Then they were past, and the true battle began.
The orcs whirled about to face this new attack. Bellowing, they surged against the riders. Swords clashed; the charge of the human forces broken for the moment.
As Damera rode past a hand clamped on her leg. She let out a scream of surprise as she was wrenched from her saddle, hitting the ground heavily. Her head spinning, she looked up and into the face of her foe.
White paint formed the pattern of a skull. Unlike the other orcs, the one before her wore nothing but a loincloth, his scarred grey hide etched with swirling paint and savage signs, broken only by the splash of blood. His eyes were cold and dark as ice, and in his other hand he held a strange, serrated blade.
Damera knew this creature. From the reports from the rape of Novrod, of the one who had led the orcish forces of the Duke, the menace who had raided and claimed swathes of the empire for the monster.
Ghostheart.
She slashed at his hand, the orc hastily releasing her. She scrambled to her feet, holding her family’s blade at the ready, the steel licking with the strange magic enchanted in the sacred jewel in its hilt.
Ghostheart watched her, his eyes revealing nothing. He held his blade at ease, his chest rising slowly and steadily. Damera knew she faced a creature unlike the other orcs. Here was no hasty brute eager for the slaughter. Here was a killer. A murderer. A true fighter.
Life flickered in those dark eyes. The prospect of her fall. But Damera doubted it was her death the monster sought. No. She’d heard of this orc’s hunger for women. Particularly those of the nobility. How he would take them, breed them, make them little more than brood mothers for his spawn. A fate he would only be too eager to inflict on her.
Her hands tightened on her sword, her eyes narrowing. Death before that.
“Yaaaa!” she cried, surging forward, swinging her blade. Ghostheart parried, his serrated dagger clanging against the burning steel of her weapon. She kept on the attack, pushing the orc back. Power thumped through her, surging through the sword and into her.
Ghostheart duelled her with expert grace, no movement excessive. Skillful and swift despite his hulking size. Waiting for his chance to strike.
She was panting. Her head was pounding from the heat of the battle and her exertions. Her chest continued to ache from where the imposter had slashed her with the strange blade. She felt oddly aware of her own body. The rush of her blood. The way her breasts moved against her shirt and panties clung to her quim, rubbing her whenever she moved on the attack. Hot. Feverish. What was going on with her?
Ghostheart watched the empress, a lull in the battle suddenly giving him the opening he sought. As Damera raised her sword the orc’s arm snapped out, grabbing her wrist.
“Ah!” Damera gasped, wincing as the orc’s grip tightened. Her arm shook, and her fingers weakened, her sword dropping from her grasp.
The light of triumph glowed in the orc’s eyes. The kill. The victory. He grabbed her breastplate and with a contemptuous motion tore it free, leather and buckles giving way beneath his brutal strength.
Damera hung from his grasp, her face flushed, only her shirt preserving her modesty. Her large breasts pressed against the fabric; their shape undeniable. Her legs quaked with a strange weakness. Poisoned. The blade had been poisoned.
“B-bastard,” she gasped at the orc.
Ghostheart didn’t reply, save to sheathe his knife in his belt, reach down and grab her breast. Damera gasped, arching, hot pleasure surging down to her core as the orc’s large hand engulfed her shapely teat. She winced at the insidious sensation that made her muscles water and her will waver.
“Hrrr,” Ghostheart grunted, massaging her fat breast, his eyes alive with hunger for the shapely empress. The one who had denied the monster horde for so long. He suddenly pulled her close and against his muscular chest. Damera gasped, inhaling a sudden breath of his thick musk. Sweat and a primal stench that was all the orc’s own. Her head spun. She whimpered as the orc groped her breast a bit more, then abandoned it. Damera felt that pang of loss, only until the brute reached between her legs, and cupped her mons.
“O-ooooh!” Damera moaned as the orc pressed his palm against her hot box. The orc grunted again, his dark eyes shining with pleasure as he felt the dampness of her pussy leak through her panties and pants. He ran his finger along her cunny, making her twitch and whimper.
“M-monster,” Damera gasped, her heart hammering. “I’ll… I’ll never…”
Just the corner of the orc’s lip lifted in amusement. Then he pushed her down to her knees, and before his cock.
His loincloth did nothing to mask the bulge of his monstrous shaft. Nor the scent that wafted to her. Damera shook with almost feverish need, hot desire pounding through her as she was confronted with the monster’s bulge. So this was it. This was what had corrupted so many of her countrywomen. What had compelled them to offer themselves up to the brute. To take his seed and become his slaves.
The sound of the battlefield seemed to echo in the distance, as if coming through a fog. Her awareness was consumed with the brutal orc before her. By his scent. His presence. The bulge of his cock pressing against his loincloth. What it promised her. If she would only give in. She could trace its outline. Could fairly hear the thump of his pulse as his cock grew engorged with primal lust.
She whimpered, trying to fight it. Trying to even as her chest ached and burned, nipple tenting her thin shirt. As her pussy grew slick and fairly soaked her panties with desire. She groped for something. Anything to stop her from leaning in. From pressing her cheek against that cock. From brushing aside that loincloth. From pressing her soft lips against his inhuman shaft in adoration.
Power surged up her hand. Her eyes flew open in shock, the lust burned away with a flash. She let out a roar of defiance and surged to her feet.
Ghostheart’s eyes widened in surprise. He jerked backwards with all the training of his gladiator days. All his barbarous strength. He nearly made it.
Nearly.
Damera swung her family’s sword, the steel blazing with light so hot the blade was white. It slashed deep into Ghostheart’s side. The orc stumbled back, grabbing his wounded flank. Not a sound escaped him despite the wound, blood oozing from between his fingers. The orc looked at the injury, then back towards Damera.
The empress panted, staggering to her feet, holding tight her sword. The gem at the pommel pulsed with power as she shakily raised it.
The two faced each other, locked as if in a bubble of time. Some link seemed to twang between them. Some string of strange fate.
The moment was broken by the sudden roar of an orc. Damera turned as a number of Ghostheart’s clan mates rushed to their leader’s aid. Damera cursed and whistled sharply. Her horse surged to her and she grabbed the bridle, pulling herself astride it. She shuddered as her aching pussy rested atop the saddle, pressing down on her tender clit. She bit her lip, her knuckles white on the reins. She gave a last glance at Ghostheart, who met her eyes with his dark ones. Then she turned aside and rode away, bugles ringing out as her surviving riders rallied about her, breaking through the monster lines and back towards the rest of the army, already disengaging and retreating from the battle.
Ghostheart watched her go, his chest heaving beneath the blood and paint. His hand tightened on his side, and he bared his tusks in a silent growl.
Recovery of the Ranks
Damera rested in her tent, a damp cloth over her brow. The low murmuring of the priest at her side soothed her nearly as much as the gentle caress of their healing magic, washing waves of ease and cool relief into her wounded side. She sighed and sank deeper into the camp chair.
The priestess gave a sigh and removed her hands. “It is done, my empress.”
Damera took the cloth from her brow and looked down. She grimaced at the ugly scar that remained. A thin line, not much, and yet it had a strange greenish tint to it.
“What is that?”
The p
riestess fiddled, ducking her face beneath her snow-white hood. “Forgive me, my lady. Though I healed the wound, there seems to have been some spell cast on the blade. A poison. I could not completely remove it, but I believe I have lessened the taint. But it will take time to heal…”
Damera sighed. “No matter,” she said, tugging her shirt back down over the scar. “You did well. Thank you. Now, see if the rest of the troops need your aid still.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Bowing, the priestess shuffled out of the tent, leaving the empress alone with her thoughts. Damera massaged her brow in vexation. Damn. Damn. Though the retreat from the swamp had been orderly, they had still lost the battle. And doubtless, Sallowmarsh too. They hadn’t been able to retreat back towards the city, resulting in them falling back and deeper into the forest.
She had no doubt the monster horde had advanced on the city since, and though it pained her to think of the fate of its citizens, it would give her time to reorganize her forces and gather the survivors.
To do what, she wondered?
That was a question. This had been a big battle. She’d used much of her troops and had few reserves remaining. She wasn’t sure she could face the Duke again in a pitched battle with the forces remaining to her. And a guerilla war would be difficult given the nature of monsters. No. Her best bet was to keep what she had in one army and march back towards friendly territory.
She found herself rubbing her wounded side and pulled her hand away. Damn that creature. And damn Ghostheart! Had she at least been able to slay the blasted orc, even the loss in the battle might have been worth it. She hoped the wound she gave him festered and rot.
“Empress?”
She raised her head. “Enter.”
Ander pushed into the tent; the young ranger’s face grim. He bowed before her.
“Ander. What news?”
“My empress. The stragglers have arrived. We lost a good quarter of the army on the field. Near that number is wounded.”
Damera grimaced. Bad. But not quite as bad as she’d feared. “I see.”
“And… there’s more.”
“More?”
“Yes. My forces followed the army. Sallowmarsh has fallen.”
“Already?” Damera said.
“Yes. It seems you were right. There were traitors within the city. When the horde arrived the gate was opened. The guard did little good. The city burns.”
Damera sighed and shook her head. After so many losses in the campaign against the horde, she felt numbed to the horror of the news. She knew too well what fate the monsters would inflict on the captive city. Slaughtering the men. Seizing its daughters as brides. Fucking the poor women until they succumbed to the monster seed, the curse of the eye upon their wombs. How their cries of terror would come to moans of please. How they would begin to croon and mold themselves against their monstrous masters. Lick their cocks and offer themselves eagerly to their mates.
Damera realized her breathing had deepened. A flush reddened her cheeks and her breasts were throbbing.
“My empress?”
Damera shook it off, turned back to Ander. “I mourn for the city,” she said softly. “But what’s done is done. We must look to the future. Let the men rest today. But tomorrow we must march.”
“As you say,” Ander said, bowing. “My empress.”
Ravaging of Sallowmarsh
Smoke snaked from buildings across Sallowmarsh’s districts. Pockets of defence still stood at the barricades, but by every hour they were torn down, the residents put to the sword or pleasures of the invading creatures. Screams and laughter. Moans and cries echoed from the grim city, rising into the night sky. A scene oft repeated across the length and breadth of Istanov as the monster hordes had their way. Their conquests total.
And from the great palace in the center of the city, laughter rang out.
“She beat you!” the Red Witch cackled, holding her sides with mirth, her naked breasts bouncing. “Gods above! You actually got beaten by the slut? Ah ha ha!”
Ghostheart said nothing. He sat on the steps of the palace. Mina, his favoured slave, bandaged his side with adoring care. The young dark-haired woman looked with worry at her master, her pregnant belly swelling outward, her body littered in the cruel paint of an orcish slave girl. On her ass was branded Ghostheart’s mark, above her mons glowed the eye, declaring her his slave.
“Does it hurt, master?” Mina asked the orc, gently tightening the bandage.
“No,” Ghostheart grunted.
Mina smiled up at him and rested her head against his chest. “Thank goodness.”
“She sliced you right across the side! Just be glad she didn’t slice off your dick. There would be a tragedy for all the sluts eager for your cock,” the Red Witch continued.
Lugin grinned from where he perched on an old chandelier. The imp popped the cigar from his mouth, tapping its ashes out. “Hey slave. Would you still be clinging to your master if he didn’t have a cock to fuck you with?” the imp asked. “’Cause if not, I could always be an obligin’ demon and give ya the relief you need.”
Mina glared at the imp as he lewdly thrust his small hips, his dangling shaft swinging obscenely. The young slave clung to the orc fiercely. “Never, you horrible little thing! Ghostheart is my master, and he always will be!”
Ghostheart rested his hand on the girl’s head, soothing her with a touch like he would a bristling cat.
The Red Witch smirked, cocking her hips. “Aw. Too personal?”
“Enough.”
The quartet turned to the steps. The click of a cane echoed down the now empty palace. His cloak rustling around him, the Duke of Ashes slowly descended. His hand grasped the eye which topped his cane, his hood pushed back, revealing his pale face.
“She failed to kill Ghostheart. That’s good. Though the wound is deep, he’ll heal in time to face her again.”
“You seem to be in a good mood,” the Red Witch observed. “Finally got your revenge for the beating she gave you last time you fought?”
The Duke clucked his tongue in annoyance. “Perhaps,” he said sinuously. He stopped near the top of the stairs, looking down at those below. He smirked at the sight of Mina, the eager slave, and the Red Witch, the potent sorceress. Two humans in such opposite positions in the horde, but both serving the will of the monsters in their own way. How he enjoyed it. “Indeed, after this, the face of the war has been utterly changed, my friends. She was cut by the dagger, yes?” the Duke asked the Red Witch.
The sorceress smirked. “Of course. My pretty flower did her job well. The empress took that knife right in the side. Not enough to kill her, mind, but she was wounded. And even then, he,” she said with a nod at Ghostheart, “couldn’t finish the bitch off.”
“Shame too. His sluts would need a new cock to satisfy them,” Lugin said.
Ghostheart growled low.
“Good,” the Duke cut in. “As for the empress, it’s no matter. In fact, I’m pleased she escaped.”
The Red Witch arched a crimson brow. “Huh?”
“Yes,” the Duke said, smirking darkly. “The poison of that blade is the tool of her fall. She will have no choice but to retreat to Kirinovo. And there she will be mine. All of Istanov will be mine.”
“What about the Red Mages?” the witch asked.
“I wouldn’t worry about them,” the Duke said with a dismissive motion. “The Red Mages see the way the wind is blowing. They won’t be a concern for long.”
The sorceress pursed her lips. “If you say so.”
“I do.” The Duke spread his arms. “My friends. Celebrate. For soon, Istanov shall be no more. And the empire of the monster will reign supreme. Once. And for all.”
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Courage of the Empress Page 5