by Max Keith
“Good work, girl. You kept him from moving, at least.” She’d spat. “Must have had his dick in you the whole time for him to be so still.” Drinn had protested weakly, and Chiara had wondered whether she should feel insulted, but Aimee seemed to have no malice in her. And the praise had taken effect, and now Chiara rode close behind the older woman, quiet and withdrawn as she sent her eyes fearfully among the cliffs and spires on all sides.
Birds and the cries of strange animals came from everywhere around, the pass desolate and barren; they’d passed five other travelers already, all of them walking doggedly up the hill. Night would fall in a couple of hours, and then the lights would start twinkling all up and down the trail: soon, the entire Pass would be dotted with cookfires and little tents, the usual road-litter brought by fine weather in the Claring Pass.
But not the wanderers. The five of them intended to press on through the night, gnawing on the jerked beef Alorin had brought, counting on the vigilance of the Royal sentries at the top to make sure they made it through. That, and the owl, lofting silently above, looking hard for a Firemage and about seven men once he returned from the top of the Pass.
They’d sent it out just before they’d left the Imperial camp, bearing a warning to the Royal garrison at the summit, pleading for a squad of the King’s soldiery to remain alert through the night, and to come down to help if needed. It was twelve miles to the top, or near enough, and they’d know of trouble over the final league or so.
The horses were laboring as the sun sank behind them, the Pass feeling haunted around them. Rocks skittered down from the heights, and each time the companions started, their horses infected with their alarm. “Shh,” Aimee soothed, patting her Ella’s neck; the path twisted on and on, the drawn faces of travelers in the firelight gazing dully from the verges as they passed on. The night deepened, heavy and thick, the tension growing; somewhere above them the owl had returned, Franx said, circling in the night.
They rested the horses at moonrise, well away from any of the cookfires, and the mage went on ahead for a mile or so to listen. They caught up with him once they started moving again, their eyes asking the silent question in the dark. “Nothing. But I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be up here somewhere.”
Alorin agreed. “The danger grows with every mile.” She had her shortsword in her hand already, held with idle care from her right hand, its sawtoothed back edge glittering in the young moonlight. “How long before the men at the summit come to find us?”
“If they even bothered stirring?” Franx made a face and squinted up. “Perhaps three hours past middle night?”
“I’d not expect more than a patrol,” Aimee put in dourly. “They were not exactly pleased to see us as we came over yesterday.”
“Shit. Was it only yesterday?” Alorin sighed, unusually tired. “We set out as soon as the Princess got your message. It’s been a busy few days.”
“Over soon, though.” Aimee took a sip of water. “One way or the other.”
“No doubt.” Drinn was feeling the efforts of the day. It seemed like a dream, the bath with Chiara just that morning. The adventure had taken its toll, surely.
And then the owl came, sweeping in, startling Drinn’s former horse. Franx, his eyes shining, bent his head to listen. “They’re coming.”
“The Royals?” Drinn asked hopefully. “From the summit?”
“No, you idiot.” The mage whispered something to the bird, who sprang noiselessly away. “He’ll tell them to come quickly, though. We should be fine; get behind rocks, all of you. Drinn? Alorin? Your bows. Aimee? Try to start a fire. Chiara: the horses.” He slipped to the ground, his eyes searching. “I’ve got spells to cast.” He had none of his books with him, but Drinn was fairly sure his memory would be up to the task; even if not, he’d seen the Shadowmage compose spells on the spot, with disgusting results. He felt his fatigue fade away, as it always did when an enemy approached, and he gave his short hunting bow and the only two arrows he had to Aimee.
“Fuck bows,” he grunted, drawing his long sword. She just took it wordlessly, plucking the string. “I’m better with a sword.”
“Mind your wound, Drinn,” the healer warned quietly, but the warrior was already swinging his sword around, adjusting his helmet. On the other side of the road, Alorin drew her little crossbow and waited calmly.
“I can’t get a fucking fire lit,” Aimee cursed, but she need not have worried: Mim started his attack with a rolling, scorching fireball from around a corner ahead, a bright yellow glow flashing ahead of it and bouncing weirdly off the shadowed rocks. The flame rolled through, hot like peering into an oven, the travelers huddling behind their rocks with their faces turned away. Without the owl’s warning, the flame would have roasted at least the first two in line.
Drinn crouched; as soon as the fire was past, he sprang back out onto the road and stood, sword in both hands, with the valkyrie instinctively protecting his flank. They always had fought well together, he reflected savagely; with any luck, it would save them tonight. That, plus Franx’ spell.
The Shadowmage wasn’t stumbling down a mountainside beside a tarn, frash from sleep. Now he’d had a few moments to get himself ready, and his spell was neither clinging snakes nor a dark wind. He thrust out his hand, calmly speaking the words while a dark mist went rolling up around the corner, seemingly weak and insubstantial; but Franx afterward went and sat on a rock, unconcerned, waiting.
The coughing started a few moments later, growing louder as the first of Mim’s Imperials came rushing around the bend with a shiny new sword high. Drinn knew him at once, the grizzled veteran who’d been last to leave by the tarn. He was brave, and came on fast and hard, but the shadowy mist was clinging to his face, his eyes watering and his mouth open wide in a hacking cough, and Drinn saw the beginnings of a confused fear in his eyes as he came within range; a sidestep, then a parry, and then Drinn was making a vicious draw cut along the man’s belly, the cough taking on a hideous gurgling quality as the second foe, also coughing, stumbled toward the unprotected Drinn.
Well, not quite unprotected. Alorin’s crossbow bolt left an ugly, gaping rent in the second soldier’s neck, piercing him through and through; his coughing ceased at once, and his life followed soon after as the breath and blood gurgled out against the rocks. She’d set the bow carefully on some rocks even before he fell, her little antler-knife in her hand; she flitted across to castrate him before his breath ran out, but Alorin was an experienced fighter; she knew how long she had, given the neck wound, and the man’s eyes still rolled in terror as, quite alive, he felt her pull his breeches down and slice his balls from his body with a single neat cut.
By the time Alorin had taken care of her man and eased her way alongside Drinn, the warrior had recovered his blade and left the dying veteran on the ground, trying in vain to hold his entrails in and coughing thick blood onto Drinn’s boots; the warrior, disgusted, delivered a crunching kick to the man’s jaw to get him to crawl away and die elsewhere.
Franx, meanwhile, had said a few more words and twitched his fingers almost casually across the Pass; Drinn and Alorin saw another mist, this one swirling in front of them; it waited as a second, smaller fireball came racing around the curve, only to get sucked in a blinding flash into the mist. Warrior and valkyrie stumbled, blinking, then looked at each other and realized they were unburnt just as Aimee sent a short, precious arrow seething toward a third attacker. She was no archer; the shaft caught his shoulder, but it staggered him quickly enough to open the way for Drinn to bring his sword back up, the point waiting for the fourth man.
Nobody except, maybe, Franx noticed as the owl returned to perch, quite placidly, on a nearby rock; for his part, the Shadowmage was waiting, his eyes slitted, gathering his energy in case the Firemage up the path tried again. But his gaunt face was at peace; the owl’s return meant the Royal garrison, no doubt pissed at being up and out on a nice calm night, was nearly there, ready to crash into Mim from the rear
.
The savagery continued apace, another corpse falling to Drinn’s blade as the wounded soldier, Aimee’s arrow protruding comically from his shoulder, scrambled as best he could to evade Alorin’s implacable, calm-faced pursuit. Curses were now biting down from up the trail as the Firemage, in mid-spell, heard the Royal soldiers coming down from behind, the last of his soldiers finishing their coughing as they cleared themselves of Franx’ first spell just in time to face shining swords from above and below. There were now five more Legionaries, one already wounded, and the tired mage; they looked wildly at each other and formed into a bitter circle as they waited in the dark, the Firemage’s spells still licking at the stunted trees and bushes in the rocks and lending an unearthly red glow to the scene.
“Yield,” Drinn hissed up at them. He saw blank stares, fear, as the Royals clattered closer from above. “Yield. We’ll send you back down naked, but we’ll send you back down.” He spat, moving closer alongside the silent Alorin. “It’s a better deal than you gave our men up North.”
“Fuck your men up North,” one of the Legionaries gasped angrily.
“Fine then.” The noises from above were getting louder, echoing among the stones. “We’ll kill a quarter of you, enslave half the rest, and spare the others.” He glared hard, his boots still spattered with their comrade’s gore. “How much does an enslaved Firemage bring, Poildrin?” he called to the side of the road.
“Shit.” The Shadowmage emerged from the rocks, cloaked in dark and silent menace. He matched eyes with the other mage. “I’m not sure there’s a price list,” he admitted, his voice a silky threat. “I’ve never heard of an enslaved Firemage. Have you, Akker Mim?” he called out, and the Imperials began trading concerned glances.
“Five seconds,” Alorin taunted quietly. “Then I’ll start cutting your balls off.”
That did it. Swords, helmets, and boots clattered to the path, the grimy white shapes hopping over the sharp stones. It was eight or nine cold miles back to the camp below, but the night should be warm enough. They were lucky, and as they passed the cold smile of the valkyrie they knew it. Last to go was the Firemage Mim, enraged, glaring back at the Pass behind him; he was beginning to doubt his ears, but Poildrin Franx kept his face carefully stern as the two glared at each other.
And then they were gone, fleeing bare-assed down the Claring.
They left the knot of travelers, breathing hard, glancing wildly around the road. Silence had descended, the ringing clash of the approaching Royals faded away.
“Where are the Royals?” Alorin was gazing around the roadway, her sword loose in her hand, her ears wondering where the echoes had gone. Bare feet continued to scamper down the pass behind.
“There were never any reinforcements.” Franx shrugged. “The sounds were a spell of mine.” He shook his head. “A necessary precaution. They’re garrison troops, up there at the top.” He spat. “They’re not getting their fat asses out of bed by night for the likes of us.”
“Gods.” Drinn was still breathing heavily as he stooped to use a pair of Legionary trousers to wipe the blood from his sword. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“Always.” They led the horses carefully toward the blood-slicked rocks, Chiara coming blank-faced into the dying fire of the bushes and shrubs. She drifted close to the panting Drinn.
“Are you hurt?” She was trying to keep the worry from her voice, which he appreciated. He was still in a savage mood. He saw the concern in her dark eyes and squeezed her shoulder roughly.
“I’m all right, girl.” He needed water, or preferably wine. Chiara gulped as she looked around at the fallen Imperials, including the gutted one still dying at the verge. With emotionless efficiency, he strode to the retching veteran, met his eyes, and chopped his head off. No man should die slowly, his guts spilling out. Chiara was trying to say something, her whisper low and intent.
“I… I didn’t see my Pede?” She looked around. “He wasn’t with the naked men that passed me.”
Drinn sighed and turned slowly to look at the small battlefield, now quiet in the dark. He’d need to tell her, he realized bleakly. She’d take the news hard; it had always been plain that she loved her cousin, and to hear she’d fucked his killer was unlikely to make her happy.
It might even be the worst day of her life, he reflected. But at least she’d have a life.
Introducing Uruk Press
Uruk Novellas
Uruk Press publish the best in fantasy and science fiction erotica and our Uruk Novellas range showcases the breadth of our catalogue. At approximately 30,000 words long and free on Kindle Unlimited, they are the perfect introduction for new readers. You can also follow us on Twitter and Tumblr to keep up to date on our latest titles.
A Fetch Job by Dragon Cobolt
Julianna has one simple goal: to be the best damn wizard at Forestdale Academy of Magical Sciences and Clerical Applications of Godly Powers. The only problem is the Six, a clique of mean girls led by Tabitha Sworles, "the biggest overachiever on campus and also the most frigid bitch I've ever had the displeasure of meeting", who are making her life a living hell.
So Juli does what any self-respecting wizard would do and summons a demon familiar to help her get even. But something goes wrong. Fetch is crude, rude, obnoxious, muscular, confident, hot as hell... and only three foot tall. Juli soon discovers that size isn't everything (except when it definitely is) and that revenge is a dish best served very, very hot.
A Fetch Job is a 32,000 word erotic novella featuring a teen wizard exploring her sexuality with men, women, toys, tentacles and, of course, a cocky little demon named Fetch. Expect magic, mayhem and multiple penetration. Free with Kindle Unlimited!
The Serpent's Kiss by Cyrano Johnson
Mrs Evangeline Stone is a celebrated young journalist in Victorian London. Against her family’s wishes, she sails across the Atlantic to Verderosa, the Black Zion, following rumours of White slavery. Verderosa is unique among the Dominions of the British Empire as a land where all men, White and Black, are truly equal. But this is no utopia. As Evie journeys deep into the seamy underbelly of Daltonville, she discovers dark secrets and even darker truths about herself.
The Serpent’s Kiss is a 40,000 word alt history novella inspired by classic Victorian pornography and tinged with the supernatural. Featuring self-discovery, willing submission, corporal punishment and White women being dominated by multiple Black men, it is a must for all fans of interracial erotica. Dare you taste the Serpent’s Kiss! Free with Kindle Unlimited!
Equinox by EC Revelle
Cris has everything a child of the ancient House of Vandalia could want: money, fine clothes, and a first-rate wizard’s education. There’s only one thing she lacks: the respect of her father, the richest man in Sworza. Her chance might have finally arrived when an enchanting seductress enlists her help in a dangerous quest. Dispatched to find the Dusk Crown, a relic of a bygone age, Cris might at last be able to secure her place in the family - as long as it isn’t all just a fool’s errand.
Jeza knows there’s more to life than Sted Chisa, a simple village on the Medez Plains, but he’ll never get the chance to find out if he’s going to be chief and shaman someday. That is until an alluring young witch stops by his mother’s house, recruiting him for a mission to enter the Twilit Tower, a sacred place of power. There’s just one catch: it sits on a great convergence of leylines, warded by forbidden magic. Life outside the Sted might end up being more than he bargained for.
The spring equinox swiftly approaches, and an ancient power sleeps fitfully. Cris and Jeza find themselves set to cross purposes by the oldest forces in the Realm, pushed into a conflict they don’t understand. Their paths may just lead them to a lost secret of the Early Days - if either of them survive.
Equinox is a 27,000 word erotic novella featuring forbidden romance, sexual temptation and mouthwateringly unrestrained group sex. Free with Kindle Unlimited!
Arms And Armor by
FV Meyer
"Give me your strength in exchange for my beauty. Give me your strength in exchange for my beauty. Give me your strength..."
She could have settled for a usual life in her fishing village. She could have kept her name. But as the owner of an enchanted set of arms and armor, she instead went looking for glory as a wandering champion in far-off lands. However, her dreams soon dash against the hard shore of reality.
Wielding a club she knows only as "Kanabo" and wearing a set of armor with a past shrouded in mystery, she is gifted with supernatural powers in return for offering up her body. Half hero for her deeds and half heretic for dabbling with magic, she lives a hard life on the run from the white-robed inquisitors. But will her journey end in fame or infamy? Will her enchanted protectors be her salvation or her damnation? All she knows is that arms and armor are necessary to stay alive in a harsh world where corruption, zealotry and ruthlessness abound.
Arms And Armor is a 33,000 word erotic novella featuring a bisexual female protagonist caught in a destructive threesome with dominating supernatural forces. Free with Kindle Unlimited!
Uruk Press - Fantasy
For the best introduction to our fantasy range, check out our Sex & Sorcery anthology series:
Sex & Sorcery 3
"The Last Mage" by Dragon Cobolt - In the aftermath of an apocalyptic magical war, a wandering scavenger finds hope - and more - with the last surviving wizard.
"All-Mother" by Mak Long - Ancient beyond memory, the shrine of a forgotten goddess weaves together the fates of three women, who might be the salvation of their people.
"A Man Needs A Whore, So..." by Max Keith - Drinn and Cashel are on a vital mission for the Princess Raxillene, the exiled queen-in-waiting, and hundreds of lives hang in the balance. But first they need to make a quick visit to a brothel...