The Duel

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A contest of skill turns into a steamy clinch.
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The Grey Gull Tavern was an old seafaring inn overlooking the decrepit harbor of Tormaz. Like all quayside inns, it had once thrived on the patronage of fishermen, sailmakers and travelers. Those days were now long passed, the old prosperity having been killed off by piracy on the seas and the construction of a large new port ten miles along the coast. For sixty years the Grey Gull lay derelict and forgotten, as the fisherfolk forsook Tormaz and moved away, leaving only a few rotting ships in the ancient harbor. But when the great war broke out on the distant Zerl Islands, the armies of Tilnon needed a port of embarkation for their troopships, and the generals remembered the old quays at Tormaz, so they sent their craftsmen to refurbish them. The troops brought new life to the Grey Gull Tavern, and its walls echoed again to the noise of song and revelry, for it became a favored haunt of soldiers and sailors en route to the Zerl campaign.

On one particular evening of early autumn, in the mellow weeks before the wintry seas grew too perilous for the huge slow troopships, a hundred of Tilnon's infantry were enjoying their last night on the mainland. Forty of them descended on the Grey Gull at sunset, determined to drink every drop of ale and wine in the tavern. They were a raucous crowd, most of them new recruits who came to drown their fear of battle. About a dozen were young women and girls, barely out of their teens, whose high voices shrieked and cackled above the hubbub of noise as their throats swallowed copious quantities of strong ale and dark wine. They flirted with their male comrades, kissing some and cursing others, shoving aside the optimistic hands that tried to paw their bare thighs or sneak under their short red dresses. Red, too, were the tunics of the men, but their modesty was protected by close-fitting white breeches.

In a corner, away from the lamplight and the swirling smoke, sat two women whose raiment showed that they were not part of the main group. One was small of stature, with a tumbling mane of blonde curls, wearing a short buckskin dress with a tassled hem and no sleeves. The other was taller and more athletic, her body finely-toned and smooth-skinned. Her chestnut hair was long and neatly combed, its shiny tresses falling around her tanned shoulders. Her black leather waistcoat and matching short skirt were decorated with small metal studs, as was the broad belt that encircled her slender waist. From the belt hung a sword in a black scabbard, its hilt patterned with intertwining shapes in red and gold.

The women sat on a bench with their backs propped against the tavern wall. Before them, on a table, stood two copper tankards and six empty wine-jugs. The blonde drained the last dregs from her tankard and banged the empty vessel on the tabletop.

"Somebody fetch me a drink!" she slurred.

"You've had enough for tonight, Keelam," her companion replied. "And anyway, we've run out of money."

The blonde frowned, her bleary eyes staring at the row of empty jugs. "Fear not, Sharmoon! I'll get money from these Tilnonese fools. Give me your sword!"

Sharmooon laughed. "You're drunk! You can barely stand, let alone wield a weapon. But you're forgetting that these red-clad loudmouths are our friends and allies. So sit quiet, or go to sleep!"

Keelam cursed and with a sweep of her arm knocked one of the jugs off the table. It hit the floor and smashed to pieces. The noise caught the attention of a nearby group of Tilnonese soldiers: three men wearing sergeants' insignia and two young female recruits. The tallest of the men grinned and walked over to the table, his arm around the waist of one of the girls.

"What's wrong, Kee?" the man asked, his mouth curling in a wry smile. "Too much wine, perhaps?"

Keelam glared up at him. "Get me another jug, Wixer!"

The man laughed. "It's not my task to keep you in wine, Keelam. And as for you, Sharmoon, you shouldn't let your little comrade drink so much. You know she can't take it."

Sharmoon shook her head. "You know that's not true, Wixer. Remember your drinking contest last year? It was you, not Keelam, who toppled off the bench."

Wixer grinned, before sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the table. Placing his young female companion on his knee he turned to face Sharmoon.

"I remember the contest," he said, after a long moment of silence. "I also recall that you promised me a kiss that evening, after I generously paid off your gambling debt. You still owe me that kiss, Sharmoon."

Sharmoon's keen blue eyes narrowed as she stared across the table. "The promise was forfeited when you lost both the drinking contest and your wits. I usually keep my promises, Sergeant Wixer. But I won't kiss any man who lies in a drunken stupor on the tavern floor."

Wixer shrugged, turning his attention to the girl sitting on his knee. He caressed her long auburn hair and smiled to see her yawn.

"Are you weary, little one?" he asked, his voice softening to a tone that was almost paternal. "We'll return to our bed soon, I promise. But first I'll introduce you to a pair of tough barbarian warriors: Keelam and Sharmoon, staunch allies of our king in his long and bitter war."

The girl yawned again, and Wixer turned back to Sharmoon. "This is Nimi, a fine spearmaiden who excelled in training. Don't be fooled by her prettiness, for she fights like a wildcat. She reminds me of you, Sharmoon: beautiful and charming, yet deadly in combat."

Nimi gazed drunkenly at Sharmoon, her brown eyes so dilated that they seemed almost black.

"I've heard so much about you," she murmured dreamily. "About your skill with a sword. Wixer reckons you're the greatest of warrior women, and that you've slain three thousand enemies."

"That's an exaggeration," Sharmoon muttered. "What other half-truths have you heard?"

Nimi leaned forward, parting her lips and licking her teeth. "One of the women in my regiment," she began, pausing to hiccup. "Her name is Kori: a tough corporal at the training camp. She remembers you with affection, Sharmoon. She told me that you make love like an angel."

Keelam had been listening quietly to the conversation, but this last remark made her laugh aloud, her blonde tresses jiggling as her shoulders shook with mirth. "Like an angel? That's one I've not heard before!"

Sharmoon's elbow gave her friend a sharp nudge in the ribs as she said: "Sober up, Kee-Kee! Where are your manners? Your mockery is embarrassing our pretty guest!"

Keelam chuckled merrily but Nimi ignored her and fixed a bleary gaze on Sharmoon, who in turn looked at Wixer.

"I think you should escort Nimi back to her tent," she suggested. "She's had far too much drink tonight, and tomorrow she has a long voyage to endure."

"I can hold my ale!" Nimi protested. "I'm eighteen years old, so please don't treat me like a child!"

Keelam laughed again, pointing an accusing finger at Wixer. "Cradle-dipper! She's ten years younger than you. Have you no shame, Sergeant?"

Wixer shrugged. "Nimi isn't a child. She's barely four years younger than Sharmoon and is a woman of some pedigree, a fact that several of her male comrades will happily confirm."

"You swine!" Nimi yelled, lightly slapping his nose. "You make me seem like the regimental whore!"

Wixer clasped her tightly in his arms and stuck out his tongue. Nimi buried her hands in his mop of black hair and clamped her mouth onto his. Their kiss lingered for a half minute, before Wixer pulled away to turn once again to Sharmoon.

"Now I want the same from you, my fine barbarian friend! Tonight you shall fulfill the promise that you once made. Give me your kiss, Sharmoon!"

Sharmoon shook her head. "No. I will not kiss you. Not tonight. Nor any other night."

Wixer frowned. "Then answer this challenge: a duel, just you and me. And, if I win the contest, my prize shall be more than a kiss."

Keelam whistled through her teeth. "Are you mad, Wixer? You cannot defeat Sharmoon."

"I know," Wixer muttered. "But the prize is too tempting, and the ale has dulled my wits."

Sharmoon smiled at him. "I accept the challenge. But what prize shall I take when I break your witless skull?"

"Name it," Wixer replied.

Sharmoon looked at Nimi. "My prize is this: that you take this young girl back to her tent and put her to bed before midnight."

Nimi banged her fist on the table. "No!"

But Wixer nodded to Sharmoon. "Agreed. And now it falls to the challenger to choose the venue and the weaponry." He paused, his eyes closing briefly. "I choose the quarterstaff as the weapon and the tavern yard as the place."

"So be it," said Sharmoon.

"One more thing," Wixer added, rising to his feet. "If I win, I take my prize immediately."

Sharmoon raised her eyebrows. "In the tavern yard? Are you kidding?"

Wixer shook his head and grinned, before casting a wink at the two barbarian women. Then he strode off to buy more drink, leading Nimi by the hand as he disappeared into the milling throng of red-garbed soldiery.

Keelam watched him go, then turned to her companion. "He's a mad fellow, isn't he? He knows he can't beat you in a fight, but he issues a challenge regardless. He's so arrogant! I hope you teach him a hard lesson."

"I will indeed," Sharmoon said softly. "But I don't intend to hurt him too much. I like him, Keelam. I like him very much."

"What? You mean you're attracted to that big loudmouth?"

"Yes. And there will come a time when I share his bed. But I'll make him fight for it. Women fall onto his cock too readily. He must learn that his arrogance and good looks don't always reap rewards."

Keelam sighed. "He'd better reappear with a jug for me. If not, he'll find himself dueling with you and me both!"

Wixer and Nimi soon returned but remained standing. Keelam gratefully accepted the two brimming jugs that Wixer placed on the table. Her blue eyes gleamed like pale crystal lamps as she filled her goblet with dark wine.

Wixer bowed before her. "A gift from one warrior to another, in token of the alliance between our two proud nations."

Keelam grinned at his sarcasm. "Alliance? Who cares about alliances? Just keep me supplied with wine and I'll fight anyone whom you name as your enemy."

Sharmoon stood up, hauling a rather reluctant Keelam to her feet. "Ready, Wixer?"

Wixer nodded and led the way out through a rear door into the tavern's small enclosed yard. It was empty, except for a few old barrels stacked along one wall. It seemed very dark after the brightness inside, but the full moon dappled the cobbles with a pale silvery light.

"No need for lamps," said Wixer, sniffing the warm night air. He walked over to a corner near the door and rummaged in a pile of junk. Among the jumble of splintered crates and old broken crocks he found the remains of a wicker fence and selected two sturdy staves of beechwood. They weren't quite straight, but nor did they bend easily when he leaned his weight on them.

"These will suffice," he observed, throwing one of the staves to Sharmoon, who caught it deftly in her left hand.

Keelam and Nimi sat together on a low barrel with their drinks, Nimi swigging from an earthenware ale-bottle while Keelam gulped mouthfuls of wine.

"Good luck, Sergeant Wixer!" Nimi yelled, as the protagonists squared up to each other. Then, turning to Keelam, she asked: "Surely they'll stop fighting before they inflict any serious hurt?"

Keelam shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But Wixer's skull is thick and hard, so do not fret for his safety."

Nimi gazed at Sharmoon, admiring her supple limbs and athletic form. "I can see why Wixer is so keen to make love to her. She is very beautiful."

Keelam smiled. "Yes. She is."

"Are you her lover?" Nimi inquired.

Keelam nodded. "Occasionally. Whenever the mood takes her. But it is her friendship, not her lovemaking, that I cherish most of all. She is indeed the best of all our warriors: the deadliest swordswoman, the most loyal comrade."

Nimi said nothing, but her eyes remained fixed on Sharmoon, who now assumed a fighting stance: knees bent, shoulders relaxed, swaying gently on her hips. Wixer faced her, his greater height and frame making him seem awkward and ungainly in contrast to his opponent's lithe form and easy grace. Without warning he suddenly lunged at Sharmoon, thrusting his staff at her belly. She dodged the clumsy jab with a twist of her body and repaid it by smashing her own staff across Wixer's back as he stumbled forward. He gave a yell of pain and swung his weapon wildly, aiming for her head. She ducked, and jabbed at his ribs, knocking him off balance so that he staggered. He steadied his feet, but a swift jab to his left knee thwarted his effort to remain upright and he fell heavily to the ground. Keelam loudly applauded her friend's skill, and Sharmoon acknowledged the praise with a wave and a smile.

Nimi frowned. "She's a far better fighter than Wixer. Why does he permit himself to be shamed like this?"

"He lacks the skill," Keelam replied. "He's a fine warrior whose strength usually prevails against his opponents, but strength alone is of no avail against Sharmoon. She's too agile for him."

As if to confirm Keelam's assessment, Sharmoon dodged three more clumsy blows before felling Wixer with a jab to his belly. He sprawled on all fours, coughing and gasping.

Nimi drained her bottle and placed it on the ground near her feet. She shook her head. "This isn't fair. The contest is too uneven!"

Keelam winced as another well-placed jab sent Wixer crashing into a pile of old wooden crates. She laughed, and Sharmoon turned around to wink at her. This proved too much for Nimi, who suspected that Sharmoon was mocking the drunken sergeant.

"That's enough!" she yelled. "Give him a chance to fight back!"

Sharmoon gave her a nod and a smile, then turned to face another wild charge by Wixer. She didn't see Nimi's angry kick, which sent the empty ale-bottle scudding across the ground. It came to a halt behind Sharmoon's feet, even as she stepped backwards to dodge Wixer's attack. She tripped on the bottle and stumbled, just as her opponent's staff swung through the air. The hefty blow struck the side of her head, knocking her to the floor. There she lay, dazed and stunned, her brain spinning and her vision blurred.

She tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan. Dimly, she became aware of Wixer's staff pressing her throat, and of his voice saying: "Looks like I win the contest?"

"You win," she answered faintly.

Keelam ran over to kneel beside her. "Are you badly hurt, comrade? That was a savage blow!"

Sharmoon closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm fine! Just help me to sit up."

With Keelam's assistance she managed to gain a sitting position. "My head feels like an anvil," she whispered.

Keelam gently ran her fingers through her friend's chestnut hair, feeling the skin above the right ear. "No blood, and no big lump. How bad is your headache?"

"Bearable," Sharmoon replied. "The ale numbs it."

Wixer looked down at her and grinned. "I guess I owe my victory to a well-aimed bottle skidding beneath your feet."

Sharmoon smiled. "I guess so. But the victory is yours nonetheless. No doubt you are eager to claim your prize?"

Wixer shook his head. "Another time, Sharmoon. I am not so ungallant that I would fuck an injured woman. If the war spares us both, we'll find a clean white bed and enjoy a long night of sweet passion."

Sharmoon frowned at him. "I will not have it said of me that I betrayed a promise. The contest was fairly won, and the prize is yours to take. I will be shamed if you do not take it."

Wixer knelt at her feet. He reached out to caress her legs, feeling the calf-muscles smooth and taut beneath her suntanned skin. "My dear Sharmoon! I cannot do this. You are sorely hurt, and you need to rest."

"Do you not want your prize?" she asked.

"More than anything," he replied, his hands moving up to stroke her bare thighs below the hem of her black leather skirt.

Sharmoon drew a sharp breath, and her mouth half-opened, baring her white teeth. She licked her lips and smiled at Wixer. "See? I'm feeling better already."

Wixer leaned over to kiss her. His tongue darted into her mouth and she responded with a small moan, even as his left hand crept under the hem of the skirt to touch her crotch. His fingertips stroked the soft hairs around her pussy as a breathless gasp sighed in her throat.

Keelam remained kneeling beside them for a while, but eventually she got up to rejoin Nimi on the barrels.

"I didn't mean to trip her with that bottle," the girl said apologetically. "It was simply an unfortunate accident. I just got angry, that's all."

"Fear not!" Keelam reassured her. "I imagine Sharmoon is grateful to you for your timely intervention."

"Grateful?" Nimi queried.

Keelam grinned. "Yes, indeed. She's perfectly happy with the outcome of the contest."

"Me too," said Nimi.

"Why so?" asked Keelam. "Have you not seen Wixer naked?"

Nimi nodded. "Of course! The big hairy ox shares my bed. But my gaze tonight will be on Sharmoon."

"Ah!" Keelam whispered knowingly. "Have you fallen under her spell?"

Nimi smiled. "Perhaps so."

They turned their attention to the lovers, who were now slowly undressing each other. Sharmoon eased Wixer's red tunic off his muscular shoulders, while he in turn removed her leather waistcoat and flung it aside. Her firm round breasts, freed from the garment that restrained them, caught the silver moonlight until Wixer's huge hands enveloped them. Her nipples stiffened beneath his thumbs before glistening with his saliva as he gently licked the hard teats and the circles from which they sprouted. Burying his head between her breasts he kissed the underside of each swollen orb before transferring his attentions to her belly, his tongue tracing a line of moisture down to her navel. He licked the crinkled knot of flesh and heard her giggle like a shy maiden. His fingers unfastened the metal clasps at her hips and removed the black leather skirt, his eyes widening with desire at the unveiling of her secret places.

"Hellfire, Sharmoon!" he hissed. "I'll swear you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"

Feeling her strong fingers burrowing into his mop of black hair, Wixer lowered his face to her crotch and planted three kisses: one on the neat triangle of soft bristles above her pussy, another slightly lower on the fleshy lips, the third on the tip of her erect clitoris. This final kiss made her cry out, her spine arching gracefully at the delicious sensation. Almost immediately she cried out again, for Wixer's tongue began licking up and down the length of her slit, his tongue probing ever deeper between her tingling sex-lips. Deeper and deeper he probed, until the entire length of his tongue from root to tip was wriggling feverishly inside her innermost flesh. His upper teeth gently gnawed her clit, coaxing it out of its pink hood so that it stood up proud and stiff. Sharmoon felt her whole lower body throbbing towards an intense climax which, when it came, completely overwhelmed her senses. Even as she lay drowning in waves of pleasure, her bosom heaving and her brow sweating, she felt the weight of Wixer's body on top of her. For a while she lay in a haze of ecstasy, smiling up at him as he showered her face with kisses.

"You're amazing, Sharmoon!" he whispered, as his long hard cock slipped between her thighs to penetrate her womanhood. Supporting his muscular torso on his strong arms, he gave a slow thrust of his hips. At once he felt the clasp of her warm succulent flesh along the full length of his buried phallus. Slowly, he drew himself back, until only the engorged plum of his cockhead still lingered in her pussy. Then, with a gasp of delight, he pushed slowly inside her again. Enthralled by her loveliness he almost climaxed with that second stroke but, with an effort and a tremendous desire to prolong his pleasure, he suppressed the juices that ached to be released from his swollen balls. He eventually managed a further twelve deep thrusts until, with sweat trickling down his face and chest, he could hold back no more. The twelfth stroke released an orgasm so potent that a guttural roar issued from his throat, its noise drowning Sharmoon's soft purring as she quietly enjoyed her second climax. A powerful jet of semen sprayed inside her love-hole and continued to gush at each spasm of Wixer's manhood, each mighty squirt flooding her passage with hot white juice. Moisture oozed from her pussy to dribble down to her anus. Breathless and trembling, Wixer slowly withdrew his semi-flaccid cock and buried his face in Sharmoon's dark mane, his lips brushing her left ear and whispering her praises. Sharmoon felt the touch of his rapidly-shrinking penis on her skin: it lay cool and clammy on her thigh, still spitting a trail of sticky fluid. With a gentle laugh she crawled out from under his body and sat up, slapping his bare buttocks.

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