Message-ID: <38057asstr$1030709404@assm.asstr.org>
From: david@f-e-mail.com (David Shaw)
Subject: {ASSM} RP: "DRAGON SWEAT" (myth) By David Shaw
Date: Fri, 30 Aug 2002 08:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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"DRAGON SWEAT"

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

The early morning sun shone down on the ancient walls of Giant's Pass
castle. It fell on patches of green moss clinging to the weathered
stone blocks which formed the Outer and Inner Wards. Shards of light
sparkled uselessly against the only window in the castle, the stained
glass panes now covered in dirt and hiding the long disused Royal
Chapel from view. But the glittering day made a brave showing of the
banner of King Argud the Defiler flying high above the Keep and
reflected brightly from the string of wind polished skulls decorating
the flag post. A few rays of shimmering sunlight even penetrated the
arrow slits of the Prison Tower, to be instantly snuffed out amidst
the pitch black stench of despair and corrupting flesh. Many more were
wasted in falling on the steaming surface of the castle moat and its
covering of rotting turds.

King Argud and his Master-At-Arms were no fools. Any attacking soldier
who fell into that reeking gray-blue slush of slimy semi-liquid with
even the smallest of wounds on his body would soon be dying a most
painful and poisonous death. The smell on a warm day was truly awful
but since nearly everybody in the Royal household stank like a dead
goat anyway it was of no great consequence.

The King should have been in his counting house, counting out his
money. Unfortunately, there was hardly any to count, since there was
nobody in marching distance who had anything left worth stealing. So
instead the monarch had taken a newly arrived serving wench into the
buttery, bent her over a table and applied double handfuls of butter
to her bared hindquarters. The girl was mystified by his actions but
in a few seconds time she was destined to find out two things: why he
was called Argud the Defiler, and the real reason why the buttery was
called the buttery.

The Master-At-Arms, on the other hand, was dealing with more delicate
business. A matter of negotiations which called for diplomacy and
cordiality. Not easy qualities to summon up in a proud old soldier
covered in scars and past glory: in his time the Master-At-Arms had
killed and raped more victims than a boatload of Ice Land Warriors. He
resented having to be unduly deferential to any other official of the
Royal Household. But even he had to respect the authority of Sir
Tarquin as Royal Tax Collector and Keeper of the castle torture
chamber.

"A fine day, Sir Tarquin."

"A fine day, Master." 

Sir Tarquin reluctantly laid aside a series of woodcuts left behind by
a visiting trader of tormenting equipment. Often and anon did he gaze
at them wistfully, especially the ones showing the young lady with the
long legs stretched out on a rack, the legs getting longer and longer
in each succeeding picture. What he wouldn't give to have a bit of
glamour like that in his own appliances instead of the dreary peasants
that were all that ever came his way in this backward apology of a
backwoods kingdom. Not that he'd ever dare to let such words pass his
lips, not if he didn't want them sewn together. On matters patriotic
King Argud was so right wing he was almost a Tiberian Republican.

"How can I help you, Master?

"I'd like to book a session in the torture chamber, Sir Tarquin."

"Certainly -- a personal one, Master? Ha, ha, the old ones are always
the best, hey?"

The Master smiled dutifully with a twitch of his lips as the Torturer
reached for his diary, a movement which paused halfway as an
earsplitting scream came from the direction of the buttery. Sir
Tarquin cocked his head to one side and listened with professional
judgement.

"She'll be able to carry around the mead tonight, but I hope it's not
at my table. Her hands won't stop shaking for a week. Now, Master, was
it a group booking?"

"No. Just the one, thank'ee, my lord."

"Fine. Any particular torments in mind? Male or female?"

The Master-At-Arms grinned. To be more exact, he bared his teeth like
a wolf seeing a sheep caught in a briar patch: "Definitely male, Sir
Tarquin. It's the castrating vice I want to use. Could I have a couple
of hours, if that's agreeable to you?"

"A couple of hours? That's a long time for such a simple little job.
Is this business or pleasure, Master?"

"Oh, both, Sir Tarquin -- both." 

The old soldier looked as if he'd seen a divine vision of a thousand
virgins, each one more beautiful than the next, and all driving carts
heavily laden with wine barrels.

Sir Tarquin felt a touch of unease. As a normal thing, letting
enthusiastic amateurs loose in a torture chamber was a mistake. Blood
everywhere afterwards, and all the tools bent out of shape with
overmuch heating. But the Master was a professional too, or at least
he'd always behaved up until now as a career soldier and pain giver.
And as an officer of the Royal Household there was no way he could be
decently refused access to the in-castle tormenting facilities.

"The day after tomorrow? From the third emptying of the water clock
until the fifth emptying?"

"Thank you, Sir Tarquin. You co-operation is appreciated."

The Torturer fastened his weak blue eyes on the Master's vicious brown
ones.

"You'll appreciate that you'll still have to raise an
inter-departmental invoice for the hire of the chamber. Two florins an
hour, four florins in all. You'll need to make seven copies of the
invoice, all signed by yourself or your deputy and counter-signed by
myself or my deputy. One copy for your files, one for mine, one for
the routine-of-the day clerk, one to the Royal Accounts Office, one to
me as the head of  Value Added and Value Removed Tax department, one
for the Royal Archives, and one for the Bureau of Births, Deaths,
Marriages and Castrations. And, naturally, it's your department's
responsibility to ensure the removal of all bodies and bodily parts
from the chamber at the end of the hire period. All equipment used is
also to be cleaned and lightly oiled afterwards."

"You know me, my lord. I always leave the torture chamber the way I
would wish to find it."

Sir Tarquin suddenly realized that the Master-At-Arms wasn't looking
at him, but over his head and through an arrow slit in the wall. He
turned in his chair and glanced out through the narrow gap himself. On
the other side of the moat were the straggly lines of filthy wooden
shacks where those of King Argud's subjects unfortunate enough to be
still alive eked out their wretched existences. But one building at
least was well built, the size of a barn, close to the protection of
the castle walls, with a patch of scorched grass outside it. Playing
happily together on the bare ground was a young boy and a young
female. The female was much younger than the boy, but a great deal
bigger. About forty paces longer, in fact, bright pink in color -- at
the moment, anyway -- and gently weaving her snout and her sinuous
body like a giant ferret as the boy tickled her underneath her left
wing root.

"By the Gods, Master, I still can't believe it -- not even after
seeing it every day for nigh on five years. A living, breathing
dragon. And when I was a boy we all thought they'd never existed. Even
the witches and warlocks said the old carvings were only make believe.
Just dreams and mind pictures from nearly forgotten stories. And then
a dirty little sniveling son of a night soil spreader comes out of the
forest with an great egg he says he found in the roots of a fallen
tree."

The Master-At-Arms nodded absent-mindedly. Everybody from far and wide
knew the story, and how young Hal O'The Shitbuckets had not told
anybody about the egg but hidden it inside a pile of warm dung near to
his family's hut. And how the boy had come out a few weeks later and
found a dragonet frolicking around on top of the pile of shite. And by
the time anybody of importance had found out about any of this, it was
too late. The dragonet and Hal had instantly developed the same kind
of affection as between a man and his dog, and any attempts to part
them had sent the young dragon into such a state of fretful decline
that the companionship had to be restored immediately. But otherwise
the hatchling seemed perfectly healthy and had grown at an astonishing
speed. And of all its mysteries, three had continually dominated King
Argud's thoughts.

The first was whether there was any truth in the old legends about
dragons breathing fire? 

The dragonet had never shown any sign of being able to do so but there
had been a lingering hope in King Argud's breast that the facility
might develop as the creature reached puberty. A hope which had found
triumphant resolution one night when a pack of stray dogs had gotten
into the dragon hut and attacked the dragon and Hal. The resulting
flames had not only burnt down the dragon's hut but also a dozen
others belonging to peasants unfortunate enough to be living nearby.
As the suddenly dispossessed poor fled for their lives the King had
capered wildly in delight in the snow in his night shirt, calling for
his pipe to light it from the burning fragments of the huts, and then
for his fiddlers three to provide the music for his pyromaniacal
dance. At dawn he'd demanded that Hal demonstrate the dragon's
incendive skills again by burning down more huts, clapping his hands
like a delighted child as the dragon had coughed out tiny spitballs
which flew for hundreds of paces and then ignited into raging
fireballs whenever they hit anything.

"By Odin, I love the smell of dragon spit in the morning!" King Argud
had  roared in ecstasy at the sight of so much destruction inflicted
so quickly.

The second mystery was whether the promise of the pup's nascent wings
would eventually be proven. Could a dragon fly?

The answer had been yes, a fact finally determined in the last few
weeks of early summer. Although, in truth, the dragon only flapped her
wings barely enough to be airborne before  locking them into
outstretched sails and seemingly riding the currents of the air upward
and upward, then gliding across great distances before turning and
turning like a falling leaf in one place in the sky. Yet instead of
drifting down she would drift upwards again. Nobody could explain how
this could happen, except through magic. Apart from Hal O'The
Shitbuckets, who thought that the air rose in bubbles from pieces of
hot ground, like the bubbles in water coming to the boil, and that
somehow the dragon could see or sense where these air bubbles were
rising.

Under normal circumstances nobody would have paid any attention to
young Shitbucket's ideas. The one thing which did get them a hearing
was that Hal was the only person in the whole kingdom who had ever
flown with the dragon. At least that was what most people thought, but
four people knew differently. Hal, the Master-At-Arms, and two of the
Master-At-Arm's daughters. Unfortunately for all of them, the Master
had accidentally overheard Chelinde telling her young sister how she
had twice been aloft with Hal and how young Shitbuckets had rewarded
her with what he called a frequent flyer point. 

It was Chelinde's candid description of where young Hal had inserted
his point whilst they were together in the beastling's riding net
which had resulted in Hal's recently appointed meeting with the
castration vice. The next item on the Master-At-Arm's schedule was
arresting the still unwitting boy and explaining in great detail about
exactly what was going to happen to him. Hal might have spent most of
his life emptying latrines but if he'd thought before he was in the
shit, he was soon going to know better -- or worse.

Sir Tarquin shook his head in sorrow as he kept watching the boy and
the dragon at play: "Such a shame. Worse yet, a tragedy. Is there
anything sadder than the sight of a promising life destined never to
know true fulfillment? The King comes near to weeping every time he
thinks of it. What say you, Master, are you still of the same
opinion?"

The Master-At-Arms expression was one of bewildered surprise, until he
realized what Sir Tarquin was talking about. It was the third great
mystery about the dragon, the mystery which had King Argud groaning
with despair at nights for a solution.

"Absolutely the same opinion, my Lord. Our tiny army had no chance at
all of defeating the Imperial Legions. One dragon on its own might win
us a battle but never the war. We'd need a whole flock of them to be
assured of destroying the Emperor's forces in the field and taking the
great cities of the plains."

"A rise, Master. The collective noun for group of dragons is
apparently a rise of dragons. So the Chief Warlock tells us of the
High Council from his reading of the ancient writings. And no wonder
the King weeps when he looks down from these hills onto an empire he
could easily conquer -- if only we could find a male dragon to mate
our female with. Nature can be so cruel." Sir Tarquin sighed heavily
in quiet despair.

"How many peasants have we worked to death digging up the forest floor
roundabouts that fallen tree seeking another egg -- a male egg, in all
love? How many spells have the Witches and Warlocks cast, seeking a
trace of other dragons in the great wide world? How many spies have we
sent out seeking news of such beastlings? And not one trace, not one
rumor, not even one tavern tale about such monsters existing. No, what
you see innocently playing there, Master, are two virgins, and
destined I think to stay that way for a long time."

The Master-At-Arm's face was pale, only two red spots on his
cheekbones revealing the pure fires of anger burning within him. "My
Lord, I intend to make sure one of them will certainly never have need
of a mate." 

He tapped the cover of the torturer's diary with heavy significance
and Sir Tarquin's eyebrows rose in sudden concern. "Hal? It's our
young dragon handler you've a mind to geld? Nay, I think the King must
know of this first. Why do you want to do such a thing?"

The Master-At-Arms had no intention of telling the truth on that
subject. Nor did he think that he needed to.

"My Lord, my duty is to the security of the King and the Kingdom, and
that dragon is a menace to both. It cannot help us defeat our enemies
but should Hal ever decide to turn on his true Lords and Masters that
beastling would be a formidable threat to us. Many of us would perish
and much damage would ensue before he and that confounded animal were
killed. Since we cannot breed from it, better to destroy the monster
and its handler's spirit now before they acquire a taste for more than
they are being given." 

Sir Tarquin shook his head: "A sound argument, Master, but not
sufficient to achieve your purpose. Leave our dragon handler alone for
a while yet."

"Dragon handler? That's not his substantive rank on the household
rolls. He's a privy purveyor, he empties the shit pans into the moat
and he was only allowed to work in the castle at all because he tends
the beastling a few hours each day. The dragon is of no use to us,
only danger, and the sooner we get rid of it and debollock that young
upstart, the better."

The Royal Torturer waved his hand at the chair the Master-At-Arms had
recently vacated: "Sit you down again, Master, and breathe no word of
what I am about to tell you. For you have unwittingly touched upon
decisions recently made by the High Council and it were better for you
to know something of them and thus keep discreetly silent."

Sir Tarquin leaned forward across his desk and spoke in lowered terms.

"The King and Council in secret session have decided that now the
dragon has reached true maidenhood there is one last turn of the cards
we can yet play. If we can't find a male dragon, perhaps the young
female dragon may. She can fly, and she can seek, and Hal that was
will go with her to return a clutch of fertile eggs, be it nothing
else he can bring back. Let that dragon go hang, if only he can find
dragon hatchlings enough for us to breed a rise from."

The Master-At-Arms tried to absorb the implications of Sir Tarquin's
statement: "Go? Go where?"

"Out into the wide world, wherever the winds may blow the pair of
them. Over the northern mountains perhaps, or southwards over the
provinces of Lyonesse to that great city itself and beyond. Or the
east, to the forests of Prydein, or west wards, into the sea mists of
Tintagel. Wherever it be that the great beast may feel drawn to go.
Like calls to like, Master, and if there be a scaly and horny mate for
her anywhere, surely that dragoness will be drawn to him like a homing
pigeon to its nest."

"But ... but ... Hal, that was? What do you mean by that, my Lord?"

"Why but think, man! If a dragon or dragons there be anywhere, surely
they will be owned, as here, by the King of those parts. Can we send a
shit-carrier's offspring to negotiate on behalf of the Kingdom of
Argud with another royal court? No, of course not. Know you, Master,
that in the next issue of the castle gazette there will be a notice
raising young Hal O'The Shitbuckets to the aristocracy. A lifetime
peerage." The Royal Torturer's lips tightened in sardonic amusement.
"However brief that lifetime may be."

The Master-At-Arms looked as if he'd taken a crossbow bolt in the
stomach: "That ugly little piece of trash is to be ennobled!"

"Aye.  A strange world we live in, hey? But you know yourself that the
boy is the only one in the Kingdom whom the dragon obeys, so he must
go with her. The King sought our advice on a suitable title for him
and I suggested Duke Skyrider as being apt to his station, but the
Chief Warlock would have none of it. He said it sounded too foolish to
be believed. So we have had to seek further. The Chamberlain said we
should simply use the boy's family name, but the Warlocks laughed at
that."

"I never even knew he had a family name. Why, he wasn't even born into
his family. The stinking brat was found newly born wrapped in a shawl
at the forest's edge."

"True, but he was bought up by the Shitbucket emptying clan.
Apparently they were given a Tiberian family name by those interfering
monks before the King finally drove them out. One of the holy men must
have had a sense of humor though because the family name is Merdinus.
The Warlocks thought the notion of a Duke Merdinus a great jest
because the word in the Tiberian language for dung is merdus. So it
was proposed the boy be dubbed Duke Merlinus instead. And in a few
day's time our young Duke and his dragon will leave on his quest. What
think you, Master?" 

"What do I think? To speak truth, my lord, I think the whole council
must have been sniffing on a platter of that white powder the traders
bring from the Happy Isles. I think the young tosspot will sell that
dragon as soon as he is safely out of our kingdom and spend the gold
on fucking serving wenches."

Sir Tarquin snorted with brief laughter: "So think we all, Master, so
think we all. It was also said that a duke who spoke not a word of
Tiberian, knew nothing of magic or ceremony and stinks of the privy
would have much trouble playing the part of a nobleman. Someone must
go with him, someone to make sure the quest succeeds, someone able to
educate Hal as they travel together, someone who will be respected in
any royal court in any land. We have now decided on a suitable escort
and consort for our aspiring Duke Merlinus."

The Royal Torturer leaned forward, even closer to the Master-At-Arms
and spoke even more confidentially: "Tell me, Master, have you still
any desire to see the wide world?"

The Master, the victor of a thousand vicious killing fights, whimpered
like a beaten dog: "Me, my lord! Go up on one of those things? I beg
you, no, no, a thousand times no! I'm a man, not a bird!"

"Ho-ho-ho! Your face, Master, your face!" The Royal Torturer slapped
his thigh in glee. He was a man whom dearly loved a joke above all
things, well accustomed at taking full advantage of a captive
audience. 

"Be calm, Master, be calm. Did we need a bulldog for an honest fight
you would be our choice, but the Chief Warlock has found us something
much better for our needs. A cunning serpent able to fly as well as
that dragon, a serpent of fascinating wickedness and as full of venom
as a nest of lawyer spiders. A serpent well versed in all kinds of
magic and courtly behavior, a speaker of many tongues and a convincing
liar in all of them. Best of all, a serpent whom both enchants and
terrifies every man she meets."

"She ... " The Master-At-Arms stared at Sir Tarquin. "A witch? You are
sending a witch with Shitbucket? Which witch -- I mean what witch?"

"Look at my finger, Master."

The Torturer traced the outline of three letters on the desk in front
of him. The Master-At-Arms blinked, blinked again, and then smiled a
little. So did Sir Tarquin. Both of them looked at each other and
smiled even more widely.

"So, Master, have we not found you a better ball-breaker than anything
I could provide in my chamber?"

The Master-At-Arms laughed aloud, clapping his hands together as
though applauding a play or an execution: "The bitch-witch! The
bitch-witch herself!"

Sir Tarquin stood up again, his belly heaving at the same joke as he
watched the innocent victims below, all unaware of what evil was
speeding towards them.

"But what could bring her to this small place, my lord? What does a
lady of her powers care about our dragon?"

"The lady has the King's sworn promise. Bring back the eggs which will
create an army of warrior dragons for him and she will be rewarded,
even unto half of the Empire once he has seized it. But if ever that
should come to pass, Master, be assured I'll make sure that I'm living
in the other half."

Had Hal been able to overhear this conversation he would have been
frightened witless. One part of it though would have given him a warm
glow of satisfaction. For, if a member of the High Council should talk
so lightly of his selling the dragon, it meant that none of the great
men of the kingdom knew about the most profound of her mysteries, one
of infinite more value than flying or flame throwing. A mystery he had
been taking advantage of under any watching eyes from the castle walls
in his pretence of playfully tickling the dragoness. What he had
actually been doing was soaking a piece of rag near glands underneath
her wings where a colorless liquid sometimes seeped out -- a liquid
which drove all those who touched it into a flaming desire to couple
as madly as a March hare.

Hal had only noticed the liquid appearing in the last few weeks, as
the dragoness reached her maidenhood. He supposed that it was intended
for male dragons to lick and thus encourage them to mount the female.
Certainly he had never suspected such a thing at first. He'd believed
the liquid to be sweat, the first sign that the dragon was as other
creatures. 

Before then, in all the years since he'd first seen it, the dragon had
seemed to live on a higher level than other life forms, including men.
It never ate, but spread its wings out under the sun whenever it
could, as though it drew life from the great fire like a growing
flower. Thus, it never dropped dung either, a great relief to Hal. All
the beastling seemed to need was a daily drink of water and lots of
affection. But now it seemed able to create affection itself,
uncontrollable affection in all who were touched of its sweat.

By great fortune the first trickles were of a weaker potency than was
to come. But such as they were, the dampness on his fingers had driven
Hal into a corner of the dragon hut with his breeches around his
ankles and continually jerking at his lance, a lance which refused to
droop in tiredness after the first, second, third, and even fourth
eruption. It had felt as if the fires of hell itself were burning in
his loins and would never be damped down.

The boy had almost killed himself before collapsing onto the straw and
suffered so much soreness that every movement for days afterwards had
been torment. He had quickly learned from his experience though, and
took great care now never to touch the liquid directly and to mix it
with plenty of water before use. A power intended for dragons was far
too strong for humans without it being much weakened first. But what
wonders even a trace of dragon sweat produced!

Carefully holding the rag by a still dry corner he led the beast back
into the hut which housed it. Blotches of yellow appeared on the
dragon's neck from its head to its front legs like daisies appearing
after rain. Hal quickly answered the unspoken question.

"Be content, Josephine, I see all the colors of your coat. We shall
fly this morning. But first I must prepare."

As soon as the dragon was inside Hal pulled the doors shut and put a
bar across them. The thousands of cracks in the planked roof and walls
let in enough light for the shed's interior to be as dusky as early
twilight, a million straw motes floating through the intruding rays
and then disappearing from sight in the dimmer areas. The dragon
ambled over to the largest pile of straw at the far end of the hut and
sniffed at it. Girlish laughter and cries of mock fear came from the
depths of the straw.

"Come away, my lady," Hal said severely. "There are terrible creatures
hidden in there, and I fear for your safety."

More giggles, and a mass of blonde curly hair popped up out of the
straw: "It's true, you do speak your dragon as though it were your
heart's love. Chelinde told me it was so but I didn't believe her, so
I came to hear myself."

"A good day between you and evil, Caelia," Hal said, little bothered
by the girl's banter. "And is it that long tongued sister of yours who
is hiding with you?"

Another head came out of the straw, more tangled fair hair filled with
stalks and two faces both of a kind, round and rosy, with bright blue
eyes full of mischief. "Why here I am indeed, mighty dragon master,
and have been since we crept in before the first light shone."

"And what of your father? How would our Master-At-Arms deal with me if
he knew you two were here in Josephine's pound?"

"He'll never know," Caelia answered lightly, brushing the problem of
her parent aside, and none of the three with the slightest foreboding
of the dangers closing in on them. "And anyway, I wanted to see the
dragon."

"See it, girl? And haven't you seen it every day for years past, just
as all hereabouts have done?"

"I haven't seen it the way Chelinde has."

Hal himself blushed furiously and unable to stop from casting a guilty
look at Chelinde's face: "And what way would you be talking about,
Caelia?"

The straw pile parted and Caelia emerged from it, pale skinned and
much freckled, hot eyed, wide mouthed, a cupid's bow on the upper lip
which was made for laughing and kissing. Her pleasing shape was akin
that of her elder sister, short in body and leg, but as well curved as
any piece of fruit sinful Adam ever plucked and as fully endowed in
the bust and bottom as Eve herself must have been. The forest green
gown she was wearing was much worn and overdue to be passed down to
another sister, for the buttons on the bodice were all but popping
off, and as her fingers stroked it, removing wisps of straw, she knew
full well what effect she was having on Hal.

"Why, I haven't been for a flight with your dragon as Chelinde has." 

Hal was speechless, not knowing how much Caelia had learnt and whether
she could be trusted to keep quiet. Bad enough she knew as much as she
did already, after he'd sworn Chelinde to silence by all the Gods in
the mountains.

"Chelinde!"

The straw broke apart again like the pool of Venus and Chelinde rose
out of it to stand beside her sister. Two buttons on her bodice were
already undone and Hal remembered -- as he would remember all his
mortal days -- what was still concealed below them, and how Chelinde
had squealed with excitement as he'd taken her full womanhood in his
hands. Now she was back again, her sister with her to boot, and the
pair of them looking like bear cubs that had found the beehive. 

"No need for hard words, Hal. Wouldn't you like to take the both of us
for a flight? Didn't you say yourself I could bring another girl next
time if I wished?"

True it was indeed he'd said some such thing -- or rather, his balls
had said it through his mouth when they possessed him body and soul. 

Had Chelinde not the slightest suspicion of how she'd been tricked
into washing with water tainted with dragon sweat? But why would she
think of such a thing when only Hal himself knew of the sweat? No, she
could know nothing of the magical power at his command and must still
believe her seduction had been fully consummated by a desire as
uncontrollable as Hal's own. But to bring her own sister to another
meeting! Had it truly been Chelinde's idea or that little minx of a
sister? And another of the Master-At-Arm's daughters! Lunacy!

Yet when Hal looked at both pairs of bright eyes, both pairs of red
lips, and at the taut female flesh underneath those gowns he knew the
argument was lost before it was even debated. If Josephine could lift
the three of them into the air he cared not whether Caelia and
Chelinde were the Master-At-Arm's kin or the devil's. He could no more
resist them than refrain from breathing.

"You  ...  you have the price of your flights with you?"

"Here," Chelinde said and held out a small white muslin bag. "I took
them from a batch that our mother has just finished drying."

Hal moved forward, took the bag from her fingers, opened it and
carefully spilt the treasure inside into his hand. Three pieces of
treasure in truth, three small squares of ash speckled potash mixed
with fats and essence of herbs. Three pieces of soap! Hal held one of
the squares to his nose and breathed in the smell from it as if he was
standing by the rose gardens of Paradise. The great head of the dragon
loomed over his shoulder, Josephine sniffing at Hal's hand in her
curiosity. Both girls cowered back as if they feared being bitten

"Ah, you need none of this, my lady. You are not condemned to do my
filthy work. But heed me now." 

Hal carefully pointed to himself, then to Chelinde and Caelia, held an
hand on each side of his head, and flicked two fingers on each one up
and down. Then he made a hooked question sign with one finger: "Can
you carry the three of us aloft, Josephine?"

Outbreaks of pink blossomed along the dragon's belly, running into
each other like spilt paint.  Like her namesake, her coat was always
of many colors. Hal cocked his head in some surprise at the boldness
of the display.

"So sure, hey? I hope you may not be coming it the phoenix. But on
your wings be it. Please to step this way then and oblige."

Hal pointed to the large drinking trough and the well pump beside it.
He plunged his fingers into the water inside the trough, then quickly
pulled them out again and shook his hand to show how cold the water
was. Afterwards he tapped his nose and stood back. The dragon waddled
forward, dipped her snout into the trough and made a coughing noise.
Then she apparently lost interest in the trough and slithered away.
The two girls clung to each other as the water in the middle of the
trough swelled up in a great boiling and moiling, with jets of steam
spurting out of it and waves running along the length of the trough to
splash over the ends.

"Tis nothing to fear, sister," Chelinde reassured Caelia. "Only a
little dragon spit being used to warm the cold water for us. For Hal
says that the dragon cannot abide the smell of mortals close to it
unless we are freshly washed."

Hal had indeed told her that. A lie of course, but a most convenient
one. As soon as the dragon's spit had been quenched he picked up a
stick, plucked the rag from his belt, pushed the rag deep into the
trough, then used the stick to swirl the boiling and colder portions
of water into a comfortably warm mixture. Only he knew what else was
also being spread through the water from the rag.

Two buckets Hal then filled from the trough, put a ladle in each and
carried the buckets to the dragon's washing place. The dragon had
scratched out the earth there and carried in the sacks of sand that
Hal had spread, for the boy hated mud almost as much as he hated dung.


In the middle of the sandpit was a waist high pile of straw from which
Hal drew handfuls of stalks to rub Josephine down with after her daily
bathe. He set the buckets down behind the straw.

"So, do you girls wash yourselves most carefully. You may crouch down
as necessary, though I will have no eyes to spare for you as I prepare
Josephine for her flight." 

Chelinde giggled, and then Caelia too, exchanging knowing looks, and
four rosy cheeks looking even redder. Hal handed one the precious
pieces of soap to each of them.

"Go to it, girls," Hal urged. And if the dragon sweat worked as well
as before, even much diluted, the pair of them would soon enough stop
blushing.

 From the wall Hal took down a net made of ropes, of the finest quality
the castle ropemaker could provide, furnished on the King's direct
orders. To try to ride on Josephine's back was impossible, for along
her spine were a single row of fins, each half the length of a man's
forearm, and each fin tipped with a needle as sharp and as strong as
the tip of an Iberian rapier. Any saddle on her would have been ripped
to shreds within minutes, and her rider with it.

As soon as she saw the net the dragon crouched down eagerly on her
belly, eyeing the door of the dragon pound like a dog waiting to be
released from a kennel. Hal laughed and first fetched four sheepskins
which he impaled in a row on her fins, each skin pressed well down so
the tops of the fins stood proud above them. Then he threw the net
over the sheepskins, carefully arranging the ropes to ensure none were
twisted and each fin projected through one of the wide mesh holes in
the net. The load must be properly spread along Josephine's body and
the sheepskins were to protect the net from chafing, not the dragon's
hide. Her scales had never been pierced to his knowledge, not even
with a pack of pi-dogs snapping and biting at her. They had been like
puppies trying to chew through chain mail.

At each corner of the net was a wooden ring, triple sewn into the
ropes, the rings hanging level with each wing root, front and back.

Hal fetched a second net and laid it flat on the floor, then spread
more sheepskins along the middle of it. "Come, my lady, come."

The dragon rose on her legs, scuttled forward over the second net,
then crouched down again. Like the other net, the belly net had rings
sewn into each corner and Hal had four lengths of rope over his
shoulder, the 'Fria und Odin!' lashings. They were called that because
if they came undone those would be the last despairing words he'd have
time to shout. As he secured each set of rings together Hal totally
ignored the laughter coming from across the straw pile. Only when the
nets were safely secure above and below Josephine did he turn and look
towards Chelinde and Caelia. And as he did so his lungs seemed
suddenly emptied of air.

Chelinde was standing behind the straw pile, visible from the hips up
and wearing nothing but her necklace of painted wooden beads. Her
expression was one of pure mischief as she rubbed a piece of soap over
and around her large tits, showing particular care to the dark plums
on the tip of each wet and wobbling mound.  Behind her was Caelia, not
even wearing as much as a necklace, and grinning at Hal as if he were
the castle fool. He stepped towards the straw, mouth agape, hardly
knowing what he was doing. Caelia laughed in delight at his obvious
stupefaction, then reached around Chelinde and began massaging the
trails of soap on her sister's breasts into a lather. The front of
Hal's breeches jerked upwards as quickly as a disturbed viper rousing
itself. Both of the girls giggled anew at the visible proof of their
effect on him.

"Come on, Hal, time for your wash as well," Chelinde called out.
"We've water enough left for you."

He stumbled forward, as dazed as a man hit with a club in a tavern
brawl. The more he tried to undo his jerkin, the bigger the toggles
seemed to get and the smaller the leather loops. But when he was
behind the straw pile the girls crowded close to him, each taking on
the task of loosening his clothing. And neither of them wearing a
stitch.

The smell of the soap on their warm bodies was the finest aroma ever
in his life's experience, even better than roasting pork. And when he
found four pillows pressed against him, four pillows of white flesh
sprinkled with freckles, pillows softer than any on the King's bed, he
nearly fainted.

The sisters had no more interest in teasing Hal's weaknesses though,
only in exposing his strength. Each of them held onto a sleeve of his
jerkin as they removed the dirty garment, and then Caelia pulled his
shirt out of his breeches as Chelinde undid the wooden buttons at the
neck.

"Ha, you're too tall for us, Hal," she chuckled, her breath caressing
the hair at the base of his throat. "Kneel down, dragon master."

He would have jumped into a bonfire if they'd asked if of him -- even
into the moat, perhaps. On his knees in the damp sand, he held up his
arms again and his shirt was lifted high and over his hands. Directly
in front of his face as this happened was Chelinde's loins and the
blonde patch of hair set above her sweet cleft. Hal pushed his head
forward and his tongue further forward yet, the tip of it not quite
reaching its target as Chelinde laughed and retreated half a step,
keeping her hands clasped around Hal's raised wrists. 

"La, Caelia, this monster is as fearsome as his dragon. He wants to
eat me!"

Her sister squealed in mock alarm: "Odin save us! What are we to do?"

"Never fear. I shall sacrifice myself to save you. Hal, lie down and
roll over on your back."

He did so, stared up with bulging eyes and saw Chelinde appear over
his face, each of her feet almost touching one of his ears, her smooth
legs and exquisitely shaped thighs wide apart, right up to the furrow
of the delectable man trap between them. She brushed some strands of
loose hair away from her knowing eyes, then looked along the length of
his body to Caelia.

"Sister, while I hold him down, do you remove his breeches and wash
him most thoroughly."

Caelia giggled: "How can you hold down such a beast?"

"Watch and learn."

Chelinde lowered herself, putting a knee where a foot had been before.
The entrance to the promised land filled Hal's gaze, and then nuzzled
against his lips. He snorted in delight and tongued away her hot flesh
like a cat at spilt milk. The fat bulges of Chelinde's rump quivered
in response, pressing the join between them down onto his nose, until
he was compelled to put a hand under each buttock to help support her
weight. 

It was something like death Hal decided, in some far corner of his
mind which still had a measure of calm. The last rites of pre-burial
washing and cleaning being performed on the body he could no longer
see but still feel. Half suffocated, blood pounding in his ears, and
above him the moans and lamentations of a grieving female. Well, moans
anyway, and warm water splashing over him, and a feeling beyond
compare of four busy little hands rubbing soap all over his grimy
skin. 

They went everywhere they could reach: chest, stomach, legs, feet,
Caelia washing his soles as Chelinde bounced up and down on his face,
scratching at his flanks with her finger nails. Until all that was
left uncleaned was his jutting cock and tight drawn balls. Then the
ladle was emptied over his parts, soap swiftly applied by twenty
vigorously active fingers and thumbs, all of them seemingly rubbing
his foreskin simultaneously and Hal was writhing as if he was on hot
coals as Chelinde rode on the tip of his tongue. She let out a great
cry, and another, and another, and then a fearful scream. Suddenly the
girl off his face, sprawled on the sand, knocked there by a push of
the dragon's head, and Josephine's eyes were staring into Hal's,
seeking assurance that nothing was amiss. A string of filthy curses
came from Chelinde's mouth in her anger at being interrupted during
her moments of satisfaction.

"Damn your eyes, be quiet, girl. You'll upset Josephine. Patience for
only a few minutes more,  my lady, and we'll fly."

"Damn you and damn your vile dragon," snapped Chelinde in a spat of
temper. "Get down on your hands and knees, Hal, and seek my
forgiveness."

Hal knew better than to argue with any girl gripped with the sort of
passion that Chelinde was in right then. He did as she bade him and
was instantly gripped with passion himself as she knelt behind him,
put a hand between his legs and rubbed his cock as if he were a
stallion being put to a mare.

"Wash his back, Caelia."

"Wash his back yourself. I want to hold him by the tupper -- 'tis my
turn."

Chelinde laughed: "So be it, sister. Here, get down by his side and
take whatever you may seize on."

Caelia crouched down, put her hand underneath Hal and caught hold of
his shaft. She stayed there, holding him like a groom holding a
waiting horse as Chelinde poured more water over Hal and rubbed soap
over his back and legs. The effect of the dragon sweat was passing
into his own body now, and every time the younger sister moved her
tightened fist up and down his cock he scratched out holes in the wet
sand and wailed. Caelia was delighted with the power she had found in
the palm of her strong little hand.

"Ah, Hal, you men may be masters most of the time, but not always,
hey?"

Again, in that faraway corner of his mind, Hal wondered at being
called a man. Surely he was still only a boy in age, even if he had a
man's lusts? But whatever he was, this was no time to think about it.

"Let me go, Caelia. 'Tis time we flew."

"Rinse him off, Chelinde."

The older girl emptied the two buckets over Hal's back. He shook the
water from his hair like a dog emerging from a stream, then staggered
to his feet.

"Bring your clothes."

He grabbed up his own, ran to the side of the dragon, pulled out the
side of the bottom net and dropped his filthy rags into it. Then he
took Chelinde's clothes from her hand and did the same with them,
followed by Caelia's.

"Chelinde, show Caelia how to get into the net."

The naked girl moved against the dragon's side, in front of the left
wing root. She reached up and seized handholds in the top net, put her
feet into mesh holes on the bottom net and scrambled upwards with the
nimbleness of a squirrel climbing a tree. As soon as her feet were at
the upper edge of the lower net Hal bit her lightly on each side of
her rump. Chelinde stopped moving and hung giggling as Hal pulled out
all the slack in the net and guided her feet into the narrow gap. His
hands reached up, underneath her arms and helped her to slip down
between the belly net and Josephine's smooth scaled side. Once inside
the net she lay on her back on top of the row of sheepskins, her face
and teats scarcely half an arrow's length below the belly of the
beast.

"Caelia, do you still want to fly?

The pink and swaying girl almost elbowed him aside in her eagerness to
follow her sister into the net. Only this time, after Hal had nipped
at her buttocks like a playful dog, he left her in place as he put his
hand up between her legs and rubbed his top finger along the outer
lips of her maidenhood. Caelia's knuckles went white as she wriggled
around with the feverish energy of a landed fish.

"Hal! Hal!" she cried out.

A hand came out of one of the net holes. It squeezed Hal's rod, then
rubbed it.

"What are you doing with my vexing sister, Hal?"

"Why, nothing but returning her a favor and showing that
master-is-as-master-does. Down you come, Caelia."

In a few seconds the belly net was full of girls. Full enough for
Hal's modest wants anyway, as overwhelming as they were. He rushed
towards the door, Josephine following behind on tipclaw, with squeals
coming from beneath her as the slung net bumped on the ground a time
or two. Hal removed the bar from the doors, pushed one open a head's
width and then looked out and about. 

There was no one else in sight. Only the glint of a polished helmet on
top of the Keep where a sentry stood guard. Hal partially opened the
doors, but not much, being careful to keep his nakedness from view.
Josephine needed little enough room to slip through anyway, she was as
lithe as a stoat. When he returned to her side flickers of purple
along it showed her eagerness to lift off.

With the skill of practice he hauled himself up, wriggled his toes and
then his feet into the belly net and let himself down handhold by
handhold. But as his waist slipped past the top of the net a warm palm
moved up the inside of his left leg and then held his cock. Something
damp and warm slithered around his cock's helm as if it were testing
the taste of it. Probably it tasted of soap, but whether or not, the
flavor must have been deemed acceptable, for a mouth followed the
tongue. A mouth that spread itself around the helm and lower yet,
sucking at him fiercely. Hal gasped and clenched at the top net.
Somebody was paying him back in his own coin, and he had little doubt
who it was. He could see a string of muscles behind Josephine's left
front leg tighten as the dragon trembled with eagerness to fly. Trying
to tell her to wait further was like ordering a dog to sit still as a
coney ran past.

"Let go, you silly bitch!"

Josephine took a step, a leap, a bound, a girl's voice squealed, his
cock was unmouthed and unhanded, he slipped into the net, down and
sideways, on top of warm and trembling bodies which hung onto him as
if they were possessed, the net flexed upwards as Josephine cleared
the hut and leapt into the air, his head hit the dragon's belly, a
curly haired head bounced against his chest in turn, a soft belly
rising up to slam against his cock and balls, a groan was forced out
of his mouth by pain, the great wings lashed at the air.

Then, as suddenly as the dragon had first lunged forward, the net
steadied and swung as gently as a hammock slung between two oak trees.
A breeze blew in along the dragon's belly like water flowing down a
river bed, the great wings appearing and disappearing on either side
in upward and downward beats. As they swung down into view with the
regularity of sails turning on a windmill harder gusts of wind
simultaneously slapped into the net from either side, the wind waves
clapping together as though applauding Josephine's efforts.

Staring down, Hal could see that the beastling's boasts about being
able to lift the weight of all three passengers seemed well founded.
Already the ground was as far underneath him as it would be if he was
standing on the castle ramparts. Both of the girls were squealing in
fear and delight and Hal cursed them as the dragon passed over the
town huts: men, women and children alike stopping and lifting their
faces upwards like frogs surprised in a well.

"Be quiet, you silly bitches, they can hear you down there," he
snarled, trying to quiet his passengers as quietly as he could himself
but probably still too loudly.

Hal knew well enough how easy it was to hear even the smallest sounds
from the ground when flying low above it, and also, he supposed, that
the opposite was true. The only small mercy was that Josephine was
still beating her wings, so perhaps the voices had been muffled by
their drum roll. At least none of the staring eyes below could pierce
the bottom covering of sheepskins which he and the girls were lying
on.

But worse was to come as Josephine's wings stiffened and she began
turning in a tight circle as if chasing her own tail, one wing tip
high up, the other held low, akin to a man stooping sideways with a
yoke across his shoulders to hook on a bucket. As Hal stared along the
underside of the lowered wing the thatched roofs it pointed at seemed
to turn in circles as though they were on a giant potter's wheel. 

 From some of them the smoke of cooking fires was still rising from
holes in the roofs, roofs still so close below he could not only see
the smoke but taste it in his mouth as well. Then the dragon's shadow
was moving away from the huts as Josephine kept dancing widdershins in
the air, slowly getting higher, and moving just as slowly across the
ground as she followed the air currents -- back towards the castle.

There was nothing Hal could do about that. A dragon could not be
ridden like a horse, nor yet guided like one. To even try to tell the
beastling how to lift herself into the sky would be like a blind rider
trying to follow a path by pulling on his mount's reins. Josephine
alone decided when to circle and when to fly straight -- and only when
she was high and flying straight could he seek to alter her
destination by tapping on her belly on the side he wished her to
favor. Down here amongst the sparrows she had no interest at all in
his desires, she flew entirely according to her own mind. And whatever
it was that was going on in the dragon's mind, at least he she wasn't
being distracted as much as he was, because Chelinde and Caelia had
already become used enough to flying for the dragon sweat to regain
its power over them.

One of the girls still partway underneath him had wriggled her way
down to his loins and was forcing him to lift himself up by nipping at
his sides with her sharp nails. Her tongue had started licking around
his balls as her sister had begun licking Hal's feet.

Again that distant part of his mind which was still unaffected by the
dragon's sweat and by Chelinde and Caelia's enticements warned Hal to
stay low lest the girls were seen by the sentry atop the Keep. It was
sensible advice and as capable of holding back his dragon sweat raised
lusts as a toddler was of penning a mad bull. He rolled over onto his
back and Caelia was dragging herself on top of him in an instant.

"Hal!"

Her mouth was against his, her tongue into his throat like an hedge
hog sucking out an egg, the pressure of her body forcing him deeper
into the sheepskins as she more than filled the gap between him and
Josephine. Odin, keep those lashings secure! Caelia's tits were so
squashed between his body and hers that he could feel their softness
spilling out onto his arms, yet even so she writhed against him as if
she was a mating snake, his straining cock rubbing uselessly against
the girl's cleft. And then a hand took hold of it and did his work for
him -- Chelinde was guiding him into her sister's cunt. 

Hal took his mouth from Caelia's, gasped, and felt himself slide all
the way inside her, every tiny muscle clamped around his cock holding
him tightly and rubbing against his flesh as though it was plunged
into a sack of baby eels. The boy shouted out his delight as Caelia
squealed and jerked herself against him even more frantically. One of
the sheepskins was pulled aside and Hal saw they were a little higher
than the Keep but hardly more than a short arrow shot from it and the
sentry. 

He was a tall, thin man with his hand shielding his eyes and the
pinhead speck of reason still left in Hal's head cursed as it
recognized the figure and stance of Will Spearshaker, a long limbed,
long sighted and long tongued fellow who delighted in spreading gossip
around the town. He was a particular nuisance because the less facts
there were for his stories, the more imaginative he became in devising
them. Thank the Gods nobody had ever taught him to write or he would
have been dangerous.

But all this trivia went out of Hal's thoughts as Caelia's cunt
caressed him even more tightly than Chelinde's ever had. Then all his
thoughts turned into fading vapor when Chelinde's fingernails
scratched underneath his balls and as Caelia screamed triumphantly,
knowing she was no longer a girl. The sweat from her face was falling
on his, her eyes were wide open, perhaps seeing him, perhaps not, and
her hands were clenched into the netting above his shoulders as she
slapped her belly against his. Then he knew his seed was spurting and
he clutched Caelia's shoulders as his loosed himself into her like an
overdrawn long bow. Another scream and her mouth was by the side of
his throat, biting into him as every muscle in her body went as rigid
as Josephine's wings. Eventually she gave out one last cry, sprawling
on top of him as if she was a doe exhausted unto death by hunting
dogs.

The net swayed and groaned itself in the lashings as Josephine's wings
leveled and she flew towards the mountains. The advantage in height
she had gained was being quickly whittled down as the rising ground
came closer. Hal eyed the mass of approaching treetops with fear but
also with great pleasure. Pleasure, of course, from what had happened
between Caelia and himself, and how she had been dealt with so
satisfactorily, but perhaps even more purely distilled pleasure from
simply being alive, in breathing the pure, pine scented air and seeing
the world in a way no other mortal could. Happiness seemed to be
springing from the depths of his soul as naturally as the streams he
could see below were trickling down the hill sides.  Then Josephine's
left wing dipped and she was turning and rising  once more, at the
same moment as Chelinde began licking the bottom of his feet again.

Surely, he thought, surely nothing could spoil an experience like
this?

Unfortunately for Hal, the answer was yes, something could spoil his
flight, his day, and his life and it was coming towards him from over
those blue-misted mountain peaks which made a perfect backdrop to the
summer's day scenery of Giant's Pass.

A golden eagle circling amidst the highest of the peaks was the first
to see the interloper. As black as a raven's wing, flying as fast as a
diving hawk, zig zagging between barren rock outcrops as if for the
pleasure of the twists and turns, now rapidly growing in size until it
could be seen to be as big as the eagle itself. The king of birds was
also emperor of the mountains, a fierce eyed defender of its territory
from anything which flew, even if it was something unlike anything in
the eagle's previous experience. The giant bird prepared to stoop down
in challenge. Prepared, then hesitated. Unlike a great many other
monarchs it had very sharp eyes and a well developed sense of
preservation. And there were things about this strange black creature
which suggested that it was much better left alone. 

The eagle had no words to shape its feelings exactly. But had it
possessed them, 'evil' and 'dangerous' would have been the ones which
would have been uppermost in describing them. Strongly coupled with
another feeling that things which managed to fly without wings were an
abomination to nature.

So the majestic bird decided on an alternative course of action. It
looked away from the black thing and decided not to look back until
there was every chance that it had flown past and disappeared. It even
ignored the distant whine of the passing broomstick. Which in some
ways it was a pity, for it was masterpiece of its kind.

To operate a witch's broomstick requires many years of training in
both symbolic magic and in a deep understanding and continuous mental
control of extremely complicated algorithms designed to keep reality
at bay. There is no way in which any outsiders can learn such
algorithms unless they become practicing witches or politicians.

The broomstick itself must remain in some way reminiscent of its
origins, but can be much modified to suit the owner's personality.
This one had the pillion seat sized bundle of twigs but a broom handle
much cut down in length. A special edition H-D (Hag-Driven) chopper
with customized high rise crossbar handles carved from a hangman's
gibbet.

This brush was being flown solo, but carried a bed roll and two
massive leather saddlebags with brass studs marking out the owner's
initials: 'MlF'. The very same letters which Sir Tristan had indicated
so discreetly to the Master-At-Arms. It would not be true to say that
the witch's name was well known to her friends, for she had none. But
her many enemies knew all about Morgana le Fay. And perhaps the
greatest reason for her multitude of ill-wishers was evident in the
words marked out with more brass studs on the back of her leather
jacket: "COVEN CHEATERS".

It was Morgana's dykie gang which had led a revolt against the
established order of witch precedence in their own coven. A revolt
which had attracted many supporters: promotion is slow in an
organization where senior members live many hundreds of years. But in
the final battle tradition and numbers had won and most of Morgana's
faction were now settling down to even more discontented lifestyles as
bats and mice. Morgana alone had fought clear and was realist enough
to know that a lot of melted snow would have to flow down these
mountains before she could begin another campaign in the witch wars.
In the meantime she would amuse herself by making life as miserable as
possible for as many mortals as possible, especially the male ones.

The body she had handcrafted for the purpose was ideally suited to its
task, designed to attract the absolute best of that breed to her like
hounds smelling blood. After all, there was no longer any point in
bothering with female lovers if she was going into a world run by men.
But Morgana was far too clever simply to make herself look beautiful.
Beautiful she was indeed, but that was only a part of the
presentation, for everything about her newly minted body was a walking
challenge to the male ego. And never had she encountered male egos as
inflated as those dressed in armor, wielding swords and calling
themselves knights.

These were men who had never known anything but submissive damsels
dressed in hampering gowns, silly hats and wimples. Women brought up
from birth to believe themselves as something rather less important to
men than horses or hounds. Women who knew -- knew absolutely -- they
existed only to serve, whether God as nuns, or their men as child
carriers and domestic slaves. This was the state of the world, and at
the first sight of Morgana the men who ruled it were dumbfounded. The
largest of them stood lower than the top of her vivid red hair, none
of their shoulders were as wide as hers, and the sight of her tightly
cut leather jacket and breeches dropped every jaw. Firstly, that any
woman would dare to dress in such style and, secondly, because she had
created for herself a figure which could lure a saint down from out of
a stained glass window.

Every one of those proud knights was scandalized and outraged at
Morgana's dress, her presence, her style, her insolent manner of
speech and -- above all -- because of her powers. Easy enough to
accuse an harmless old woman of being a witch and pass a pleasant
afternoon dunking her in a cesspit or rolling her through the streets
in a spike lined barrel. But a real witch, a witch who could knock
down a war horse with one punch, or tie a man's entrails into knots
without even touching him, well, that was a curse of a different
color. So the knights muttered in anger and, deprived of the use of
their swords, turned to the only other weapons they could think of to
conquer an overly proud woman who challenged all their beliefs.

It was a game which Morgana delighted in playing. Any man who was good
looking enough was welcome to share her bed and if he satisfied her,
he was allowed to walk -- or stagger -- away from the tournament.
There were few such winners though, and nailed along her broomstick
handle were a growing collection of small shriveled objects which had
once been the most treasured possessions of  fiercely proud knights
who had jousted with her: jousted, but not satisfied, and had
forfeited their manhoods as the price of disappointing Morgana le Fay.
Not for nothing had Morgana carefully studied the standard treatise on
witch-mortal relationships,  "The Male Eunuch And How To Make Him Into
One."

Over the mountains but very far from over the hill, Morgana dipped the
nose of her customised broom and gathered speed in the direction of
Giant's Pass Castle. She knew a lot about many things. What she didn't
know were how the fates were chuckling at the rendezvous they'd
appointed for her.

Nor were the fates alone in chuckling. Hal was as near to heaven as he
ever expected to be whilst still breathing, as far above his normal
stinking life as a privy emptier as the King was above him. The King!
Hal wouldn't have changed places with the Emperor. The trees which had
seemed so close had shrunk to the size of porcupine quills, the
rushing mountain streams to silvery snail tracks. The entire length of
Giant's Pass was his to look at in a single leisurely glance from over
Chelinde's right shoulder as he thrust his cock into her with equal
leisure. 

With one sister already shagged he was now calm and relaxed enough to
spin out the task of giving the other long, steady strokes that had
Chelinde sobbing in gratitude. Not that Hal wasn't grateful in his
turn to Caelia for the way she was busily licking his balls as he
fucked her sister. It was exactly the kind of family support which
helped families grow.

Hal changed his position slightly, grunting as he found a new angle at
which to plunge into Chelinde's welcoming loins. Now he was looking
over her left shoulder and could see the dragon's midday shadow almost
directly below, skimming over cultivated fields as Josephine glided
along the line of the valley. A minute more and she would be directly
over the castle. A vision came into Hal's mind's eye, a vision in
glorious detail, a vision of that bastard of a Master-At-Arms shouting
and bullying everybody in sight, and totally unaware that two of his
daughters were being fucked directly above his head by one of the
Shitbucket clan!

So inspired was Hal by the thought that he suddenly found himself on
the short strokes, the net flexing like a rope bridge underneath a
galloping horse and heaving Chelinde back up against him until his own
back was thumping against Josephine's scales. Like a village dance
fiddler Caelia instantly changed her own timing to meet Hal's new
pace, licking him feverishly and her fingers scratching at his rump.

"Pull out and put down!"

The movement in the net instantly stopped, except for the momentum
left in the net. Three heads flicked over in gaping disbelief. Hal's
brain simply refused to accept what he was seeing, a tall man in tight
fitting leather clothes with long black hair streaming back from
underneath a silvery helmet decorated with wings. Then Hal saw the
arched eyebrows, the glittering eyes, the perfection of nose and mouth
and knew he was looking at a woman -- he knew it even before his eyes
were seeing the massive curves of her breasts. A woman on what was a
broom, as strange a broom as could be imagined but a broom, flying
along as though it had every right to be in the sky with all the
creatures which Odin had given a home there. A witch! A real witch, a
witch beautiful beyond words and so close to him he could see the very
dimple in her chin.

"Put down!"

She appeared angry, her eyes apparently aimed directly at Hal. One of
her hands jerked down towards the ground, as though indicating that
she wanted Josephine to land. She also seemed to be having trouble
flying one handed, wobbling  from side to side, the handle of the
brush gradually lifting higher as though it was uncomfortable at the
dragon's slower pace. Hal had another sudden vision, of an accidental
collision between Josephine and the witch. The dragon's wing might be
damaged, or the net torn. He suddenly realized he was more terrified
of the death drop below than of anything else, even a flying
sorceress.

"Fuck off, you stupid witch!"

It was from there that things went very wrong very quickly. The witch
aimed her hand at Hal with fingers extended. A flicker of light showed
around them like a glimpse of summer lightning and Hal was writhing in
agony, as if a thousand red hot needles were jabbing all over his
body. And as he screamed he heard the girls screaming too. And Hal
also heard Josephine bellow in pain.

Witches travel a lot on broomsticks but rarely use them as fighting
platforms. Which is understandable. Just persuading a broomstick to
fly from A to B with U on it is hard work enough, without trying to
make the task more difficult by encouraging other broom jockeys to
knock you off what is a pretty precarious perch to begin with. And so
it had been aeons since most witches had encountered anything else in
the sky which was a threat to them, the occasional bird strike
excepted.

Had she known more about dragons, Morgana would not have been
surprised by the way the dragon tilted its wings and instantly applied
them as airbrakes. She would have known how maneuverable a dragon's
light wing loading made it. Most of all she would have known that the
last thing you do with an angry dragon is to get in front of it while
still travelling in the same direction. Because that offers the dragon
a simple nil deflection aiming solution right up your twigs.

Hal felt Josephine's cough through the beastling's belly muscles. Just
the one but it was more than enough. The spitball exploded directly on
the back of the broomstick in a giant yellow unfolding petal
surrounded by a ring of black smoke which instantly blew away.
Fragments came flying back through the air towards Josephine, a
burning unrolling bedroll, a saddlebag shedding a myriad of colored
lights and smells as the lotions, potions and spells inside flared up.
Then a coal dark figure with outstretched limbs whirling head over
tail -- literally, head over tail. The giant tom cat slammed into the
front of the net and hung there, claws fully extended, spitting with
anger and green eyes blazing.

The broomstick itself was spiraling down leaving a thin trail of black
smoke behind it. Defeating reality and gravity with constantly
replicated mental algorithms is never easy, even for the most
strong-willed of witches. It's especially difficult to concentrate
your mental powers while sitting on a bundle of burning twigs. Which
was probably why the witch was dropping much faster than was safe and
apparently heading straight for the castle walls.

So indeed was Josephine, her wings furled as she came swooping down
after her prey. Her entire body had turned a vivid shade of red, a
color Hal had only seen her display once before, when the pi-dogs had
attacked her. It meant that Josephine was spitting mad, and a spitting
mad dragon is bad news.

In this case bad news could be described for her opponent as ending up
with a choice between a high speed impact with several thousand tons
of stone wall or bailing out into an open sewer. Even a witch has to
make difficult decisions sometimes. But no one who witnessed the scene
had anything but total admiration for Morgana's timing: her cat
couldn't have fallen more neatly. She dropped off the broomstick while
she was still twenty paces or so away from the outer edge of the moat,
calculating exactly how far she would be flung by her forward speed.
The stick hit the wall and splintered at exactly the same time as
there was a disturbance on the moat's surface. It couldn't be
described as a splash, not in that substance: more like a heavy stone
being dropped into a cow pat.  

"Oh, Odin!" Hal wailed in despair as a brown covered head and
shoulders emerged from the hideous depths of the moat. A witch, a
powerful witch, a bad powerful witch, a bad powerful witch who was up
to her neck in shit because of him. Things couldn't get any worse.

There was movement on the lowered drawbridge. It seemed like every
soldier in the castle was streaming out along it, all carrying
crossbows, the Master-At-Arms leading them. And beside him was the
gangling figure of Will Spearshaker, an accusing arm pointing skywards
at Josephine. An indication followed by the soldiers aiming their
crossbows at her as the Master-At-Arms shook his fist in rage. Oh,
Gods, now things couldn't get worse. 

Josephine's wings began beating the air as she hovered low over the
moat, apparently savoring her moment of victory over the bitch witch
in the ditch. Hal rolled onto his back and thumped his fists against
her belly.

"Fly, my lady, fly. Leave this accursed place and we'll never return."

Both of the girls began wailing in despair at the idea of being taken
away from their home; if they thought they could find any mercy from
their father by staying they had much higher hopes than Hal had. The
cat seemed to be deeply unhappy as well, going berserk in its efforts
to reach in far enough through the net to rip open the boy's face.

"Fly, Josephine, fly!"

The witch raised her hand and again there was a flicker of lightning
that was somehow there and not there at the same time. The
supernatural disturbance ran around the left front net rings and they
had gone as if transformed into smoke rings. Hal actually saw the
lashings fall clear, still tied and untouched, before the corner of
the net fell open. Even as he tried to accept what had happened the
right front rings vanished as well, the front of the belly net falling
down as if to pitch them all into empty air. 

Chelinde and Caelia screamed in fright, twisting around exactly as Hal
was doing and clutching at the sagging net with hooked fingers. Hal
screamed too, not only for fear but because the cat was still hanging
on the opposite side of the net and now at last it had him within claw
reach. The first slash took a deep bloody furrow out of the top of his
leg, barely missing his balls. Hal was as terrified as he could be,
and more angry than he'd ever dreamed possible. He drew back his fist
and drove it with every shred of strength in his body onto the tip of
the cat's nose. There was a scream which was louder than Chelinde and
Caelia combined and the cat was falling, turning, spreading its legs,
slapping down into the weed speckled crust of the moat, disappearing
from view, except for a hand's breath of black tail sticking straight
up into the air. But the screams continued.

It was the witch, her hands clasped to her face and apparently in
agony. Hal had no time to worry about her. Josephine was landing,
letting the net fall slowly to the ground. Hal hit the grass first,
crawled out from under the net, looked up and saw the Master-At-Arms
staring at his daughter's bare bodies hanging from the net before they
tumbled into the grass as well.

"Kill the little cunt!"

Only the front rank of the soldiers could aim at Hal because he was
down so low, and they were hampered by having the Master-At-Arms and
Will Spearshaker in front of them. Josephine coughed and spat, the
Master-At-Arms burst into flames like a wax doll dropped into a fire
and Will Spearshaker was running for the moat with his breeches burnt
off and his chain mail glowing red. When he jumped into the mire a
cloud of evil smelling steam shot up around his head. The other
soldiers gaped at him, then at the calcinated remains of the
Master-At-Arms and finally -- and reluctantly -- at the dragon again.
There was an unmistakable air about them of warriors for the working
day definitely deciding that it was quitting time.

Hal seized his chance: "Drop those crossbows, you bastards, or I'll
flame mail the lot of you!"

Some of the palace guard fingered their weapons and looked sullen, but
there were good reasons for standing still. The first was the pile of
ash where the Master-At-Arms had stood, the second was Will
Spearshaker's cries of mingled pain and relief as the moat cooled his
hot armor. The third and fourth good reasons were the gleam in each of
the dragon's eyes as her snout swung back and forth across their ranks
in continued threat. Hal followed up his advantage.

"Two of you, get your cloaks off and give them to the girls." 

Hal's hand pointed towards Caelia and Chelinde, huddled together in
their nakedness and staring at their father's powdery remains gently
blowing away in the wind. An upsetting sight, slightly softened by the
fact that the Master-At-Arms had always been a total bastard to
everyone who'd had the misfortune of knowing him, especially his own
family. But before anybody could move a patch of air between the
soldiers and Hal clouded over as though a tiny fog patch was forming
there, no bigger than a man -- and forming into the ghostly outline of
a man's figure.

An old man, a hunched man, a man with no hair above his ears and a
white beard down to his belt, holding a long staff and wearing furs
that belonged to no animal that had ever prowled in these mountains.
Gaunt Gregory, Chief warlock to King Argud, somehow appearing to them
all as a shadow of his real self. Instinctively, every soldier glanced
at the castle, where the warlock had lived as long as any could
remember, as homebound in his tower chamber as a miller's donkey
tethered to a grinding stone. 

There, on the nearest wall, was the hulking figure of the King, waving
his arms in great excitement, and beside him stood the dwarfish
figure of his warlock. They saw the smaller man lifting his staff, as
tall as himself, and point it down towards the moat. At the same
moment the warlock's apparition also raised its staff and pointed. At
the place where both staffs were aimed was a head and flailing arms,
the arms desperately struggling to support their owner's head above
the filthy ooze of the moat. None of the witch's supernatural skills
seemed to avail her now as she fought to keep her mouth and nose out
of the squalid slime she was slowly sinking into.

Gaunt Gregory's words came not through Hal's ears, but like something
felt in the twilight time between sleeping and waking, some message
shining from snows on a mountain peak no mortal could scale: "Save
her, boy, save her! The King commands it!"

Not only was Hal made aware of the warlock's appeal, so were the
soldiers. They stared at him, then snapped to attention, as though the
fools expected Hal to start drilling them. What orders did they think
a bollock naked shitbucket emptier could give them? Yet suddenly he
was doing exactly that.

"Who's senior rank leader?"

A gray mustached veteran clapped a hand to his cross-bow. "I am, boy."


Corporal Clint O'The East Wood would have died rather than take orders
from Hal but that wasn't an option on offer. Subjects who failed both
the King and the Chief warlock in important matters suffered far worse
fates than simply ceasing to exist. 

"Get that net. Use your swords to cut it apart. Tie three of the long
lengths of rope together. Then give me one end with a loop in it. I'm
going to try to walk out far enough on Josephine's tail to throw it to
the witch. Keep hold of the other end and when the witch has hold of
the loop, haul her in. You understand?"

"Aye, boy, aye."

It wasn't in the Corporal's training to throw a weapon onto the ground
but he put down his crossbow with the greatest possible speed, pulled
out his blade and went at the net as though it were a living enemy.
Hal turned to Josephine, pointed at the witch, and then at the
dragon's tail.

"Can I walk along your tail to help the woman?"

Josephine growled, then snorted, a hint of flames as insubstantial as
the warlock's ghost flickering at her nozzles. The dragon was usually
in a good humor, but apparently not where witches were concerned. Not
witches who handled their broomsticks like a tipsy gipsy aloft on an
unbroken colt, nor yet witches who treated anything on the wing as
unfortunate flying objects. Josephine was still deeply in the grip of
sky rage.  

"Please, Josephine, the King and the Chief warlock have commanded me
to help the witch. Can you help me?"

A sickly shade of green appeared on her skin: Hal understood her
doubts only too well. The further he moved down her tail, the harder
it would be for Josephine to support his weight on it. 

"Well, the best you can do, my lady. And quickly!"

Her colors flickered and changed on her coat of scales again, and then
she was backing her haunches over the edge of the moat, then her back
legs, reluctance showing in every moment as she came into contact with
the filth. Her tail she held as high as she could until she was half
lying on the bank and half floating in the moat, and then she let it
drop straight down on top of the partly dissolved turds floating in
the scum. Hal noted with surprise the depths and intensity of the
shades Josephine was now displaying: he couldn't imagine where a nice
young female dragon had learnt so much bad language. Then his
attention was broken by two men-at-arms running up to him with the
looped end of a rope between them. With them was Corporal Clint.

"All ready, sir."

"Get your men to on the other end and to be ready to haul like
carthorses. I need a man here at the moat's edge to put a turn of rope
around one of the dragon's back spikes if you need her help in hauling
the witch out."

"Aye, boy." Corporal Clint O'The East Wood turned and pointed to one
of the soldiers. "You, when I shout, go ahead -- make my belay."

Hal grabbed the loop and stepped onto the base of Josephine's tail.
Which was a big problem itself. The needle sharp spikes that ran down
her back extended along her tail as well, gradually getting smaller
but no blunter. Right here they were as long as dagger blades and he
had to step between them with his toes pointed inward like a pigeon's.
An uncomfortable position, rendered much more uncomfortable by the
thought that if he slipped and fell astride the dragon's tail the
spikes would instantly make sure that Caelia and Chelinde would not
only be the first girls he'd ever fucked, they'd be the last ones as
well.

"Fria and Odon, Fria and Odon, help me, please!"

He began moving. One step, two steps, three, with the slime of the
moat lapping around his ankles, the dragon's scales becoming slippery
underfoot. Exactly as they had both feared, the further along
Josephine's tail he went, the harder it was for her to keep it up
above the moat's surface.

Hal stopped to regain his swaying balance and stared slack jawed at
what was happening out in the moat. For now the warlock's mirage was
hovering directly in front of the witch, arm and staff outstretched
above her. 

Somehow he seemed to be supporting her because both her arms were
raised above the mire, one pointing towards the castle and one towards
Hal. And close to the castle wall her broomstick was rising again.
Splintered and broken in the middle, the front half drooping down, its
bundle of twigs mostly burnt off, spattered in filth, but still rising
up into the air as lightly as a feather above a fireplace. The
broomstick stopped at knee height above the moat and swung around as
slowly as a rusty weathercock touched by a summer breeze. 

Then, close to Hal, a great bubble of air burst amidst the floating
scum, hard by where the witch's cat was still buried, the tom's tail
marking its last resting place. Hal hoped so anyway, since it was his
fist which had sent the feline familiar tumbling down into the deep
shite, and the memory of its malevolent green eyes would haunt his
nightmares for many nights to come. Yet even as he looked the thickly
furred tail began to disappear into the moat as if it were a plant
which was shrivelling instead of growing. Perhaps it meant the final
destruction of the savage creature which had torn his flesh and nearly
done much worse to his balls.

As the tail vanished more bubbles broke on the surface of the moat
like farts from a carthorse's bum, each one releasing a tiny rainbow
of color and smells which were far worse than any privy bucket Hal had
ever emptied. Then a head appeared in amongst them and green eyes
opened which turned towards Hal in pure hatred again. Yet this wasn't
a cat which had surfaced, but a toad: a toad as big as the cat had
been, a toad of brown and yellow, with masses of red tinged warts and
spikes, an apparition so unlike anything in nature that one look was
enough to know it as a perverse parody of anything the Gods had
intended to live on earth. 

Hal shivered in fear as he realized that nightmares were nothing
compared to seeing a terrible enemy resurrected. The toad came
swimming and slopping on its belly towards him, as near to being in
its own element as any creature could be in this foul bog. It stopped
about four paces from Hal and opened a mouth which seemed to be the
ugliest part of the whole swollen monstrosity. A sack of living venom
perched on a lake of poison, and a pair of emerald eyes looking at Hal
with a promise of agonizing revenge. He longed to run home. But he
could run nowhere from where he was and instead waited like a pig
penned for slaughtering as a tongue as long and red as a scarlet
tippet flicked through the air -- and stopped short of the loop of
rope in Hal's hand. Again, the same thing happened. And this time the
toad raised a webbed paw and pointed towards the witch.

Suddenly, and incredibly, Hal felt almost gratitude towards the
hideous creature. Because now he knew what it wanted him to do. Much
more importantly he knew what he might no longer have to do himself.
As well as he could he threw the loop towards the toad, watching as it
landed just short of the witch's creature. It went forward in one
quick movement before picking up the rope in its mouth as carefully as
a cat holding a kitten. Then it turned and began dragging the rope
behind it as it paddled towards the witch. Hal paid out the slack,
swaying on Josephine's trembling tail, still terrified but at least
hopeful that he need go no further into this shit filled slough.

The remains of the broomstick reached the witch first, the upright
handles on the broken front piece bent down towards her like a grazing
deer's horns. At the same instant the dim figure of Gaunt Gregory
disappeared, as if the two magics could not exist together. The witch
began to sink again, her hands shot up over her mud choked hair and
grasped the broom between the twigs and the break in the handle. Then
the broomstick bobbed up and down in her desperate grip, as though it
was floating on rippling water, but to no avail in lifting the witch
from the clinging mud. A handhold on life she had, but nothing more.
Unless her familiar could reach her with the rope. And, as big and
strong as it was, the toad seemed to be struggling to pull out the
ever increasing length of rope between it and Hal. 

In desperation he hauled out yet more line from the hands of the
soldier on the bank and took another step along Josephine's tail. The
dragon groaned, a startling thing for somebody so used to her normal
silence. Nothing could show more plainly how difficult it was for her
to keep supporting him on her tail: it was as if Hal was trying to
hold aloft a horseshoe on his little finger. He felt her trembling
underfoot and the tail sink lower, so that he was up to his knees now
in filth. But the toad had reached its mistress!

Hal thanked his Gods as he saw her take one hand off the broomstick in
a hasty snatch at the rope and then lift up the dripping loop. With
one deft movement she dropped it over her head and wriggled the free
arm through it before seizing the broom again in a double handed hold.
Then she removed her other hand, pulled down the free arm and slipped
it up through the other side of the loop whilst grabbing at the broom
again. The loop was safely under her arms and now they could act!

Hal waved to the Corporal and the soldier on the bank. A twirl of rope
around one of Josephine's spikes and she was pulling on it, and so
were the soldiers, stamping their feet into the turf as though they
were trying to pull the castle walls down. The problem was that
everybody was worried about the witch, not about Hal, and even
Josephine moved so quickly he was left behind in the mire as her tail
jerked forward. He lifted his feet clear of her spikes, then toppled
sideways with a cry of despair and grabbed at the rope. It was
certainly moving, moving too quickly, piling up waves of slime and
shit into his face as he clung on to the slippery strands. The only
recourse left to him was to roll onto his back and clutch the rope
desperately to his chest, the back of his neck then taking the impact
of the crusted filth.

A brief glimpse of the witch behind showed her in much the same
situation, but at least luckier than him by being able to lift her
upper body higher because the broomstick was travelling with her,
still offering the woman as much support as it could. Not that anybody
could have recognized her as a man, woman or demon, not with the slime
plastered over her limbs, her face, and her hair -- and Hal was in no
much better condition when the Corporal's men hauled him onto the
bank. The expressions of their faces as they had to touch him showed
that: not that he had any sympathy for their fastidiousness; they
should try his privy bucket emptying job once in a while. 

On the other hand he had every sympathy with the reluctance the
soldiers showed in hauling the witch out of the midden. A dislike of
scraping shit off somebody is one thing, getting up close and dirty to
an enraged witch was akin to putting a muzzle on a mad dog. Worse, in
fact, much worse. A mad dog might bite your balls off, but with a mad
witch you might end up pissing out of your ear for the rest of your
life. Which is an embarrassing place to carry your wedding tackle. But
already the King was galloping out over the drawbridge on his white
stallion and, whatever the witch might do, everybody else knew what
Argud the Defiler would certainly do if his orders weren't carried out
to the letter. So the soldiers helped the woman out onto the turf,
where she shook them off her arms as easily as if they were playful
puppies. Then she strode across the lumpy turf to Hal, the broomstick
drifting after her at waist height and two steps behind. 

Like a dutiful wife following her husband in a public place, Hal
thought, a hurt wife yet silent and submissive in showing off her
injuries. But there was nothing submissive about the hot coals glowing
in the witch's eyes behind her mask of mud. And behind her and
underneath the broomstick was that revoltingly ugly toad, hopping
along in great leaps which almost reached the broomstick at their
highest points. Hal's reckoning was that in about five seconds he was
going to be transmuted into something just as revolting. Unless he was
fated to mix his ashes with the Master-At-Arm's. How odd if he should
die the way he was now, as naked as when he was born -- and never of
any more importance to the world than a coney born in a burrow and
eaten by a fox.

He looked around for the last time with mortal eyes and saw Chelinde
and Caelia now wrapped in soldier's cloaks, and each staring at him
with pity on their faces. Caelia waved at him, sadly, on this moment
of parting. Perhaps it was some consolation that the girls seemed more
upset about his fate than their father's.

So when the witch turned, plucked the broomstick from the air and then
knelt down in front of Hal, holding it in front of her as if it were
an offering to a Druid, every onlooker was stunned. Soldiers, girls,
Corporal Clint and, most of all, Hal.

"Take it, Master. Take it, as I have promised the warlock."

"What?

She lifted her face, those hot eyes fanned into blue burning coals
with anger: "Put your hand on this broomstick, you butt ugly little
fucker, or I'll skin you alive!"

Hal instantly stretched out a trembling hand and touched one of the
hand grips. It was like holding onto part of a water mill built over a
raging torrent, the fierce energy of the rushing waters below passing
through the structure for a bystander to feel. But before he could
learn more he snatched his fingers away again as a shriek of anger was
heard. Behind the King's magnificent stallion was an old donkey, the
thin legs of Gaunt Gregory astride it, his even thinner voice cawing
like a squabbling crow. Completely disregarding all the normal rules
of the court he hacked at the donkey's side with his heels and rode
past the King, limbs flailing and jerking in his haste like a
scarecrow dancing with the wind, the long staff held out over his
mount's big ears in a parody of a knight's lance.

"What, Morgana -- you break your oath given to another who has crossed
the abyss between the worlds and returned? You dare to defy the Great
Ones themselves?"

"I gave my word to you to yield my person and my powers to my rescuer.
This boy was my rescuer and I have kept my word, you jumped up little
shit of a half achieved adept. I have yielded all to him. Now go hence
and lick your own mortal master's backside!"

Nobody present had ever heard or seen the like, a witch and a warlock
squabbling like urchins over a wind fallen apple. And there wasn't one
of the watchers who didn't wish to be many safe leagues away from the
scene. But one at least had no intention of remaining a mere
spectator. King Argud swung out of his saddle, dropping as lightly as
a feather despite his huge bulk and large belly. He thrust the horse's
reins into the hand of one of the soldiers, a man who blanched with
fear as he realized that the strange events had lured him into a fatal
error of lese majesty by not acknowledging his sovereign's presence
until now. The soldier hastily dropped to his knee and bowed his head,
an example followed equally quickly by all present save the two
sorcerers, still bristling at each other.

"Come, Gregory, what's amiss here? You promised to tame this hawk for
me. Yet she sits not quietly on your gauntlet."

There had once been a court jester unwise enough to make fun of the
King's appearance by reddening his cheeks, puffing up his cheeks and
somehow bulging his eyes so they seemed twice their normal size. The
secret of how he'd managed that had died with him, in a unusual and
distinctly revolting way, and since then nobody else had taken any
gambles on finding King Argud in a good mood. Which was clever
reckoning, because he never had any. The best that could be said for
his temperament was that sometimes he managed to control his blood
lust if there seemed to be a good enough reason -- but that was never
more than a temporary deferment of his appetite for death and agony.
Even the warlock acknowledged the monarch's worldly power and presence
by awkwardly dismounting from the donkey and bowing low to the wearer
of the crown.

But not so the witch. For all the scum and shit on her, she stood like
a Queen, arms folded in open contempt of King Argud, warlock and
soldiers. Hal's eyes moved towards the now abandoned donkey which
seemed uninterested in anything but eating grass. Would he have a
chance of escaping on it if trouble erupted? Odin alone knew what this
business of the witch and her broomstick was all about but,
irregardless, Josephine had killed the Master-At-Arms as the court
official was getting ready to kill Hal for tupping his daughters. That
was enough to have Hal impaled on a spike in the market place for as
long as it took to die. Better to perish trying to run away than wait
until the King got around to passing the death sentence. Let the
magicians fight each other and then he and Josephine could flee behind
a curtain of fire none would be able to pass. Left and right Hal
glanced, awaiting his chance.

Then a sword tip touched his bare flank and Corporal Clint whispered:
"You'll stay here, dirty Harry."

"Harry's not in this story -- Rowling would sue us to hell and gone.
My name's Hal."

"Whatever."

The King's impatient voice called out: "You said you could make her
your slave, Gregory. What happened?"

The spindly legged little warlock was almost dancing with anger: "She
promised to yield herself, body and soul, to whoever rescued her from
the moat. But now she says it was the boy who rescued her and has
pledged herself to him."

"What!" The bulging eyes swung towards a trembling Hal. "First the
dragon and now the witch. The Gods are making a plaything of this
shithouse emptier. But what I saw was that it was your help, Gregory,
which aided the witch long enough to call forth her own magic to her
aid. All the boy did was to pass her a rope and even in that he had
help from the dragon and that ... that thing." 

King Argud stretched out a boot towards the hunkered down toad, then
jerked it back as a stream of steaming spit landed next to his toe,
instantly turning a patch of green grass to brown stalks. The toad
leered at him and noisily cleared its throat again.

"Threaten my familiar once more, mortal, just once more, and I will
turn you inside out through your own arsehole." The witch's voice was
low and sharp -- and to be believed. "Twas the rope which settled the
matter and had it not reached me when it did I would surely have
perished. And without the boy that rope would not have been there. So
I proclaim him my rescuer and anyone who disagrees may call on the
Great Ones for judgement."

The King looked at Gregory for his advice and the warlock bit his
beard, then threw up his hands in frustration: "Your majesty, nobody
calls on the Great Ones without taking great risks. Their judgements
are not to be reckoned on in advance and Morgana has -- I have heard
-- some influence with them. She is now pledged to the boy and he is a
pledged subject of yours. Let us be content with that. Hal, stand up."

He did so, naked and frightened, and acutely aware of all the eyes
regarding his skinny frame. Not to mention the Corporal's sword point
almost pricking his backside. So this was where taking young girls for
dragon rides had gotten him. Then he looked at the Master-At-Arm's
daughters again and suddenly relaxed a little. To blame himself for
wanting them was as pointless as blaming himself for wanting food --
he had a stomach and a prick, and both made demands on him that had to
be satisfied.

"Hal, tell Morgana to kneel down in front of the King."

"Morgana!" Even he had heard of a witch with that name, a witch with a
reputation that made fierce warriors huddle close to the fireplace on
dark nights.

The warlock nodded in satisfaction: "Yes, the greatest witch of them
all, Morgana le Fay. Your slave, Morgana le Fay. Now bid her kneel."

The witch still stood as proudly as ever, and her eyes fastened on
Hal's with a strength of character he could never begin to match. Nor
could he forget for an instant the pain he'd already felt from her
magical powers and was still feeling from that damned cat's claw
slash. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to try to give
her any orders. Then he saw the King's face and remembered the spike
in the center of the market place. No, offending Morgana was the
second last thing in the world that he wanted to do. What totally
passed his understanding was why it should be expected that any witch
who treated a warlock and a monarch with contempt would obey the
lowest and least of all the King's subjects. But it seemed he had to
try.

"Morgana! Morgana le Fay, I command you to kneel for the King."

Never before had any words of his been so attended to by so many
people. Hal felt like an actor in a May Day festival, the one playing
the part of a prince with a wooden crown as a prop. Yet though his
words ended on a silly sounding squeak the witch did as she was told.
Not only did she kneel, she knelt as a woman should, on both knees,
then demurely lowered her head until it almost touched the grass. The
King laughed and clapped his hands in satisfaction, releasing a great
sigh of tension amongst the soldiers as they suddenly felt much safer.
Safer, but greatly puzzled. They looked at Hal's soiled and scrawny
body with questions on their lips. Yet none had so much need of asking
them as Hal himself.

"Sire ... Sire Gregory." 

The warlock beckoned him forward: "Give him a cloak, someone."

In an instant Hal had a fine woolen cloak to pull around himself, a
cloak instantly ruined by the filth he was spreading on it. But that
was a matter of little consequence right now. Gaunt Gregory looked at
Hal, at the still prostrate witch, then back to the boy again. Then,
incredibly, he smiled, revealing a row of rotten and yellowing stumps
in lieu of teeth.

"Why, 'tis a simple thing, boy. Morgana here was nigh on drowning here
in our moat and I made her promise on her witch's power to obey
forever anyone who rescued her. I assisted her and so did you, and
rather than give herself up to me she chose to yield to you. So now
you will compel her to do whatever the King commands. You understand?"

Hal nodded: "Yes, sire ... I understand." But did the warlock
understand? If he was telling the truth Hal could command both
Josephine and Morgana. With luck he could break free with both and
leave this kingdom forever. Or better yet ...

"Boy, look around you."

The King's voice was always a surprise to those hearing it for the
first time, a high pitched tenor from such a bulk. But it was a small
voice never used for small talk. Hal looked. Every man-at-arms had
picked up his crossbow again and each one was aimed at him alone, from
soldiers so widely spread out that Josephine could never burn them
down all at once.

"Boy, understand me. I can kill you whenever I wish. The witch would
be delighted to be free again and she'll soon teach your dragon to
behave herself. So be a loyal subject and bid Morgana to do my
bidding, and all will be fair weather between us. As a token of which,
I order you to kneel beside Morgana to be declared a Duke before all
present."

"To be ... " He must have misheard the King, but at least the gesture
towards the ground was unmistakable. Hal knelt, and dared to do it on
one knee, as the soldiers had done.

"When you arise, Hal O'TheShitbuckets, you will be Duke Merlinus. But
before I raise you up I would know what happened between the witch and
yourself. How came she to fall into our moat?"

Hal answered the King's question as well as he could. But, like Hal
himself, the monarch had more questions to ask.

"So, she saw you tupping one of the Master-At-Arm's little beauties in
the dragon's riding net. Why should she wish to interfere with that?"

"Your Majesty, I do not know."

"I can answer that," Gaunt Gregory said. "When mortals couple they
sometimes reach a level of ecstasy which is a form of primitive magic.
Since magics cannot exist side by side any practicing adept who comes
close to an act of mortal tupping may find his or her spells much
diminished and perhaps even completely cancelled by the tupping
effect. Their magic becomes ... what shall I say?"

"Fucked up," the King suggested dryly. 

The warlock bowed again: "Your Majesty has it in a nutshell. An
excellent description -- I'm surprised nobody has thought of it
before. Yes, I believe Morgana flew close to the dragon to examine it
without having the slightest suspicion that a mortal male could be
taking a mortal female in the riding net. By the time she realized her
broomstick magics were being, as you say, fucked up, there was no time
to flee before she must fall, so the only thing she could do was to
frighten the pair into abandoning their act of passion."

King Argud chuckled: "Ha, boy, some rise by sin and some by virtue
fall, but here was a great fall by a great witch because of your
sinning. And were my Master-At-Arms still alive you might have smarted
for your sins with his daughters." His voice paused as he looked long
and carefully at the two sisters. "But a handsome pair of bolsters for
any bed, I grant you, and since they wish for experience, I myself
shall see they have as much as they can take."

He chuckled again and drew his sword. "Boy, have you heard anything of
my plans for you and your dragon -- and for this witch?"

Hal couldn't stop himself from looking up in uncontrollable curiosity:
"I know nothing of any plans, your Majesty."

"Then tonight you will learn more, because I'm going to make you an
offer you'll have to peruse. For there are good reasons why I now
proclaim you Duke Merlinus of this kingdom."

The tip of the sword tapped lightly on each of Hal's shoulders:
"Arise, Duke Merlinus."

Hal stood up and waited for the King to finish off his joke by
decapitating him with the huge sword. But it didn't happen. Instead
the King drove the tip of the sword into the ground and rested his
hands on the handle, which was still almost as high as Hal's head. The
boy found himself staring at the incredibly fine stitching along the
sides of the Monarch's deerskin gloves.

"Well, Duke Merlinus, you have bought the wickedest witch in the wide
world with you as a dowry for your peerage, which is well to your
credit. But you are still the dirtiest and vilest smelling peer that
ever has stood before me. As for the mighty Morgana, she looks and
smells like dogshit. Even your dragon has the stench of a midden about
her. What's to be done with you all?"

Hal gulped: "There is a stream in the hills, not far away. Josephine
can clean herself there, under the waterfall. I would be happy to go
with there with her."

"Ho, my fine Duke, no doubt you would, but you won't. The dragon may
go there and return presently. You, I have heard, have betimes bathed
yourself in the drinking trough in the dragon's shed. You may do so
now, and take your bitch witch with you. And we shall see if you are
indeed fit to be a peer. For the two girls will wash both of you clean
and afterwards you may finish your business with the one you were
fucking before -- if you're man enough to do it with a squad of
soldiers and a King watching you perform!"

Hal stared dumbfounded at the smile on the King's face.

"What's the matter, Duke Merlinus? Have you turned shy now you're a
gentleman?"

Even the soldiers were giggling like schoolgirls. But they didn't know
about the dragon sweat, and they didn't know that there was enough of
it left in that drinking trough to set a whole village heaving and
humping like a gang of Iceland warriors let loose in a nunnery. 

Gaunt Gregory sneered at the filthy boy: "All your vigor gone already,
Duke?"

Hal stood tongue tied. He could tell them, warn them -- but dragon
sweat was his great secret and he wanted to keep it his own. But the
alternative! Master of Morgana le Fay -- and in the grip of the storm
lust that dragon sweat brewed up. Odin alone knew what he might do,
and should Morgana free herself afterwards she'd send him to hell for
it. But afterwards, he might not care.

"Why no, Warlock," Hal suddenly found himself answering with a grin to
match the King's. "All I ask is a favor. If I start chasing your
donkey after I've finished with the girls, for Odin's sake, please
have me shot."

King Argud bellowed with laughter and gave Hal a slap on the shoulder
which almost sent him down on his knees again. "Why, my young Duke,
perhaps you'll serve my needs better than I might have hoped. Let's
put you to the test and see if your tupping can match your words."

Somehow Hal found the presence of mind to look for his garments amidst
the torn remains of the riding net, only to be swiftly rebuked by his
monarch. 

"You no longer need those rags, Duke Merlinus. The cloak will suffice
until you reach the palace and then we shall outfit you better."

Merlinus ... Merlinus? Why that name? True, the shitbucket family had
a Tiberian name of Merdinus, now almost as forgotten as the long gone
monks who'd bestowed it. A suitable name, since merdus was Tiberian
for shit. But Merlinus -- was it because he was going to be allowed to
fly with Josephine again, allowed to fly like a hawk? May the Gods
make it so, for this seemed to be a day on which anything might
happen. 

But the sight of Morgana le Fay's luscious hips swaying ahead of him
was enough to make his glowing hopes fade like the sun hidden by
gathering storm clouds. The likes of her were for warlocks and knights
and persons of royal blood. Now he seemed to be trapped between King
and witch and as sure as cats ate mice, one or t'other would have his
balls spit roasted ere long. Perhaps she'd laugh at his love making
attempts so much that he'd fail, despite the dragon sweat. Perhaps the
trough water had made it so weak by now that the power had completely
gone and King, warlock, witch, soldiers and girls alike would jeer at
his cock as it drooped like a melting candle. A boy's ending for all
of his proud boasts of manhood, and with all the kingdom to hear and
laugh about it afterwards.

He sidled over against Josephine, the corporal close behind him at
every step, Clint O'The East Wood's finger never leaving the trigger
of his oversized magnum bolt crossbow. Hal desperately wanted to slip
his hand underneath the dragon's wing to seek for a trace of sweat but
there was no chance of doing it unobserved. Hal felt a sudden and
unexpected anger burning inside him at being so closely guarded.
Mayhap he'd teach these soldiers another lesson in dragon power before
long.

"My lady, go and clean yourself. When you return I may wish you to
warm the water in your trough for me again. If so, you must do it as
hard as you can."

A twirling pattern of interrogation swirled around her neck, a
question only he knew she was asking. In return, he winked when only
she could see him: "Yes, Josephine, as hard as you can. Now fly -- and
be back soon."

The dragon lurched forward, drove down her wings in a flurry of
movement and swept upwards, her sails smacking against the air as
though applauding herself for leaving the ground behind. Hal watched
Josephine rise up into the afternoon sunlight with an aching heart.
The ever alert corporal noticed Hal's sad expression.

"What's amiss, young Duke?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders: "Why, to see my dragon fly whilst I
cannot leave the ground."

Clint O'The East Wood laughed: "Duke, how can a man want to fly? Do
you want a nest with eggs to sit on as well?"

For the very first time Hal understood that he was closer to Josephine
than he was to many of his own kind. Why, perhaps he was even closer
to the witch as well. She might be evil incarnate but at least she was
a flier too. Not that her broomstick seemed good for much just then,
but perhaps it could be repaired and remagicked. If it could be ...

For a second Hal dreamed of learning how to fly a broomstick. To flash
over rooftops and meadows, around trees and across lakes, screaming
past gaggles of geese and flying so high that the mountains themselves
crouched down beneath your feet. All the filth and cruelty and
everyday battles of life left below as he explored the kingdom of the
sky, a kingdom which over-arched and over-reached all earthly ones.  A
fine dream, especially for a shit smeared boy who owned nothing in the
world but a borrowed cloak. And then he was back at the dragon's barn
again.

For some reason everybody else hung back and let Hal walk in first,
even though Josephine was only a faraway dot in the sky. Yet the
caution which most other people showed in approaching a dragon's lair
still seemed to be having its effect because only the girls walked in
close behind him. Hal stepped into the sandpit and drew his toes
through the still damp sand, then  looked up, exchanging rueful looks
with the sisters. How much had changed so quickly. Truth to tell, he
was in no obvious position to complain. Dubbed a Duke, gaining a witch
for a slave, praised by the King -- whatever the dangers to come, it
was still far better treatment from the Gods than Caelia and Chelinde
had received: orphaned, unprotected and lusted after by a King who
treated his dogs far better than his women. Hal had never intended
their misfortunate but it left a bitter taste in his mouth after the
joy the girls had given him.

"What are we to do?" Chelinde asked him, looking suddenly grown up and
serious.

"Why, only what we did before. But first you'd best serve as Morgana's
hand maidens. There are two pieces of soap left. One for her, one for
me."

"And afterwards? What we did before, Hal? With all these soldiers
watching?"

"Aye, and the King too, lass -- tis a Royal Command performance." 

The boy smiled and lifted his hand to chuck her under the chin, but
paused as he saw the filth on his fingers and the momentarily revealed
loathing in her eyes as she glanced to where the King was entering the
barn.

"Be of good heart, girls. What matters who watches if we enjoy
ourselves? And what I can do for you later, I promise I will do."

Hal went to the trough, splashed his fingers in it, pondered. The
water was still warm -- or, at least, not cold. He filled both
drinking buckets and set them down in the sandpit. Then he turned
towards the witch and gulped.

For the first time since his one swift glimpse of her riding the
broomstick he looked as a man at the magnificent shape underneath the
clinging mud. Her breasts were pillows compared to Chelinde's
dumplings, her unskirted legs promised delights beyond belief... he
gulped again, and decided that perhaps the dragon sweat was still
potent, even at a touch.

"Lie down on the straw, Morgana. On your back."

Her eyes glittering with repressed emotions, the witch obeyed. 

"Take off your cloak, Chelinde. Spread it over her."

The girl's face was almost as angry as the witch's as she undid the
throat cord, but she obeyed, her and her sister spreading the cloak
over Morgana's body. Then Chelinde stood self-consciously, hands by
her side and eyes downcast as she tried to ignore the soldiers lining
each side of the barn, each of them grinning at her nakedness and with
no threatening dragon around this time to distract them from studying
it closely.

"Your cloak too, Caelia. Strip Morgana and then clean her with the
water and the cloak, as well as you can. Mayhap some straw will help
as well."

The King grinned but raised no objection at taking another look at the
sisters in her raw state. Nor did he seem to mind that the girls were
reaching underneath Hal's cloak to get at the witch's indecent attire.
King Argud was a hunter and enjoyed the thrill of a drawn out chase.
His soldiers also licked their lips as they saw the swaying tits and
taut bottoms of the figures kneeling at either side of the cloak to
fumble with Morgana's tight fitting leathers.

"Help them, witch," Hal ordered. 

She looked at him, for a second only, and it was like being forehead
to forehead with a mad bull. But her hands moved swiftly under the
cloak, undoing the lashings which held her garments in place, then
rolling from one side to another as she helped Caelia and Chelinde tug
her jerkin over her arms. Hal would have liked to have kept watching
but the desire to start removing the filth from his own body was even
more compelling than staring at Morgana's movements underneath the
cloak. So he took his cloak off, seized two handfuls of straw and
began rubbing down his arms and legs.

Straw and sand and water, straw and sand and water, over and over,
tickling and scraping and soothing his skin in turn as black rings of
removed corruption spread around him. Then the King's voice boomed out
in glee.

"Plenty of sand for her as well, girls, all over her tits. I want them
as smooth as your arses." 

As spoke several of the soldiers closest to the straw pile also dared
to smile in approval. They looked as they were spellbound as they kept
gaping at the straw. But when Hal looked himself at the wet cloak
sticking to the now naked body below it he decided that the audience
was literally bewitched. There were curves and hollows and a sheer
symmetry of female shape underneath the damp wool that was more
magical than anything a warlock could conjure up, be he the greatest
adept ever. Chelinde and Caelia put their hands beneath the cloak
again to rub Morgana's large tits, setting them shuddering and swaying
around. The witch whimpered as he nipples were scoured and every
soldier lucky enough to be able to see her instantly summoned up his
blood and stiffened his sinews. In fact most of them were already more
tightly cocked than their cross bows.

Hal grabbed his cloak and began wiping the traces of sand and wisps of
straw from his skin. But his eyes stayed on the females, noting the
increasingly coy way that even Morgana was glancing towards her
watchers. Surely a witch couldn't be affected by the dragon sweat like
any normal chit of a girl? But there hadn't been any dragons around
since time out of mind and maybe witches knew no more about them than
anybody else. Morgana had certainly badly underestimated Josephine's
abilities in their aerial bitch fight. Maybe the sweat did work on
her. Certainly she'd had enough of the treated water splashed and
rubbed onto her body to give it every chance.

As for Caelia and Chelinde, just having their hands in the bucket
seemed to be affecting them like piglets suckling on a barrel of mead.
They were giggling at each now across Morgana's body and blatantly
shaking their plumpers for the audience. The witch began twisting her
legs and hips from side to side as the sisters scrubbed at her tits,
her mouth open as she began moaning. Morgana's long fingers rose up to
stroke the girl's arms as though encouraging them to hurt her more ...
and Hal's own prick reared up like a stallion's in chase of a mare. He
held the bundled wet cloak in front of him and rubbed it against his
straining flesh as he decided what to do.

"Morgana, stand up. Chelinde, Caelia, hold the cloak around her."

The witch put her hands down beside her and sat up, got on her knees
and stood, the sisters keeping the cloak up around the top of her
swaying breasts, the damp fabric displaying the perfect contours of
the unsupported flesh and the hard nipples, each one so big that his
thumb and forefinger would scarcely encircle it. Her legs up and even
beyond her knees were bare, showing off smooth thighs made in heaven
for a man to slide his hand between and upwards.

"Go to the drinking trough. Step into it. Then take off the cloak and
the girls will soap you. Everywhere."

She obeyed, still walking with infinite pride, head and shoulders
above her escorts, the girls behind her holding onto the cloak as if
they were train bearers, their eyes darting from one male spectator to
another. But always returning to Hal -- and the King. His Majesty was
breathing even more heavily than usual and he seemed fascinated by the
display being unfolded in front of him.

There was scarcely a ripple in the water as Morgana entered it
gracefully. Looking directly at Hal, she shrugged the cloak off her
shoulders and let the maidens catch it. Without a stitch on, she stood
before them with one hand flat by the side of her leg, the other one
between her legs. And what might have been thought a protection of
modesty took on a different meaning when the spectators saw that the
fingers pressed over her patch of dark red hair were gently moving as
she felt herself. She giggled at the open mouthed astonishment of the
soldiers, lifted up both hands and held up her breasts for the
spectator's eyes. Certainly Hal's felt as if they were popping out of
his head as he watched her proudly displaying a body of perfect
wantonness. Then Caelia and Chelinde began working their hands over
Morgana, leaving trails of suds and pure white skin behind them in
spreading patches.

Hal stumbled forward, stepped into the other end of the trough facing
the witch and threw away his cloak, letting her see his rampant prick.
Morgana smiled at him: "Shall the girls wash you now, Master?"

"One of them," he grunted. 

He was grunting because Morgana's hand had reached forward and gently
tweaked the tip of his cock. This was unbelievable, to have a woman
like this in thrall of him, doing his every bidding. Then she moved
back, holding her hands up behind her head for him to better see her
body as Caelia continued soaping it and Chelinde rubbed her hands over
Hal, soaping him quickly but thoroughly, arms, chest, back, legs and
then rubbing her slippery palm up and down his shaft. Caelia laughed
and applied her hands just as thoroughly to Morgana's pure white tits
and the red flowers tipping them.

There was a vicious sounding twang and zip from nearby, and Hal
glanced around to see that one of the soldiers had accidentally
discharged his cross bow in his excitement, the bolt sticking out of
the straw littered dirt floor two paces away. But nobody seemed to
care, not the King, not even the Corporal. Nobody said or did anything
as Morgana knelt down in the trough and put her hand with Chelinde's
on the boy's throbbing tool. Together the two woman stroked it, and
then Caelia joined them, her fingers tickling his balls. Hal called
out in pleasure, his arms around each sister's shoulders and then
something very large and fat plopped into the water between his legs
and the kneeling witch. The toad sank out of sight, down below the
foam covered water and Hal's toes curled up in readiness for a savage
bite or sting.

It never came. What did come was a string of bubbles breaking between
Morgana's opened thighs and her response, a wild cry with her eyes
rolled back in apparent pain. Hal wondered why the toad was attacking
its mistress. And then he realized what was really happening as
Morgana bent forward, pushed Chelinde's hand aside and took him deeply
into her mouth in one swift movement. There was a gasp and a stir
around the barn as everybody saw four finger's length of the boy's
cock disappear between the witch's scarlet lips and her cheeks
contract with the effort of sucking off her master. And all saw how
her body was quivering and jerking as though she was being eaten from
below.

It was the King who responded first. He bellowed, unbuckled his sword
belt, threw it aside and swayed forward like a bear untimely woken
from winter sleep. He seized Chelinde first, from behind, kneading her
plump round breasts in his huge fingers, squashing them up with only
the stiff tips standing proud of the press. Caelia instantly bent
forward to suck on her sister's nipples, sending Chelinde squirming
and pressing her bare bottom against the King's crutch. He roared
again, pushed her away and began tearing at the lacing in the front of
his breeches The girls rushed back to him, wild eyed and their
fingernails tearing at the cords with the same urgency. Out from
behind their restraints came a cock that seemed as thick as Hal's
wrist and almost as long as one of Corporal Clint's magnum sized
bolts. Caelia still went down on her knees without hesitation to
suckle on it as well as she could, her lips stretched out like an
adder's swallowing a rat. Yet the King was watching the trough, not
the girl at his feet.

"Fetch the witch out, boy, fetch her out! I'm going to give her a
royal fucking!"

It would have meant death to argue with the monarch at any time. Right
then was certainly not a good time to even think about hesitating.
Even when Hal was getting ready to empty himself over Morgana's
tongue: "Out, witch, out. The King wants you."

The King did indeed. He was already lying on his back and holding his
cock steady for one hand as Chelinde and Caelia licked the shiny red
length like cows at a salt lick. As Morgana stood up he beckoned her
to come forward. She glanced at Hal, he nodded and she obeyed,
trickles of water and foam running down her beautifully proportioned
legs before she stood astride King Argud and squatted down, her arms
behind her back on either side of his legs to take her weight as
Caelia and Chelinde rubbed the head of the King's donkey dick against
her cunt. Then she squealed and dropped down on top of it as if it
might otherwise escape. 

Her hips jerked up and down and she leaned forward on her arms again,
with a girl on each side of her, and each girl holding onto one of
Morgana's large tits, keeping the bags of flesh steady for the King to
bite on. Morgana screeched again but Hal cared nothing for that in his
need to finish what he'd begun with her. He stepped close to the
writhing bodies, grabbed a tuft of Morgana's red hair and thrust his
lance into her mouth again. She sucked on as eagerly as before but Hal
hardly noticed. He was staring wide eyed at the trough as the water in
it splashed over the wooden sides and something moved inside it,
something standing up where the toad had been,

This was no toad though, nor was it a cat. It was something akin to a
child, about as high as a grown man's waist, brown skinned, a bald
head, large ears, green hued eyes which glittered like iced moss in
sunlight, a squashed nose and lips which seemed more horn than flesh.
The small though wide shouldered figure leapt over the side of the
trough, landed as neatly as a cat and sprang forward. 

One thing about the goblin which was definitely a prominent feature
was the cock and balls it displayed, a cock ready for action and much
larger than a normal one, for all the goblin's smaller size. It was
more like a cock with a body attached than a body with a cock
attached. But whatever the arrangement the body moved swiftly, the
cock bobbing up and down as short but incredibly muscled legs carried
it forward to where it wanted to be. Which was behind Morgana, the
glittering eyes staring at her jerking buttocks as the goblin rubbed
some wet soap around his massive prick. He slapped her ass lightly
with both palms as if to let her know she was there, guided his
overlarge shaft between Morgana's quivering crescents and then forced
it deeply between them like a battering ram hammering at a castle
gate. Air spurted around Hal's wet shaft as Morgana screamed out in
passion and King Argud roared in satisfaction. He so busy sucking and
chewing on Morgana's tits that Hal wondered if the Monarch had noticed
that he was sharing his feast with uninvited guests.

Then the boy snorted with his own uncontrollable pleasure as he
spurted into Morgana's mouth, setting her off spluttering and gagging
as droplets of white fluid rolled down her chin. Chelinde put her arm
across the top of Morgana's neck and began licking some of the liquid
up like a kitten cleaning a platter of milk, a licking which ended
with a passionate kiss between the two females. Then Caelia put a hand
up to Hal's shrunken prick and began lapping at it with her tongue as
if to clean it thoroughly. All three of them seemed out of their minds
with lust and as soon as Morgana and Chelinde saw what Caelia was
doing for Hal they joined in enthusiastically.  The boy turned one way
and another to let each of them have fair access to him.

It was, he thought, something which ought to make an entry in the Mead
Brewer's Book of Records. One King, one goblin and one shitbucket
emptier all fucking one witch at the same time, with a couple of hand
maidens keeping things going. Not something you saw very often. The
soldiers certainly didn't want to miss any second of the spectacle. A
group of them were standing within arm's length of Hal, eyes and cocks
bulging at what was going on. Hal grabbed both of the sisters by the
hair, lifted them and pushed them towards Corporal Clint and his
comrades. 

"Go on, boys, help yourselves."

It wasn't really what he wanted to do but he needed a distraction to
keep those crossbows off their aim. And it worked. Bows and swords and
belts fell to the ground as the soldiers grabbed the girls and threw
them on their backs on top of the straw pile, bedding them down in
long term fucking positions. The rest of the guard saw what was
happening and rushed to join the queue. The only thing which
distracted them at all was a sound like a giant owl hooting, a sound
coming from the goblin. Within seconds the sound was mixed with
another yell of triumph from the King and long a drawn out yelp from
Morgana. The trio of bodies collapsed in a tangle, the goblin and the
King to lie undisturbed, but not Morgana. Clint O'The Eastwood grabbed
her arm, lifted her up and then dropped her on the straw pile next to
two hairy backsides jerking up and down on top of Chelinde and Caelia.
Very quickly the Corporal's arse was on public display as well as he
fucked Morgana with all the expertise of a seasoned campaigner and
military trained rapist. The accumulated lust in the air could have
been set off by a candle flame and nobody even noticed Josephine
slithering back into the barn. The men were either fucked, fucking or
anticipating a fuck, and the females -- well, the females were
otherwise occupied. Dragon sweated out of their minds and getting
drilled from all directions 

So nobody saw the dragon enter: nobody who cared, anyway. And
certainly nobody noticed Hal's nod towards the drinking trough, nor
his wink to Josephine. The dragon bowed her head, put her snout into
the water and snorted -- not once, not twice, not three, but four
times. Hal grabbed a discarded sword, reversed it with his hands
holding tightly to the scabbard, then ran around and up to the top of
the straw pile. The corporal was gasping in satisfaction as he pumped
his load into Morgana's cunt. He gasped even more loudly as Hal hit
him behind the ear with the sword handle. Then Hal grabbed at the
witch's hands to pull her out from underneath Clint O'The East Wood's
stunned body.

"Come with me -- now."

"What?"

"Come with me -- I order you."

One of the waiting soldiers stepped forward and raised his fist to
punch Hal's face. There was a kind of thumping sound, water from the
trough flew up and a bank of steam twice Hal's height rolled outwards
as all the dragon spit in the trough mingled with the liquid and
turned into hot vapor. Visibility within the barn became a few paces,
then scarcely one or two. Hal began hauling the witch in the direction
he knew the door was. He knew because he'd noted the draught
beforehand and simply followed it. Or at least he would have if
Morgana didn't seem to be taking so long to get up to speed.

"Move, you bitch!"

"Oh, Master, it's such fun ... "

"You stupid fucking woman, it's the dragon sweat in the water that's
got us so excited. It's magic, we're spell bound, and we'll both be
dead if we don't escape from the King. Run!"

Morgana's normal iron will seemed to emerge again as she began to
understand what had happened to her. Hand in hand they ran out through
the doorway, then stopped, panting. Hal had never known a day like it
for exercise. And before he could make another move he was astonished
to see the goblin come running out the steam filled door as well, the
tip of his slack knob halfway to his knees and pulling Caelia
alongside him by a long strand of her hair. But Hal's surprise at that
was nothing compared to seeing Chelinde also emerging, squealing and
jumping and being forced along by a series of hefty swipes on her
bottom by Morgana's broomstick. Seeing the brush swinging through the
air that way without a hand on it was even stranger than watching it
just floating along. But this was no time for standing around and
being curious.

"Get into the castle, quick," Hal urged Morgana. "Josephine is coming
with us. If we can get the drawbridge raised now we'll be inside and
the King and most of his soldiers will be outside. Then we'll have a
chance to parley."

Morgana shook her head: "Better to tell the dragon to burn down the
barn and have done with them all now."

"No! If they die I'm a Duke no longer. There'd be no witnesses. The
King must sign my letters patent and proclaim them. Seize the castle
and we can negotiate with him."

She nodded, still panting: "That warlock. He's not here. He could stop
you."

Hal knew she was right. And if Gaunt Gregory wasn't here he had a
bloody good idea of where he would be.

"Josephine, go to the castle. Put a fireball through an arrow slit in
the top of the tower, Burn Gaunt Gregory's chamber right out and him
with it."

"No ...No!" Morgana shook her head. "My magical supplies are destroyed
or lost. I need his. I must go now, take him by surprise. My broom
will almost support my weight, even though it's damaged. Let me ride
it and hold onto one of the dragon's claws. She can lift me to the top
of the tower and leave me there to deal with Gregory. Then the dragon
can help you in the courtyard to get the drawbridge lifted up."

"So be it. Josephine, take Morgana up to the chamber's lookout
platform." 

Some of the dragon sweat tainted steam was drifting the dragon's barn:
half a dozen warriors were now visible inside, each with his breeches
around his knees and frantically jerking themselves off. 

"Huh", Morgana snorted as she settled onto the broomstick. "I always
said that the military were a load of wankers."

Then a giant figure came running out of the steam with a raised sword
that glittered along its length in the afternoon sun. The King was as
mad as hell, the dragon was spiraling upwards towing the unclad witch
on her broomstick and a naked boy and two naked girls ran for their
lives towards the castle with an equally naked goblin bounding along
behind them.

Will Spearshaker was still sitting by the moat, stinking, scorched and
sour at life as he watched what was occurring, but not with any great
interest. You couldn't weave a good story out of happenings which
seemed to make no sense at all. Which was about Hal's thinking as
well, because now the moment of decision had passed he had no idea at
all why he'd hit Corporal Clint O'The East Wood and provoked the
King's anger. But he had an idea about somebody who might have cast a
spell on him.

Not all the guards had been left behind in the barn. Two were at the
far side of the drawbridge, gaping up at Josephine and the intriguing
shape of the naked woman holding onto the dragon's claw. The view of
the witch's rump was well worth squinting into the setting sun to see.
T