All she could do was pray it was worth it.
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Book Sixteen
Harem Brides of the Goblin King
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Cover artwork by Deilan12
Map of the Empire of Istanov
Beaten Down
Targi of the Bonespine clan knew the promise of the Duke of Ashes. All monsters in the realm that had been Istanov did. A promise of land and food aplenty. Of the humans made slaves; their men killed, their women enthralled with the seed of monsters, bearing their conqueror’s children. Willing, supple females who could think of nothing more than tasting their master’s cock.
And under the leadership of the Duke, it had come to pass.
Sure, there had been setbacks. Slaughters. The Empress’s resistance and her eventual enslavement. The huntresses. The sieges. But victory was in the grasp of the Duke. The lands of man had fallen under the shadow of the monster. Their time had come.
But apparently, someone had forgotten about Targi.
“Nnnn!” the gertling groaned, shuffling forward under the weight of the stone. He was a thin creature, like all his kind. Thin but wiry, with muscles taut. His stunted frame came up to a man’s waist, his ragged ears flopping out the sides of his head, his nose long and hooked, and his only clothes a tattered loincloth passed down from generation to generation.
Around him loomed the ruined keep of some knighthood or lord. It didn’t really matter. They were long dead, and in their place, the orcs had moved in.
“Move it, slave!” one of the taskmasters roared. The whip cracked in the air and Targi yelped, shuffling faster, his broad feet slapping the stone. Oh yes, the gertling thought bitterly as he heaved his stone into one of the many massive holes in the castle’s walls. The orcs had moved in. And every goblin tribe within a thirty-mile radius had been conscripted into work rebuilding the keep for chief Gorus.
Targi laboured with the rest of his tribe. The courtyard of the once mighty keep was a pathetic affair. The stables had been converted into use by one of the tribes under the thumb of the orcs. Cookpots and crude tents scattered across the rest of it. The gertlings weren’t allowed in the keep proper, which though crumbling was still a strong fortress against the elements. Oh no. That was the domain of the orcs. Instead, he and his kind slept and worked beneath a sky of iron grey, with grim rolling clouds that dulled the world to a monochrome hue.
Targi groaned and sat down on some convenient rocks, slumping in exhaustion.
“Black orc again.”
Targi’s ears perked up. He glanced back to see two orc warriors deep in conversation, their words muffled and wary.
“Yes. Orc raid patrol. Kill six. Others ran.”
“What Gorus do?”
The other orc scoffed. “What think? He kill Urgrin. No come back without head of enemy. Especially not with warriors dead.”
“Hr. Should put me in charge. Me find black one. Me kill.”
Targi quickly turned his head lest the pair spot him eavesdropping. So. The Black Orc had killed more of Gorus’s minions? The gertling smirked. Good. Let them be reminded they aren’t the biggest thing in these woods. Not that it mattered, he mused. Everyday there were more orcs coming by, eager to join the horde of Gorus.
The clink of chains made Targi lift his head. Every other gertling labouring at the wall paused and turned towards the keep. Targi tightened his lips. Was it that time already?
Grimly, the gertling watched as the wooden doors of the main keep swung open. Moments later, Gorus himself stepped out, the tall, broad orc resplendent in his battered armour. Steel as dark as his heart, his tusks jutting up from his lower jaw, his eyes beady and sharp. His shaven head was scarred hideously, the result of burning oil during a siege before the Duke came, blinding the orc with one milky eye.
But Gorus was far from the object of the gathered gertling’s attention. No. Targi and their eyes were pulled automatically to the two beauties attending the brutal warlord.
Buxom, fair, the pair were said to have been the twin daughters of some high-ranking sorcerer before the war. Targi remembered the battle that had won the pair. He’d been among those who’d climbed the walls of the magic academy and put the place to the torch. By the time he’d reached the main hall, it too was in flame, the headmaster’s headless corpse nailed over the front door, and the two blonde beauties moaning as Gorus claimed their cunts for his own.
That night had been the first for the women and the glowing mark of the eye had burned above the pair’s mons. Today it remained, pulsing faintly, marking them as bred by their brutal master. Their breasts were bared, heavy and flush. They’d probably be milky by now, Targi thought, licking his lips slightly. Steel collars hung around their necks, chains running from them to Gorus’s fist. The only clothes they wore to hide their supple frames were a pair of tight fitted chastity belts of heavy steel. Ones that clung to their hips and quims like some depraved treasure box, the keyholes stark and tempting.
Oh, what Targi would give to pick those locks. But that was not for him. Not for any of the germlings who drooled at the sight of the two beauties. No. They, and the dozen or so other women hidden in the harem chamber within the keep, were for the orcs.
And this display was a pointed reminder of that.
Gorus surveyed the crumbling walls with his one good eye. He curled his scarred lip in contempt, his broad hands moving, enveloping the hips of the two girls and tugging them against his frame. The pair squeaked, then cooed and pawed at their master’s muscled frame, their eyes glassy with ensorcelled worship for the brute.
“Still not done,” he said.
“We work gertlings hard, chief,” the taskmaster said.
Gorus glanced at the other orc, who stiffened under his chief’s hard eye. “Not hard enough,” Gorus growled.
The taskmaster stammered but Gorus merely turned away and back to looking over his broken castle. Targi kept his eyes down, knowing too well what came to those who caught the orc’s eye.
“Listen!” Gorus bellowed, his voice thundering around the crumbling towers and ragged courtyard of the old keep. “You work hard for chief Gorus, and bring great castle to me! Me and orcs build mighty kingdom of orc, with me chief!
“Gertlings work hard. And when castle complete, you get reward. You get slaves!”
Targi swallowed thickly as the orc yanked the chains and pulled the two girls to his feet. They fell, sprawling, but almost at once crawled back to him feet, cooing and gasping.
“If you work for orcs, one day, you get slave too!” Gorus said, smirking as the two sluts eagerly pulled open his pants, revealing his chubby, inhuman shaft. Gorus grasped their heads, shoving them against his cock, grinning as the pair moaned and began to lap at his heavy, musky balls, their tongues dancing and bathing his thick cock. “Hrrr. You work good, and you get sluts one day for mating. Breeding bitches for gertlings, like these!”
Targi sincerely doubted that. After all, it stood to reason that there were only so many human women to go around. Save the capital of Moskov, so distant, and the ports where slaves from Shadobbar still were brought, there wasn’t a place with a large group of women remaining. Maybe if they invaded the mighty kingdom of Heimsvak next, like some were saying, but Targi doubted he’d survive another invasion. No, there just weren’t enough girls to go around. Surely not enough to satisfy the many gertlings present, let alone the orcs.
But he saw that reasoning escaped the rest of his tribe. Their eyes were arrested to the debauched scene unfolding before them. How Gorus grasped the head of one buxom blonde, forcing her lips on to the orc’s thick shaft, the chief growling as he rudely fucked her face, choking the girl. Targi winced at the sight, feeling for the poor slut, even as he felt his warty little cock stiffen with delight. His hand grasp it beneath his loincloth and he began to stroke himself.
“Hrrrr!!” Gorus groaned. “Sluts nee
d taming! Need mighty master. When castle done and chief king! Then I let gertlings have brood sluts! You fuck like me. Like chief!”
The girl whose lips were wrapped around Gorus’s cock moaned as she sucked him, lost in the heady musk of his cock. Gorus threw back his head, roaring in completion as he came, pumping his cum into the hungry mouth of his slut, holding her there even as she choked and struggled to take all of the orc’s fountaining seed.
Targi was stroking himself faster. Faster. Feeling the sweet heat of arousal racing through him. Oh, he was gonna cum! Going to splash his oily seed all over the ground, even as Gorus shoved the first twin off his cock and slammed his shaft into the lips of the other.
“Hn. Nn! Nnnnnn!” Targi moaned as he came, his tiny cock spurting, hardly the only one. Near every one of his fellow gertlings were jerking off at the sight of the two women being claimed by their orcish chief.
And all the while the orc guards watched, smirking at the pathetic display. Not bothering to fondle themselves. After all, they would have time with true female flesh. A chance to claim the harem slaves within the keep.
Targi felt the bitterness fill the empty space left by his orgasm dripping from his fingers. He tucked his little cock back beneath his loincloth, even as Gorus came again. The orc chief shoved the girl off his cock, then planted his boot on her ample bottom and shoved her towards the keep.
“Inside, sluts! Time I take!”
The two women crawled towards the doors like dogs, their ample breasts swaying beneath them, their faces smeared with spunk, the chains which collared them to the hand of the brutal chief clinking as he followed. Their generous hips swung from side-to-side as they crawled and the gertlings watched longingly. As soon as they were past the doors the guards slammed them shut, the boom echoing across the courtyard.
The echoes hadn’t even faded before the taskmaster snapped his whip. “Back to work!” the orc bellowed. “Move!”
The gertlings scattered like rats under the light of a lantern, a few wailing as the licking tongue of the whip caught them. But even so Targi saw his fellow tribe members race to work with eagerness, buoyed by the promise of slaves in the future and fertile females for the taking.
As he saw this, Targi realized with a suddenness that surprised him he was sick of it all. Sick of labouring with his tribe for an orc that would never truly reward them but for the crumbs of his pleasures. One who used his women like worse than pets. At least you cared for pets.
No. Gorus was no king, even if he had a castle.
But… perhaps a king wasn’t such a bad idea.
Before he knew what he was doing, Targi was walking towards a hole in the wall. The guards didn’t bother trying to stop him. Often the gertlings went outside the walls to hunt or gather more stone. But Targi’s mind was far from such labours.
Yes. A king. A gertling king. One who knew how to rule. One who kept not pets or slaves of his women. But brides. Brood mothers whose loyalty was to their mated master. Yes. Yes, that would be nice. Nicer than breaking his back on walls of crumbling stones for the taste of a whip and bitter promises. Yes. Targi. King. King like the humans had.
A heady fantasy. And one that carried him into the forest, and deeper into the realms of old Istanov.
Treasures
A fantasy that lasted until he was in the broken down old farm house and shivering in the cold.
“Stupid weather,” the gertling grumbled as he used an old wooden spoon to dig at the hard packed earth of the cottage. It was tough going. The ground had hardened in the cold. Far harder than it had been to dig the hole the first time. But Targi knew it would be worth it.
He just wished it wasn’t such a pain in the ass.
“Stupid ground. Stupid orcs. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…”
His words found roost in the cracked rafters of the abandoned house. Mice watched him from hollows in the walls, tense. But Tragi ignored them. Too busy working. He’d eat later.
The initial flush of his plan had faded now. Hard labour will do that. But the gertling’s rat-sharp mind had turned to more realistic prospects. He realized now that a castle would be far too much for him. He’d have to settle for an old tower or maybe a lord’s former hall. Whatever. That wouldn’t be hard. The nobility of Istanov were all dead, and nothing but their ancestral halls remained. Grand mausoleums to the ones who once resided within, now dead, their daughters enslaved, their lands plundered.
But the house would be the easy part. The hard part was the fact that the world was filled with dangerous monsters, and Targi was a stringy gertling. The lowest of the low. Even wugs had it better than him.
No. He was no Gorus. If he wanted power, he was going to need help.
Fortunately, then, Targi had a plan.
Targi was no genius. Nor was he particularly learned. But he was smart in that scheming, clever, petty way that the small can be. Anyone who had to try and deal with rats knew the smaller the creature, the more wicked their intellect. Survival at the lowest rung doesn’t leave room for the stupid. So Targi knew he himself would never achieve much. But as he knew that, he knew there were other ways. For a goblin chief was not strong because he was a warrior of strength and skill, but because his tribe followed him.
And though Tagi had no tribe anymore, he was going to find himself something better.
There were stories passed around the monster hordes. Tales told with a queer, quiet fascination. Of women enslaved to monsters who kept their wills and skills they wielded before. They spoke of the mightiest of orcs, Ghostheart, and how he enthralled the daughter of his owner, enslaved her even before the mark of the Duke made every woman in Istanov prey to the depravity of monster’s. That even when she had been gifted that mark, the woman had kept her will, and her devotion to her orcish mate, her mind intact.
Of course, some might attribute that simply to Ghostheart’s might, but Targi wasn’t so stupid. He’d heard the orcs of the tribe speak in contempt of other monsters. Those whose women had fallen for the creatures, and when enslaved, also kept their skills and wits, becoming more than moaning breeding sluts for the brutes. Such a thing had always fascinated Targi. Made him wonder, if such a thing were possible, what else could be done?
Something gleamed in the dirt.
Targi grinned, abandoned the spoon and pawed the hole wider. He grasped a golden chain and pulled it out. A ruby flashed in a setting of twining gold, dangling from the end of the chain. Targi stared at his prize, admiring its beauty.
He remembered well finding it. When he had joined the raid on the mage’s academy, he had seen one of the sorcerers use it. Holding it out, he had reflected back a spell cast by an orcish shaman, engulfing the brute in a curse that rotted the greenskin from the inside out. Of course, the sorcerer had then taken an axe to the head and toppled over, but in their rush the slayer of the sorcerer had failed to register the value of such a prize.
Targi had.
He’d snatched up that bloody amulet, and when the raid was done, stole away to the remote farmhouse and buried it in the ground. He knew too well that the orcs would seize his prize if given the chance, and Targi had no intention of giving it to the orcs. Now, if those brutes had let him have a woman, then maybe. But now, Targi knew he’d done the right thing. For this would be his ticket to power. The tool to begin to build his harem. A harem of women warriors devoted to him. Willing to serve him. Who would follow him and clear the way to the road of power. Yes, he would be a king. Not a king like Gorus or the human emperor. But something new. Something better.
And, he thought, knobby hands tightening on the amulet, he knew just where to start.
The Sorceress
The wind whistled through the crags of the Stassin Peaks. The chill cut to the quick, not helped by Targi’s lack of clothing. A bitter, barren land where nothing grew but weeds among the stones. No one would willingly go to such a place, as Targi could attest.
Normally, that would include him. But Targi had a reason for this. Li
ke the amulet tucked in his belt, he brought back one other prize from the raid on the magic academy. Not all were captured or killed in that battle. He recalled that one had escaped. A sorceress who blasted her way through the attacking horde, fleeing into the forest and towards the Stassin foothills. Gorus had no interest in pursuit. He had his slaves, and the sorceress had proven herself far more trouble than she was worth. Occasionally, word still trickled down to them of some monsters or orcs who sought her. Sometimes word was brought by survivors of those encounters, albeit often missing an arm, a leg, or much of their skin.
So the power of the sorceress was not to be questioned. A perfect candidate for Targi’s plan.
Now, all he had to do was talk to her before she reduced him to ash.
Targi wasn’t a coward, but he was a survivalist. No gertling was a complete coward, though they often seemed it. Cowardice didn’t exist for gertlings. When the only advantage your kind has is its numbers and ability to outbreed anything else, you took what you could get. You survived.
He shivered, wrapping his arms around his thin torso. Squinting, he plodded onwards and upwards, towards the distant peaks. He made no effort to hide himself. It would be pointless to do it. He didn’t want to hide. He needed to be found.
“They must be getting desperate to send a single gertling after me.”
Ah. And there it was.
Targi whipped about towards the voice and stared. At the end of the path a woman stood. She was of average height but above average build. A cloak shielded her from the elements, still despite the wind. An enchantment no doubt, which would go far to explain her attire. The whores of a red-light district dressed more modestly than the woman before him. A leotard bared her legs and thighs, reaching up and leaving a window to the valley of her ample breasts. Her long black hair framed a face of mocking beauty, her eyes pools of power.
The Pillaging of an Empire Page 75