by Jeramy Goble
“Wait,” Barosain interrupted. “Burrek has, what, thirteen thousand personnel on its own? I didn’t realize your numbers were so strong. You could easily challenge Brinnock by yourself.”
Jularra licked her lips. After an uneasy few seconds, she took a deep breath.
“This fight is being waged to secure resources for all of our lands, and all of our people. That was the suggestion yesterday, and the one which I have accepted today. One we all have agreed to.”
Jularra leaned over the table, peering sharply at Barosain.
“Now, we each have different levels of support we can lend militarily. That’s fine. Each county has its own population, trade, and challenges. That isn’t the point. The point is, however, that we need to be united in this endeavor. Totally. I need your commitment and your support. We each need the other’s commitment and support. And to make this a fast and decisive battle, we need to swell our combined forces from a number that we think will bring us victory to a number that will guarantee it. Guarantee it.”
Barosain turned away to ponder on the queen’s comments.
“If there are any objections to that, it needs to be discussed now, before we proceed,” the queen added.
Barosain traded looks with the rest of the table, then turned back to the queen and bowed his head.
Jularra remained focused on him for a moment before straightening back up. She extended her hand to Korden, imploring him to continue.
“Yes, of course. Let’s see. Robain has five hundred heavy horse—”
Jularra broke in again. “No need to break the rest of it out by county. We can confirm those specifics later.”
Korden’s jaw tightened.
“Just give us the totals by unit type.”
Korden offered no acknowledgment and went straight to totaling figures. As Korden began reading off numbers, Jularra totaled them as he went.
“All together, that’s… twenty-seven thousand, three hundred? Almost ten thousand more than Brinnock.”
Jularra tilted her head and rolled the numbers around in her mind while the lords reviewed the parchments, just to be sure.
“Well, we definitely need all the cavalry,” she said to the room. “That’s our smallest contingent.”
She took her next batch of thoughts internally as the nobles hovered over the stack of parchments, picking through them like buzzards on a deer carcass and tossing them aside like spent bones. Jularra strained to not be distracted from her own thoughts by the excuses and posturing taking place at the table.
“I believe these numbers are mostly accurate,” Maccail blustered first. “At least for my forces. But I was fairly sure I had at least another five hundred horse. I’ll have my marshals confirm our numbers to be safe.”
The queen didn’t bother turning to acknowledge him.
“And my numbers seem to be a bit low,” Barosain added with haughty disbelief. “Where did you get this information from?”
Korden stepped up with a hard grin. “Each county provided their own estimates, my lord.”
Barosain’s face wrinkled. “Well, they must be out of date. Like Maccail, I will have my forces confirmed.”
Latham stood up and pushed his chair backwards. He arched his back and stretched as he spoke.
“Other than a few…”
He paused, gently teasing his fellow lords.
“...minor discrepancies, I believe there are no significant errors in these estimates, Your Majesty.”
Jularra turned to the table and took a moment to look each man in the eye.
“Then are we agreed? Are we united?”
A few of the men turned their heads, quickly weighing the disposition of the others, but the answers came quickly. With baritone and bass booms, the room rang with a confident combination of, “Yes!", "Aye!” and, “We are!”
The queen clapped her hands in approval. The lords turned to each other to shake hands and grab shoulders.
Then the volume in the room leveled off. The initial energy from being united in their plan was smothered by the severity of their decision. Smiles crumbled and handshakes fell, and each of the lords shuffled back to their seats and prepared to decide how they would send their people to die.
Six
The second council left Jularra simmering in a lumpy stew of conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was relieved that the council had agreed on such a significant decision. On the other hand, it was a decision to go to war. Where the hope of supplying her people with much-needed food brought her peace, the imminent death of some caused her pain.
But she was done with that for the night. There was nothing left on her agenda, and she would make sure no one tried to put anything else on it. She was on a mission. That mission was drink.
The corridor made her feel better as she stomped along, echoing her burdened footsteps as if reassuring her that she was in the right mindset—a mindset of debauchery. The light from the torches bolstered her excitement to drink as she approached, but the darkness in between each torch tried to make her feel guilty. No. Fuck it, she thought. This day is over.
Jularra approached the end of the corridor. The lights from the great hall seeped in and overtook the last torch. Jularra bathed in the bright reassurance that her intention to drink was justified.
The queen crossed the threshold into the hall and was immediately ambushed by a frantic Keleah.
“Your Majesty!” she started. “Will you be wanting your bath…”
Jularra flung her hand up in dismissal. Greetings rang out from various corners of the hall while Jularra continued her march to the solar. Her target was her cherished Engritorian rum, and not the common stuff served generally in the great hall.
“Not now!” she snapped at Keleah.
She shoved the door to the solar open. Keleah stopped at the entrance and let her arms fall to her side as the door’s gust of air smacked her face.
Where’s my chalice?
A quick glance caught her favorite chalice next to a candelabra. She headed straight for it, grabbing the decanter mid-stride. She tipped the decanter and poured. Some splashed out.
“Shit!”
After slamming the decanter down, she jerked the chalice up to her lips and drank so quickly she almost choked. It burned going down, and she couldn’t distinguish between the burn and her impatient anticipation of being drunk soon.
She emptied the cup. She poured a second, and emptied that too. She poured a third. She went in for a sip, the tip of the cup touching her bottom lip. But she stopped there. The cup trembled as her chest began to rise and fall. She brought the chalice down to the table, and as she released it, she closed her eyes.
She kept them closed as she forced more deep breaths through her nose. The muscles in her jaws rippled as her teeth ground together. The veins around her temple throbbed. The mere two cups of alcohol were not enough to affect her lucidity, or to curb the beginnings of her wrath.
Did I really just hear that?
Jularra slung her chalice across the room, shaking violently. The momentum of her slap swung her around, and she marched immediately towards the door and back out into the great hall.
Keleah shot up off the bench outside the solar. She opened her mouth to address the queen, but closed it again after seeing her face and instead darted off down a service stairwell nearby.
The queen scanned the room. The guests stood with mouths agape, mystified as to what was happening. Jularra ignored them all and stomped over to a display of weapons used by her ancestors, recent and distant.
A studded club caught her eye. She snatched it off the recessed ledge in the wall and returned to her original path. Just as she was about to enter the corridor, she stopped and listened. Behind a drawn curtain, she could hear the poorly muffled panting that she had first heard on her way into the hall. It hadn't registered until she had reached the quiet of the solar, and her rum.
She threw the curtain back, and saw Flemmal’s naked cheeks scooping and thrus
ting himself into yet another servant from behind. This girl appeared to be a less willing participant than Keleah had been. The maid fell to her knees, scrambled to cover herself with her strewn clothes, and spun around on the ground to face Jularra. Her eyes were broken from tears and pain.
By the time Flemmal reacted to Jularra slinging the curtain back, she had already slammed the club into his hip. He let out a yelp as Jularra grabbed him by the hair.
“Come with me,” she ordered firmly.
Her clamped fist around a tangle of his hair meant that he had to stoop slightly. The fingernails from her other hand stabbed into his neck as she led him to the center table. As she dragged him along, Jularra scanned the room for Keleah. Given Keleah’s and Flemmal’s previous liaison, Jularra couldn’t help but think of her loyal servant’s feelings. But she was nowhere to be seen.
As Jularra pulled Flemmal along the floor, the images of Vilfarin’s recent attack at the firepit flashed into her mind. Vilfarin’s attempted violation was still a deep mental wound that infuriated Jularra further, and did no favors for Flemmal.
“I have told you,” Jularra's every word punched with emphasis, “to stop fucking my servants! What do you not understand about that? What will it take? Or are you hoping to work your way up to the queen?”
Flemmal squirmed, though from reflex rather than rebelliousness. His bare bottom half reflected various shades of firelight while his tunic and jacket flailed and flapped loosely. His trousers tangled around his ankles and caused him to stumble.
“These are not the halls of Lairota, I am not Bolblissa, or any other madam, and this is not a brothel!”
Jularra reached the table and shoved Flemmal forward before releasing him. “I’ve had enough of your depravity.”
Lord Robain had remained in Morganon for the night, and stood with a group of nobles nearby.
“My lady,” he asked, concerned. “What is happen—”
“I’ve given him too many chances to stop his sickening behavior." Jularra slid her dagger out of its sheath and raised her eyes to Robain. "He hasn’t, so I will stop him.”
Jularra leaned in towards Robain, giving only a moment for a reply, but none came. She spun and sliced down the length of Flemmal’s closest leg. He shrieked and grabbed for his thigh, shoving the queen away from him.
“Hold him down!” Jularra shouted at a trio of nearby guards.
After their quick sprint to the table, Flemmal was restrained, his screams subsiding. But his eyes caught the queen stepping back to him.
“No, no!” he begged.
Jularra sliced down the length of his other leg. Flemmal screamed out in a fresh wave of torment and terror.
“What?” Jularra inquired, her soft question mocking him. “Would this be more tolerable if you could look at my breasts? The female body is obviously your life’s largest obsession.”
Careless in her fury, blind rage dictating her actions before she could register what she was doing, she threw off her cloak, then pulled her leathers over her head. Next, she reached behind with her dagger and sliced through the lacing of her shirt. Lastly, she shoved her delicate chemise down and away from her chest.
“Look! Lust after them! Lust after me! New objects for your obsession!”
She spun and wiggled, making her breasts bounce and flail as wildly as possible.
She stepped back over and sliced down the length of Flemmal’s upper torso, from his neck down to his navel.
Flemmal screamed, higher than Jularra thought a man could. She chuckled, but no one could hear it over Flemmal.
“What? Isn’t fucking all you care about? You’re getting to look at my breasts! The queen’s breasts. Aren’t you getting excited? Aren’t you getting hard for me?”
Flemmal's hysterical screaming settled into a constant flow of loud crying and whimpering.
“Please! Please stop,” he begged. “I’ll stop. I promise. I promise!”
Jularra laughed and slammed her fist down onto his balls. His body jumped as he returned to screaming.
“Are my breasts not enough? Surely, they must help matters. Since there’s nothing in this world you care more for than the female form, this pleases you, no?”
Flemmal continued whining and whimpering.
Jularra jumped up on the table, topless, addressing the room rhetorically at first before looking down to Flemmal. As she spoke, she pushed her undergarments down to her feet, and next, her chemise. She stepped out from them and kicked them away.
“If my breasts do not satiate your needs, then how about this?”
Jularra stepped forward on the table, straddling Flemmal's face.
“Look at it! Look at me! Is this what you like? Is this what you want?"
Jularra’s chest heaved with passion and anger. She slowly began to bend her knees, lowering herself a little at a time.
“Get ready! Another womb for you to claim!”
Just as her pubic hair was about to tickle Flemmal’s chin, she flung her pelvis back and crouched on all fours. She slowly crept backwards before slamming her rear down on the table at his feet. After spinning and dangling her legs off the edge, long enough only to give Flemmal a departing, hateful look, Jularra snatched her clothes up, threw them over her shoulder, and calmly headed for the solar to get dressed.
The hall was dead silent, except for a few pops from the large fire at the center of the far wall. Then Flemmal spoke up.
“After all that, you’re not even going to sit on me?”
Jularra stopped in her tracks, still facing the entrance to the solar. She tilted her head and looked up as if trying to decide how his comment made her feel. After a few deep breaths, Jularra unsheathed the dagger from the belt draped over her shoulder, turned, and headed back to Flemmal.
From his perspective, Flemmal didn’t immediately see the dagger, and chuckled at having gotten under the queen’s skin.
“You might have to help me get ready. Those cuts you gave me soured the mood a bit!”
Jularra drew closer, held up her dagger, and flexed her fingers around the handle in a small flourish.
“Where are you going with that?” Flemmal asked. His pompous voice squeaked and broke with fear once more.
Jularra returned to his side and held the dagger, point up, staring down at him. She slowly looked him over from head to toe, then started to drag her eyes back up. She paused at his groin. His scared cock was shriveled and flaccid. His balls were wrinkly and drawn up. She lashed out and grabbed around the base of his shaft and balls with one hand.
Flemmal screamed. “Wait! No! Wait—”
Jularra brought the dagger down and started to slice, though only enough to draw blood. Starting just above his penis, she carved a circle around his lackluster jewels until the ends of the circle met. Flemmal screamed the entire time, almost as if she was trying to cut something off, but his cowardly whining soon turned to fearful curiosity as he strained his head and neck up to see what was actually happening. Jularra tossed her dagger onto the table and quickly smeared some of the slice’s blood across his genitals. Flemmal started to stutter a question but Jularra interrupted him.
“Masters of creation, please answer Flemmal’s prayers. Grow his phallus by a multiple of fifty. Use him as an example of the price of iniquity.”
After Jularra finished uttering her spell, the room fell quiet in anticipation of whatever was about to happen. Flemmal’s chest bobbed up and down in rapid succession. His neck shook from continuing to strain to look down between his legs.
After a few seconds, Flemmal let his head fall back down to the table. He apparently thought enough time had passed for Jularra’s spell to take place. He was wrong.
With a shrill cry and a stiff jump, Flemmal tried to shoot off the table, but the guards easily kept him down. He immediately began screaming at the top of his lungs as his penis and testicles began to grow. The skin swelled rapidly, but Flemmal wailed in horror as it failed to keep up with the accelerated growth of his
genitals. Within seconds, the skin became tight and shiny. Slight rips began to appear. Like extremely chapped and raw skin, little crevasses of bloody cracks dug themselves into the skin as his genitals swelled.
Flemmal’s shrieks of pain crescendoed until his voice gave out. His penis continued to bulge into its ever-increasing size. Only the quiet but rapid expulsions of air from his lungs could be heard until he began to gently sob as his nerves grew accustomed to the shock. Within a few moments, Jularra’s spell was complete.
Flemmal’s lower torso, legs, and feet had mostly disappeared under the grotesque mass of his new three-hundred-inch penis and accompanying twenty-five-pound mound of scrotum. Resembling a pair of conjoined pigs, the sickening pounds of new flesh spilled across the table and started to slip off the edges. Once the growing finally stopped, Jularra stepped back, looked at the mess and smiled, before looking up to Flemmal’s face. Only the remainder of the man's weak whimpering could be heard through the pops and hisses of the fire. She took a few steps closer to his face and leaned over slightly.
“Now you can really impress the ladies,” she uttered flatly.
She stepped back and looked to Korden, who had just jogged into the room.
“Have my tailor devise some kind of harness for Flemmal to carry all of… that... around. Put him in the stocks until it's ready. Let's give Morganon’s women an opportunity to see what they have to look forward to.”
Seven
The invasion of Brinnock was a week away. Armorers, bladesmiths, bowyers, arrowsmiths, fletchers, and countless other artisans of combat spilled out into the blacksmith’s corridor. The business of war—or "martial exercises", as it was being referred to publicly—had attracted many to the capital, and they came from across Acorilan to supply the demand. The alleys were flooded with people working back to back, elbow to elbow, the congestion causing them to frequently bump into each other, step on others' feet, or accidentally knock over buckets or crates filled with tools, ingots, and wood. But despite the clogged corridor, the mood was bright and electric due in no small part to the crown’s propaganda.