He lowered himself gently on to her slim body. She linked her arms round his neck, and her nails dug into his back as he thrust again and again inside her. She arched, grinding her narrow hips in animal passion. They rolled and fell on one another, time and again. When he was panting for breath, she was on top of him, her legs gripping, until her was ready again. The intensity of her orgasms took away what little control Tom had over his body, and he erupted in ecstasy for what seemed like a lifetime.
They lay locked together, panting and covered in sweat, but then the girl shivered. Tom rolled on to his back. He rested an arm across his forehead. Neither spoke. Suzanne huddled close and kissed him. She laid her head on his chest, and drifted off to sleep. Tom pulled the light blanket over them, and felt her regular breathing as he stared at the ridge of the tent. With mixed and confused feelings, the events of the day eventually took him too, into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
Morning rose in full glory. The mists cleared like a fairy cloak, lifted from over the pastures and woods. The mountains reflected brilliant reds and yellows. Streams glittered like silver threads in an emerald forest. The sea pulsed with blue and white flashes. It was all wasted on Suzanne and Tom. They emerged more than halfway through the morning, hot, exhausted, but happy and relaxed, to a land in full sunlight. The only thing of any interest to them was the lake at the foot of the incline.
“Last one in’s an Arsolite.13” Suzanne charged naked towards the lake. Tom grabbed his sword and a few clothes and followed her lithe form down the slope.
The sun had already warmed the water, and burned down as they splashed about. Tom caught Suzanne in his arms and held her close to him in the shallows. She broke away laughing, and splashed him. Neither saw a movement in the trees at the far side of the lake.
Tom grinned and dived under the girl, pulling at her legs.
The tip of an arrow poked through the trees, and a bow bent in their direction. It tracked as Suzanne burst, laughing, out of the water. She disappeared as Tom caught her legs again. Beneath the surface, his lips found hers, and they emerged for air, holding each other tightly, and spinning in the glorious sunlight. Suzanne threw her head back in delight. There was a thud, and a shudder went through her body. With a gasp of pain, she went limp in his arms, and fell away. Tom caught her, and dragged her out of the water. He was horrified to see a short arrow projecting from between her shoulder blades. His hands cradled her head, supporting her under the arms. A thickset form disappeared, cackling, into the trees on the far side of the lake, the crimson lining of its black cloak clearly visible.
A voice came faintly over the water. “Ow does you like that, now? No one messes with the Smorgs again, aren’t I?”
Suzanne’s eyes flickered open. “It’s poisoned,” she stuttered. “We have an antidote in the pack. I’ve got a few minutes. Get it for me, please.” She fainted. Tom dragged her limp form out of the water and laid her, face down, on the sand. He plucked the arrow out of her soft, bronzed skin. It left hardly a mark. Her breathing grew shallower, and a deathly coldness started to spread over her body from the wound.
“The cure! How do I know what it is?” Tom shook her frantically. Her eyes tried to open, but failed.
“It’s so dark and... so cold.” Her whisper was barely audible.
“What is the cure!” he shouted in panic.
“The kit, find the kit...” She faded.
“Hang on, Angel.” He covered her with his cloak and ran desperately up the slope, back to the tent. He tried to push his way through the entrance—it would not budge. “The key code, what is the key code?” The number he had memorised refused to come. Precious seconds were wasted as he punched in several combinations until one responded. The flap parted and he pounced on Suzanne’s bag. He dragged it outside, and tipped it upside down in his haste to get at the medical kit.
The entire contents of the scaler bag poured over the grass and slipped away from him like a landslide. He tripped over ration boxes, clothing, small make-up bags, and shoes, as he tried to grab the medical kit, before it too disappeared into the bushes. He knew that, all the time, Suzanne’s life was ebbing. He fumbled with the box. The catch refused to open, so he grabbed a rock and smashed it. The compound, a universal ointment in a circular flat tin, popped into his hand almost automatically. He glanced at the instructions. ‘Alchy-Salsa Cream,’ it said, ‘Guaranteed to cure infection from all insertions, or your celibacy back’.
It was the only possible medicine. He took it, and a few other containers he could grab, and ran back to the lake. He skidded to a halt. Suzanne’s body had gone! His damp cloak was still there, but his girl wasn’t. He noted several sets of small footprints, dusted with black powder. His legs gave way, and he collapsed, with his head in his hands. He gave a wail of anguish. Suzanne had been grabbed by the Smorgs.
Special Delivery
Vac takes control.
Bluben gets the point.
A
tirade of blows rained on the main gate of the Skagan village. Few people heard, because the celebrations had gone on too late and most of the tribe were in bed. The guards around the palisade jerked out of their slumbers. Someone banged on the Elder’s hut, and she emerged some time later to stagger, bleary eyed towards the entrance gateway.
She peered through the bars of the gate. “We are being attacked,” she cried, and rushed back towards her hut to collect her sword, shouting all the way along to rouse the village. The hubbub alerted the guards, and a squad dashed out into the street, unaware of what was going on, but looking forward to killing something.
The Elder returned, leading a small force of soldiers to defend the entrance, and they busied themselves fitting extra crossbars to increase its strength. On her instructions, others dispersed to protect the palisade.
Silence returned, and the defenders relaxed, and began to mutter comments about false alarms and how they disturbed sleep patterns. Some had even started wandering back to their huts when they were buffeted by an explosion. The main gate shattered, raising a cloud of dust. Bleeding from cuts, grazes, splinters, and over-enthusiastic sexual games, the surviving guards retreated. They formed into ranks, as a torrent of armed Smorgs burst through the broken gateway. The Skagans blocked the street, and advanced in practised formation towards the enemy. As they engaged, they quickly realised that some of the Smorgs were armed with the most effective weapons available on the planet.
“Fire-sword!14” yelled one of the men, as some of his colleagues stared absently at the stumps of their arms and legs. “Avoid contact at all costs.”
“I think we bloody know that,” snarled another of the guards. “But I’m not going to let the loss of an arm slow me down. It doesn’t really hurt... well, not much.”
A smell of burnt flesh drifted around the compound, but the rest of the phalanx continued to advance under the command of the Elder. Blades flashed in the torchlight and despite the fearful weaponry of their opponents, the larger and more powerful Skagans began to repel the invaders. The Smorgs fought stubbornly, but they were outclassed. Their line broke and they fled in disarray. The Skagans cheered, sensing a victory, and followed hotly behind, cutting down stragglers, and carefully retrieving discarded weapons. The defence force swelled as the palisade guards joined in, spoiling for a fight.
They had pushed the enemy far beyond the gate, when a horn sounded. The retreating Smorgs turned and stood their ground. From all directions, wave upon wave of their comrades began pouring over the now undefended palisade. The Skagans hesitated in confusion, and the Smorgs they had been chasing seized the opportunity, and hacked back through the first line of defence.
The remainder of the guardians, assailed from all sides, fought their way desperately back into the village, and towards the main square. Never expecting to be attacked like this, the Skagans knew that the cookhouse was the only properly defensible building within the compound. “The tribe that eats togeth
er, stays together,” the Elder had said, and made sure that the cooking pots could be adequately protected until designated mealtimes. The Skagan men and women appreciated her wisdom as they fought and died, side by side, in their desperate retreat. The Smorgs pressed home their attack with steady determination.
* * *
A short while later, Vac led his small group of tired soldiers back towards the village. They had considered camping, but Vac was not one to appreciate sharing his sleeping bag with small beetles, when he could share it with his new woman. They had marched through the night, and wandered smugly out of the forest to report, having checked the area thoroughly, that there was no further sign of the Smorgs.
The self-satisfied expressions faded as they heard the sounds of battle, and roasting meat drifting upwards, and they stared in disbelief at the burning buildings. Vac had no need to give any order. They charged as a single unit down the slope to the village, and followed him through the side streets, past the hacked remains of their comrades, which were alarmingly many, and the Smorgs, which were satisfyingly more. They avoided isolated groups of pillaging Smorgs and headed for the central cookhouse. There, they knew they would find any survivors.
The centre of the village seemed deserted. The crackling, burning buildings sent clouds of smoke drifting lazily around the compound. Vac’s men used the cover, and they were able to reach the cookhouse without challenge. He pushed his way through the few guards on the entrance, leaving his squad to form an outer defence.
Inside the building, he found a few survivors: mostly children, preparing their final stand. They were loading small catapults with serrated wheel missiles, accurate but unable to cause serious damage to a full-grown warrior, without reasonable accuracy.
Vac found an injured veteran, who was limping around the room, attempting to organise the last stand. “What news, Rodney, old soldier?”
“Don’t you ‘old soldier’ me,” retorted the warrior. “I was taking arrows in the knee when you were still wondering what was happening between your legs. You will address me with respect.”
“Sorry, Mr Iron-Patella. What has been happening?”
“That’s better, you young whipper-smakker. We were taken unawares, we are about to be annihilated, and we’re going down fighting. Glory, sex and death!”
“You mean we’re done for?”
“Absolutely. Have you seen this lot?” He waved his hand dismissively around his remaining force. “Not a chance in Watford15 of surviving. We knocked them back, several times, but more keep coming. I think they are currently re-grouping. Didn’t you see them when you were scouting?”
I guess they were all hiding in the forest, outside the compound,” said Vac. “We didn’t think of looking there.”
“It wouldn’t have helped,” said Rodney Iron-Patella. “There are too many of them.” He sighed. “Our people are doing their best. I suppose I should go and join the last stand at the doorway. Come on you lot; battle formation 637-Epsilon.”
“What the fuck is that?” said one of the defenders.
“Sorry, haven’t you studied the manual?”
“No, too busy shagging and eating for that sort of crap.”
“Last ditch battle line-up, then,” said Rodney. “A row of the best fighters at the front and whoever’s left behind, ready to take their places when they fall.”
“Oh that one. Why didn’t you say?”
“How does that differ from battle plan 636-Delta,” asked someone else. “I was working to that one.”
“Fuksake16,” said Rodney. “Just kill and be killed, will you?”
“Right-o, Iron-Patella. I was only checking.”
There had been a temporary lull in the fighting, as the Smorgs convened a tactical session in one of the surviving huts. Then the clear metallic sound from their war horns echoed round the buildings. This was followed, almost immediately, by the sound of marching feet, as another army of Smorgs filed through the broken gates. They took the places of the original soldiers, and deployed into a circle, silently surrounding the cookhouse.
A large Smorg, wearing the crimson-lined cloak of office, stamped importantly out of the meeting, fresh and shiny from a warm shower. He shouted confidently at the defenders, who were currently making obscene hand gestures at him. “It’s a complete waste of time you resisting, be you. Throw down your weapons and up yourselves give, isn’t it?”
“No way,” shouted back Vac. “We will never yield to a gang of stumpy-legged troglodytes. Do your worst. We are ready.”
“You had your warning, don’t they,” shouted the leader. He raised his arm, and the Smorgs hurled themselves into a battle with only one possible conclusion. Fire-swords flashed in the smoky air, and the Skagans fell back, overwhelmed, towards the doorway.
Smorgs appeared to be everywhere, despite the numbers who were being hacked to pieces by the defenders. Piles of their bodies blocked the way to the cookhouse, and still they came, clambering over an ever-increasing mountain of corpses. Despite the spirited defence, the Skagan force was diminishing, one by one.
The fighting moved closer to the cookhouse, over the last defensive ditch and herb garden. They reached the doorway. The defenders were now less than a dozen adults, mainly women. Several of the larger children were sniping through the windows, and picking the Smorgs off with their catapults, as they pushed onwards. The thin whine and sickening wet thuds of the missiles added to the cries and crashes of the melee.
Vac was cut and bleeding, but so far had survived, owing to his strength and skill. He also had the biggest sword. Two more of his men fell, and as he tried to cover for them, a spear broke through his defence and pushed him hard against the cookhouse wall. He was inches away from being skewered, when a sword crashed down on the shaft of the spear, smashing it in two. The Smorg threw it down in disgust, and grabbed another from one of his men, levelling it for a throw. Vac glanced at the blonde girl who had temporarily prolonged his life, shrugged an apology for their annihilation, and lowered his guard ready for the inevitable deathblow.
The horn sounded again. Somebody shouted, “Right men, all out, haven’t they!” The Smorg held Vac’s stare of defeat, still poised to throw the spear. The call came again. “Drop everything I tell you; we’re out of here… right now, don’t you!”
The Smorg lowered his spear, and spat black spittle, in disgust. “Next time, Skagan scum, won’t it…” As a final insult, he turned his back on Vac, and joined his comrades as they melted into the darkness. The children’s missiles continued to bounce harmlessly off their armour, and sometimes not so harmlessly off unprotected necks, until they were all out of range. The village fell silent, except for the crackling of fire from the burning huts. The surviving Skagans were silent with disbelief and relief.
Breathing heavily, Vac flopped down and closed his eyes. “They have gone,” he said incredulously, as his seventh sense worked overtime. Then he looked at the girl who had saved his life. He motioned her to him and pulled her down as she leaned over. Blood had congealed on a cut along her cheek, and her clothing was torn and muddy, but she still held a poise of arrogance. She appeared slimmer and less curvaceous than the other women of his village: perhaps she was younger. He seemed to know her. Someone lit a torch, and he saw that she was exceptional, even by Skagan standards. She had a slightly longer face, and higher cheekbones than the women of his tribe, and her wispy blonde hair seemed to have two distinct shades in it. “Do I know you?” he asked.
She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I am Tanda, of Minrimmon, the daughter of the chief there.” She pulled herself up straight. “You, however, will probably recognise me as the ‘pathetic serving girl’ you took to your hut, earlier. I hope you feel pleased with yourself, you bastard, thank you.”
Vac fidgeted, mopped his brow and lowered his gaze. “You look older now,” he mumbled.
“I’m not surprised, after this,” she continued. “I had come over to warn your vill
age that the Smorgs were on the rampage and had already attacked our settlements, but you wouldn’t listen. I eventually was able to pass my message, and was helping out in the cookhouse when you took me.”
Vac looked surprised. “The Elder already knew the Smorgs were coming? But why then did she send me away on a wild Smorg chase?”
Tanda scratched her head. “Perhaps she knew the village was doomed, and wanted the Skagan race to survive. She is dead you know, died fighting bravely to enable us to retreat here.”
“A noble death. She was a great leader.”
“I thought you said you had no respect for her, on account of her age, and her choice of interior décor?”
“Everyone is perfect after they die. You only have to look at the local papers.
“She left you a message.”
“What?”
“She said, ‘What the Phoist are you doing back here, you stupid drongo?17 I sent you away to keep you out of all this.’”
Vac’s eyes narrowed. “I see. What of your own village, Tanda?”
“I regret that my community has already been destroyed. The people you see here are the survivors of all the tribes.”
“But what of Onsloe, leader of our council?” Vac asked.
“Onsloe, my father, is dead. You, as now the most senior Skagan surviving, are therefore the next in line, and must accept the leadership of the seven tribes of Skagos, although we can hardly call ourselves that now. More like the ‘Pathetic remnants of a once proud race of warmongers.”
“At least we can write new sagas now,” said Vac. “Are there no other survivors?”
“I fear not.”
“Then I have no choice.” Vac puffed out his chest. “I will lead the remains of the tribes in revenge for this outrage. We will have our vengeance, although it may take some time to rebuild the population.”
The Legend of Dan Page 11