sound of flesh on flesh.

"Marissa," he said. "I have need of you."

The sounds of heated sex abated. A moment later, a hauntingly beautiful woman appeared in the mirror, her black curls a tangled mess. Her chin gleamed wetly and she didn't bother to cover her heaving breasts. A golden amulet dangled between them, a book chased from a piece of solid gold inlaid with silvery runes.

"That would be a first," the naked woman said, smirking. "I was just breaking in my newest apprentices." Her hand wandered downwards, out of the mirror's view.

"I am deeply sorry to deny you a few moments of carnal pleasure," Carver said, unperturbed. "I need you to relay messages for me. There is a dark elven delegation at our doorstep. Have the kitchen send refreshments to the reception hall and make sure a few wenches and ample drink are available in the barracks."

Marissa pouted. "What you need, Morgan, is a butler. Don't scowl like that. I'll see to it. Will my presence be required?"

"I don't know if this is a casual or serious affair. If you eventually join me, make sure you are decent."

"If you wanted decent, you should have hired someone off Thurguz. I don't do decent," Marissa purred. She slowly retreated from the mirror until her whole naked body was visible. She lovingly caressed her hairless mound. "I can feel your gaze upon my tender flesh, Morgan," she whispered. "You know I'd die to offer my garden to you."

"And you know that I don't lay down with my subordinates. Or corpses," Carver admonished her. "Don't tarry please." He cut off her retort along with the communication spell on the mirror.

"Kierkov, with me."

His white robes flapping and the old herald huffing in his wake, Carver made haste to his reception hall. It was hard to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. His mind reeled with all the possible reasons why a fully armed dark elf delegation would show up uninvited. More than seventy-five percent of these possibilities were at least unpleasant, if not outright catastrophic.

With only ten steps to the reception hall. Carver forced himself to slow down. He righted his hair, brushed some creases from his austere white robes and allowed his breath to calm. He closed his fingers around the door's pull ring and counted to ten. His free hand touched his belt, invoking a field of magical protection. Another quick burst of power activated a spell of comprehension.

"Sire?" Kierkov asked quietly.

"You're right," Carver murmured. "No use in stalling any further."

He pulled the door open and entered his reception hall, the room he had done up for informal visits. Two simple banners adorned the wall opposite the guest entrance. One displayed Orran I's axe Boneshatter, done in white and gold, the other his own goat head banner done in bronze and black. Comfortable seating areas had been distributed across the floor and display cases containing some of the treasures of the Old Kingdoms he had gathered rested near the walls.

Today, the normally spacious room seemed smaller than usual. The main reason for this were two monstrous beings taking up an inordinate amount of space. Their lower bodies were arachnid, grotesquely oversized and armored with angled chitin plates. Where normally the head would be, an emaciated naked female torso jutted upwards, the skin a mottled grey. Only vestiges of beauty or intelligence remained, replaced with an animalistic leer on what used to be dark elven faces. Long blades had been strapped to these monstrosities' arms.

Living Remembrances, Carver mused. The ultimate form of dark elven justice.

Almost invisible between the Remembrances stood a dark elven female. She wore a beautifully crafted set of plate armor. The whole suit featured a spiderweb design, each strand highlighted in a toxic green color. A similarly colored cape reached down to her ankles and an angular face mask left only her lips and chin visible. A cascade of white hair tumbled over her shoulders. Between the prominently sculpted globes on her breastplate, something clicked frantically, a palm-sized obsidian spider. The dark elf bore no visible weapons but Carver didn't for a second think her anything less than a worthy adversary. One other curious detail jumped out at him - a plain, bulging sack resting between the dark elf's armored feet.

"Somehow I struggle to reconcile your reputation with your looks," the dark elf began without preamble, without any show of respect. "Morgan Carver. So... unremarkable."

"Matron Dree'vex, I presume?" Carver asked, choosing to ignore the barb. It was much more important to ascertain why she chose to arrive unannounced.

"Indeed. Jhaless, Favored of the Chaos Queen, Matriarch of House Dree'vex. Premier slaver in the Western Depths. And I am at a loss right now." She nudged the sack with her foot. A muffled grunt came. "As you might remember, we had an agreement. I would supply information and carnal amenities to your exploration base and you, in turn, would deliver certain amounts of luxuries and Surface food."

"I am well aware of the terms of our agreement, even though I only received a written copy from the camp's commander," Carver said. "Are the wares I provided not to your satisfaction, Matriarch?"

"There are no wares."

Carver froze. "Excuse me?"

"Let me elaborate," Jhaless said.

Carver could see the taut lines around her mouth. She is fighting her own rage. I need to tread carefully around this woman. He gently touched a certain rune on his belt. It would let Marissa know that her presence was indeed required and that she should come prepared for battle.

"One of my sons was stationed at your camp, to keep an eye on proceedings. He oversaw the pleasure pens, to which I also delivered two renegade priestesses, one of them my daughter."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "You forced your own daughter into slavery?"

Jhaless spat. "Those bitches brought it upon themselves when they renounced the Chaos Queen and fled to the Surface. They swore allegiance to the Moon Maiden. May her cunt forever fester with pustules!"

"I don't follow," Carver said.

"Renegades are to be tortured until the day the Queen pronounces judgment upon them," Matron Dree'vex said, a hand indicating the motionless Remembrances by her side. "What could be more humiliating to a Surface-loving traitor than to have them fucked into unconsciousness by the same stinking Surface dwellers they so admire?"

"I hope none of my men disappointed," Carver said, ignoring yet another insult.

"As if I cared," the dark elf hissed. "My son was to contact me regularly, inform me about the events taking place at the camp."

"You mean he spied for you."

"One can't be too careful. When he failed to report on time, I tried to contact him. Imagine my surprise when no one answered. I used my Queen-given powers to investigate."

"I thought my camp was warded from outside scrying?" Carver mused. "I remember ordering one of my subordinates to erect a mighty ward."

"What is the ward of a mortal wizard against the power of a goddess?" Jhaless proclaimed. "The Queen allowed me to see through the eyes of a spider. And I saw what had happened to your camp. All the tribute you intended to pay me, all the men ready to delve into the Depths, all my offspring - gone. There was nothing left but a burning ruin." She again nudged the sack. Another muffled moan erupted from it. "Through dumb luck, I managed to find what was left of my son and enough of one of your men to tell me where to find you."

"I... I am at a loss as well," Carver muttered. "I wasn't aware the camp had been sacked. Do you know who or what might have done it?"

Jhaless went to a knee. She pulled open the sack and reached inside. Her plated gauntlet came back into view, fingers dug into a singed rat's nest of once white hair. A badly burned dark elf head dangled from her hand. Milky white eyes rolled around in their sockets and the jaw moved, muttering an unending string of words despite having no vocal cords to form them with.

"Do you happen to know an auburn-haired sorcerer with a crimson demon thing in tow?" she asked.

* * * *

The birds sang beautifully. Chassari opened her eyes and yawned expansively. That was one thing she missed at the tower, with its transdimensional quarters. The bird song waking her up. Oh, and the fresh air. The doors to the garden had been ajar throughout the night, allowing the cool air to fill the crowded room. Thorn's naked body warmed her back, his stiff hardness deliciously wedged between her butt cheeks and one hand pawing her breast. Next to her, Alheri had curled protectively around Lishaka, the goblin's smiling face on her thigh.

It's amazing what one night of rest can do, she thought. The warm bodies had prevented her from cooling off too much, so her arms and legs still were limber and most of the aches and pains had subsided, leaving her delightfully grounded. She reached behind her back and closed her fingers around Thorn's impressive rod. I've really missed him, Chassari thought, stroking him until he stirred. His hand moved, a finger circling her stiff nipple. His lips touched her temple, just above her hearing orifice.

"You rang?" he whispered, grinding his hot lance against her.

"Yesss," she hissed, squeezing his rod one last time before turning to face him. "Our reunion hasss to wait until later, though. I need to sssee Vasuki-san as soon as possible. Once that is taken care of, I'm all yoursss."

His hands caressed along her arms. "I can't let you leave without anointing your scales. You look horrible."

Chassari smiled. "Oh, you ssslick rogue, you. Come, let us leave. Poor Lishaka needsss more rest. Once I'm gone, treat her like you would treat me."

Thorn raised one of Chassari's knees and slipped his hand between her thighs, expertly teasing her opening. "Like this?"

"I think you should ssstart with breakfast. Poor thing mussst be ravenous."

"I'll make sure every single one of her wishes will be fulfilled. What if she starts to ask questions?" Thorn sat up, offering Chassari a hand.

Chassari lithely came to her feet. "I have no secretsss. Not with her." Shivering in the cool morning air, she left the room, the dark elf a whispering shadow in her wake. She opened the sliding door to the room adjacent to her sleeping chamber. The dojo was just like she remembered it, with the stern, ancient sets of battle armor on the back wall menacingly guarding the room and the ancestral weapons in a shrine-like stand, above which her family's name - Fusaki-Genji - was beautifully written on a large kakemono. Tattered banners lined the side walls, trophies of vanquished foes and another set of doors led into the inner courtyard.

"I am ready," Thorn quietly said. Chassari touched her grandfather's venerated katana. "One day..." she whispered. "One day I may be worthy." She closed her hand around the hilt, feeling the smooth sharkskin leather wound around it. The weapon seemed to hum in her hand, itching to spill blood.

Chassari turned away from the shrine and joined Thorn in the middle of the dojo. He had unrolled a fresh tatami mat, over which were placed two large towels. A large jar stood open by his knees, the fragrant aroma of green tea and aloe wafting from it.

Sighing in anticipation, Chassari went to her knees in front of him, her back to his front. She heard him dip his hands into the ointment, the glopping and sucking sounds as he thoroughly drenched his hands in the scale-softening paste. It was an old family recipe, handed down through the generations, with restorative properties. Chassari gnashed her teeth. The first contact was like the kiss of ice water but Thorn knew exactly how to lessen the sting. She raised her arms over her head, inviting his touch. His hands cupped her breasts, shocking her into a loud gasp before they moved down her front. Wherever they went, they left a prickling sensation. Her scales rustled and seemed to melt, shedding dead material. Her skin soaked up the ointment, accelerating the regrowth of new scales. Thorn's hands were sensual traces of warmth underneath the cool ointment and it only took until his third trip back to the jar before she was very wet and willing. Up to this point, his hands had only been on her front and thighs. Chassari growled and went onto hands and knees, spreading her thighs.