Blood Debt of the Wild Elf
Page 7
Her hand closes around the grip of the Legendary Blade of Solana and she is rocked by a vision of herself in battle. She is stronger in every way, screaming with fury, and lopping the heads from her foes with the glowing blade. She sees strange beasts not native to the jungle of Kojun and she leaps among them, hacking them to death with ease. Her breasts are covered in armor of finely-made chainmail that seems to radiate darkness. Her loincloth is made from the same material. And in her off hand she wields a dagger that hungers for the souls of her foes.
This image is so vivid that it nearly causes her to drop the sword. She staggers back a step and Gerrik struggles to steady her much larger body.
“What is it?” The goblin asks, bracing her with his hands on her shapely hips.
“A vision,” she says, shaking her head to clear it. “I was using this sword. I was much more powerful, Gerrik. Perhaps it is a memory.”
“You brought this weapon with you?” Gerrik is clearly fascinated by this revelation. “This is good. It might be a link to your past and a way to awaken more memories.”
“I cannot even wield it,” she says, tucking the blade through her belt.
“Not yet,” he says. “But you can become powerful enough. We can grind levels together.”
The phrase triggers another sensation of remembrance, but she cannot quite recall where she has heard it before. She understands its meaning though. Gerrik wishes to work together to gain levels quickly. A smile plays at Bronwen’s lips. She can think of one way to advance her level without risking great danger. Gerrik is smiling too, perhaps thinking the same thing.
But the grim surroundings of the orc camp dispel Bronwen’s fantasy of a legendary rutting session with the goblin. This is not the place for such behavior. Nor is it the time, with Elyana and others of Bronwen’s tribe taken by the orcs to be sold into slavery.
“Master,” says Bronwen, “there will be many opportunities to ‘grind’ our levels in Nokings.”
“Many more ways to die,” says Gerrik. “I do not think we should travel there. I have explained that your friends are only figments created by the machines. I know they feel real, but—“
“What if they are not?” Bronwen stands fiercely, gazing down at Gerrik. “You said yourself that this Scarlett woman died and was reborn. She lost her memories. What if this is the fate of my friends in the tribe? They are still real people, are they not?”
“Well, yes, but there is nothing that can be done for them if their memories are lost,” says Gerrik.
“Nothing you could do for Scarlett,” counters Bronwen. She sees Gerrik wince with pain and she regrets her harsh words immediately. “I am sorry, master, I do not mean to hurt you with the memory. But, you said that she attacked you. Was it because you were a goblin and she was not?”
“She was – is - a human,” says Gerrik.
“But my friends are my friends,” says Bronwen. “They know me and even if they did not we are of the same tribe. They might listen to me.”
“Perhaps,” says Gerrik doubtfully. “But the risks are great. And if you perish I cannot say that I will ever be able to help you again.”
Bronwen crouches to put herself at Gerrik’s eye level. She takes his hands in hers and peers into his beady red eyes.
“Master, please,” she says softly. “Let me try to save them. At least Elyana. Then we can travel to seek the wisdom of the oracle or embark on whatever other journey you desire.”
“Bronwen, the danger is…” His words trail off and his thin lips tighten into the line of a frown. “Very well, I cannot deny you. And there is wisdom behind your feelings of kinship. Even if she is not like us, this woman might be of use to us.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, pulling him into a tight embrace, cradling his scrawny body against her soft breasts.
“We will make a stop along the way,” says Gerrik. “In the orc lands there is a place that your armor might be mended and we might find provisions.”
“Where in the orc lands will we find aid?” Bronwen asks with disbelief.
“You forget, I am from the orc lands, I know them well.” Gerrik smiles and taps a clawed finger against his temple. “I also know many within those cursed lands and they are not all evil. We will go and see Wise Old Jebruk. He is a mender and tinkerer, a goblin like me, but one with a free spirit. Perhaps he is even like us, a person trapped in this realm, but he remembers nothing of this former time.”
“If you say he is good then I will believe you,” says Bronwen rising and looking over the grisly remains of her fellow elves one last time. “Let us leave this place. The jungle will reclaim the soil of my kin.”
“A warning though, Bronwen,” says Gerrik. “Jebruk is a horny old goat.”
V
The Tower of the Horny Old Goat
Bronwen and Gerrik travel south through the daylight hours, making their way out of the vast jungle of Kojun and into the hot swamplands of the Darrow Valley. The fetid swamps yield clouds of biting insects and the lush jungle is replaced with dreary swamp banyans that sag beneath the weight of the humidity. Strange birds call from these trees and swamp serpents move unnervingly through the muck around them.
Thankfully, Bronwen finds that her protective amulet shields her from the biting insects. They land on her and quickly drop away as if struck by some mild electric current. Gerrik has no such protection, although his lean goblin body seems less appealing to bloodsuckers than Bronwen’s ample figure. He curses and swats away swarming gnats and the muck-skimming legbiters that like to suck blood from the backs of knees.
As the gloom of the swampland deepens into evening, they reach the muddy shores of the swamplands and leave the Darrow Valley behind for the Quiet Hills. Bronwen has memories of these lands. They are said to be cursed, haunted even, and most travelers avoid them. Look out over the foggy gray terrain and he withered trees that cling to the barren hills, she has to agree with such superstition.
“Don’t believe the superstition,” says Gerrik as if reading Bronwen’s thoughts. “There are ghosts and zombies in the Quiet Hills, but they keep to the ruins and the occasional cave. They won’t bother us as long as we are out in the open.”
“If you say so, master.” A cool wind blows through the trees, causing them to rattle like bone chimes. A low moan rises from the mists. She doubts Gerrik is correct, but she refuses to show fear when he does not. “You… you say your friend lives in the Quiet Hills?”
“He does,” says Gerrik. “He has for as long as I have known him. Saved me from a wraith in one of the hold manors. Well, maybe he did. Then again, it might just be another false memory. But I know him and he lives here. He will aid us.”
As night gathers around them, the wind glows cooler and Bronwen wishes she had a traveling cloak to warm her arms. Her nipples stand out stiffly from her breasts and more than once her arm brushes against her sensitive buds, eliciting a soft cry. This draws Gerrik’s attention and she catches him staring at her naked upper body.
“You seem, um, cold,” says the goblin. “I wish I had a coat to give you. But it won’t be long now.”
They climb another hill and see it, silhouetted by the low moon. The tower rises like a bony finger pointing skyward. It was once purely stone, but as Bronwen studies it she sees the stone construction has been buttressed in many places by branches and crude scaffolds of wood. A path winds up to the on entrance decorated with totems and cairns that seem intended to invite evil spirits rather than ward them away. A tin chimney on the tower’s roof gives up a thin gust of steam that dissipates quickly into the night air.
“He won’t be expecting us,” says Gerrik as they begin their descent into the misty lowland between their hill and the one with the tower. “Tread carefully. He is a crafty one and often sets trAAHH!”
The snares catch them both almost simultaneously. Magical ropes tighten around Bronwen’s ankles and bind her legs together. She is hauled upside down, her head thumping on the soft earth and her sword s
Gerrik, swinging from his ankles, dangles beneath the branches of a nearby tree.
He laughs sheepishly and says, “Jebruk often sets traps.”
A faint jingling sounds from inside the tower. Bronwen cannot see it from where they hang, but she hears the door creak open and footsteps approaching, along with a high-scratchy voice that is muttering about zombies.
“Oh! You not zombies!” A goblin steps into view with red text floating above his bald head.
Jebruk Sewcoin - Level 31 Goblin Tinkermage
Jebruk is a bit taller than Gerrik, with green skin gone to a deep gray and mottled with warts on his neck and cheeks. His eyes are rheumy and he has a long, white beard that trails past his chest and down to his belly. He wears a long loincloth that is moth-eaten and stinks strongly of urine. He carries a staff not unlike the one Gerrik dropped when the trap yanked him from his feet.
“Oh, you a pretty one,” says Jebruk. He turns her to face him completely and runs his hands over her breasts. He gives them a careful squeeze and she cries out.
“Jebruk!” Shouts Gerrik, his back turned to what is happening. “Jebruk, old friend, it’s me. Gerrik!”
“Mmmm? Gerrik?” Jebruk weighs Bronwen’s breasts with his bony hands. He leans up just enough to run his tongue over her breasts, eliciting a cry of surprise. He sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, pulling with suction at her teat and sending pleasure rippling through Bronwen’s body.
“Yes, it’s me!” Gerrik cries desperately. “Remember, at the Houndslow manor ruins! With the wraith!”
Jebruk gives Bronwen’s nipple a thoughtful suck before popping his lips free.
“Gerrik?” He releases Bronwen’s breasts and walks around her. “Oh, friend Gerrik! You come back! Why you hanging upside down?”
“Because of your traps,” says Gerrik. “My friend and I were coming to see you and—“
“Friend?” Jebruk steps back and looks down at Bronwen’s upside-down face. “Oh, you friend with Gerrik?”
“Yes,” she says. “Bronwen is my name.”
“Eh?” He leans past her and looks at Gerrik. “This true? You friend with elf?”
“Yes,” says Gerrik. “If you can cut us down, I will explain everything.”
“Mmmm.” Jebruk steps back to look Bronwen over. He seems to consider whether or not it might be better just to leave them in the traps and take full advantage of their helplessness. Deciding, perhaps, that friendship is more valuable than momentary pleasure, he waves his staff and Bronwen drops heavily onto her head.
The fall is painful, but the earth is soft and she does not receive any damage. What’s more, her hands are free, and she is able to gather up her sword and Gerrik’s staff. She helps her master to his feet and hands him his staff as the elderly goblin looks on with amusement.
“She good friend,” he says. “Very good. Pretty and good. You more than friend?”
“He is my master,” says Bronwen with a hint of annoyance.
“Is true?” Jebruk laughs.
“Yes, it’s the truth,” says Gerrik. “I saved her life and she owes me a special debt. She is my equal though, Jebruk, not some slave.”
“Yes, yes, no hurt meant,” says the old goblin, limping past them. “Come up to tower. It cold out here and there zombies around at night.”
Zombies? Bronwen shoots an accusatory look at Gerrik. He shrugs and they follow behind Jebruk up to his ancient tower.
Standing before the structure, Bronwen is impressed by its size. It might once have been the tower of a powerful wizard, perhaps the necromancer that blighted the Quiet Hills with the restless dead. It would have passed into complete ruin were it not for the ingenious work of Jebruk. His magic is everywhere, strengthening wooden joists and pulsing from the mortar between ancient stones. So are his embellishments, with various tin and copper decorations, strange flags, and murals of occult and lewd imagery. Bronwen stares at a particular painting, just beside the door, that seems to depict a dozen human and elf women pleasuring a goblin. The painting moves as she gazes at it, the women seeming to writhe and seed erupting from the goblin’s stiff cock.
“Interesting art,” she murmurs to Gerrik.
“Like I said, he is a horny old goat,” chuckles her companion.
Jebruk waves his staff and the door swings open with a creak of ancient hinges. The inside of the tower is far less grand than the exterior and much more like a cupboard. Bronwen has to lean down once through the door as there is a slumping archway formed by books, jars, clay pots, boxes, piles of sticks, skulls, and an endless catalog of various other things that Jebruk has collected. Candles flit through the air, glowing softly and held aloft by tiny brass wings that vibrate like those of a dragonfly.
“You want food?” Jebruk gestures to a bubbling cauldron of foul-smelling green stew. “You want bed? Only have one bed, but I share with you both. Very nice. Mmmmm…”
He strokes his beard in a strangely lascivious way as he looks at Bronwen. The little goblin comes over to her and places his hand on her hip.
“I sorry about touching you so wrong before,” he says, his hand creeping around to fondle her backside.
“That’s, er, alright,” she says as he squeezes and kneads the buttock nearest to him. He reaches his hand beneath her loincloth and begins to slide his fingers between her cheeks. Bronwen yelps and jumps to the side to escape him. This knocks over a stack of teacups that clatter and crash and disappear down a small hill of loose sheets of yellowed parchment.
Jebruk, acting as if nothing happened, walks past Bronwen to Gerrik.
“Old friend, what is it? What you need?”
“Well, we are off to the monster moot in Nokings,” says Gerrik. “And Bronwen needs her armor mended. It destroyed by an orc.”
“Armor?” He glances at Bronwen. “I thought she drop kerchief. Mmmmm. I make proper armor out of bog lizard hide. Two days. You stay here.”
“That will take too long,” says Bronwen, distress edging her voice.
“Yeah, she’s right,” says Gerrik. “We need to be on our way tonight. We cannot even wait for dawn, her friends might be sold for auction at tomorrow’s moot.”
“Slave auction at night,” says Jebruk. “Night of morrow, if you think. But I understand. Mmmm.”
Jebruk walks in a slow circle around Bronwen.
“Yes, I do,” he says. “I mend. Even enough cloth to stitch top cover. Although shame to hide beautiful breasts. You like?”
Thinking back to her unpleasant experience in Aysgarden, Bronwen nods gratefully. “Yes, that would be perfect.”
“Good, good,” says Jebruk. He takes Bronwen’s hand. “You come with me upstairs. I mend. Gerrik, you wait here.”
“Uh, Jebruk, you will behave yourself?” Gerrik fidgets nervously.
“Yes, yes, trust Jebruk,” says the old goblin. “Perfect gentleman. All times, perfect gentleman.”
“Uh, okay,” says Gerrik. “Bronwen, do as he says, but, you know, be careful.”
“Yes, master,” says Bronwen.
Jebruk leads her to a narrow staircase that hardly seems big enough for her to climb. He prods her up with his gnarled hands on her bottom, pushing her up every few steps until they merge onto the second and then the third floor. The room is smaller than that on the ground floor, but it seems much larger with fewer things piled up.
She turns to ask the old goblin if she should take the loincloth off and he practically leaps upon her, fondling her breasts and kissing her and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She cries out and with some effort pushes him away.
“Jebruk!” She exclaims. “You promised to be a gentleman.”
“I goblin, not man,” cackles the old goblin. He tries to leap at her again and this time Bronwen catches him on the forehead and holds him back. He flails for a moment, trying to jump past her guard, but she holds him at bay. He relents with a final squawk of disappointment. “Fine, I fix clothes. Give to me.”
She carefully releases him, waiting a moment to be sure he doesn’t intend to leap at her again. When she feels convinced that he is behaving, she begins to untie her loincloth. Jebruk watches her untie the garment with his eyes bulging from his face. His tongue dangles between his pinched lips as she reveals her hairless mound and her pink quim. Her face is hot with embarrassment as she reaches out slowly and hands the garment to Jebruk.
“Mmmmmmmm! Fresh!” He presses it to his long, hooked nose and inhales deeply. His loincloth stirs as he breathes her scent. “Oh, you been with goblin before? Mmmmm. Smell that too! Naughty elf. You fuck Gerrik?”
“None of your business,” she says crossly.
“Yeah,” laughs Jebruk. “You fuck Gerrik. He seed you yet?”
“No!” She cries.
“Mmmhmmm.” Jebruk licks his lips and looks at her blushing quim again. She covers it with her hand. The little goblin barks, “No! You supposed to do what I say. Show me!”
“I will not,” she says. “You are a little pervert.”
“Yes, is true,” laughs Jebruk. He continues in a soft, solicitous tone, “But I want help. To help I have to see you. Have to touch you. Feel all body. Know how to sew garment.”
Bronwen resists, but she sees the sense in his words. The seamstresses in her tribe would measure their customers with careful hands and strings. There was no shame in their presence. Then again, the seamstresses of the Red Feather did not drool at the sight of her naked body when she visited htem.
“Very well,” says Bronwen reluctantly.
She moves her hands away and does not resist Jebruk as he scurries back to her and begins stroking her legs up to her hips. He does seem to be measuring her body, at least at first, but soon his measuring fingers are creeping between her legs. She feels one graze her clit and she gasps in surprise, jerking upright.
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