by Aaron Crash
The laughter died on the she-orc’s lips. Gatha stormed off. That was a shame. He would need her for the night’s business. He was ready to gather some breaths for the ring.
He turned to Charibda. “You did well right up until the end.”
The mermaid’s face collapsed in tears. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
She rushed into Ymir’s arms and he wound up holding her as she trembled and sobbed. Normally, the mermaid would’ve screeched something and fled. She hadn’t. The mermaid was changing, however slowly, and showing sides of her that Ymir hadn’t expected.
He wondered how much Gulnash knew about the merfolk. The Blood Steppes were far from any of the merfolk. Could they use Charibda in the Kurzig Durgha?
Perhaps. But Gatha was right. They had their Gungarr. Too bad. Seeing the mermaid fight would’ve been a spectacle, and her reasons for fighting were sound. If she landed the killing blow, she would go down in history, as would the Delphino family.
Too bad it wasn’t meant to be.
However, Charibda had taken a big step on the road to joining Ymir’s harem.
Chapter Seventeen
AFTER CRYING HER HEART out, Charibda had eventually run from him, but he still thought her crying on him was a victory for her.
The mermaid had probably run to the Zoo, looking for Lillee, but the Sullied elf wouldn’t be there. Lillee was collecting Tori and Jennybelle, and they’d all meet in the Librarium at midnight. Then they’d make their way to the Scrollery.
Ymir cleaned up after the unexpected mermaid attack. He stacked and organized the books into piles to make it easier for Gatha to re-shelve. He’d spent so much time in the Librarium with Gatha, he could shelve most of them himself. If this tournament maimed him, he could also work in the library. He laughed. No, he felt he had a greater destiny than that.
Perhaps conquering the Ax Tundra? Gathering the clans into a single kingdom with him at the lead? Then, perhaps, he could come down with the clans to conquer the south. If he won the Kurzig Durgha, he could claim ownership of the Blood Steppes. He and his clans could crush any resistance and then move on to unify the continent.
He could give the new Gruul empire to Gatha to rule. Lillee could become the free queen of the eastern elven forests. Tori could become a thane of the dwarves, while Jenny ruled the humans. He would move the capital from Four Roads to Summertown in the north. He would be the new vempor, and perhaps he too could live a thousand years.
Was he a conqueror? He could be. Part of him liked the idea. The Black Wolf Clan would rue the day they exiled him.
But these were dark thoughts. Life was long, and it was best to focus on the work at hand. That meant finishing this next ring. He took his grimoire and walked down to the ground floor. Della still wasn’t at her mezzanine desk. It would be so unlike her to take the night off. That seemed to be the case, however.
He was a bit worried about the Princept. Not only had she been training with them, but she was also organizing the tournament while the Alumni Consortium looked over her shoulder. Every day she received dozens of sand letters from all over Raxid asking about attendance, logistics, et cetera. The Princept had recruited other professors to help her, and some scholars, but the enormity of the work still must be oppressive.
Ymir went to the gate that led down to the Scrollery. Gatha would be down there, and he wanted to talk to her before the others joined them. He brought up his Focus ring, concentrating on the lock. This was Form work. He might as well get a bit of practice. The Form cantrips were far easier than the fascinara spell he was hoping to use later that night.
“Lutum lutarum.” The lock glowed, because of course it was magically sealed. He should’ve known.
He inhaled and reached into the amwabs, because after wielding both the Yellow Scorch Ring and the Winter Flame Ring, he could feel the pieces of reality. And he could adjust them. Only a little, but it should be enough. “Lutum inanis.”
Runes flashed, then faded.
Another Form cantrip unlocked the gate. Ymir closed the gate, locked it, and walked down the steps into the Scrollery. The Sunfire lanterns were on, but there was no sign of the she-orc, not immediately.
He walked, not hiding his bootsteps, toward the back. She was in her favorite alcove, the same place where she, Lillee, and Ymir had first been sexual together. She sat in her chair, but she didn’t have a book. Nor a scroll. She sat, head hanging.
She spoke without looking up. “This humiliation destroys me. That mermaid cunt is a match for me. I’d be a fool to think anything less.”
“Choose humility,” Ymir said softly.
She chuckled softly. “Are you quoting your fucking Sacred Mysteries of the Axe at me?”
Ymir matched her chuckle. “Indeed I am. A man who doesn’t know himself is a man who will die alone. The same for women. Humility is knowing one’s self, knowing what we are good at, and what we need to improve. You’re a fool to think you will win every fight.”
Gatha looked up. “You keep saying that.” Then her eyes widened. “How are you here? I locked the Scrollery gate!”
“Fucking magic,” Ymir spit.
The she-orc stood and went to him. He held her. She was tall enough to rest her head on his shoulder. “I hate this humility you speak of, but I don’t want to die alone. I’m no longer igptoor. I want to end my life with you, my family, around me, as I lay dying from a grievous wound I received protecting our ptoor.”
“My ptari,” Ymir whispered.
Gatha jerked back. Tears shone in her eyes. Those words had weight for orcs. It was the equivalent of telling Jennybelle, “I love you.”
The she-orc answered with, “My ptoorig.”
The kiss was inevitable. As was the sex after. He took her on the chair, watching her abdominal muscles writhe, her arms and thighs flexing, as he slid his cock in and out of her wet oheesy. It wasn’t long before he was coming in her, with both of them gazing into each other’s eyes. There was no shame. There was no fear. There was only their lust and their love and the Farrg Panng of her people.
At midnight, they met the others and walked them down to the Scrollery. Ymir set his grimoire, the ring, and eight black candles on the main table that ran the length of the middle of the room.
Lillee sighed. “Charibda was very upset. I didn’t know if I could invite her, so I didn’t, and she said she wanted to be alone. I’m not sure that was true.”
“I will talk with her,” Gatha said gruffly.
They all turned to look at the she-orc.
Jennybelle put a hand to her ear. “That didn’t sound like ‘I’m gonna fucking kill that bitch.’ Did I hear you right?”
Lillee sighed. “You curse so much.”
Tori agreed. “Yeah, we should curse less.”
Jennybelle wrinkled her nose. “Fuck me. Fuck me so hard. Fuck me in my ass.”
“You’re not a fairy,” Ymir said, then shushed them all. “We’re here to continue crafting the ring.”
“Why down here, clansman?” Jennybelle asked. “Can’t get enough of your skeletons? Or are your affections for Sarina Sia that strong?”
Ymir shot her an amused smile. “Hardly. I like my woman a bit livelier.”
Tori held up a hand. “Wait. I want to hear why Gatha is going to talk to Charibda. We never heard.”
Gatha’s forehead was wrinkled, but she met all their gazes. “She and I fought tonight. She is a skilled warrior. She might not be the cunt we think she is.”
“You sure do like that word,” Tori said with a sigh.
The she-orc laughed and looked at the dwab with real affection. No words were needed. Those two would be friends and lovers for life.
Ymir liked the banter of his women. They were clever, funny, caring. He felt lucky to be surrounded by such a powerful harem. But he had to focus them. “As I said, I’m going to use Form fascinara magic to open the ring to each of your breaths. I think each of you meets one requirement.”
Tori crawled
halfway up the table to read his grimoire. “So I’ll play. Let’s see. Breath of the artist. That’s our Lillee, or I’m an orc.”
“You’d like to be so fortunate,” Gatha said.
“Only if I could be you,” Tori said. “And you, Green Stuff, must have the warrior’s breath. You are the princess of the pits.”
“And war’s wet—”
Tori cut Gatha off. “Yes, we know! You don’t need to say it again! Okay, the easy ones are done. The next two are a bit harder. We need the breath of a righteous woman, and that’s no one here, sorry to say. But I think I know someone we can use for that. We have the breath of an angry man. Ymir? No. He’s not angry, and besides, he’s the wearer. Breath of ultimate cold? We’re all pretty hot-blooded. That leaves us three left.”
The dwab stopped talking for a moment. She swallowed. “The breath of sadness. It worked before, didn’t it?”
Ymir knew that while Tori appeared happy-go-lucky, there were shadows she felt, deep shadows. She’d had to change her name when her parents disowned her because for the Morbuskor, she was ugly. She didn’t have a beard, she didn’t have small breasts, and she was taller than a normal dwab. Yes, her parents still provided for her financially, but they’d exiled her to the surface in hopes she’d find a husband and a life. This was all done with a certain amount of kindness, but those scars ran deep. Tori grinned through her tears. “Gosh me underground, but at some point, I’d like to not be the sad one.”
Jennybelle reached over and patted Tori’s hand. “There might be one for me, Tori.” Jenny had tears in her eyes as well. “I’m not sure.”
Lillee saw it. “The breath of an orphan girl with sweetness still. You do have a sweetness to you, Jenny. You love us. And you aren’t always cynical.”
Jenny put her fingers under her eyes, trying not to let the tears smear her makeup. “But I still can think the worst of people. Yeah, I’m more truthful with you all than I have ever been with anyone ever in my life, but I’m not sweet.” Her lips trembled.
Ymir saw the little girl Jenny had been, when her sister and father had been killed, then later, when her mother died. She’d known so much bitterness in her life, but when it came down to it, she’d refused to use the Lover’s Knot on him. She had joined with Ymir and Lillee to start their family together.
“No,” Ymir said. “I’m betting my life on your sweetness, Jenny. If I’m wrong, when I go to use the ring, I’ll die. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
Tears tracked down Lillee’s face. “I’d make that bet as well, my love.”
Jennybelle let loose her tears. Her makeup smeared and she merely shrugged it away. “If I’m not sweet, you all are sweet enough for me. I’m the orphan. I’m sweet still, or I try to be, at least...with you all.”
Ymir nodded, his eyes soft on her.
Gatha didn’t hide her annoyance with all the emotion. “Yes, yes, it’s all very touching, but what does this last mean, I wonder? The final breath of the Storm King’s daughter, forever changing and forever changed. Who could that be?”
Ymir didn’t know, but he thought he would start with the easier breaths to bring into the ring.
Tori went over Ymir’s technique and offered a few suggestions.
Gatha doused all the Sunfire lanterns so only the eight black candles burned, eight candles for the eight breaths they had to gather. They would take care of four of them that night.
Ymir felt the fire in the candles, felt the Gather Breath Ring on the table, and the bodies of the women he knew intimately. There was life in this cold room, as full of passion as when Sarina Sia threw her debauches in that dungeon. The vempor’s torture chamber had been washed clean in the screams, sweat, and sweet bliss of the former Princept’s orgiastic celebrations.
This was the right place to start the finalizing process of this last ring.
Ymir called out, “Lutum fascinara!” Smoke poured from his Focus ring, circling his arm as he forced the magic in the three hoops, bound by the emerald seaweed, to open. “I call forth the breath of the artist.”
Lillee leaned forward, careful of the candles, and exhaled. Her breath appeared as white smoke, and it swirled around the hoops. The emerald seaweed gleamed, and a thrumming sound filled the air. On the other side of the table, a figure appeared in the doorway of one of the cells. She was tall and slender, but her chest was big, barely held back by the fabric of her robes. There were signs on the robes, but Ymir couldn’t see what they were. It was Sarina Sia, though, and she was watching him. He remembered the Akkir Akkor’s warning. What were the spectral Princept’s motivations?
The elf girl leaned back as the thrumming faded and the emerald ties dimmed. One of the candles flared high and then was extinguished. One down, seven to go.
Ymir again concentrated on his Focus ring, and more black mist came forth, enshrouding his left arm. “Lutum fascinara. I call forth the breath of the warrior.”
Gatha locked eyes with Ymir and exhaled.
As with Lillee, her breath was white mist, which made the ring glow and thrum. Another candle rose high before flickering out. Two down.
The first two were easy because of course Lillee and Gatha matched the artist and the warrior. Very few had ever felt their calling as keenly as those two.
Tori was next.
“Lutum fascinara. I call forth the breath of sadness.”
The freckled dwab didn’t joke, didn’t smile, and her tears coursed down her cheeks. It wasn’t very often that Toriah Welldeep allowed herself to be that vulnerable. Welldeep was her mother’s maiden name. She should’ve been Toriah Forgehome, but she’d not been born with a beard.
Tori closed her eyes, gathered her sorrow, and exhaled. The white mist went down, and the three hoops—silver, gold, and platinum—reacted the same way. Another candle went dark.
Jennybelle was visibly nervous. She nodded.
Ymir knew Jenny was sweet, but she could be so salty at times. This one was a risk, but it was one he was willing to take. He would keep his eyes on the ring. Any abnormalities meant they would have to reevaluate their situation.
“Lutum fascinara. I call forth the breath of an orphan girl with sweetness still.” Ymir was enshrouded in black smoke from his Focus ring and from the three candles that had been put out by the magic.
Jennybelle leaned forward and winced. Her white breath swirled down into the hoops, which glowed and thrummed, and a fourth candle flashed before going out.
In that flash, Ymir caught a glimpse of the spectral Princept. Sarina wore a black robe that had all four symbols of the Studiae Magica. Her robe was parted to show her cleavage and her belly, which was a little rounder than it probably had been when Sarina was a maiden. Her breasts also weren’t as round, but hanging a little, and yet her pubic hair was black. This elven woman was still beautiful, if old, even for an elf, and her dark eyes had a definite intelligence to them. She wore no essess and didn’t have the mark of the Sullied. Somehow, Sarina Sia had lived free of the many cages her culture would’ve thrown her in. She’d been remarkable, and she was among them again.
Sarina smiled at him, and just as quick, the ghost was gone.
Ymir felt a tickle of a shiver. This fucking magic. Ghosts. Demons. Magic rings. Things from the beyond. It certainly had given his life a definite spice, opening his horizons to all sorts of possibilities. And hence, merely returning to the Ax Tundra to conquer the people he used to love seemed small somehow. As did forging an empire across the troublesome continent of Thera.
He felt drawn to bigger things. What that was, he didn’t know, but he was halfway done crafting the Gather Breath Ring. He’d already done something that—if the many books on the Akkiric Rings were true—no one had done since the first years of the Vempor Aegel Akkridor’s rule.
Jennybelle had her eyes closed. “Tell me Ymir isn’t dead. Tell me that I’m sweet, or at least sweet enough to trick the dumb Akkir Akkor, or whatever.”
Yes, the Akkir Akkor seemed dumb to
warn him against Sarina Sia.
His women all laughed. Gatha went to turn up the Sunfire lanterns.
Lillee leaned in and kissed Jennybelle on the cheek. “You are sweet, my love. You’ll always be my sweet, sweet love.”
Ymir embraced both women. He agreed with Lillee Nehenna, and he pushed his face against Jenny’s fragrant hair to kiss her sweet head.
Chapter Eighteen
DELLA PENNEZ STOOD at the edge of the Flow courtyard on that Friday night, smoking one kharo stick after another. She was going to quit the next day. That would give her around a month before the tournament of death.
She’d gotten some troubling news from a sand letter. The news set her on edge, and while she was horny, she had no one to fuck. She needed to indulge herself in at least one vice. The air was warm, but the incoming fog was cool. She liked the combination. She couldn’t see the Weeping Sea, but she could see the lights of the Sea Stair Market and hear the shouts and songs from the Unicorn’s Uht.
Yes, the Honored Princept needed at least one vice since she couldn’t fuck Sturm Valarenza. She knew this. She couldn’t bed every visitor or new person who arrived on her doorstep.
For one, Valarenza was used to women throwing themselves at him. In a world where there weren’t many males left, thanks to the Age of Withering and the vile magic of the Akkridorian Empire, some men swaggered around like they were owed any oheesy they fancied.
For another, the Princept was too busy to even begin to manage any kind of romantic relationship. She could go to him, demand he fuck her, and the minute she came, leave him in a puddle of sweat. He might be okay with that—many if not most men would be. However, there was the chance that he would want more. He might claim ownership or demand that she give him some of her precious time.
And her time had never been more precious. Throwing a tournament of death that would alter the course of Thera forever brought on more details than she could track. She’d turned over most of the logistics to Issa Leel. The nice thing about the uptight Flow professor? She never took off her essess, so she was as dry as the Ashchima Wastes in far-away Ethra to the west. Issa would help in other important ways when the time came, but for now, her ability to obsess about minutia benefited them all.