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Dragon Sweat: Scroll I
by David Shaw (david@f-e-mail.com)
***
Some kids get to be apprenticed in the sorcery business
by going to a posh school -- others have to do it the
hard way. But then again, there are games you can play
in a dragon's riding net which are a bloody sight more
interesting than chasing a winged ball on a
broomstick. (FFM, fantasy)
***
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 of 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
hanging below the flag. A few rays of shimmering
sunlight even penetrated the arrow slits of the prison
tower, to be instantly snuffed out amidst the dark
stench of despair and corrupting flesh within. More
glittering rays 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
semi-liquid with even the smallest of wounds on his
body would soon be dying a most painful and poisonous
death. True, the smell on a warm day like this was
truly awful but since 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 also
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. He often gazed 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 spread eagled
in his own tormenting implements 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 with a hornet in his
mouth. 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 head torturer reached for his appointments
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 judgment.
"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, displaying his ill colored
teeth like a wolf finding 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 the torture
chamber was a mistake. Blood everywhere afterwards, and
all the tools bent out of shape with overmuch heating.
But as an officer of the Royal Household there was no
way the Master-At-Arms 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 six 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 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 of 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
thirty 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 joint.
"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 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. How the boy had come out a few weeks
later and found a newly hatched 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 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 adulthood. A hope which had found
triumphant resolution one night when a pack of starving
wolves had slipped into the dragon hut and attacked the
dragon and Hal. The resulting flames had not only burnt
down the 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 his night shirt,
calling for his pipe to light it from the burning
fragments of the huts, and then for his trio of
fiddlers to provide music for his pyromaniacal
prancing. 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. Although, in truth, the dragon only
flapped her wings barely long enough to be airborne
before locking them into outstretched sails and
seemingly riding the currents of the air upward and
ever higher, then gliding across great distances before
turning and turning like a falling leaf 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 Shitbuckets ideas. The one thing
which did get them something of 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 he
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
dragon's riding net which had resulted in Hal's
recently arranged appointment with the castration vice.
The next item on the Master-At-Arm's daily schedule was
arresting the still unwitting boy and explaining in
great detail about what was soon 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 watched 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-Arm's 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 impasse which had King Argud groaning with
despair during sleepless nights for a solution.
"Absolutely the same opinion, my Lord. As things stand
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 a war. We'd need a whole flock of them
to be assured of destroying the Emperor's forces and
capturing 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 single
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 seeking another egg -- a male egg, in
all love? How many spells has the castle warlock 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 creatures 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'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 shaming his
family by 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 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 dragon 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 can ever be 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 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, if we let
her go hence to try her fortune."
The Master tried to absorb the implications of Sir
Tarquin's statement: "Go? Go where?"
"Out into the wide world, wherever the winds may blow
her. Into 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 westwards, into the sea mists of Tintagel.
Wherever it be that the 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 female dragon
will be drawn to him like a homing pigeon to its nest."
"But what use will that to be to us? We shall never see
the dragon here again."
"Our young duke Hal will go with her to bring back a
clutch of fertile eggs. Let the dragon go hang, if only
he can find dragon hatchlings enough for us to breed a
rise from."
"But . . . but . . . what young duke is it that you
speak of, my Lord?"
"Why but think, man! The dragon obeys only Hal O'The
Shitbuckets, so he must go with her. But if a dragon or
dragons be anywhere in the world, surely they will be
owned by the King of those parts. Can we send a mere
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 human in the Kingdom
who has the dragon's obedience and love, 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, yet the Chief Warlock would have
none of it. He said it sounded too foolish to be
believed. So we have had to seek further afield. The
Chamberlain said we should simply use the boy's family
name, but the Warlock 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 and abandoned 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 Warlock 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 Duke Hal and his dragon will leave on his quest.
What think you, Master?"
The Master-At-Arms snorted in anger mixed with
disbelief at what he was hearing.
"What do I think? To speak truth, my lord, I think the
whole council must have been sniffing 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 the Kingdom and spend the gold on bribing
serving wenches to let him fuck them."
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 who stinks of the privy would
have much trouble playing the part of a nobleman.
Someone must go with him, someone able to educate Hal
to courtly ways as they travel together, someone who
will be respected in any land by any ruler. 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 any lingering desires to see
more of the wide world?"
The Master, the victor in a score of 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 lawyers' tavern. 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. And I say enchants in the full
meaning of the word."
"Enchants?" 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 torture
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 looked down at the antics of the boy
and his pet, both of them completely unaware of the
terrible fate speeding towards them.
"But what could bring her to this small kingdom, 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-At-Arms, be assured I'll make sure
that I'm living in the other half of the Empire."
Had Hal been able to overhear this conversation he
would have been a thoroughly frightened eavesdropper.
Though one part of it would have given him at least a
moment's 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 far more value to a growing boy than mere tricks
like 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 wing joints
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 any 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 found
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. And
now it seemed able to create affection itself,
uncontrollable affection in all who were touched of the
dragon's sweat.
By great fortune the first trickles were of a weaker
potency than flowed later. 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
his hand 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 doused.
The boy had almost killed himself before collapsing
onto the straw and suffered so much soreness afterwards
that every movement for days 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 the 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 become as twilight, a million
straw motes floating through the intruding rays and
then disappearing from sight in the darker 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, another head of
tangled fair hair filled with straws and the 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 dawn."
"And what of your father? How would our Master-At-Arms
deal with me if he knew you two were here in
Josephine's shed?"
"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 rushing 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 Caelia
was wearing was much worn, overdue now to be passed
down to another sister, for the wooden 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 concealed below them, and how Chelinde had
squealed with excitement as he'd taken her budding
womanhood in both of 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 a dripping
honeycomb to lick.
"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 power of the dragon's
sweat? No, she could know nothing of the mind affecting
power at his command and must still believe her
seduction had been fully consummated by her own desire,
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 Caelia? 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, colors
which displayed meanings as clearly as words to those
who could read them. An ability which only Hal had. Now
he cocked his head in some surprise at the boldness of
Josephine's display.
"So sure, hey? I hope you may not be topping it the
phoenix. But on your own wings be it. Please to step
this way then and oblige."
Hal pointed to the large drinking trough and 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 strange humans close to her
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 sweat stained 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 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, the four rosy cheeks flushing even
redder. Hal handed one of 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
sisters 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
legionnaire's spear. Any saddle placed on Josephine's
back would have been ripped to shreds within minutes,
and the rider's arse along with it.
As soon as she saw the net the dragon crouched down
eagerly on her belly, eyeing the door of the dragon hut
like a dog waiting to be released from a kennel. Hal
laughed and 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 ropes
from chafing, not the dragon's hide from harm. Her
scales had never been pierced to Hal's knowledge, not
even with when the wolves had snapped and bit at her
like puppies trying to chew through chain mail. Her
anger and her fire had only exploded when the pack had
drawn blood from Hal.
At each corner of the net was a wooden ring, triple
sewn into the ropes, the rings hanging level with each
wing joint, both 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 Hal 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 taut young breasts, 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
jester. 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 paps 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 you to 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
tighter the leather loops around them. 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 known in his life, 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,
Hal nearly fainted.
The sisters had no more interest in teasing the boy's
weaknesses though, only in exposing his strength. Both
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 brushing against the exposed skin in his opened
collar. "Kneel down, dragon master."
He would have jumped into a bonfire if they'd asked it
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 -- 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 each of
her feet had been before, then leaning forward over
Hal's chest. The entrance to the promised land filled
his gaze, and then nuzzled against his lips. He snorted
in delight and tongued away at her sex like a pig
hunting truffles. 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,
lest she stifle him.
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 gasps of an excited girl.
Moans, sobs, 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 lean
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 private 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 then a
fearful scream. Suddenly the girl was 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 inflaming Chelinde. 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 his
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 rampant cock
he moaned and scratched out holes in the wet sand with
his fingers. 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 ponder on the matter.
"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."
Hal grabbed up his own filthy rags, ran to the side of
the dragon, pulled out the side of the bottom net and
dropped the garments 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 Josephine's left wing joint. 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 bottom net and guided her feet into
the narrow gap. His hands reached up, underneath her
arms and helped her to slip down between the net and
Josephine's scaly side. Once inside the net Chelinde
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, sprawled half in and half out of the
bottom net.
"Hal! Hal!" she cried out.
A hand came out of one of the net holes. It squeezed
Hal's prick, 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 go, 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 girlish 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 of them 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 castle walls 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, for she was as lithe as a stoat. When
he returned to the dragon's side the flickers of purple
running along her flanks showed her eagerness to lift
off.
With the skill of practice Hal hauled himself up,
wriggled his toes and then his feet into the belly net
and let himself down handhold by handhold from the
upper net. But as his waist slipped past the top of the
belly net a warm palm moved up the inside of his left
leg and then held his erection tightly at the base.
Something damp and warm encircled his cockhead. It
probably 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 his cock
head 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. A string of muscles behind Josephine's left front
leg tightened as the dragon trembled with eagerness to
fly. Trying to tell the beast to continue waiting was
like ordering a dog to sit still as a coney ran past.
Anyway, he was as impatient as his dragon was.
"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, the net flexed upwards as
Josephine cleared the hut and leapt into the air. Hal's
head hit the dragon's belly, a curly haired head
bounced against his chest in turn, a soft belly shot up
to slam against his cock and balls, a groan was forced
out of his mouth by pain, and the great wings lashed at
the air.
Then, as suddenly as the dragon had first lunged
forward, the net steadied and swung gently. 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 waves of rough air clapping together as though
applauding Josephine's efforts.
Staring down, Hal could see that the dragon'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 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 quieten his passengers.
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 the
sensation of flying for the dragon sweat to regain its
unstoppable domination over their desires.
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 nibbling Hal's toes.
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 castle. 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 against his upper 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 muff.
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 castle's
ramparts but hardly more than a short arrow shot from
them -- and the sentry.
He was a tall, thin man with his hand shielding his
eyes and the shriveled 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 Hal's thoughts turned into fading vapor when
Chelinde's fingernails scratched underneath his balls
as Caelia screamed triumphantly in ultimate
satisfaction. The sweat from her face was falling on
his, her eyes stretched 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 with the explosive force of 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 Hal as if she was
a doe exhausted unto death by hunters.
The net swayed and groaned in its lashings as
Josephine's wings leveled and she flew towards the
mountains. The advantage in height she had gained was
being quickly whittled down again 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 springing from 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.
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 flying in a way
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.
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 was a pity, for it was a 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.
The 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 gang of willful wiccans that 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
cockroaches 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 the male 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 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 hair, few 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 bring a holy hermit
running out of his cave in hot lust.
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 proud knights who had jousted
in the lists of love 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 customized 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 Tiberian 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
one 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 gently stroking 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
shagged directly above his head by one of the despised
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 belly. Like a fiddler
at a village dance Caelia instantly changed her own
timing to meet Hal's new pace, scratching him
frantically just behind his balls.
"Pull out and put down!"
The movement in the net instantly stopped. 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 shapely curves of her
breasts. A woman on 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!
"Put down!"
The intruder 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
steering her broom, 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. As he screamed he heard the girls
screaming too. 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 Josephine tilted her
wings and instantly applied them as airbrakes. The
witch 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 traveling 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. Keeping gravity at bay
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 wolves had attacked
him. It meant that Josephine was spitting mad and
furious with it.
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 walls
or jumping into the open sewer that was the moat. 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. The witch 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 mud coated head
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 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 black tail sticking straight up
into the air. But the screams continued.
It was the witch, one hand clasped to her face and
apparently in agony. It was if she'd been hit in the
same way as her cat but Hal had no time to worry about
either of them. Josephine was landing on the edge of
the moat, letting the net fall slowly onto the grass.
Hal hit the ground 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 down 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!"
THE END
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 37