Conqueror

by Isaac Hooke

  It was a release not just from the tension of battle, but from the sexual tension that had been building between them ever since he’d captured her during the siege of Fallow Gate.

  He could sense the pleasure emanating from her bundle of energy, and that in turn gave him bliss, thanks to their unique link. She could sense his own pleasure in turn so that their gratification centers were essentially combined and feeding off one another: stimulating one aroused the other, and vice versa. Back and forth the reverberations of bliss traveled, growing in intensity each time, a veritable sexual feedback loop.

  Gwen and Abigail’s energy bundles also partook in that loop, accepting and amplifying the feeling beyond anything he’d ever experienced. It surpassed all other sensations. He couldn’t even see; his eyes were rolled so far back into his head. He knew only the urgent need inside of him to find release, and the ultimate bliss that awaited with it.

  When he came, the raw explosion of pleasure was almost too much for him to bear, and he simply collapsed on top of Ziatrice, his body convulsing of its own accord.

  It was over all too soon, and he simply remained there, motionless on top of her, utterly spent. He closed his eyes, panting, and he would have slept if she hadn’t spoken.

  “You’re crushing me,” she gasped.

  Her voice snapped him out of his weariness. “Huh? Oh.”

  He rolled off of her, and stared, still winded, at the angled ceiling of the tent.

  “Told you we night elves are superior to humans in bed,” she cooed.

  “Uh huh,” he said, too spent to argue with her. He glanced at her, and she smiled coyly, revealing those pointed teeth of hers. He’d forgotten about those teeth entirely. No wonder when she worked him with her mouth it had felt so uniquely pleasurable. Still, he didn’t like thinking about the damage she could have caused if she’d wanted to, and he wasn’t sure he was going to engage in oral with her ever again.

  Hell, who was he kidding? It felt too good not to try again at some point.

  In a minute he had his breath under control, and once more he found himself falling asleep.

  But then Abigail’s voice came in his head.

  I suppose it was inevitable, she sent. That you’d mate with her, too. The link we have compels us. The promise of incredible pleasure is too great to refuse.

  Malem looped Gwen into the mental conversation, and Ziatrice, too, before he answered. You felt that, did you?

  Gwen answered. It was even more powerful than when you did it with Abigail alone. If our shared orgasms are going to be like this every time you have sex with one of us, then I don’t really care who you’re doing it with. Just as long as you’re doing it long, and often.

  Maybe all four of us should try sharing the same bed sometime, the night elf suggested.

  Uh, I’ll have to pass on that, Abigail sent.

  Me too, Gwen added. First of all I’m not sure of the mechanics of it, second of all I’m kind of turned off by female parts, if you catch my drift.

  I can teach you the mechanics, Ziatrice told her. I can also teach you to be aroused by female parts.

  Again, that’s a pass from me, Gwen sent.

  Malem couldn’t help but smile.

  And wipe that grin off your face, Breaker! Gwen added.

  What, who me? He closed the mental conversation with that, and then shut his eyes to sleep.

  Ziatrice snuggled against him and said, softly: “We’re going to conquer the world together, you and I.”

  “Just the two of us?” he said. “What about Gwen and Abigail? Or Xaxia?”

  “They can come along for the ride,” Ziatrice said.

  He chuckled, and looked away.

  “I’m serious about this,” the night elf pressed.

  “I know you are,” he told her. “Why do you think I’m laughing?”

  That got him a punch in the arm.

  He only laughed harder, and then closed his eyes. “What am I going to do with you?”

  He certainly had his hands full.

  But that was the way he liked it.

  Malem slept with Ziatrice at his side. She woke him up and tried to have sex with him a few hours later, but he was unable to perform. He was just too winded from the combined effects of battle and their previous lovemaking. She pouted but accepted his excuse, promptly vacating the tent to find some food.

  Meanwhile he went back to sleep.

  When he awoke, it was pitch black outside. All the cooking fires of the main camp were out, but some fires were still burning in the area set aside to the camp followers, and he made his way there and purchased a roast chicken from an enterprising merchant who ran a late-night rotisserie.

  Malem sat down on a small stump next to the fire to eat his chicken. He tore into the breast and came away with a big chunk. He chewed hungrily, feeling the juices flowing down his chin. He wiped them away and took another ravenous bite.

  He flat-out devoured most of that chicken, but started to feel full when there was about a quarter left. He began to slow down.

  It was then that he sensed Abigail approaching in the night.

  “I felt you get up,” she said when she appeared within the pool of light produced by the rotisserie flame. She wore her usual figure-hugging red dress with the gold-laced bodice. This particular dress was a little frayed around the edges. She only had a limited supply of the dresses, after all, considering how far away from home she was. And the seamstresses among the camp followers were likely too busy mending the different leather armors among the Alliance members to offer her any repairs on something as frivolous as a dress.

  He beckoned toward the empty stump beside him, and she took the seat. He was careful to keep his arms well away from the hilt at his waist: even brushing Balethorn in her presence could cause the sword to begin singing for her blood.

  He tore away a leg from the remaining quarter of the chicken and offered it to her.

  She shook her head.

  He shrugged, and bit into it.

  “We’re losing, aren’t we?” he said after a time.

  She didn’t answer. At least not immediately. “I wouldn’t say we’re losing. But we aren’t gaining any traction, either. We’re essentially locked in a stalemate. The Metal dragons have nullified the air superiority the Night dragons granted Vorgon’s armies, and for all intents and purposes both sides are effectively equal. It’s become a war of attrition.”

  “Is that the official line?” her asked.

  “No,” she said. “Only mine.”

  He bit into the last of the chicken, and tossed the picked-clean carcass into the flames. “I’d have to disagree. Stalemate? No, this isn’t a stalemate. We’re not equal. The last sortie we just did beyond enemy lines demonstrates my point. We killed a Black Sword. That should be a big deal. Losing one’s top general? The commander of one of the strongest armies in his host? In any other army, it would be a devastating blow. But not for Vorgon. No, he’ll merely replace Barrowfore with another. The king was just another cog in the great wheel of Vorgon’s war machine.

  “The same is true of the Balor’s entire army. We keep killing his oraks, but he simply produces more of them. No matter how many we fell, always there are more for us to fight the next day. Their vast host never diminishes. Whereas the Alliance members—humans and Metal dragons alike—have limited numbers. That’s not a stalemate in my book.”

  “I think your wrong about that,” she said. “The oraks are diminishing. They have to be.”

  “I’ve heard differently from my talks among the men, and my own observations on the field of the battle,” he said. “No matter how many we hew down, the oraks always come back stronger than ever. They’re even worse than Troglodons. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if Vorgon had found a way to make oraks reproduce just as easily as Troglodons do.”

  She studied him for a moment in the firelight. “What about the night elves, dwarves, and other races Vorgon has conquered? They have limited numbers. As do th
e dragons that fight for him.”

  Malem nodded. “That’s true. And if those were the only foes we faced, then I’d agree with you that this was a war of attrition. But they’re not. Vorgon seems able to tap into an infinite supply of troops from the underworld. There are rumors among the men that he opens a portal to his home realm nightly to retrieve fresh units.”

  Abigail sat quietly in the dark. “Why haven’t I heard any of this from the members of the war council?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they just don’t want you to know. They could be worried you Metals will abandon them. If it were known that all of this was futile, with our numbers diminishing by the day, while Vorgon’s only grew, the Metals would be hard-pressed to justify continuing this war. As would the other members of the Alliance.”

  “So you think they’re afraid of breaking the Alliance?” she pressed.

  “Again, I don’t know what’s going on in the minds of the other council members,” he said. “But if I were a king struggling to hold together a fragile alliance against a superior foe, and I learned of this, I’d certainly tell my generals to keep the news quiet.”

  “How come you’ve never brought this up at the meetings?” she asked.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be the one who breaks the Alliance.”

  “But you’ve told me, just now,” she said.

  “I have,” he agreed. “I leave the choice up to you, whether you want to reveal this to Prince Jayden and your father and risk breaking the Alliance, or keep it to yourself.”

  “Great, wonderful,” she said.

  He shrugged. “You’re closer to them than I ever will be. The choice is better in your hands. The lives of your people are at stake.”

  “And yet the humans are your people, and they’re at stake as well,” she said.

  He smiled, staring out to gaze into the night. “You know I’ve never considered myself one of them.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re better than them,” Abigail spat.

  “No,” he said. “Not better, but not worse, either. Just not… part of them. I’m too different to belong. I’ve been touched by a Balor. I can Break monsters.”

  He smiled sadly and returned his attention to the flames.

  He hadn’t been entirely truthful to her, because she was right: he did feel he was better than other people; he just didn’t want to admit it aloud. He tried telling himself his abilities didn’t make him superior to anyone, but that was a lie, and every iota of his being knew it. He told himself that ordinary people didn’t have to deal with the curse that came with those abilities, the Darkness, and that’s what balanced them out. Yet even with that festering, always pursuing Darkness, he couldn’t deny he had powers that normal humans could only dream of.

  Those abilities were part of the terrible temptation he felt: binding the three women had awakened a thirst for power inside of him unlike anything he’d experienced in his life. He wanted more of that power, which meant Breaking more half monsters. So far he’d successfully denied the thirst, but he often gazed toward the camp of the Metals and imagined sneaking into the tents of pretty half dragons late at night and Breaking them during sex.

  Abigail had told her father, the king, of his gifts, though she hadn’t yet revealed that Malem had Broken her as well. The king in turn had warned the Metals about him, and forbidden them from coming into contact with him, so seducing any more dragons would be a daunting proposition. Yet Malem loved a challenge, and he felt he could find at least a few willing subjects to whom the promise of limitless pleasure would supersede their loyalty to their king.

  Yes, if he stayed here any longer, he might just give in to that temptation. He hoped the Darkness came soon, forcing him to get away for a while.

  Then again, maybe giving in to temptation wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  But if he thought he had a hard time juggling all the women now, he could only imagine what things would be like if he started bringing a whole lot more of them into the fold.

  I don’t want any more women. Three is enough.

  And yet, he did want more.

  Hell, a part of him wanted to seduce all the half monsters in the world.

  A small part, of course.

  A figure suddenly came dashing into the clearing, rousing Malem from his tempestuous thoughts. The flames illuminated a noble face too handsome to belong to an ordinary man; the sigil of a fiery talon engraved into his tunic gave away his half dragon status.

  “There you are, my lady,” the man said breathlessly, offering a low bow. “Reyna told me she spotted you coming this way.”

  “What is it?” Abigail asked.

  “Your presence has been requested at the war council,” he replied.

  “A war council, at this hour?” Abigail said.

  “That is correct,” the half dragon told her.

  Abigail exchanged a worried glance with Malem.

  5

  Malem entered the main tent and took his customary seat at the war council. He was considered the official liaison between Ziatrice and the orak army. Ziatrice herself wasn’t allowed at the meetings—too many among the council had faced her on the field of battle when she fought at the head of the night elf army, back in her Black Sword days, and the memories weren’t exactly fond. Most still didn’t fully trust her. Nor Malem himself, for that matter.

  That said, he always shared his vision and hearing with her while participating in a council session, so even though she remained inside her tent on the outskirts of the camp, it was essentially the same as if she sat in the war tent herself. Malem was careful not to reveal that tidbit to anyone, of course.

  General Rashan stood up when everyone was present. The leader of Goldenthall’s army possessed a battle-hardened mien, with skin so weathered one would be forgiven for believing it was made of tanned leather. His face was otherwise gaunt, with cheeks poking out at hard angles and stretching the surrounding skin too tight. A scar above his right brow cut across his temple and into his receding hairline. Below it, his haunted eyes were sunken, with heavy bags underneath as if he hadn’t slept in days. Which he probably hadn’t—Rashan was known for staying up to direct the different shifts of his army over several rotations. Some thought he never slept, and instead subsisted entirely on endurance herbs. Probably wasn’t true—Malem doubted the man would still be alive if it was. Not just from lack of sleep, but from the mistakes such terrible weariness could cause.

  Barely visible within his grizzled beard, his lips were chapped, despite the fact they glistened beneath the candlelight with freshly smeared moisturizing ointment. Below that, he wore a simple uniform of chain mail like a common soldier, not surprising, considering he was instrumental in laying down the rule that senior officers were to dress no differently than the men beneath them.

  “We just received word from Mulhadden,” the general said without preamble. “Tartan’s Vale has been surrounded by the Eldritch army of Queen Mauritania.” Tartan was the capital city of Mulhadden, and Tartan’s Vale was the valley it resided in.

  “Impossible,” General Fields said. He led the combined armies of Redbridge and the other cities of the eastern Midweald. He had the bronze complexion associated with most people hailing from the forest cities, and while he was close to his middle years, he looked like a youth compared to Rashan. As did most of the other generals and advisers at the table, save for the mages, which explained why Rashan’s words held such weight. The most distinguishing characteristic of Fields was his mustache, which hung in long whiskers down either side of his mouth.

  “We would have received word weeks ago if the Eldritch broke ranks,” Fields continued. “The latest from our scouts is that they remain dug in to the north, well behind enemy lines, and close to Vorgon’s command center.”

  “The Metals have confirmed this,” Abigail said. “The Eldritch have not moved.”

  “Even so, Queen Mauritania’s armies can’t be in two places at once,” R
ashan said. “I believe Vorgon has somehow managed to conceal their passage away from the front lines, and through our lands. What you have seen is a deception.”

  A white-bearded mage in attendance nodded slowly. His name was Eralas. Malem had been told this one’s beard once trailed almost to his feet, but he had shaved it down to more closely match the facial hair of other soldiers. “Not much is known about Eldritch magic, save for its deadliness. Though hiding an army of that size would be a feat even for them, bordering on the impossible.”

  “And yet Ziatrice sneaked around our ranks as well, and across the surrounding countryside, to attack Fallow Gate,” Fields said.

  “Yes, but Ziatrice followed an unconventional path to the north,” another general said. Malem forgot the man’s name, but he was dark-skinned, and a ferocious fighter.

  The mage, Eralas, tapped his chin in thought. “Ziatrice left behind her night elves, taking oraks with her so we wouldn’t realize she had gone. Mauritania has obviously done the same.”

  “No, the message I received explicitly states that her entire army of Eldritch are with her, not oraks,” Rashan said. “There are no black or red dragons accompanying her, either.”

  “You’re certain you can trust the messenger?” Fields asked.

  Rashan nodded. “Positive. He’s the cousin of the King Goldenthall himself. I know the man well. He got out through the tunnels before the vale was completely surrounded.”

  “You’re telling us this because you’re going to pull back your army to Mulhadden, aren’t you?” the dark-skinned general said. Nefeyus. That was his name.

  Before Rashan could answer, Fields spoke up. “It’s obvious Vorgon is attempting to shift the balance of power in his favor by causing the Alliance to crumble. If even one member departs now, at this critical juncture, rushing away to defend their homeland, the others will flee, too. Remember, it only takes one to cause a rout. We’ll essentially have to flee, considering the troops of Mulhadden compose the bulk of our forces at this point, and Vorgon will easily crush those who remain behind. With nothing to hold back the dark tide of his forces, the Balor will eventually come knocking at our doors individually, crushing our kingdoms one by one. Blood will flow freely across plains that haven’t seen war in over two hundred years.”