“I am King Saerus, and I am trapped in Kharisi’s mind.”
“Is this some form of illusion to try and beguile me?” the dragon asked, each word letting out enough heat to singe their clothing and hair.
“No, good Dragon, ‘tis a long story, but we are to meet others who may help me reclaim the throne and body that have been taken.”
“I have nothing but time, time and an appetite.”
“Tell me,” Saerus continued, ignoring for the moment what the dragon had said., “how did you come to be here?”
The dragon let out one of the most sorrowful sighs Kharisi had ever heard, that it brought him to tears, and when he looked over to Jeremiah who was picking at the back of his pants, he too had a tear. His tears, however, were for completely different reasons and having everything to do with where his hand was.
“That is a long story as well, and one I don’t remember much about.”
“How long have you been here?”
The dragon shook its head, “Too long, for too long have I been chained here, since before this land was populated. The chain is nothing and I could break it with ease, but there are spells that armor it, keeping it invulnerable.”
Kharisi thought a moment, as did Saerus, and both seemed to have the same idea, though Kharisi spoke for both of them. “We are to meet, with any luck, a Druid of enormous power, perhaps he can help.”
“Druid?” the dragon said, eyes narrowing, steam from its nostrils increasing. “And just who is this Druid?”
Kharisi thought for a moment, but the name wouldn’t come. “Help me Saerus, what was the name?” Saerus’s mind went blank as well until Kharisi blurted it out seemingly out of nowhere.
“Da’Nel!”
The dragon lowered its head, eyes fixated on Kharisi, studying every movement, every tic, every drop of sweat. “Impossible, not even Earthen elves live that long.”
“On both of our lives, I pledge to you it is the truth,” Kharisi said, earning a somewhat angry and fearful glance from Jeremiah.
“King Saerus, is this the truth?”
“Yes, Kharisi only lies about small things, like his prick, but never on a matter like this, and certainly not to your munificence.”
The dragon closed its eyes in contemplation, and for a moment, Kharisi had wondered if it’d fallen asleep. As he was getting ready to move away, the dragon opened its eyes again.
“I will require a boon if it pleases you and in return, I am at your service.” The dragon said, moving ever so slightly to block Kharisi’s path. “When you see this Druid, you will tell him Toryan is still waiting.”
“Is that it?”
The dragon nodded. “Now go before I decide sating my hunger is more important than allowing you to fulfill your boon.” With that said, he turned around once more and fell back to sleep, allowing the duo to leave the cave. After a brisk walk outside, and away from the opening of the cave, Kharisi and Jeremiah collapsed to the soft grass.
“I never thought I’d live to see a dragon, let alone talk with one!” Jeremiah said with amazement.
“Well, shitting your pants is an odd way of showing your wonderment,” Kharisi said dryly. Jeremiah scowled, then pointed to the front of Kharisi’s pants and giggled.
“Looks like you pissed yours!”
Kharisi looked down and saw the dark stain of dampness at his crotch. His face reddened, and he crossed his legs to hide the spot.
“There’s a stream not far from here if you wish to clean up,” Saerus said, trying his best to hide the laughter that hid below the surface of his remark.
“Well, I certainly don’t want to smell his bowel droppings all day.” Kharisi said in his most irritated voice. He stood up, held his hand out and helped Jeremiah up, his fingers grazing the young man’s for a moment longer than necessary. “And stand downwind or I shall make you clean your garments with your tongue.” Jeremiah made a rude gesture behind his back and they made their way to the stream.
Kharisi could hear the gentle lapping of water over stone, and when the stream came into sight, he was disappointed. “I piss a bigger stream than this.”
“That’s apparent,” Jeremiah said, hiding a giggle behind his hand. His humor vanished at once when he saw smoke in the distance.
The city was on fire.
26: Tempers Flaring
Offa looked out his bedroom window at the smoke, fire, and blood. The screams and cries for help were music to his ears. He was certain he would have enjoyed it more had his flesh not been ripping like the seams on a pair of too-tight pants. Bloodstains decorated his gown when he woke up, sending a bolt of fear down his spine. He wrapped himself in an old dressing gown made with a black die so the stains wouldn’t be noticed and hurried down to his bathing suite and full length mirror. As he lifted the gown up to pull it over his head, he could see the tight lines running down his thigh to his foot, small droplets of blood seeping from minute openings dribbling from the tear. As he moved it up over his abdomen, he saw that area was a multitude of dark bruises, with fingers, toes and a partial nose protruding from all areas in no logical order. It’s as if someone had taken loose bits and glued them onto his skin.
Offa, now totally disrobed, took the hand mirror from the table and studied his back in the full-length mirror, horrified yet almost excited by what he saw. The sole of a foot could be seen in his lower back as if trying to kick itself out from Offa, with blood trickling from rips around the imprint. His ass had two nipples on it, one for each cheek, and they were red and leaking a viscous, milky liquid. Even his hands were not averse to the changes, as he saw the bones take unnatural shapes, some fingers longer than the others. He covered himself in his gown again and strode back to his bedroom. As his hand fell onto the knob and began to turn, He heard footsteps approaching, and he launched himself into his room, fumbling to lock the door from the inside.
“It’s only me, Hermannn.”
“What is it?” Offa asked through the closed door.
“Your highness, if you’d let me in, this is of utmost urgency.”
Offa took the dagger he kept at the bedside and held it out in front of him. “Enter,” he said.
Hermannn opened the door with great caution and stepped into the room, keeping his hands in plain sight. “Truly only me, Your Highness.” He closed the door behind him but didn’t move from his spot.
Offa lay his dagger down on the writing-table by the window and sat in one of the chairs, wincing as the sensitive nipples on his backside were crushed. “Now, what is it?” he asked.
“The citizens are getting unruly, sire. Between the fires and rounding up all the degenerates, I’m afraid they may revolt.”
Offa waved his hands at Hermannn in disbelief. “Nonsense, they’ll see it was the right thing to do and thank me for it.”
Hermannn took a few steps forward but still managed to keep a safe, nonthreatening distance from the King. “With all due respect that does not seem to be the mood in town. There’s talk about an attempt to overthrow the castle.”
“Close the gates, and put the guards on the towers, kill any of them that try to breach the walls!” Offa’s voice was calm, measured, and to Hermannn’s ear all the more fearful for the apparent sanity behind it.
“It may not be that easy...” Hermann said, looking away from the King’s eyes for a moment.
Offa could see a slight tremble from Hermann, something that would have been undetectable to anyone else. Offa leaned against the table, looked over to the bed, hoping to divert Hermann’s gaze there for the fraction of a second he needed to grab his dagger. As he knew the guardsman would, he followed Offa’s gaze, and when he turned his attention back, Offa grabbed his weapon and hid it behind his back. “And, what are you doing about this? And why aren’t you looking for that damned elf and catamite” he asked, taking a step with each word as emphasis.
Hermann swallowed hard, resisted the urge to take a step back and held his ground, in spite of being close enough to
smell the fetidness of the King’s breath. He glanced down and gasped. “Your Highness, you’re bleeding!” he said pointing at the blood trickling down his leg and gathering on his feet.
“And so are you!” Offa said, his upper lip curled into a snarl, and thrust the dagger between two of Hermann’s ribs. Hermann’s eyes widened in surprise, as blood trickled from his open mouth. He grabbed at the wound with both hands, fell to his knees, and looked up at the King with confusion. With one bloody foot, Offa pushed him over, until he was lying on his back, and then stepped on Hermann’s neck, crushing his windpipe slowly, and with as great an amount of pain as possible. He set the dagger down once more and used that hand to massage the double protrusions his pricks were making. He rubbed them with great deliberation as he watched the life leak from Hermann, whose gasps and thrashing around had dwindled to nothing. When the last of the light left his eyes, Offa’s seed spurted forth, soaking the dressing gown, running down the garment and mingling with the blood on his feet.
Offa sat on one of the chairs to catch his breath, He bunched up his gown to wipe himself clean but the soaked fabric clung to him as if he’d stepped out of the bath. Annoyed by this moistness, he wiped his hands on the sides of his clothing, and leaned back in the chair, his head resting against the wall. From the window, the smell of burning timber increased, as did the incoherent yelling, and screams of those who would defy him. He looked over to the dead body before him, then got on his knees, and scurried forward, towards the cooling flesh. He began to pat down the corpse to see if Hermann had been carrying anything that might give him a clue to what was going on.
There was no doubt, in Offa’s mind at least that Hermann was somehow involved in all these vague rumors of sedition. If he wasn’t the leader, he had no doubt, the dead man was very close to the leader.
“Probably helped them escape,” Offa muttered to himself. He emptied the pockets and found nothing aside from small coins, and a leather pouch of tobacco. Offa smacked the dead man’s face in frustration, before getting an idea. With nimble fingers, he undid all the buttons and fasteners to the uniform and stripped them off the body until it laid bare, the fish belly white skin in stark contrast to the deep red of the already congealing blood.
Offa pulled off his gown, stripped out of his underclothes and tried to put on the uniform, ignoring the bloodstain on the front. As it turned out, it was a poor fit and hung off Offa’s slight, boyish body festooned with pustules, protrusions, and assorted budding body parts like a potato sack. He went to his wardrobe, tripping on the cuff of the pants that gathered around his feet, and pulled out his dress uniform, used only for visiting King’s, Queen’s or in the event of war.
It was a very somber outfit, made from black velvet and a deep, washed-out maroon. The shirt that went with it was closer to ivory than white, and the highly polished leather boots that completed it were as reflective of his visage as the looking glass. He’d only worn it once, before manhood seized him, and it was loose fitting then. Offa hoped it wasn’t too snug now. As he dressed, he continued to plan out what he was going to do. If the guards are proving useless, he thought, I’ll go down there myself and kill every last traitor with my own sword, sweat, and blood if need be. The idea of slaughtering others not only appealed to him, but it also fueled him, made his craving for blood and pain unending. As he pulled on his pants, Offa was mindful to use the snug pocket to keep his pricks hidden. His revulsion at having to touch them had lessened, at least a bit, and he had to admit he liked the feel of the fabric rubbing against the both of them.
He brought the boots and a pair of stockings over to the chair. He sat down and put each one on then slipped his feet into the boots. Offa stood and felt his posture improve as the cut of the jacket made slouching uncomfortable. The heels on the boots made a satisfying tapping sound as he strode to his bedroom door and opened it. Two guards stood on either side.
“You, what’s your name?” he asked the guard to his left.
“Jaxon Your Highness.”
“Well Jaxon, you’re the new head of the guard, follow me.” He then turned to the guard on his right and pointed to his room. “And you, clean that mess up in there.”
“Me?” Jaxon asked, “Why me?”
Offa stopped walking and glared at the clearly unnerved new head of the guard. “Because I killed the old one, don’t make me regret this, Jaxon.”
Jaxon expected puffs of icy breath to come out of his mouth, due to how cold his tone was. While not a brave man by nature, Jaxon feared very little, believing everything was in the hands of fate, and no matter what occurred, it was destined to happen. In spite of that, Offa’s words and manner shook him to the core and instilled in him the greatest sense of fear he’d ever felt. Offa continued walking, and Jaxon followed, having to speed his step in order to keep up. As they approached the throne room, Offa stopped once more.
“You know who the elf Kharisi is?”
“Of course,” Jaxon said, having a difficult time getting any words out at all.
“Hermann failed to capture him, and as I said, I’ve relieved him of his duties, so I don’t need to tell you more than that, do I?” Offa smiled, unaware that a thin film of blood stained his teeth, several of which also seemed to be falling from their sockets. A wave of nausea flooded over Jaxon and all he could muster was a nod to what the King had said.
It also left him confused as well. It was well known that Kharisi and the King had shared a bed on numerous occasions, and he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to spoil their special friendship. As he thought about it, he also wondered if the weight of being King had made Saerus snap. He’d heard the rumors the King had become unstable, and even deeper murmurs of possibly getting rid of him, but they’d found no one suitable to take his place. Some had mentioned the dwarf Petram, but he was away on the King’s business and no one knew when or if he’d be back. And now with the rounding up of those who Saerus shared something in common with? Nothing was making sense. Yet, he’d been given an order, and he’d follow it through.
Offa snapped his fingers in front of Jaxon’s face to get his attention.
“He’s not going to come to you, go get him!”
Jaxon dashed off, relieved to be out of his presence, and feeling the fear and unease slip away.
Offa shook his head in disappointment, wondering if there were any competent guards left. He took his sword which was kept by his seat in the throne room and headed for the front gates, determined to wade in hip-deep into the chaos in town.
As he approached the front door, the two guards on either side, stepped in front, barring Offa’s way. “You’re not going anywhere, Your Highness, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’m fully capable of handling any problems,” Offa said, eyes narrowing, lips thinning out into a grimace.
Each guard unsheathed their sword and pointed it in Offa’s direction. “The danger is you may escape before we get a chance to do away with you,” the guard on the right said, moving in closer to Offa who was now backing up. Offa drew his sword faster than the guards were able to see and took a defensive stance.
“Do you think either of you stands a chance against me?” Offa said, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm on the floor. A bolt of pain crisscrossed its way through his body, starting in the pit of his stomach and ending at the base of his neck. In spite of it, he held his position, ready to strike as a snake would.
“Probably not, but can you take on all of us?” the guard asked, and with his free hand stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two rows of guards came rushing into the throne room, then broke formation to surround the King in a circle, each with the sword drawn, pointing at Offa.
The King dropped his sword, the clattering of steel on stone reverberating, and he fell to the floor screaming in pain, a pool of blood spreading out under him.
27: Old Friends and New
To Jeremiah, it looked as if Kharisi was arguing with himself using two different voices, as the mad a
nd those stricken with the rotting cock disease were known to do. He had seen Kharisi’s member, and it was many things, but rotten was not one of them, and his brand of madness was no worse than anyone else’s. Still, he found it creepy to see it with his own eyes.
“We can’t leave them this way!” Kharisi said, voice almost like a dog’s whine, and something Saerus never thought he’d hear.
“Kharisi, listen to me, as a friend, as a lover, and as your fucking King, we must follow our plans, that is our only hope of helping them The town has seen bad times before and rebounded. It’s quite capable of taking care of itself.” Saerus, ever the voice of reason knew he would wear Kharisi down, but it would take time they didn’t have. “I do not say this lightly, and any deaths will be my responsibility, but there are bigger things happening, things which they may never rebound from if we do not hurry.”
Kharisi kicked at some rocks like a petulant five-year-old. He said nothing more to Saerus and only beckoned for Jeremiah. “Come along, we have a long way to go.” Jeremiah gave a feeble smile and followed along. They stayed on the outskirts but saw very little of the town due to the clouds of black smoke and dust being kicked up. Kharisi stopped for a moment, and told Jeremiah to wait, before disappearing into the smoke. He had no time to argue or ask questions before the elf had disappeared. Even from the distance, they were at, he could feel the heat from the flames. And he wondered how much of the town if any would be left. As the minutes passed, Jeremiah started to get nervous, fearing the worst had happened. As he was going to make his own assault on the nearly ruined town, Kharisi returned, riding one horse, and leading another behind him.
Jeremiah who had been a stable boy his entire life and knew almost everything there was to know about horses had never actually ridden one. Not because he never had a chance, but the simple truth was, they scared him. Between their height, and disposition, he was always afraid if he managed to get on the back of one, they’d sense his turmoil and do everything they could to throw him off. He’d seen more than one person trampled by a horse, and those who lived through it were all permanently disabled. And that was the crux of it, Jeremiah feared being hurt, or maimed and that kept him from the saddle. Now it appeared he had no choice. Kharisi got off his own horse, a soot-covered Palomino and helped Jeremiah get on his, a smaller, chestnut filly with a tan mane.
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