The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale) Page 10

  Silas swallowed as she advanced toward him. From between her legs had risen what was not quite a penis, but it was thick, long and pulsed with what might have passed for her heartbeat.

  His own member lifted in response and he clenched his jaw tightly.

  Her breasts are so round, so perfect, he reminded himself. My body answers to a woman, that is all.

  Desperately, he tried to look away, to keep in mind her lovely hips, her almond shaped eyes. But, he was helpless as his breathing became shallow and his tumescence ripened with each passing moment.

  "I don't know who she is," he gasped, "I don't know where she came from or where she was going."

  Lest said, "There. You see, little man, you can be reasonable."

  She moved close to him and he looked up to see her newly formed member sliding back from view. Her blood red color calmed to her usual golden tones as she straddled his prone form.

  "So, instead of telling me what you don't know, why not begin with what you do?"

  She lowered herself down upon him, her crotch forcing his cock down against his stomach without taking him inside her. He groaned with the pleasure and pain of her weight pinning him that way.

  "Her eyes," he began, "They were dark as she passed me in the night."

  Lest moved slowly, sliding her crotch forward and then drifted slowly back. Silas could feel her wetness engulfing him.

  "But, as she tried to sneak by me, I saw the color of the moon gleaming in her eyes. They shined with the gold of moonset in autumn and she moved in silence.

  "I would have sworn that she was a ghost and when I looked again to the sky, I saw heavy clouds blanketing the moon and knew that whatever was reflected in her eyes came from within and not the heavens."

  Lest flexed her hips again, sliding along his length until she arrived at the tip where she hesitated, her lips coming to rest positioned around but not over his head.

  Silas groaned and tried to push himself up and inside her, but his metal bindings held him fast where he was.

  "I waited," he gasped, "I wasn't sure of what I had seen. My curiosity got the better of me, though, so I went quietly to our barn which was the only place she could have gone.

  "I found her sleeping in the hayloft, hiding down inside the straw except for one of her feet sticking up, and when she came out her eyes weren't filled with moonlight, but simple loneliness instead."

  The golden woman moved her hips in very small, very slow circles, Silas's cock never quite entering her. Her breasts mirrored her movements in a pendulous way that mesmerized him.

  "But there was bravery, too...such courage there that it drew me to her like a lodestone. And, she made me laugh despite myself."

  Lest leaned over to let her breasts drop down, her nipples drifting across Silas's chest. The touch was like that of soft down and with a sigh, she engulfed him, taking him deep inside her as she slid back to ride upon his hips.

  "What you say and what you mean are two different things, aren't they?" she asked as she rode up and down upon his shaft.

  "I don't understand," he replied, groaning.

  "There is more than admiration in your words," she said.

  Silas replied, "She was the first woman I had ever known."

  "Well, it is true that one never forgets their first time, but as your second, perhaps I am not so bad."

  She increased her rhythm then, inciting Silas to move against the chains that bound him. He did what he could to move with her until they had both closed their eyes, their breathing quick and shallow.

  With a cry, Silas came hard, pumping into her, but what he saw in his mind's eye was the dark haired woman in the barn. He came with heavy spasms of his abdomen, seeing only her with straw in her hair and those dark eyes that held him and only him for a time.

  Lest stood up suddenly then and looking down upon him, she said, "You laughed just now. A deep laugh that came from far back within your heart.

  "It was not for joy of me, was it...?"

  She did not wait for an answer and left him there, shackled to the floor.

  Silas turned his head away. His only thought, in bitterness, was that he did not even know the mysterious woman's name.

  My moon girl, he thought. I shall call you that until the day I find you and ask what else I might call you.

  ~~~

  They moved more slowly now that Blue was so encumbered.

  The road they followed snaked its way through thickets that opened into farmer's fields stretching to the far horizons lying to the east and west. But, ever present to the south loomed the Ardoise mountains with their white peaks of eternal snow.

  The Marechal had heard of them, but only in reference to the quality of the stone work used to cover homes with roofs that, if well done, never leaked in contrast to the baked earthen tiles that were slowly replacing them.

  It was from these mountain flanks that roofing slate was struck, but the mountains were just as well known for their peril to those voyagers seeking passage to the southern face and the warmer climes beyond.

  He rode with a measured cadence that would not tax his mount and one that seemed more in keeping with the demon's current bloated state.

  As they rounded a turn, the travelers came to a fork. On one side, the wide road continued its meandering course to the left, while to the other side there was a narrow, meaner track that led in a direct line toward the southern mountains.

  The Marechal paid little attention to what appeared to be a simple farmer's path until Blue waddled forward to nose at the path. It lifted its head up, sickly as it was, and gave a half hearted wiggle that rolled down its bloated trunk as it looked back to the Marechal upon his horse.

  The Marechal turned to watch and the demon wiggled again before walking forward upon its six legs, parting the long grasses that nearly hid the little used road as he did.

  The Marechal shrugged and nudged his horse to follow the creature. The road they had been following seemed to ramble far to one side and then to the other, and as much as he could tell, the Marechal could not make out where in the countryside the road builders had been obliged to let it. There were no unsurmountable obstacles in what should have been a direct way to the south. Instead, it turned like a snake and continued to try the Marechal's patience even if he was not sure that they were truly on the runaway woman's path.

  In any case, the narrow, unkempt road they were on now did not meander, rather it ran straight and the Marechal could not help but think it was more direct, but to what end he could not say. As far as the demon, if he knew he kept it for himself.

  As the sun rose to its midday peak, they came upon a small cottage alongside the road. An elderly man wearing clothing riddled with holes was in a vegetable patch, hoeing with little enthusiasm between rows of onion and garlic.

  A tiny wrinkled woman popped out the front door of the house and shrieked, "Nestor!"

  The old man continued hoeing and the Marechal smiled. It was only with the grace earned after many years together that old men and women could manage to so thoroughly ignore one another. The Marechal noted that the old fellow never even twitched, which made him doubt for a moment that the man was stone deaf. And on the heels of that thought was the fact that the woman would not have bothered to call him if he was.

  She held up a hand to shield her eyes, staring out at the large man upon his horse.

  The Marechal was not worried about the demon on the ground beside him. The witch spoke truly that people would only see a large dog if they noticed him at all. Rather, he thought the old woman was just surprised that someone had been foolish enough to have left the main road for the cowpath they were on now.

  She came out of the house with creaky steps and the old man finally stopped his hoeing to cast an eye in their direction.

  "Lost yer way, have ya?" he asked the Marechal.

  "Could be that I have," the man upon his horse replied before slipping down from his saddle.

  "Do you have water to sp
are for my horse and me?" the Marechal asked.

  "Aye," replied the old man. The woman joined the old man at his side and squinted at the Marechal with her eyes nearly shut.

  "And you don't ask for your dog, do you?" she asked. Her visage reminded the Marechal of the little dolls peasant folk make, carving faces into apples to dry and wrinkle in the sun.

  "Oh...well, the dog doesn't belong to me, you see. As it is, he fends for himself."

  The old man dropped his gaze to the demon, saying, "Looks green around the gills if ya ask me."

  Startled, the Marechal looked sharply down at the beast. He had never noticed gills on the demon before. Instead of gills, though, he only saw a ridiculously swollen demon with a head hanging low and no sign of his habitual toothy smile

  "He means," the old woman said, "that the dog which doesn't belong to you looks sick."

  The Marechal sighed with relief, "Ah, it might be something he ate."

  The old man lifted his hoe to point to the side of the modest house and there the Marechal saw a roofed water well.

  He led his horse over and worked on raising water one bucket at a time to fill a large trough just beside the well.

  "So, yer lost then?" The old man had wandered over leaving his hoe and the woman behind.

  The Marechal replied, "That remains to be seen. Can you tell me if there is a city lying to the south, before one comes to the mountains themselves?"

  "Aye, there be a ville named Licharre in the foothills. Of fair size, 'tis, with commodities of every sort. And, if yer lookin' for passage over the mountains, then it's the only way ya can go.

  "If that's where yer headed, turns out that yer not so lost as ya think."

  "And why is that?" asked the Marechal.

  "The road ya left to take this 'un runs every which way but straight. It promenades travelers through every piss pot village along the way and as it happens, there's inns in those villages, built special for travelers, and them's inns are each one owned by the same fellows who had the road built."

  "I see," said the Marechal before dipping his entire head into the trough.

  He came up sputtering and raked his thick hair back from his face.

  "If the ville's where ya want to go," continued the old man, "Then this old road is the one that'll get ya there quickest. 'Twas a time that this was the only road, afore those money grubbers came up with a way to milk folk dry long before they ever get there."

  The two men came back to the road and the old woman who continued to stare down at the demon.

  The Marechal saw that Blue had more than lost his grin. His face had taken a decidedly downward turn and his throat appeared to be in spasms.

  With a terrible sound, the demon lurched backward while opening its gullet wide and there, before the three of them, he coughed up a slimy mess.

  It was a man's boot, covered in viscous fluids and the stench of it was like that of a corpse.

  The demon backed away, shaking its head from side to side, before suddenly freezing, rigid and quivering. He craned his head slowly upward, and if he had had ears, the Marechal could have imagined them swiveling in every direction as the demon seemed to hear something.

  The old man chose that moment to say, "I don't think ya should feed your dog boots anymore...."

  "He's not my dog," replied the Marechal distractedly as he watched the demon. The infernal smile was back and the scarred man could not help but notice the leather boot laces dangling from between its teeth.

  The demon looked directly into the Marechal's eyes and wriggled his body, before turning to stare down the road to the south, then bringing his gaze back to the Marechal.

  The Marechal turned to the old couple, saying, "It seems that we shall be leaving. But, before we do, I wonder if you might have something other than water to drink. I have coin to pay for it."

  The old woman shook her head.

  "You'll not find anything stronger than well water here, I'm afraid." She looked beyond the Marechal and with a start, said, "Looks like your dog run off."

  "Capucine, the man says the dog h'aint his" the old man said, exasperated.

  The Marechal turned about, looking for where the beast might have gone. But, there was no sign of the thing.

  Shrugging, he asked the old man, "In your estimation, is the nearest wine in a southerly direction, or is it back trail on the other road at one of those inns you mentioned?"

  "That's a clear'un. Ya just keep a'goin the way yer've been. This old road'll have ya at the ville with a few days to spare and that'll be in the bottom side o'town where drink and shelter h'aint so pricey.

  "Used to be the quarter of abattoirs and leather makers. Nowadays, it's mostly whores and their ilk, but the wine flows well enough and won't burn too many holes in yer wallet or yer gullet."

  The Marechal nodded and climbed back upon his horse.

  "Say," the old man continued, "Did ya come across a band of nasties up north there? Near the river fording?"

  The Marechal grinned and said, "I don't believe you need worry about that bunch anymore. It seems that something swallowed them up."

  He gave the reins in his hands a gentle shake. The mare, her thirst assuaged, broke into a light trot that would carry them steadily toward the gleaming mountain peaks and cheap whore's wine.

  "Say there, Capucine. Did'ya mark the scar a'running down that cavalier's face?" the old man asked, watching the man upon his horse shrink in the distance.

  The old woman frowned, her eyes crinkling like parchment paper as she did.

  "Yes, I did. Now stop that ridiculous accent, Nestor. You sound like a fool."

  The old man only grunted, and if he did it with an accent, she could not tell.

  "And get that boot underground, back behind the cabbages before it starts to stink even worse."

  The old man sighed and said, "And why ever would it stink worse than it already does, dear wife?"

  "Piss in my pocket, you old fool," she swore, "There happens to be a foot still inside it."

  The old man nodded and replied, "That was no dog, was it?"

  "No, dear husband, dogs don't walk on six legs and eat men whole. Now get to burying that mess and come inside quick after.

  "It's one thing to keep us hidden from brigands with simple cantrips, but it is well beyond my power to withstand whatever doom follows in that scarred man's wake."

  Nestor nodded and moved as quickly as his old bones would let him as he went in search of a shovel. At the least, there would be no more hoeing between rows that day, which was something, after all.

  ~~~

  The city, or ville as the old man called it, of Licharre started modestly enough.

  The Marechal found himself almost from one moment to the next riding between simple homes that were built closer and closer together as he rode, until the streets narrowed abruptly into what amounted to cobbled pedestrian passages with buildings springing up to overhang the street.

  The sunlight could not filter directly down as it had in the countryside and the Marechal was soon in passages that dimmed long before the setting sun rode round the world, giving way to the Moon's rule and her courtesan, Night, for a time.

  He dismounted and took his mount's reins in hand. Better that he walk and have his eyes on the folk he passed. If anyone made a move, at ground level he would be better able to deal with it.

  In any case, he felt that his chances were good that the servant woman, Melisse, would be obliged to pass through Licharre.

  If her goal was to flee ever southward and beyond the mountains, then the city would surely draw her in and from there she would search out the common folk's quarter where she could blend in. The bourgeois of the city were the same kind of people that she had left behind in Perene Manor and that would not sit well with a servant.

  Here, she would feel among her own. The Marechal had only to wait her out.

  And, as promised by the old man on the road, he soon came upon an establishment with its woo
den sign hung upon creaking, rusted chains, La Pagaille.

  It appeared to be a sort of auberge, if not rather seamy. But, the low murmur of many voices coming from within spoke to the Marechal of wine and perhaps even a bed without too many fleas where he might spend the night after so many under starry skies.

  A livery boy came quickly from around the corner of the building and said with a lilting, sing-song accent, "Ah'll see to yer horse, m'Sieur, if ye've a mind to go inside."

  The boy's words were nearly incomprehensible to the Marechal's ears, but when he worked them out, he replied, "That's fine, boy. Get her fed, watered and rubbed down. My saddle needs oiling, as well."

  He fished around at his belt and found a shining coin to flip into the air.

  The livery boy plucked it out of the air neatly and then, seeing the size of it in his hand, he said, "But, m'Sieur, this is enough to keep her stabled for six months!"

  "I don't expect that I shall stay as long as that. Just the same," said the Marechal, "You'll take care that she has good oats and that the livery master examines her irons. When I'll next need to ride, I want to do so without worrying she might throw a shoe."

  The boy smiled wide, saying, "Yessir, he will, and the very best grain we've got is hers", and then took the reins as he led the mare away.

  The Marechal went up the wooden steps leading to the interior of the auberge and let the dark air tainted with the odors of spilled ale and too many unwashed bodies swallow him whole.

  The day's warmth did not make its way far inside, so the Marechal eased through the overcrowded tables and chairs to a corner somewhat removed from the dense center. There he found an iron grate upon bowed legs that had been recently loaded with glowing coals.

  He pulled up a rickety chair to an even more rickety table and signaled to a serving girl....

  ~~~

  Capucine, an herb witch once accustomed to spending her days making healing poultices for the tired feet of pilgrims headed south over the mountains, stirred the contents of the black iron pot and poured in a handful of dust from a jar.