The Song of Roland Ch. 20

Kelsea could barely breathe, but she managed to stagger to her feet, her back and bare legs in blinding pain as she frantically patted at the fires still burning near his feet and against his face. By some miracle he had not been utterly consumed, his leather hauberk managing to take the lions share of the damage upon his chest and upper legs. A second later and he would have ended up as all the others had who were standing atop the walls: candles made of human wax.

Kelsea dragged him away from their precarious position beneath the dripping wall. Carl moaned in half-conscious pain, his body near limp as she pulled him to a spot behind one of the eight buildings that encircled the central courtyard of the Cloister. She paid it all little heed; once Carl was safely away from the carnage she knelt over him, her hands reaching out inspect the damage.

The right side of his face was a ruin. His lustrous hair had burned away, his skin was cracked and black in places. His eyelid had fused and sealed shut from the heat. His right nostril was shriveled and collapsed, and she could see bone in places, though the damage was not immediately fatal. His legs were charred as well: almost up to the ankles he was but burned meat and gristle. She could barely tell his toes from the rest of his feet.

"Carl!" She gasped. Blessedly: he had fallen unconscious, his good eye closed as air wheezed unsteadily from his singed lungs. Her hands went to his chest, and she could feel the shallowness of his breath, the irregular rhythm of his struggling heartbeat. Kelsea leapt to his face, unthinkingly gathering what strength she could as she bent over him, applying her saliva to his skin as her corruption spread further into him. Fighting against her own disgust, she applied her powers to the cracked and burned bits of his face, concentrating on neither the pain in her back, nor the fear in her gut.

Even as she did her best to heal the damage, she could hear the sounds of Impish laughter. Her head craned up above her. The section of the wall that had been hit was by now mostly cleared of fire, though the parapet was a smoldering ruin of soot and ashes. Free from any immediate resistance, a veritable horde of the Demons gathered upon the hole in their defenses, successfully scaling the walls without incident. Kelsea could hear shouting, frantic crying and a sickening, wet sound of slapping flesh. The Cult's defenses were beginning to crumble. The fight was rapidly descending into anarchic violation and sexual plunder.

Rain came. Not of weather, but of fiends. They descended from the sky, approaching the edge of the walls looking in on the central courtyard before leaping down in torrents: a dozen at a time. The Cultists were pulling back, shouts arising from all sides of the walls as a war horn blared. Those that could streamed off the now indefensible barriers and into the inner courtyard, circling themselves at the very center behind a hastily-erected set of barricades clearly meant for a last stand. Most of the Imps ran straight for this enticing concentration of humanity, ignoring completely the Succubus and her wounded companion lying out of sight off to the side.

Others did not. Kelsea hesitated, trapped between the descending creatures and the man dying beneath her. She did not even bother trying to run from them, instead squeezing her eyes shut as she continued her pointless attempt to save Carl's life.

There was a loud screech. "Krraaaah!" A bolt of cerulean blue sped through the air and struck an Imp in mid leap. It slammed the thing into the flat of the wall before bouncing off, tossing its lifeless corpse aside as she swooped down next to Kelsea. Wide wings extended, blotting out the sky above her as it came to an unsubtle landing. Kelsea's red-rimmed eyes raised, matching in its immediacy the Harpy's wide, innocent yellow. The bird woman cocked her head at her, watching her with a curious, almost childlike expression. The Harpy blinked, its head turning sharply as several Imps landed nearby and ran for them. She spun around, moving with an astonishing speed as she lifted her leg and extended her talons.

"Aaah! Aack!" She cawed, attempting to ward off the attackers. They ignored her, choosing to run headlong into the Harpy's waiting claws. She leapt to meet them, using her powerful thighs to propel herself forward like a slingshot directly into the pile. She swiped with her leg, lodging her central claw into the nearest Imp before swiping her other leg at an angle down the length of another's body, eviscerating it from stem to sternum. It was terrifying to watch such deadly speed, such brutal aggression. The fight devolved into a blur of snarls and squacks as feathers flew and limbs were severed by the ripping claws of the Harpy.

Kelsea had to focus. She could not watch, despite her morbid fascination with the unfolding events. Summoning all the strength that she had garnered that afternoon - now a lifetime ago - with Roland and Almyra, she channeled it into Carl. Her frantic licks managed to wear away the worst of the damage, and soon she had mitigated the worst injuries on his face... though the scarring remained. She moved to his legs next, feeling the acute hunger building within her, knowing she would not have enough to heal him properly.

She just needed a little more. Just a little more. Kelsea redoubled her efforts, clenching her eyes as the gnawing hunger grew and her own limbs became heavy with fatigue. She pressed on, repairing the seemingly irreparable damage as Carl groaned and shifted beneath her. It was the High Road all over again.

The Harpy was getting overwhelmed. There was shouting and screaming in the direction of the Cult's central barricades and Kelsea knew that they did not have much time. Every lathering from her tongue drained more energy from her, every second wasted was another that left them vulnerable. It was all going so wrong.

Her ears pricked up as she heard the heavy clop of hooves. They were much heavier in impact than the lingering affront of an Imp's shallow footsteps. She looked up, her jaw dropping as she saw a sight stranger than even the Dwarf Maghas. Standing eight feet tall, the greying visage of a bovine creature appeared before Kelsea's astonished eyes, his neck extending as he let out an inhuman roar. The grey-furred cow man's billy goat beard jigged in place as he began to chant. Clutching his fetishistically-adorned staff, the Minotaur's voice carried out in long, multi-syllable grunts that bore the resemblance of human speech but with none of the pomp or subtlety.

"Hehasta! Lemar Nalahlat!" He shouted, bobbing back and forth as he performed a strange sort of war dance. His notched staff was a swiveling snake, moving back and forth in geometric whirls as he pounded his hooves against the ground, creating grooves and shapes whose purpose Kelsea could not discern. He shook his staff again, striking it against the ground as it shook like spattering thunder in the direction of the beleaguered Harpy.

There was a change in the air. A searing heat of passion that even Kelea could feel, though only its barest aftershocks. Shoving back against the Imps that engulfed her, the Harpy drew back, catching her breath even as the Minotaur imbued her with something that caused her to twitch and shiver. At first Kelsea thought he had for some inscrutable reason inhibited her, perhaps even incapacitated her. However, the truth came in the sudden shift of body posture that came upon her.

The first, most immediate change was on her feathers. The normally well kept and evenly ordered plumage frilled, splitting and puffing out as if in intense agitation. The Harpy's back hunched forward, her large rear sticking back behind her heedlessly to counterbalance the weight as she leaned forward like a bird, her waist sucked back as she displayed only her grasping arms and shining talons to her foes. Kelsea watched, spellbound as the Harpy's muscles noticeably tightened and knotted. Her head shook in place as if in barely contained rage, and suddenly she let out a piercing shriek. It didn't sound like it came from the Harpy she knew, it sounded like an enraged bird of prey's cry.

She dove with reckless aggression into the crowd, and the nature of the fight completely changed.

Before the Harpy had been fighting a sort of delaying action, a conscious, logical attempt to help her mistress in her time of need by throwing herself between Kelsea and the overwhelming numbers of the onrushing Demonic horde. This was different. This was a cornered animal giving in to its instincts, this was a predator made for murder throwing the entirety of her existence into the singular goal of exterminating those that threatened her. She had decided on fight over flight and - like a wild animal - once the choice had been made, she threw herself into it without remorse, regrets or mercy.

Utilizing her impressive strength she ripped an Imp in two with her legs, flinging its still-squirming halves at its compatriots one by one as she took another Imp in her hands, wringing its neck before smashing it against the ground. An Imp attempted to skirt under her wingspan but she merely flexed her wing and batted him away, sending him with a loud knock against the Cloister wall as his skull splattered against the white stonework.

She ripped and tore her foes to pieces, taking only the necessary time to gut, slice, smash or disembowel an Imp before moving on to his compatriots. She took a series of cuts and stab wounds to her legs, chest and arms, yet moved as if they were but painted decorations to her form. The Harpy was an unseen blur, murder in the shape of an avian whose passionate rage added a layer of ferocious savagery to the fight. In seconds she was surrounded by perhaps a dozen Imp corpses, and for once Kelsea saw something she had rarely ever observed before: Imps retreating. Not out of spite, but of fear.

The Minotaur, dressed in orange robes continued to chant all the while, dancing as his resonant bass tone carried above all the sounds and smells and sensations that coated the world. Kelsea was taken aback, and she only managed to tear her gaze away from them as she saw Carl stir beneath her, still badly injured and nowhere near recovered enough to move yet.

"Shh." She whispered, bending her neck against him as she continued her despondent curative. He groaned. "I've got you. I'm here." Without really knowing why she planted a light kiss atop his forehead. He tasted of sweat and ashes. Getting no response, she resumed her efforts against him.

She healed him till all the fluid she had stored was gone. His limbs were still charred, his face burned and disfigured. But at least his breathing had steadied. At least he would live. She stroked the left side of his face, running her hands through his golden hair.

A large, furred hand went to her shoulder. She looked up into the dull brown eyes of the Minotaur. His teeth were bared, and he growled something unintelligible at her. Shaking his stick in the direction of the central courtyard, Kelsea saw what he was indicating.

Destruction. Despoilment and violation. The Imps threw themselves against the Cultist's shallow barricades with a rapist's gusto. Their claws tore at wood, steel, flesh and bone. The thrown together battle line of the peasant soldiers began to melt away. The first line of Imps ignored their sexual instincts entirely, focusing instead upon the lust of battle that permeated their despicable forms as they gnawed off limbs, sliced through armor, and spread the blood of innocents about the snowy earth in red torrents.

The pitched battle soon turned to a wavering conflict, transformed into a desperate last stand. Some survivors yet lingered on the walls, either still in the midst of retreating or caught up in their own microcosm of the same dreadful agony playing out beneath them. Now that the nut had been cracked, the soft innards of the Cult's population lay all but helpless in the face of the Imp's assault.

The pain in the old Minotaur's eyes was evident even despite the biological incongruities between them. He roared, charging towards the increasingly beleaguered soldiers in the courtyard even as more Imps streamed into the area. Realizing that her protection was drifting away, Kelsea reached out with what final dregs of power she had, calling the near-rabid Harpy back as she shakily rose to her feet, finding her discarded warhammer lying a ways away near the wall, having fallen alongside her as she'd tumbled. The Harpy retreated with great reluctance, a burning hatred in her eyes.

The bird woman's thoughts were so anim

alistic that when Kelsea tried to make a telepathic conversation with her she heard only hoots and growls in response. She was sound and fury, a signal of the true harshness that Demons could engender. Kelsea picked up Carl, gingerly holding him as she thrust him into the Harpy's open arms.

Protect him. She said. Get him to safety.

The Harpy said nothing for a long moment, her slitted eyes narrowing sharply. For a second Kelsea thought that she was about to attack her, but after a long moment the bird woman leapt into the air, crying out into the clearing night as she lifted Carl up and away from the fighting. Kelsea did not even bother to look as they sailed away, instead shouldering her maul and rushing after the Minotaur.

As she crossed the empty space between the eight churches, she saw the final collapse of the defender's resistance. The sound of screaming and focused shouts gave way to whimpers, moaning and the incessant connection of corrupted flesh against unspoiled, virtuous meat. The tide of the Imps was nearly spent, yet it still had enough strength in it to crash upon the final fighters with the strength to knock weapons from hands, rip armor from bodies, and expose the tender orifices within to Demonic impalement.

Helms were torn from heads, chainmail pulled off struggling bodies. Those young and hale women who had so bravely taken the battlements with their menfolk found themselves the object of special attention from the ravenous rapine of the bastard Children of Huzra. However, none were spared the final indignity. Those unfortunate enough to not have been slain in the final attack found themselves shoved to the ground, stripped naked by dozens of grabbing hands as cocks aligned themselves against vaginas, anuses and mouths. They wanted to rob them of chastity, of dignity and respect. They were getting their wish.

A soldier, on his knees and in the midst of violation cried out to another, a Guardswoman who was still-fighting tooth and nail, a sword in one hand and her extended arm in the other, reaching for him. She hacked down several Imps, but more filled the breach. Even as the two locked fingers she was dragged to the ground, stripped to nothing in moments and subjected to the same injustice that her comrade was. Now they were forced to stare, face to face as they both felt the same attack on opposite ends against them. Cries turned to moans, turned to squeals of pleasure as both were fucked in relentless fashion.

Kelsea felt a tremor in her soul. She knew the look. She saw the expression of fear, of horror and despair mixing together in the initial moments of the sexual assault. These responses faded, the dark influence of the Demon's own body chemistry and magical origin inducing all that fell under their sway to a putrid pleasure, a morbid ecstasy.

The Minotaur Priest charged headlong into the pile, disappearing in a blur of horns and kicking hooves. Kelsea was not far behind, swinging her hammer hard against the body of one perched lazily atop the lifted rear of a captured slave and knocking him a dozen feet across the courtyard. More soldiers from the walls poured in, and the courtyard descended into a outlandish combination of half-orgy, half-battlefield.

Kelsea fought with a pit in her stomach and a stabbing pain in her back she fought. She fought on even as the memories of her encounter with Roland played out in her head, her mind strangely serene as she gave in to the bloodlust that spilled through her veins. I never wanted this. She thought, forcing a fuck-hungry Imp off her leg with a kick and a blow to the face. She just wanted Roland to say those words, those simple, absurd syllables that could reassure her that she was, in fact, still a person. That she wasn't alone in her wretchedness. That there was at least something worth trying for.

It all came to a sudden, screeching halt once the other Succubus arrived.