“Sure. Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”
She turned, her robe whisking about her like crimson wings as she walked away from the throne, Androse having forgotten her and her warning already, and instead burying his face between the full tits of a nearby serving wench, while another refilled his goblet before he noticed it empty. Viana thought that wise. Who knew what Androse would do if he ever was sober. The man’s natural state the last few weeks was drunk or pissed or possibly both.
Viana strode down the echoing halls of the palace. The enchanted glass of the stained windows still gleamed, reflecting a rosy vision of the city beyond, stripping away the smoke and chaos in favour of an idealized view of the capital. One which was also hopelessly out of date. Most of the buildings seen through the windows didn’t even exist anymore. She should know. She’d wandered the city often, checking in at oddity shops for lost relics, quizzing the guards at the gates, working on the wards, and laughing at the homeless. She sighed, tucking her arms behind her back, tilting her head as she felt the ever-warm air of the palace brush her face. A temperature maintained through magic, as much of the sorcery built into the place was. Even in the dead of winter within those walls it would feel like a spring day. Pastoral beauty without any of the inconvenient things like peasants or cows.
She shrugged. Not her problem. She’d given the message. Now, time to report.
Her steps took her deeper into the inner sanctums of the palace. Where the halls grew still and tense. Where none of the excesses of the Istanovian nobility had ever penetrated. It was too cold here. Too quiet. Too still. It made people nervous, the hairs on the back of the neck prickling with the animal instinct of the strange and disturbing. Apt, considering the inner sanctums of the palace were where the Red Mages kept their quarters.
She reached the Gilded Hall in good order, passing the towering sentries made of crimson steel, worked in the shapes of ancient Istanovian armour. They were old work. Work from back when Moskov was but one of dozens of warring princelings and petty kingdoms. Before it had carved itself an empire, with the aid of the Red Mages. She reached the great doors, sealed shut with a vast array of locks and seals like some vast clockwork mechanism.
Viana waved her hand, tracing a tricky pattern, red sparks crackling from her fingertips. The great locks moved, the gears whirring and chains rattling as it undid itself, the mechanisms peeling back like curtains, the door opening, allowing her through.
Within was still. A room of cathedral scope and silence, its rafters lost to the darkness, though globes of light swirled in lazy arcs and cryptic shapes. Below men and women in red laboured in quiet industry, moving across a floor of glass inlaid with strange geometries. An ever more complex system as the mages in the room chiseled into the gleaming floor further designs with almost painful accuracy.
A thin figure watched it all, his hood up, his robe stitched with gold designs. Viana grinned and sauntered forward. “Hey Strakken. How’s it going?”
Well enough, the voice said in her head. Strakken turned, his white mask seeming to hover in the darkness of his hood, the eyeholes burning with a red light. Did you inform the emperor?
“I did. Doubt he listened though. He was a little busy,” she said, poking a finger through a ring made of her thumb and index finger.
Indeed. He turned back to the work of the mages as they carefully scratched the designs out in the glass. No matter. We have done what was necessary.
Viana came up beside him, peering at the etchings. “You’re sure this will work?”
It will. We have everything necessary.
Viana glanced over to where a slightly portly, bald man was overseeing the work of the mages, checking diagrams he had written on a scroll before directing the other sorcerers. “You’re sure? After Arven… you know.”
That is exactly why I have confidence in our companion. Arven is eager to prove himself once again. He has lost the distractions which once held him. This world has nothing for him anymore.
She shrugged. “I guess. Still. He left it close. Will we be done in time? The monsters have breached the walls.”
We will. For we must. The world depends upon it.
Viana shrugged, pursing her lips as she watched the designs take shape.
Flight
Arman dragged her down the halls of the palace. Catherine panted, her slippered feet slapping off the gleaming floor as she stumbled after him. But she kept going. Kept running.
Because even now she could hear the screams.
They passed over the wall of the gatehouse and Catherine slowed, horror holding her for a stunned moment as she looked down into the courtyard. The inner gate had fallen, the imperial guard in their black uniforms fighting frantically against a stream of horrors surging through the broken gate.
Arman’s pulling called her back to the present. “Catherine! Come on!”
She stumbled after him, the knight throwing open a door into an adjoining tower. They sped down the hallway and into one of the maze-like passages that so defined the inner workings of the palace of Moskov. Stained glass filtered a crimson glow like all the walls were washed with blood. Turning a corner, she gasped in horror, a wulfen crouched of a dead guard. The beast swung its head, bloodied jaw lifting in a grin as his yellow eyes beheld her. But it was the beast’s mistake to focus on her, for without even slowing Arman had drawn his blade and brought it down, biting through the monster’s neck, sending its head bouncing off the tiled floor and its corpse collapsing.
Catherine stumbled after Arman, her eyes riveted to the gory scene. She shook herself, focusing on the now. Once the halls had been filled with the sounds of celebration and excess. Now it echoed with screams and cries.
They raced down a grand hall where former celebrants were milling about. At least, those who weren’t collapsed atop the cushions, so drowned in drink and hasha that they were already numbed to the emergency taking place.
A fat man in little more than a toga made from a bed sheet grabbed Arman’s arm. “You! Knight! Defend me! I’ll reward you! A title! Land! Whatever you want!”
Arman shoved him off, the fat man staggering before falling to the floor, squirming like a seal as he tried to right himself. Catherine clapped her hands to her ears to drown out his wail of despair as they passed the room by.
Down. Down. Down steps carved in stone, into the dark depths of the palace. Catherine shuddered at the growing scent of blood. She knew that many of the nobles of the palace had been delving into more sadistic pleasures as the time wore on and the simpler orgiastic pleasures lost their lustre. She tried not to look at the bloody hooks and tortuous instruments they passed. The sizzling coals or masses of twisted flesh bound by chains and on racks. Things that had once been human, and she prayed had since gone beyond the realm of their torments.
Arman threw his shoulder against a cell door, the old metal giving way with a bang against the wall. He pushed his way inside the narrow space, Catherine following, gagging at the scent of misery and filth that clung to the room.
“Here. Drink this.”
Catherine fumbled for the flask he pushed on her and took a sip. She gasped as the burning liquid went down her throat. “What… what is that?”
“Something to help us escape,” Arman said as he took the flask back, taking a quick drink himself before beginning to feel the bricks on the wall.
Catherine hung back, watching him work, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her gown as she glanced out the cell, where the holt coals in sconces lit the room behind them in a hazy red glow. She bit her lip, her body warming. A sensation that spread through her slowly. Coming to focus in her breasts. Her core. Tingling in her nipples.
She was panting, she realized. Her head spinning a little. Her breath coming in short, hot gasps.
“Done!” Arman finally said, a brick sinking into the wall. She stepped back as a whole portion of the wall opened with a groan, revealing a dark passage beyond. Catherine sucked in a breath as he grasped h
er arm, tugging her towards the entrance. Even so simple a contact raced down her nerves, sparking in her core like liquid fire.
She stumbled through the doorway, the stone passage closing behind her, losing them in darkness. She stood there, swaying with a storm of strange sensations. Lust coiling at the back of her stomach, tingling in her spine.
Arman touched her. “Catherine?”
“Arman,” she gasped. “The potion… It…”
“The brewer told me… told me it would mask our presence from monsters. Make them see… see just another pair of beasts…”
She was aware of him, though she couldn’t see him. Could smell the sweat and scent of leather and oil that clung to him. Feel his presence. His virile essence as he stood near her. She realized he was panting too. That he had moved closer.
“Arman…” she breathed, touching his chest. “I… it’s doing…”
“Catherine…”
She felt his hands on her. She gasped, yielding to his rough touch. Her heart was pounding. She was so hot. So lost. She grabbed his shirt and pressed against him. She felt his lips, hot and hungry, on her own. She gave in to the kiss, moaning.
“Catherine,” he gasped as they separated, his rough hands grasping her yielding breasts, making her gasp. “Oh gods. It’s been… I’ve wanted you for so long…”
“Arman… We… I…”
“Catherine.”
He was kissing her again, and she could resist. Couldn’t fight back. His leg pushed between her thighs, and she couldn’t help moving her burning mons against his leg, humping it like she were a bitch in heat. But then, wasn’t she?
Her heart was pounding, drowning out common sense. Her will. She only knew that terrible need. His hands moved over her. More aggressive. Almost feral. She gasped as, in impatience, he tore open her gown, the cold air of the passage on her needy breasts and throbbing nipples making her gasp. Moan in yearning.
“Arman… Gods yes…”
“Catherine…”
Her hands were on his belt, undoing it. Her fingers trembled as she shoved down his pants and filled her palm with his hot length. She whimpered as she stroked his thick rod. Her fingers wrapping around his cock.
“Please,” she moaned.
He didn’t need any other invitation.
Her dress parted. He tugged down her panties, baring her glistening pussy. She was panting. Moaning. Pushing herself forward and into his touch. His lips were on hers. His arms pulling her against him, breasts pressed against his chest. His cock rubbed against her thigh, and found her pussy.
She cried out, head thrown back as he entered her. Arman moaned as he began to thrust, fucking her. She yielded to him eagerly, her ass pressed against the wall, her breasts rubbing his chest as she took his cock.
“Gods… gods… Arman…” Catherine panted.
“Always wanted you,” Arman gasped as he fucked her. “So long. Saw you since arriving… knew I wanted it. Wanted you.”
She cried out again as he nipped her neck, the pain accenting the pleasure in a way that made her thighs quake.
“Don’t stop. Keep… keep fucking…”
She didn’t need to say it. She knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He needed her. He wanted her. He was going to keep fucking her until he came. Until she did. A thought that made her keen and thrust harder against him, riding his cock, her pants and moans echoing down the dark tunnel.
“Arman… Arman! Gods!”
“Catherine,” he panted, his breath growing ragged. His cock pounding her willing cunt. He thrust a final time and gave a cry of pleasure, his cum pumping into her in great spurts of his shaft.
Catherine moaned, her thighs trembling as she came with him, her breasts quaking with her ragged breath as her body seemed to convulse with her orgasm.
She groaned, coming down slowly, sagging against him. And yet he was still hard. Still thick. And he began to move within her again. She didn’t care about anything other than that sensation. The feeling of his cock within her. Plunging into her depths. She moaned eagerly, answering his thrusts with her own. The chaos happening above. The end of Istanov was forgotten in the throes of pleasure. Her mind was spinning and her body aching for more. More! Her cries echoing down the tunnel where safety lay.
For now.
Pleasure Palace
Vilti had never seen a palace before. Certainly nothing like the one in Moskov. He gaped at the stained windows and splendour that filled every hall. How the whole building seemed to sprawl out in endless corridors and furnished rooms. The ceilings reaching the heavens and windows spreading down their rosy hues and warm, pleasant air.
Why, you could almost ignore all the bodies.
He picked his way over a dark cloaked imperial guard, the man’s blood pooling in the seams of the brick floor. Mingling with the blood of the monsters he and his brothers had slain. The gertling wiped some sweat from his brow. He’d been right to hold back until the first wave of monsters busted into the palace. It might not have gotten him first bid on the women within. But on the other hand he hadn’t been skewered by an overzealous guard.
Besides, with the casualties the first wave of the monster horde suffered, odds were good a number of women residing in the palace would be up for grabs. And Vilti would certainly be eager to grab. His hands twitched with imaginings of soft breasts and eager quims. Of pleasure given and received. He shuddered in delight. Oooh, he was going to get a fine slut. He could feel it!
But that required him to actually find her first. The gertling quickened his pace, avoiding the corridors where the sound of battle rang out over the bellows of orcs and shouts of soldiers. Let the orcs fight their way through. He wasn’t here for glory. He was here for fucking!
His bare feet patted off the gleaming floors as he peeked into the rooms he passed by. Evidence of festivities interrupted lay in heaps throughout, occasionally including a few corpses. By Nergi this place was a maze! Vilti cursed as he hastened his steps, turned a corner.
And rebounded off a shapely thigh.
Vilti fell back with an oof. He rubbed his hooked nose and looked up at what he’d run into, and gaped.
The woman before him was like everything he’d dreamed. A red robe scandalously cut to reveal plush breasts and slit to show off pale thighs garbed a striking figure. Her hair was black and fell to her shoulders. What parts of her face not hidden by a harlequin mask revealed soft lips painted red and achingly sculpted loveliness.
The woman looked down at him, then gasped.
“Oh no!” she cried, backing up a step. “Not a gertling! In the palace? How could this be!”
Vilti shook himself from his gaping stupor and grinned. He pulled himself to his feet, adjusting his belt and smirking at the clearly terrified robed woman. “That right!” Vilti said, leering as he stalked towards the trembling woman. “Me gertling! Palace fall, and me gonna breed!”
“Noooo!” she cried, throwing her arm against her brow, clearly on the verge of fainting in horror. “Not that! Please! I beg of you! Don’t fuck me with your tiny, warty cock! Don’t breed my fertile pussy with your spurting man juices!”
“Me decide if not! And me want to breed.”
“Heavens! Should I… should I get down on my hands and knees? Should I… Should I offer up my plush bottom for your warty cock?” she asked, turning around and delivering a sharp spank to her firm, crimson clad derriere.
Vilti’s eyes sparked with interest, but something about all this was… odd. A niggling sensation that there was something off. “Yes,” he said, nodding eagerly. “On hands and knees. Me gonna fuck full of cum! Breed womb with pups!”
“Can you?” the beauty asked, gasping as she pressed herself against the wall. “Can you fuck me with such a tiny cock? Oh, but how will I enjoy it? How could I be pleasured by such a tiny shaft!”
“Me prove how can!”
“You… you can? Then… should I call you master, then? Master of the tiny cock? The itty bitty dicky? The master o
f the pinkie shaft?”
Okay, this was starting to get a little hurtful. Vilti frowned, glaring at her. She was still shaking. But… but it didn’t seem to be fear. Was… was she laughing?
“Hey! Me Vilti!” the gertling cried, puffing out his thin chest. “Me mighty gertling warrior! Me breeder of females! Me fucker of sluts! Me be chief one day, and keep harem! Have many brides carry gertling pups. And you be one of them?”
“Really?” she gasped.
“Really!”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“Raaaaaaah!”
Vilti squealed and spun about as a rather familiar figure burst through the doors at the end of the hall. The gertling cringed back at the burly orc he’d last seen squeezed between two buildings and frothing with rage at having Vilti jack off to the sight of him fucking a barmaid. “You!” the orc roared.
“Me? No me!” Vilti squeaked.
“You I kill!” the orc snarled, stomping down the passage, a bloody cleaver in hand. “You I-“
“Friend of yours?” the masked woman said.
“No!” Vilti said.
The orc looked her way. His snarl became a cruel grin as his eyes wandered up her curvy frame. “Hrrrrr. You new slut? Me fuck after killing gertling!”
The woman cocked a brow, looking extremely unimpressed. Vilti looked between her and the hulking orc quickly. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And not the usual kind of wrong that happened to him, where events were predictably shitty. No. This was different. He was frightened and confused. Why didn’t she look scared? Every woman Vilti had ever met had been scared. He backed up a step.
“You think you can run?” the orc snarled as he stomped forward. “No! I kill you, then fuck slut while you dead at feet! I breed in you blood!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Yeah. No.” She raised her hands, snapped her fingers.
Fire engulfed the orc. For a split second the brute stood there dumbly, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then the screaming started. The orc bellowed, slapping at his body as he staggered to and fro, his flesh blackening and curling up, revealing pale bone. Vilti started back, tripping over his own feet and plopping onto his rear. He watched in horror as the massive orc slammed into a wall and fell to the ground, writhing weakly before his struggled ceased, the reek of charred flesh filling the room.
The Pillaging of an Empire Page 86