"Melisse...my name is Melisse," she replied, moaning her words more than speaking them.
"Melisse," he repeated, "My goddess, my mistress, Melisse, I am yours to command, yours to enslave. I burn for you, Melisse."
She flinched at his words, as if they conjured up a dark memory, but desire brought her back to him. Gaspard pulled at her nipple with his lips and then took it within his teeth.
Melisse moaned again and then said, "Not so long ago, you would not have even noticed me. No one ever did...not even me.
"And now, I need you inside me, thief."
Gaspard grinned without understanding her words as she lay down upon the fern covered ground. He dropped down between the thighs she held wide for him and without hesitation he pushed himself into her humid depths.
It was like fire that burned him with pain and pleasure mingled. Gaspard stroked in as deeply as he could while she arched her back under him. Her breasts rolled slightly to the sides in slow, delicious motion and he could see her ribs standing out at the cusp between them and where her flat stomach began.
She moved with him, her hips matching his rhythm, the two of them thrusting against one another. Gaspard drove in deep and as he plunged, he ground his pelvis in tight against that of Melisse. She wrapped her legs around him, seizing him in an embrace of long muscles and blazing desire.
He was burning. His vision was flaring with the flames of red lust and he thrust over and over into her. She rocked against him, her breath coming quicker and quicker, until he felt himself lifting up, growing rigid as his buttocks squeezed in tightly. He managed another thrust before the sound of his own voice was in his ears as he orgasmed in great pumping bursts.
He hardly remarked that the sound was of screams or that his vision had covered over in darkness. His cock was twitching in endless convulsions as he heaved and thrust against the body of a goddess that he could no longer see.
The heat was blazing all around him. His head ached with it and the smell of burnt flesh was in the air.
She screamed one short, strangled cry before pushing him back and away from her.
It was as though he had been released from an enormous gloved hand that blazed with all the force of a desert sun. Cool air drifted around him while the odor of cooked meat still filled his aching head. He could see nothing.
Melisse saw the thin, if well muscled, man before her, upon his knees. Where his eyes had been there were now two blackened pits from which smoke wisped upward as he groped blindly about.
She got to her feet, shaking, tears streaming down her face as she said, "I am sorry. I wanted only a moment with you. I have mastered the flame within me, but it remains willful and savage.
"You should not have tried to force me to go with you. You left me no choice."
Gaspard heard the sadness in her trembling voice and replied, "It is nothing, mistress. I have the sight of you still in my mind and if that is the last thing I shall ever see, I do not regret it."
She watched in horror as he searched about him, naked and crawling across the road, his arms outstretched.
His skin was sloughing away from him in places, most of him a sickening red in color, as if he had been boiled alive.
By chance, his hand came across the sword he had abandoned earlier in the dust. He seized it and got to his feet, before saying, "I shall guard the road, Melisse, while you go on. Whoever dares follow you shall meet me and my sword and I shall strike them down."
She could see the muscles of his back twisting with his determination, the skin mostly gone as he turned unsteadily, the sword held before him, weaving weakly in the air.
"Oh, what have I done?" she said, before donning her stolen clothing.
The sense of being followed had been gaining in strength the last few days, pushing her to move ever faster. She no longer felt the need to sleep, so she had walked day and night, never stopping for what felt like weeks gone by. But, the time lost here would be difficult to catch up and she knew that each moment of not moving meant a moment closer to what felt like certain doom.
She could do nothing for him, except to cry tears of chagrin and regret.
"I am sorry," she repeated as she turned away from the burned figure upon the road, his sword still in hand.
With grim determination, she strode away and did not permit herself to look back.
Gaspard du Vallon, errant son turned highwayman and back again, held his sword tightly despite his grip being so inexplicably slippery. All was darkness and, after a time, all became silent around him. He could still hear her voice, though, even when he was no longer sure that he still held his sword, or whether he still stood upon the dirt road.
He would guard her, his beautiful goddess, his mistress, the one who had blessed him between her divine thighs.
The trees swayed gently with the breeze of a beautiful day and birds began to sing songs of a joyful spring. All was calm once more as the first flies began to alight upon the body lying facedown on the road, a bloody sword still held in its charred hands.
~~~
The Marechal de Barristide looked about him.
The demon, Blue, had been at his side just a moment before and now, with no warning, the damnable beast had disappeared.
They had made a swift descent from the witch's swamp toward the south and the Marechal grudgingly had to admit that the demon never slowed him.
The thing moved with frightening speed and silence yet seemed to take no interest in the Marechal whatsoever. Even if, once or twice, he thought he saw the six-legged creature eyeing his horse, its slick blue tongue slipping out from between hundreds of needle-like teeth.
As for being an excellent tracker as promised by the witch, the Marechal's opinion was more reserved. The demon never seemed to take an interest in the direction they chose as they traveled these many days southward and it was only now, before a river crossing, that it had done anything at all remarkable. That it chose this moment to desert seemed more than suspect to the Marechal.
His horse picked her way gingerly down the slope to the river rushing before them. The Marechal feared that he might go many leagues downstream in search of a narrows shallow enough to ford. But, to his relief, he saw a cabled ferry meant for carrying both man and beast across the frothing torrent.
With a heavy thud, an arrow sprouted in a wooden post of the ferry's framework and a deep voice rang out.
"Ho, there! Yer'll stay where ye be and make no move for that pretty cutter at yer side. Me men have ye surrounded and the next fléche will find itself growing out yer gorry throat and not some poor old post."
The Marechal held still. He had no fear of arrows, not for him. But he would risk no harm to his horse and an arrow could fly astray far too easily.
He would wait until they closed in.
With dry forest leaves crunching underfoot, he heard them come and he sighed. He had hoped that as with most brigands upon the provincial roads they would be few, most of the time numbering less than ten. But the footsteps he heard from all around him told a different story. There were certainly at least twenty men encircling him and his odds at making a clean escape had just taken a turn for the worse.
"Might I dismount, at the least?" the Marechal shouted out. "Should a nervous finger loose an errant shot, I'd prefer that my horse not take injury."
There was no answer, so he slowly lifted one leg free of its stirrup and dropped to the ground. He backed away from his mare and then turned to face the surrounding trees.
Dark, grimy faces peered back at him. Their eyes seemed overly white and he understood that they had darkened their features as a means of camouflage.
There were just three of them within view but among the brush surrounding the clearing, the Marechal could make out branches that shook unnaturally and there was the ever present sound of dry leaves crackling under the feet of men who moved with caution to keep their bows trained upon their target.
One of the men in front of him, a notched and rusted sword in hand whe
re the other two held drawn short bows, stepped forward and said, "Me scouts sawn a great dog at yer side, some leagues back." The Marechal recognized the voice from earlier.
"Where'in he now, yer puppy?" he asked.
"He's not mine," replied the Marechal. "And comes and goes as he pleases."
The swordsman was a hulking figure, but he stood back and said, "Garn. And yer've a fair size to ye. 'Carry ye a purse just as big, mebbe?"
The Marechal held his hands loosely at his sides, keeping himself relaxed despite the frenetic energy boiling just under the surface of his calm demeanor.
Blood would spill and sooner rather than later, he knew, no matter how much coin he carried.
"I have gold and silver," he said, "I'll give it over without resisting. In exchange, let me leave here with my horse and I'll go back the way I came."
The man tipped his sword down, letting the tip sink into the dirt at his feet and laughed.
"Let 'im leave? Whaddya'all think m'boys?" he said, raising his voice.
"Me, I'm a'thinkin that we'll takes yer gold and silver, and then we'll lay hands on that pretty pony, too. Ye seems s'worried about 'er, I'm guessin' she's worth more than yer purse of coin."
The Marechal sighed and rolled his shoulders slowly. He felt sure that he could drop to the ground and roll while drawing his sword. That would foul the feet of the two bowmen, standing too closely together as they were, and with some luck, arrows would fly and hamper or even kill the one with the rusted sword. If not, it would not be the first time that the Marechal was obliged to fight with his back upon cold ground and he felt his chances were good that if it went well, the men hiding among the trees would slink away rather than risk up close fighting.
Or, the next moment might find him a walking pincushion.
His hand flexed as he readied himself to drop. The swordsman's eyes narrowed but in the next half breath, a blood curdling scream from within the trees broke the silence, only to be cut off clean.
The bowmen wavered, turning to look over their shoulders and then from the opposite side of the clearing, another scream erupted to be choked off just like the first.
The swordsman's eyes flew wide and he hissed, "Ye voyage alone, or no?"
The Marechal simply shrugged just as another man let out a yelping cry not far away.
The two bowmen looked to their chief, eyes even whiter than before. And then, without a word, they loosened their hold upon their bowstrings and strode off into the woods, looking wildly about.
A moment later, there were choked screams and bushes shaking from all around the clearing.
The Marechal gave the swordsman a smile as he slid his shining blade from its scabbard.
"I travel alone. At least, that is, if we don't count the dog," he said.
The bandit threw his sword up in front of him as the Marechal advanced, ready to send a flurry of thrusts and parries destined only to confuse the man before he would close and open the dirty fool's throat with the main-gauche sheathed and waiting upon his opposite thigh.
But, before the Marechal could do more than ready himself, the brigand raised his blade and then it was as though an invisible hook had sunk into the man's spine before he was jerked backward, folding over nearly in two as his feet flew off the ground.
Out of sight, another horrified scream erupted before coming to a sudden end and all fell to an eerie silence.
The Marechal stood his ground, turning slowly upon his heel. He expected an arrow to come whistling out from the trees or, perhaps, that several men might try to rush him in a last desperate attempt.
Instead, there was nothing.
He listened and, finally, he went back to his horse standing calmly as she always did while waiting for him.
The Marechal patiently coaxed her onto the flat wooden ferry and then seized the rope threaded through great black iron eyelets sunk into the ferry's side.
It was a job meant for several men, as the river's current was strong. The Marechal pulled, his broad chest straining at the seams of his fine white shirt, and although it was slow going, he eventually made headway and came to land upon the opposite side of the torrent.
Astride his mount once more, they climbed up the embankment and took up the road that led south.
After less than a league, he rounded a bend and the mare snorted, nearly rearing into the air. Only one thing made her otherwise calm demeanor turn so skittish and that was the six legged beast conjured by a swamp witch.
Blue stood before them, its wide mouth stretched in a tooth laden grin and the Marechal started as he saw what looked like the outline of a man's foot pushing out from the skin of the creature's belly. A belly now overstretched to what should have been the bursting point, with whatever that was inside not quite dead.
The fine silver chain that wrapped about the demon's chest and torso had shifted and loosened and as it moved toward him, the Marechal remarked that its normally silent glide had given way to a ponderous waddle and a strange slithery sound.
Its six legs were too short, it seemed, and as Blue came up alongside him, the Marechal saw that its distended belly drug upon the ground.
"All of them?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
"Well, it will serve you right if you have indigestion, you foolish beast. No good ever comes of gluttony."
The Marechal nudged the mare with his heels and they set off, the Ardoise mountain range with its snow covered peaks to the south now plainly in view.
~~~
Mesrin bent down and slipped his hand inside the still warm flesh while he said, "Wisp, I think things might have taken an unforeseen turn, after all."
The thin woman standing beside the bent over form said nothing, a frown upon her lips and her brow furrowed deeply.
"My flame should have woken to mischief by now, before incinerating that stupid bitch. I was expecting to gather it back to me, but there is no sign of it."
He lowered and twisted his arms, straining as he worked.
"What does that mean for us?" the woman said at last. Her skin glowed gently despite the afternoon sun blazing down upon them.
"It means that there will be some consternation among those who worry about such things. My sister, for example, or even more likely, her mate, Raffiran. The humorless brute will not see the amusement that this might have garnered for all of us.
"No, he will be quick to action, I should think. Although he would never deign to exert himself personally in the affair."
The woman's glowing skin flared for an instant and she took a full step backward.
"Do you mean...?" her voice trailed off to a whisper that spoke of fear as she looked furtively about her.
"I suppose so, yes. The beast will have been sent, so we shall need to be quick about our business here."
He stood up, the skin of the farmer in his hands still warm. He shrugged it on and turned about as he adjusted it upon his golden form.
The openings for where the man's eyes had been were askew and as Mesrin wrenched them into place, he looked about him for the Will O'Wisp that had accompanied him thus far.
But, he was alone.
He kicked the dirt at his feet, small pebbles and dust falling onto the bloody corpse lying on the ground.
"You bitch...." he grated. Then, he looked quickly about him, his visage pinching with fear inside the farmer's sloppily fitted face.
He must move and be swift to find the woman he had encountered in the forest. If he could, he would recuperate his given flame and hold it in evidence that Raffiran's horrid creature should turn aside.
He raised his arms and a wind lifted in the otherwise calm afternoon as thick dust whirled around him. It quickly coalesced into a small tornado and Mesrin leapt clumsily astride the vortex, seizing threads of the turning wind in hands that shifted in his grip like poorly fitted gloves.
The farmer had been a very fat man, but Mesrin had had no time to choose better.
He lifted strands of living wind, twiste
d them into reins and gave them a snap. With a snarl, the whirlwind leapt forward and sped southward, the being upon its back hunched over and holding tight.
~~~
"So what can you tell me about her?" she asked as she snapped closed the second manacle around his wrist. The golden hued female had already bound him at the ankles, his legs spread wide and now both arms followed suit.
Silas frowned and said, "I would have told you about her without being chained to the floor like this."
"Oh, I believe you. It's just that Raffiran would never let me do such a thing. He is very good at what he does, but uninterested in experimentation.
"But to see a man left to such vulnerability...well, I find it just so enticing."
Her glowing skin shifted colors, gold to russet orange and back again. Silas knew that she was growing excited by his present circumstances while he only felt foolish and annoyed. She had meant every word when she had described him as her new plaything and despite the reaction of his body at her touch, he found it to his dislike.
"And if I refuse to speak about her until you release me?" he asked.
Gold shifted to a red that deepened to ruddy burgundy. Silas bit his lip wondering if he had dared too much.
"In that case, I shall ravish you and split you wide the way the men of your world cleave trees of the forest with iron axes that bite deep with each swing," she replied.
The voice that had been so musical now turned heavy and menacing.
"Do not think that I cannot. Do not suppose that I am incapable of rapine and violence, that I am constrained in the way that human females are.
"I choose this form because it suits me, but I can change if I must."
And before Silas could utter a word, the female called Lest spread her legs and from between her thighs there was movement.
She shifted and her cleft opened slowly. Absurdly, Silas was reminded of a crawling snail as her clitoris lifted free from her folds, thickening and lengthening.
"I would use this to open you wide and I would teach you to never speak to me with that insolent tone again."
The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale) Page 9