“Don’t think the one is in any shape to go anywhere ‘cept the grave,” one guard said, still unable to take his eyes off of the King’s genitalia. Offa’s seeing this, slapped the guard across the face, not hard, but enough to get his attention.
“Do you see something you like?” Offa said, voice slick as oil and cold as space.
“No, my Lord.”
“So you’re saying you don’t like the Royal plows?” He turned to the other guard whose face had turned white as a whore’s belly. “You, take him down, they’ll both be executed tomorrow.” The guard nodded, grabbed the stable boy by his legs and dragged him out of the throne room. Offa then returned his attention to the remaining guard. “So, where were we? Ah, you said you didn’t like my plows, isn’t that right?”
“No my lord, they’re quite impressive,”
Offa arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Impressive enough to kiss them goodnight?” Offa tried to conceal his smile as the guard blanched in horror. Offa moved closer and with a motion so quick it was a blur, he grabbed the guards sword from its scabbard and pointed it his throat. “On your knees,” he ordered. His smile was thin and cruel, the thought of violence excited him enough that his rods stiffened once more. When the guard still stood there, Offa began to lose his patience which excited him even more. “On your knees or I swear I will cut your head off and then skull fuck it until my semen pours from every orifice.” Offa pricked the skin right under the guard’s chin drawing blood to show he was serious.
With great reluctance the guard started to kneel, as he did so, Offa pulled up his nightshirt like a gauze curtain and gave his hips a thrust. The guard slowly moved closer, closing his eyes and puckering his lips. He felt the lower one slap against his nose, and he pulled it to his mouth and gave it the briefest of kisses, sure he was going to vomit.
Offa grew indignant and offended. “You call that a kiss? Is that how you kiss your wife?”
The guard said nothing and held his lips against the sheathed head for a second longer.
“What is wrong with you?” Offa screamed, throwing the sword down in anger. “Stand up!” The guard stood with great haste. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” Without another word, he began to undo the fastenings to the guard's pants until they fell down and pooled against his legs. With one hand Offa grabbed the guard’s diminutive manhood, and with the other, grabbed his dagger, and with great deliberation cut the man’s cock off. As he howled with pain, Offa rocked with laughter, holding up the severed organ in front of the guard’s face. “Now watch,” he said, placing it against his mouth licking the blood from the foreskin in an inappropriately intimate manner. The guard fell to the floor, let out a yell clutching the wound and passed out. Offa threw the bit of flesh to the ground and stepped on it as if it were a bug. He bent down to pick up the sword and plunged it into the guard’s throat. He wiggled it to and fro, listening to the bones crack and break until the head was loosed from the rest of the body. Then, with both hands on the hilt, he buried the blade between the guard’s legs as far as it would go, mocking the lack of a penis with a metal erection.
Offa surveyed his throne room, took a deep breath of the aroma and smiled. He sat back down on his throne and clapped his hands twice, each was sharp, loud, and demanding. In an instant, a servant came in, slipped in the blood and almost fell on her ass. “I require the services of both your hands,” he said, once again pulling his gown up to expose himself. The servant girl didn’t bat an eye and spit on both of her hands and was about to grab hold when he kicked her away. “Not with your spit, you vile whore, use the blood, there’s plenty of it on the floor.”
She ignored the pain in her side from his blow and rubbed her hands in the ruby red pool closest to her, then set about tending to the King’s needs. “And if you don’t do it to my liking, I shall use that tight ass of yours as a scabbard. Do you understand?”
“Yes Your Highness,” she said, closing her eyes and thinking about the days she lived on her family’s farm, milking the cows in the morning. Offa settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and grunted with pleasure on occasion. Every so often he would mutter some direction to her and she’d adjust her grip or speed according to his desire.
This continued until her hands began to cramp, and at the point she thought they would spasm, he reached his climax, showering her with his copious amount of seed from both members. The servant did everything she could to hold back the vomit as she could feel the warm wetness splatter on her face, in her hair and run down into her mouth.
Sated for the moment, he stood, looked down at her and smirked. “Clean all this up, I want it spotless by the time I get back from my bath, understand?”
She bowed her head and nodded that she understood. Offa kicked her out of the way and before he made his way up the staircase, he turned to give her one final order. “Put that head on display in the courtyard for all to see what happens when my demands aren’t met.”
Off turned and began the trek up the winding staircase. As he reached the landing, he doubled over in pain, as he felt something move and break through the skin on his back. A guard on duty rushed to his side and helped him to the bathing area. After ordering the guard away and threatening the lives of the servants, he pulled his nightshirt off and slipped into the bath, wondering what fresh wonder had manifested itself now. The thought aroused him, and as repulsed as he was, couldn’t help but fondle himself as the blood slowly drifted off his body.
18: Cunning Plans
Kharisi sat on the stone floor, back against the wall, and arms curled around his knees, staring out through the bars at the jailer who was still sound asleep. His idea for getting out of the cell was sound, well, as sound as a breakout plan could be, but where then? Saerus insisted on rescuing the stable boy, and Gods knew why it’s not even like he was a good hay roller. Certainly not worth risking one’s life for. Still, if it’s what Saerus wanted, then Kharisi would do his best to make him happy.
“What are you waiting for?” Saerus asked, “We’re wasting time.” Even when only in his head, Kharisi could feel the sting of his sharp-tongued rebuke, along with the impatience of youth.
“I’m waiting for the guards to change, then we’ll know it’s dark and easier to find our way out of here without a lot of resistance.” His silent response let Kharisi know he was right. “Where would they have taken the boy?” he asked Saerus after a moment. Kharisi could feel him thinking, could see glimpses of his thoughts and it was one of the few things in life he found disconcerting. He tried to ignore it but it was still there, like a piece of gristle stuck between your teeth. You can’t feel it with your tongue, but you know it’s there all the same.
“I’d think either the torture chamber or the bed-chamber.”
“Can’t you be sure?”
“I told you I can’t look into his thoughts!” Saerus snapped.
“Can’t or won’t?” Kharisi said, needling him. “It’s not as if I’ve felt you try. Maybe you can.”
The silent answer again. Kharisi sighed, stood up to stretch his long legs and walked the three feet to a bucket caked with the excretions of untold others. Saerus made him gag at the sight and smell, even as Kharisi let out a strong stream to fill it up. “What are you doing?” Saerus asked not even trying to hide his disgust.
“I would think that’s obvious.”
“You couldn’t wait?”
“Just because I’ve laid in my own piss after a debauched night with satyrs and nymphs, doesn’t mean I wish to do it sober, and in a jail cell no less.” As he finished, Kharisi heard a commotion and some voices coming closer. He went to the front of the cell nearest the door and craned his neck to see what the noise was about. At first, all he saw were shadows flickering on the walls, the silhouettes cresting and peaking like waves on the sea until the owners of those silhouettes came into view.
Kharisi and Saerus both gasped, giving the sharp inhalation an echo. The stable boy was being dragged by two guards, his unc
lad feet dragging behind him, looking as if he’d been stepping in broken glass. As they got closer, he saw his entire body looked equally bad. They came to the front of his cell, swords drawn with their free hands. Kharisi moved without being asked until his back was against the wall once again. The jailer who’d woken up by this time ambled over as if on a stroll in the park and unlocked the door. The stable boy was thrown into the cell with no more thought than if he were a sack of potatoes. His body was a mass of cuts, welts, and bruises. Blood and shit stained the undergarment he wore, the only piece of clothing on him, and his face, (which suddenly looked his true age), suggested it had been bashed in like a dropped melon.
Kharisi turned to the guards his body shaking with anger. “Who did this?” he roared.
The startled guards looked at him and then one another. Both laughed as if they’d been told the funniest joke ever heard. “B’lieve it was the King, a big mess in the throne room. I’d keep him alive if I were you, the King will be livid if he died before his execution.” They brayed their laughter once more and left Kharisi to tend the boy.
“Before we leave, let us make it a point to kill them,” Kharisi said under his breath.
Saerus said nothing, and Kharisi could feel his mind was preoccupied. It would have been easy to peek and see what was bothering him, but if he expected that courtesy, he’d have to give it as well. He wondered briefly what was happening to him, he’d never cared about others feelings before, even in his dealings with Saerus, his passivity was more of condescending appeasement than anything else. Still, maybe love was responsible. If it was, Kharisi thought, I’ll hang all the bards who ever speak of it again. He ripped a piece of his shirt off and began dabbing away at the blood on the boy’s face. Even as his heart broke for the lad, he found his attention diverted to Saerus.
“Something amiss?” he asked.
Saerus said nothing for a moment and only spoke when Kharisi was about to repeat the question.
“Kharisi, why do the guards behave this way? Did they not love my Mother, or me? Are we always a butt of their jokes?”
Kharisi could see Saerus pacing back-and-forth puzzling over this and it confused him a bit.
“Guards aren’t the brightest lot, you know that yourself.”
“No, I know you and I know Petram. I know some guards in the castle by name, but I don’t know them at all. My mother was never cruel, and treated them all well, why would they not rebel against this cruelty?” He used Kharisi’s arm to point at the boy, to make his point.
Without giving a second thought, Kharisi answered with what King’s always feared: treachery. “Could be they’re plotting to do away with you, find someone else to lead.”
“But who?”
Kharisi shrugged, and as he considered possibilities, the servant girl who had been the victim of the King’s lust, scurried to their cell. “Help him,” she whispered, shoving supplies through the bars. “You must help him!” Before Kharisi could say anything to her, she dashed off before the jailer awoke from his just continued nap.
“Saerus, who was that?”
“One of the kitchen servants I think. Don’t know her name,” he was about to say something else, hesitated, and then said it anyway. “Not everyone hates us,” he told Kharisi with such a melancholy shade to his voice he imagined himself embracing Saerus, kissing the top of his head, wanting to protect him as best he could.
“I love you Saerus,” he said, with a tear in his eye, unsure whose it was.
“I love you too, always have. And as much as I like the togetherness, I miss my two pricks!”
“Romantic bastard, you are,” Kharisi whispered. He shifted his attention to the boy on the ground and brought the cloth bag of supplies over. He thrust his hand in and pulled out little packets of powders wrapped up in green leaves and tied with string. There were several of those each marked with a shape written in coal. At the bottom, was a small folded piece of parchment, which Kharisi took out and read.
Kharisi,
I am not dead, not for your lack of trying, but there are grander things at work here, as you know. Follow these directions to mend the young man, then bring him to the cave at the base of the mountains on the way to Bernhardt. I will be waiting there for you.
Todrick
“You tried to kill Todrick?” Saerus asked.
“Yes, and no, I did, but it was your twin trying to control my body that made me.” Dozens of question marks popped up in his head, representing Saerus’ confusion. “I have no answers but perhaps Todrick will. Now let me concentrate so we can help this lad. Do you even know his name?”
“Jeremiah,” the boy said voice weak as old glue and rough as a blacksmith’s hand.
Kharisi was startled by the voice, but regained his composure and gently stroked the side of the boy’s face with his fingertips. “Shhh, I’m going to help you the best I can. But you need to be still so I can tend to these wounds.”
“The King...” Jeremiah struggled to say more when Saerus talked to him through Kharisi.
“Is here, and not the one who did this to you, that is an imposter.”
Something akin to a smile crossed his face, and he fell back into unconsciousness. “He knows,” Saerus said with something like relief in his voice. “I don’t know how, but he does.”
“Could be why Todrick wants him with us,” Kharisi said somewhat distracted by making sure he didn’t blow himself up mixing the ingredients. The last of the directions were to add it to water or any available liquid and stir slowly for several minutes. He reached into the bag again, and pulled out a lidded cup, something he would have sworn wasn’t in there before, and carefully poured the mixture in. He watched it hiss and bubble as he stirred it with a wooden spoon he found in the bag as well.
Across the hall, the jailer snapped out of his seeming deep sleep with such a start he came very close to falling off the chair. He placed a meaty hand on the table next to him to steady himself as he tried to stand, groaning loudly as he did so. He walked at a snail’s pace to his left, checking each of the empty cells for who knew what, but doing it all the same.
“Remind me to have him fired when I’m back in my body,” Saerus said. Kharisi could see his boyish face, his eyebrows squeezed together, lips thin and white from lack of blood, nostrils flaring. His anger never really got to that point much, but when it did, he was as fearsome as any wild thing living out in the forests.
Kharisi finished the mixture which had turned into an unpleasant smelling and pustulant looking paste. He ripped off more of his shirt, dabbed it into the concoction and began smearing it over the wounds. The smell it created when it touched the torn skin was about as foul a smell as anything Kharisi had ever had the displeasure of inhaling. Even Saerus’ coughing and retching echoed against the insides of his head.
“Fuck’s sake Kharisi, cover your nose or something, that’s worse than the chamber pot after you’ve sat on it all night.” Kharisi visualized a rude gesture and aimed it at Saerus’ who laughed in spite of himself.
Saerus shared Kharisi’s vision and watched as the paste seemed to smolder ever so slightly when it touched a wound, only to have it fall away revealing new, healed skin underneath. Saerus was impressed, he’d never witnessed healing like this, and wondered if even the Druid Petram searched for knew something that powerful. Kharisi continued to work as quickly as he could and worried that he might run out of the paste, but no matter how much he used, it never seemed to vanish. It was at the same place as when he first mixed it together. Still, he knew the time was against them and he hurried as fast as could, praying that it was not too late to save him.
19: Out In The Open
The trio stood at the entrance to the crypt, enjoying the dying light of the sun and the crisp air that came along with it. Da’Nel especially savored it as he rarely spent any time inside such closed structures. He hadn’t realized how claustrophobic he’d felt until he stepped outside. Petram for his part was doing his best to console a
nd calm Kiandra, still distraught over losing her hand. Da’Nel tried to feel sympathy for her, but he couldn’t muster much, as he thought it was her own damned fault. Working in the Imperial Library, surrounded by such vast knowledge, and she still touched things she knew she shouldn’t. Then to blame him for it, was almost too much. Da’Nel was glad he’d decided to separate himself from civilization and people all those eons ago.
While the company had been pleasant, he was still anxious to get back to his home and the sooner he dealt with whatever he’d been summoned for the better.
“Now what,” he said looking to Petram for some direction.
Petram gave this a moment’s deliberation, unsure himself. They needed to get back to the castle as fast as they could, but they also needed to get help for Kiandra as well. “Bernholdt I guess, we need to get Kiandra taken care of.”
“You’re not leaving me there if that’s what you think,” she said, her voice low and mannish. “You said you’d take me with you, and that’s what you’ll do, or so help me I’ll spill your innards where you stand.”
“No one needs to have their innards spilled,” Da’Nel said, stepping between the two. “We’ll get you treated and go from there.” Kiandra looked up at him and glared.
“Ya still have that thing Alec gave ya?”
“No, I gave it to you,” Kiandra said getting her defenses up.
“I don’t have it, and why would ye give it to me, anyway?”
“To shove up your arse, you miserable old...”
Da’Nel cut in before she had a chance to finish. “What are you talking about?” he demanded sounding a bit sharper than needed.
“Alec, the court mage, gave us this disc to transport ourselves from one place to another. We were supposed to use it to get back. We had to draw a map place it on the circle and then it would send us back to Alec’s lab.”
“Well, that’s impressive technology for a dwarf,” Da’Nel said, with a sense of wonder and begrudging respect.
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