Last Stand of the War Priestess

by Amanda Clover

  Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicle

  Book Eight

  Last Stand of the War Priestess

  By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury

  @amandasmut

  Cover artwork by Deilan12

  This book and all its contents are copyright 2019 by Amanda Clover. All rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for the use of brief quotations for review purposes.

  All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.

  Map of the Empire of Istanov

  The Chronicle

  The time of monsters was said to be at an end.

  The rise of the great human empires of Istanov, Heimsvak, and the desert kingdom of Shaddobar brought the elves to heel and drove the tribes of orcs, goblins, and stranger monsters to the margins.

  The last great monster uprising occurred more than 50 years ago, when a brave huntress named Penelope Helsdottir prevented the ascension of a new monster god and formed the Huntresses of Ctharne. These unique warrior women were dispatched throughout the known world wherever trouble arose to tame what monsters they could and destroy those that could not be made into allies.

  But within the borders of Istanov, trouble brews. Long years of peace and prosperity have blinded the Istanov dynasty and the people of this nation to a new danger. As monsters gather, seemingly heeding the call of a powerful human leader, will the nobles of Istanov react in time? Or will overconfidence prove the undoing of an empire?

  These are the Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles.

  Battle

  “By Arsenus be gone!”

  The hammer struck with all the might of the god of war, shattering the orc’s ribs with a thunderous crack. The monster crumpled to the ground and Safira Grenn turned to face another enemy. The war priestess flicked some of her long blonde hair away and back beneath her hood. Her robes swished about her, her gauntlets and greaves all the armour she wore. It did little to hide the generous curves which pressed against the black fabric. She panted, her tanned complexion flushed, her eyes sparking as she brought about her war hammer again, the impact crushing the head of a ghoul like an overripe melon.

  But there were too many. Far too many. She stood for a moment in an island of calm and corpses, looking over the camp of the Emperor of Istanov. Monsters ran rampant, slaughtering soldiers and camp followers alike. A rout. A massacre. And, she realized, a hopeless fight for humanity.

  She grit her teeth, cursing the emperor with all her soul. The fool! Why hadn’t he listened to his generals? She cursed him again and spurred her mount forward. The horse whinnied, charging through the melee. Her hammer swung, her arms tireless, filled with the energy of the god of war, her soul singing the glory of battle.

  A scream; high, feminine, snapped her attention away from the chaos. A group of women had been driven back against a cliff by a band of orcs. Two soldiers protected a woman in a gown, and another in the green robe of an acolyte of Lasha, the healer. Yanking her horse about by the reins, Safira charged the monsters from the rear.

  “Arsenus grant me strength!” she roared, her hammer coming down on a surprised orc. The brute’s skull shattered beneath the blow. The second, warned by his companion’s death, tried to duck out of the way. He avoided a fatal blow, but his shoulder was shattered. The monster went down, howling in pain moments before one of the soldiers lunged, skewering the brute.

  The other two orcs rushed her. Her mount reared, hooves lashing out. One of the orcs fell beneath the iron shod blows, but the other lunged in, his spear driving into her horse. The animal shrieked, falling. Safira leaped off it before it could crush her. She hit the ground, rolled and surged back to her feet, her hammer flashing golden light as she slammed it into the orc’s leg.

  The monster went down, and Safira followed her attack with an uppercut, driving the orc’s tusked jaw straight up and into his brain. She spun, her hammer shattering the sword of a minotaur. The bull headed beast looked in wonder at his broken weapon for a moment before Safira smashed the hammer into his side, sending the beast man to the ground, bellowing like a felled bull.

  Safira panted, looking over the dead. She turned to the soldiers. “Are you alright?”

  “We had that,” one said. Safira raised a brow at the high pitch of the voice, moments before the soldier pulled off their battered helm, revealing a head of short cropped dark hair, fierce eyes and a striking face of slim boned yet bold features.

  “Camilla, please!” the other soldiers gasped weakly. “Please, priestess! You have to help us. We have to escape!”

  “Escape?” Safira panted.

  “Please!” the soldier insisted. “We can’t fight this! We have to go!”

  Safira hesitated. The thumping of her god’s blessing still pumped through her like hot wine. She glanced back at the flaming camp and the hulking shadows which prowled among them. Again she felt that surge of glorious battle. Of the praising of her god in the wilds of raw combat.

  And yet… She glanced back at the four women, her eyes lingering on the novice and the weeping noble in the gown. She grimaced. Arsenus was a god of war, but so was he one of nobility. And the defenceless women before her…

  “Blast,” she cursed, fighting past the fire of righteous wrath. “Alright. Come with me!”

  “Who made you in charge?” Camilla said.

  “That!” she barked, gesturing at the burning camp. “Now come! Or be impaled on the spears of one of those brutes.”

  Camilla pursed her lips, but submitted to Safira’s authority. As the novice of Lasha assisted the weeping civilian to her feet, Safira took the lead, pushing into the relative quiet of the woods. The two soldiers took up the rear, but it was no orderly retreat. The group fled into the forest, racing into the tangled darkness

  Safira plunged on ahead, the world alight with her god’s blessing. Every tree stood out in stark relief. Every leaf quivering on its branch, every blade of grass she trampled in her mad dash seemed to possess a sharp life all its own. Her hammer was light in her hands, a part of her as much as her leg or arm or pounding heart. She saw the gertlings and an orcish captain lurking at the edges of the battlefield, likely hoping to catch any fleeing soldiers. She trampled over the startled monsters in a surge, her hammer swinging, smashing them aside.

  The orc turned as she approached. His scarred face twisted in amusement as he brought about his massive sword. Safira plunged forward, her hammer ringing a sharp, pure note as it impacted the orc’s blade.

  The brute staggered back beneath the blow. Startled that a woman could strike so hard, he didn’t see her follow up. Her hammer swung, blazing with life. The orc yanked his head back at the last moment, earning a glancing blow, but one that shattered one of his tusks, cracking against the side of his head. The orc fell, dazed, and Safira stepped forward to finish him.

  A scream stalled her. She glanced back, one of the wretched gertlings having caught the dress of the noblewoman. Before she could move Camilla slashed the creature’s arm off, sending it howling and freeing the others to follow.

  The sound of their battle had not gone unnoticed. Gibbering cries echoed from within the woods behind them. Safira cursed again. “This way!” she called, pushing on into the woods, away from the flames and screams. Away from the battle that should have been her stand. Away, away, and into the waiting night of silence and shadows. And above, dark clouds gathered, and thunder rolled with the advent of a coming storm.

  Whispers in the Woods

  The cave was dry, and that was about all that could be said of it.

  Desera stood at
the entrance, listening to the low boom of distant thunder. The young soldier scanned the woods carefully, holding her sword close. Nothing moved among the trees and tangled brush that she could see, but she wasn’t so foolish as to assume they were safe.

  No. Not at all.

  The rain was dying down beyond the cave, but Desera wasn’t soothed by it. The young soldier shuddered, her armour rattling. Oh gods. This hadn’t been what she’d signed up for. She’d just been a town guard in the city. A secured job, up until she’d been drafted. And now…

  She pulled away from the entrance and joined the others deeper in the cave. It was nearly pitch black within. A dim fire crackled, born of the sparse brush they’d been able to gather within the cave on first arriving. Desera took a seat among the others.

  “Are we safe?” the robed healer, Anora, Desera recalled, said softly.

  “No. We are not. And we shall not be as long as we are in these woods,” Safira said.

  The noblewoman moaned weakly and covered her face with her hands.

  “Hush Marianna,” the healer murmured, holding the woman gently.

  “Oh gods. They killed them all. They killed them, and they’re going to kill us too,” Marianna sobbed.

  “No,” Camilla growled. The other soldier sharpened her sword in sharp, fierce motions. “No. They won’t kill us. They’ll capture us. Strip us. And breed us like sows for their armies.”

  “Quiet. You worry them,” Safira said sharply.

  “They should be worried!” Camilla snarled. She gestured furiously with her sword. “Look at us. That idiot of an emperor dragged us so far into the wilds we’re surrounded by the beasts! We’re fucked and no two ways about it. They’ll hunt us down like animals and give us to their gertlings and orcs.”

  “This can’t happen to me,” Marianna whimpered, holding her head. “I… I’m the wife of lord Rickard. I have position. Authority in the cities. They couldn’t… they wouldn’t…”

  Desera eyed the noblewoman’s ragged gown. Even filthy with mud and torn it showed the fine pattern of silk in golden trim and spirals. Something no one would sensibly bring on campaign. Then again, no one would sensibly bring their wife into a war like this either.

  “Guess again,” Camilla said shortly. “They don’t care how high your birth is. You’re no better than a breeding slut. Just like the rest of us,” the soldier said with a degree of cruel glee.

  “Quiet!”

  Safira’s bark echoed in the cave. Camilla started, turning towards the priestess. Safira was on her feet, looking down at the others grimly.

  “This day,” she said shortly. “I was robbed of my chance to die in battle against the monstrous brutes. My place in the hall of Arsenus goes unfilled again. So be it. But,” she said, panning her golden hammer about the others, “since I am with you all instead, then by the horns of the god of war we will get out of here yet.”

  The firm tone and certainty of the priestess silenced the others. Desera realized she had been shaking only when she stopped. She took a slow breath, let it out. Even Marianna appeared a degree more hopeful, raising her head and looking at the fierce woman before her.

  Safira scanned them, then pointed at the young healer. “You. Daughter of Lasha. What is your name?”

  “Anora, sister,” the other priestess murmured.

  “Anora, then. Tend the wounded. We must be on our way soon. The monsters will be searching for survivors come morning. The rain bought us time, but not much. We must make the most of it.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Camilla asked shortly.

  Safira bowed her head, her wimple brushing about her face. “…We cannot go east again. To do so is what the monsters would expect, and there will be nothing between us and safety but the beasts and the minions of the Duke of Ashes. So we shall not. We go south. To Tatarod.”

  “Tatarod?” Desera asked. “The city near the sea?”

  “Aye. Last I heard it remained in the hands of men. We should be safe there.”

  “We’re not safe anyway,” Camilla said.

  Safira gave the soldier a warning glance. Camilla returned it bitterly. Desera sighed. The tension in the cold cavern was an almost physical thing. She rose quickly. “The rain’s dying, anyway. I’ll fetch some wood.”

  The war priestess glanced at the soldier. “…Very well. But be careful out there, and don’t wander far. The battle would have drawn most monsters, but there may be others in the woods.”

  Desera nodded quickly, already pushing out of the cave and into the night. She picked her way down the path and hurried among the towering trees, relieved to be away from the arguing and whining of the other women. And, in particular, the stern gaze of the war priestess.

  Desera sighed as she made her way through the silent forest. There was little dry wood to be found after all the rain, but that didn’t bother her. She had no intention of going back to the cave anytime soon. She added another stick to the pile in her arms. Gods. She hated all this. All the marching. The fighting. The war and the rest of it.

  “I should have been a farmer,” she sighed, kicking another soaked log out of her way. “They never get called out to war. They just live on the land and farm… I dunno. Potatoes. I coulda done that. But no. I had to be a guard. Had to keep up the family expectation.” She shook her head, picking up another stick. Straightening, she looked out over the dark forest with a grimace. She hated complexity in life. She wanted things to be simple. Expected. Orderly. For it all to just be fine.

  “But nothing ever is,” she sighed again. Still, it wasn’t all bad. At least it wasn’t raining. And the scent of the forest after a rain was certainly pleasant. The young soldier took a deep breath.

  And paused.

  She sniffed again. There was the normal scents of fresh rain, old wood and the earthy medley of turned soil. But there was something different in the air. Something sweet like flowers blossoming in the depths of spring.

  Her nostrils flared, nose twitching as she slowly turned. Yes. Yes, it was coming from this way. Desera moved in the direction carefully, her brow knitting with thought as the scent grew stronger. Deeper.

  She barely noticed the changing nature of the forest around her. The trees were thinning, and flowers were sprouting up, waving in the gentle breeze, sparkling with fresh dew. Again Desera inhaled, again she was filled with that sweet scent. Even stronger now. Even lovelier.

  The last tree fell away, and Desera found herself in the loveliest clearing she had ever seen. All around her wildflowers were in bloom, carpeting the landscape with bobbing heads of a hundred hues. She took a deep breath, let it out again, and didn’t even hear the wood she was carrying clatter to the ground.

  “Hello?”

  Desera squeaked and spun around. She gaped as a woman rose from among the flowers. Slender and lovely, she was utterly naked, her small breasts budding from her chest, a crown of flowers twined in her long hair and raindrops shining like diamonds on her naked skin. She smiled up at Desera as she stood, stretching lazily, her hair so long it nearly reached her knees.

  “Oh. Oh g-gods,” Desera stammered. “I’m… I’m so sorry I didn’t… I mean…”

  “Oh don’t worry,” the strange woman said lazily, her lashes low, lidding her eyes as she brushed a hand through her long brown hair. “I was just taking… a nap. It’s so peaceful around here.”

  “Oh. It is, yes,” Desera said. She blinked, shook her head. “B-but you shouldn’t be out like this. The monsters-“

  “Oh, monsters never bother us,” the woman said easily. “The mistress keeps them out.”

  “Mistress?”

  “Oh I’m sure Mistress Cephara would just love to meet you,” the woman continued. “Would you like to see her?”

  Desera hesitated. But… if it was true and monsters didn’t enter the strange valley, then maybe she had found a shelter for her and her companions. “I… I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Oh of course not. Come,” the bro
wn-haired woman sighed, taking Desera’s hand and pulling her away. “Come.”

  Without quite thinking Desera allowed herself to be tugged deeper into the meadow. She felt light. Like she were floating. Buoyed on the sweet scents of the blossoming flowers. She looked about herself, and realized that there were other people here and there among the flowers, all reclining, some sleeping, other wrapped in the embrace of each other and…

  Desera blushed at the sinuous movements of a couple of the lovers. A sight that sent a faint tingle to her core. A smile slowly twitched her lips, and a sigh escaped her.

  They were almost upon a positively immense flower before she even realized it. Shaped like a massive pitcher, a leaf covered the top, its roots stretching out and into the soil. Several more people were scattered about its base, nestled among the roots, flowers dangling over their heads. As she watched, some of the curious dark flowers nodded, sprinkling pollen into the faces of the those beneath, who sighed and wriggled, their bodies pink and flushed with pleasure.

  The woman with Desera got to her knees before the plant. “Mistress Cephara?” she breathed. “I brought someone to you.”

  The lip of the plant shifted and slowly lifted. The edge of the pitcher tilted down, unveiling what lay within. A woman, her skin a lush green, her eyes bright and smile warm. Her hair was a sheen of lighter green, woven with the dark flowers like those that sprouted from her roots and stem. Her figure was curvy. A celebration. A picture of living fertility with heavy breasts and curving thighs and hips.

  Nectar sloshed about her waist, the scent of which hit Desera like a fist. She gasped, her head spinning as she inhaled that intoxicating aroma, swaying a little.

  “Why so you did!” the plant woman cooed, her voice as sweet as her scent. “Come closer, girl. Let me get a look at you.”

  Still dazed, drawn towards the source of that sweet scent, Desera stumbled nearer. Nearer that luscious perfume and the flawless figure rising from the plant. Desera gasped as the green woman’s hands rose, cupping the soldier’s cheeks. “Hmm,” Cephara mused. “What a lovely young girl. Oh, but you have suffered much, I see,” she murmured.