The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale) Page 7

  "I have already wished it, Marechal, year upon year...yet there you stand." Her voice had become small, quiet, human in its tone.

  Then she turned as brusquely as her old woman's body would allow, fumbling once more at her innumerable bottles upon the shelves.

  "Where is it?" she mumbled and then she seized one up in her gnarled grip and turned back to him.

  "This will do, yes. We shall call upon those who might be of use to you, those willing, for a time, to share in your hunt for the woman."

  With a sudden swing of her arm, she dashed the bottle to the ground where it exploded into fragments and dust. Instantly, a cloud of fuming smoke roiled up from the floor.

  The witch called out in a language that set the Marechal's teeth on edge. Each word she spoke pulled at his guts with hooks of alien syllables and bizarre intonations.

  Out of the smoke that clung to itself in a dense cloud, the Marechal heard what sounded like drums, their growing rhythm beating out a sound that resounded through the floor right to the soles of his boots.

  With a crack and blaze of sulfurous light, the cloud bloomed and then fell down in the long, low shape of a beast that must have measured seven feet long from snout to tail. It reminded the Marechal of a mixture of cat and lizard, although it carried itself on six short legs that ended in clawed talons, and its longitudinal trunk, rather like a log floating in the swamp, was carefully wound about in a thin, intricately fashioned, silver chain, fitted like a mail shirt.

  It peered up at him, blinking slowly first with one mud colored eye, then the other, before smiling wide with a mouth lined in sinister looking fangs.

  "Strange," muttered the witch. "It is a Donglin. A redoubtable tracker...you could not have hoped for better. But that a demon such as this should have answered my call is very strange, indeed."

  "That you expected a lesser answer is of no importance. What matters is if I can have confidence in the fell beast," said the Marechal, his doubt plain.

  The witch turned to the demon and although there were no words spoken, the Marechal felt that some sort of conversation was held.

  "The demon seems to think it is destined to serve you, Marechal. Although why, it will not say, » she said, turning back to the Marechal. « In any case, it gives its oath of fealty, which such as these do not give lightly."

  "It will lead you to the girl unerringly, I believe, as the Donglin, once sworn to a cause, will never waiver except in an encounter with its mortal enemy. And, of that, there is little chance."

  The Marechal asked, "How can you be so sure?"

  "Their enemy since time immemorial is the Estril, beings of light and flame. Millennia ago and after near total decimation of the two races, they agreed to a truce. Never shall either race trespass into the other's domain. In this way, they have achieved peace between them.

  "But should they encounter one another elsewhere, then by its very nature, the Donglin will forget all in its frenzy at the chance to exterminate an enemy upon neutral ground.

  "However, that likelihood is remote. The Estril are a vain, haughty race, uninterested in the petty realm of mankind. The geas of the Donglin's oath will hold it to you, Marechal."

  The Marechal looked doubtfully down at the demon, who had watched the witch during her discourse. If it had heard anything, the Marechal was unsure as he could see no ears upon the beast. But when she had finished, it turned its tooth ridden smile back to the Marechal and quivered down its length. The Marechal could not help but be reminded of a dog anxious for the hunt.

  "Does it know enough to hide itself when we cross paths with other travelers?" asked the Marechal.

  "The Donglin has no need," she answered. "Demons of this sort are capable of avoiding undue attention. Except to the eyes of a person of real power, I should think most will see the illusion of a dog at your side and nothing more. A large dog, yes...but that is all."

  The Marechal nodded.

  "I have paid richly for the likes of you," he said to the Donglin. "Do not give me cause to regret it."

  The old witch peered about her, then said, "Our dealings are done...Marechal. Begone with you. I grow tired of you. I grow tired of you and your misplaced past."

  "That may be, witch," he said before striding over to the horrid jars. "But I promise that I shall not forget the repayment owed to her." He tapped his finger against one in particular, its lifeless occupant staring at nothing with its blurred, fishlike eyes.

  In reply, the witch said, "My daughter is a willful child, to be sure. But the price you paid today, Marechal, is a paltry thing against what I once paid in your very name. It is as nothing in comparison."

  Her voice rising, she screeched, "Begone!"

  Her hand wove some complicated figure in the air before she struck the floor with the heel of her twisted staff and the Marechal felt himself being pushed away even as the crooked house in the swamp receded from him, its lines squeezing down to nothing as the Marechal stood still upon mushy ground, his horse tied just behind him.

  He hoisted himself astride his saddle then turned to cast an eye at the Donglin on the ground beside him.

  "I travel swiftly, demon. Are you of a measure to keep pace with a tireless rider?"

  The demon made no response but then lifted two rear legs clear of the ground on the side facing the Marechal. Well back and underneath, a dark opening lifted wide between the chain wrappings as an enormous, glistening blue penis slipped forward. It pushed out along the body of the demon until its thick blue head went past the demon's own face as it looked up to the man upon his horse. The smile it made then was a grin, in truth, as if to say that it was of a measure to anything.

  The Marechal grimaced. "So be it. Now put that away, you foolish beast."

  He turned his horse away into the mists swirling through the swamp before saying over his shoulder, "I think I'll call you...Blue."

  The demon made no reply as it followed the man in unearthly silence, its grinning jaws filled with pointed insinuation.

  ###

  The Marechal Chronicles: Volume 3, The Prey

  Silas heard voices. He was lying on what felt like a stone floor. There was warmth all around him and a golden light that bathed his environs rendering him sightless. He could not be sure, but he thought he might have been blinded since all he could see around him shimmered and shifted in yellow tones.

  "What is this, Lest?" he heard a man's voice say. The voice was hard, the exigence of whomever it belonged to clear in its clipped way of speaking. Silas could imagine that it was a soldier's voice, or, at least, someone who held discipline in high regard.

  "Raffiran, my darling!" A woman responded, her pleasure at the other's sudden appearance making her voice musical in tone.

  "Oh, this? It is nothing, dear," she continued.

  "No, not nothing," the male voice said. "That is a man. A human."

  There was a pause and Silas saw the colors before him ripple momentarily from rich yellows to a fleeting blue.

  "I think I shall make of it my pet," she said. "You have your monster. Now I have this pretty man."

  The man responded, "Lest, the point is not that you desire a plaything. Rather, I should like to know how you came by it."

  Again, that shimmer to blue. Silas had always imagined blindness as an absolute darkness. An absence of all that made the world beautiful. Here, though, he was immersed in a gold that he had seen once before, and not so long ago, reflected in the night eyes of a mysterious and beautiful woman.

  "I found him only a little while ago," she said. "I felt my brother's magic bloom somewhere in the realm of men, so I reached out with all my strength, hoping to seize him or, at least, to convince him to return to us before the Evangeline tracks him down.

  "As Mesrin's fire burgeoned, I attempted to make contact. It was then that I perceived the presence of two beings, both human, one male, the other female. And, in that moment, the female found some means to rebuff me. My brother's flame was perverted in some wa
y and she pushed me back with a strength that was terrifying.

  "I seized this man as she forced me away. My belief is that he may hold some clue to the mystery of that female and her link to my brother. Or, at worst, this human shall make a pleasant diversion for me while you meddle in the affairs of men with your beast."

  The male voice replied with a hard tone, rigid in the least intonation, "A human pushed you away? What mischief has your brother wrought in his foolishness?

  "In any case, Mesrin shall be called to task shortly. My monster, as you call it, has scented his trail and its fury is swift, as always. If he resists, its answer shall be without mercy and our realm will be rid of his stupidity forever."

  Deep red color bloomed before Silas's eyes, then receded in the unfathomable surroundings. He could not have said why, but Silas felt that the male presence had gone.

  Then, with the fabric of color rippling before him, he understood that he had not been blinded after all. The form of a woman gathered itself out of the golden light. It was as though she walked forward, invisible, until she pressed against her own shape, like a bed sheet hung to dry, the outlines of her body lifting into view from nowhere.

  Silas remembered the stories his father had told him of the great cities. His father had voyaged often in his youth before choosing the life of a farmer, the love he had for Silas's mother anchoring him at last. He had spoken of city temples devoted to strange gods and upon the great, stepped terraces leading up to these edifices, his father had described magnificent statues rendered in the purest marble. He had said that the realism of them was more unnerving than anything those religions had shown him. The statues were of goddesses in the form of beautiful women. Except that their perfection was without flaw or error and it was this that left his father in awe before the temples. He had had no need to mount the great stairs to see the mark of deities upon the world. It was there, in those statues, and he understood that something of the divine had guided the hands of those who had created them.

  Silas had never been to those cities, had never seen the great temples with their perfect sculptures. But, here, before him now, he saw all that his father had tried to describe for him. The woman standing above him, as he cowered upon the hard floor, was of a purity and perfection that spoke more clearly than anything that there was nothing of humanity about her.

  Her voluptuous lips lifted into a smile that burned like fire in Silas's heart. She was nude and her narrow waist flared out in perfect proportions to hips that filled all his vision. He tried to cover himself, horrified by the reaction of his body to the feminine glory before him now.

  Her golden eyes, delicately almond in shape, shifted to regard his member lifting and lengthening. Full, round breasts tipped with stiffening nipples shifted deliciously as she watched his erection take form.

  "Oh," she said, "We shall amuse ourselves to the fullest, my little man. And, then you are going to tell me all about the woman...yes?"

  Silas shivered. He knew that with this golden woman, there were no choices left to him.

  She knelt down beside him and reached out to lift his chin in her hand. Her touch left his skin tingling as he looked into the golden orbs of her eyes.

  "But first, you require some quickening. I doubt that your flesh could withstand me when my ardor mounts."

  She held his chin and leaned forward to press her luscious lips against his. Silas felt her tongue slip forward and the taste of her was of spices that he had never tasted, of fruit that grows only in his dreams.

  His mouth tingled as she held him captive with her own. A deep flush of warmth rose in his chest and without warning it was as though he drank fire. Flames slipped from the golden woman's mouth to slide down Silas's throat. They impaled him in a focused inferno and he could do nothing to break away.

  The woman rocked her head back, breaking contact with him, and Silas took a great heaving breath. His throat felt as though it had been left in cinders as he swallowed fresh air. He could feel the warmth spread through his body and he had the impression that he became heavier, denser, as it enveloped him fully.

  His skin tingled and, looking down at himself, he saw that his flesh, already deeply bronzed from his life as a farmer, had taken on some of the golden hue that infused everything around him.

  "There," she said, "That should keep you from dying in my arms."

  She was still on her knees and she pushed at Silas's chest, motioning that he should lie back flat upon the floor. The warmth of her flaming kiss ran through him still as he lay back. The hard surface seemed insignificant now, his flesh inured to indifference over minor discomforts.

  Her breasts jostled in the most wonderful way as she slipped a leg over his torso to straddle him. He looked up and the two hills crested in thick points that called out to his mouth, the desire to suckle at her golden fount springing from his primal mind.

  She moved further along his chest, to the point where his vision of her golden perfection was obscured, to the point where the heady scent of her musk filled his nostrils.

  "And now, you will pleasure me, human," she said, the tone of her voice dropping a register, becoming husky, heavy as her scent filled his head.

  Silas answered, "As you will, golden Lady."

  A drop of her juices slipped down to patter onto his cheek and he craned his head forward, his mouth against her mound. His tongue ran out of his mouth of its own accord as he slipped it down and between her lips.

  She tasted of salt and of roses. Her flavor was thick and it ran deep upon his tongue. He explored her folds, tasting here and there, desiring to know her every recess. And as she began to flex against his mouth in answer, he could hear her sigh with notes of melodic passion.

  His experience of women was next to nothing, but of what little he had come to know ran counter to expectation. Silas had only ever known those who told him what to do and how to do it.

  He pulled himself away from the gyrating hips of the golden woman. She thrust herself forward, her body demanding that he return to his ministrations. In answer, he flicked his tongue lightly at her lips, his touch fleeting. The woman laughed and the sound of her voice was filled with a smile that spoke to the flame now within Silas's flesh.

  He smiled in return, no longer caring that he was subject to this woman's mastery. He would be hers, if she willed it. He teased at her, using his teeth, but gently so, then nuzzled in deeply, taking her as far as he could within his mouth. He sucked at her and her juices ran down his chin as she moaned.

  The motion of her hips thrusting against him grew more intense. He strained to hold himself in place, to run his tongue up and down her cleft, pausing only to flutter at the hard point at her apex. Each time, he delighted in the way her rhythm would stutter in response and then take up again with a thrusting drive that grew in intensity.

  When, finally, Silas was near to breaking with his neck pinched in exhaustion, the woman panted before slapping forward hard against his lips, seizing his hair in her hands as she cried out and liquid rolled freely down across his face.

  Silas tasted her juices and with a thirst that he had never known he lapped her up.

  She shuddered over and over against him and he could feel the heat burgeoning once more in his flesh. Her juices fed his warmth until he felt that he would burst in flames, white hot, like molten iron in a smith's furnace.

  But, the strength she had given him held and instead of burning up in desire and lust, Silas lived on as the woman of gold slipped away from him to lie upon her back. Her breathing came in deep, full respirations. The breaths of one sated.

  Her melodious voice broke the quiet as she said, "My little man...we shall amuse ourselves greatly. Again and again."

  Silas thought once more that it was not a matter of choice. In that, he had no say, but, after all, there were worse situations in which he could have found himself.

  "Now," she continued, "Tell me about the human female...."

  ~~~

  He watch
ed the woman striding down the road. She moved quickly, her steps broad and full of purpose. Her hood was drawn over her head despite the warm weather.

  The tree swayed under him, a gentle breeze shifting its great limbs and he imagined that it rocked him as a mother might with the warmth of the sunlight sifting through the leaves. From his position, high among the branches of the great oak, he could see for leagues in the distance, right to where the horizon cut away the dirt road, a dusty brown track that dwindled to a fine line before disappearing entirely.

  He clambered down to the ground, licking his lips. A woman alone meant good things to Gaspard of the Green. She meant easy pickings and that was welcome since these past few weeks, travelers had been scarce and the few that he had spied upon the north south road had been too numerous or too heavily armed for him to risk.

  A lone woman, though. She would do for him just fine.

  He slipped along a well worn path, one that lead from the foot of the tree and behind a thicket from where he could not be seen from the road. From there, he stepped out upon a bend and a rise, carefully chosen for the fact that anyone on the road, especially those on foot, could not see the young man standing there, his sword drawn, until it was too late.

  Gaspard shifted and shook his arms out, trying to loosen the stiffness that came after spying from his perch overlong. He was not afraid of a sole woman traveling upon the road. But, working alone remained difficult he had learned. Several months before, he had been part of a larger troop of highwaymen, many leagues to the north. As part of the band, his confidence knew no bounds, until, finally, the cruelty and merciless slaughter of those who resisted their plight of being robbed had left him cold.

  Here, he could do what he had to do upon his own terms, without needless murder, even if it meant that the risks he took were greater on his own.

  He might steal to live, but he was no murderer.

  Several minutes passed, and then she strode into view. Instead of coming to a surprised halt at the sight of the haggard young man, sword bared upon the road before her, the woman continued her steady march, never breaking her stride until she stood just before Gaspard.