by Jay Aury
The Road of Rune and Ruin
Part 2: Cloaks and Daggers
Jay Aury
[email protected]
This book and its contents are copyright 2018 by Jay Aury. All rights are reserved and no portion may be reproduced aside from brief quotations for review purposes. Cover credit to the talented DCLZexon at https://twitter.com/dclzexon
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.
Returns
“Holy balls!”
Vilch stared at what had been their camp. Anything not on fire was rubble or a corpse. The white tower had gone from ruined to wrecked, lying on its side, levelled with some unknown sorcery. Crows raised their heads towards the small group of bandits, dipped their beaks as if in greeting, and then resumed their grisly meals.
“What happened?” Tommen asked.
Vilch slapped the back of the fat bandit’s head. “Whaddya think happened? The bloody mage happened, that’s what happened! Gods’ balls…”
Ignoring Tommen’s miserable look Vilch dismounted and made his way among the ruins. From among the riders, Filaro watched. The elvish assassin winced in the harsh light of day, a bandage crudely wrapped around his head and his hands tied behind his back. Vilch had not taken his presence well after storming the room at the Solita inn. Of course, much of that probably involved the fact the bandits not only lost their quarry, but also two days retrieving their mounts, scattered by the dark elf’s spell.
And to top it all off, the swordsman with Auria had stolen his cloak. That was just insulting! Particularly to a Night Blade, one of Vassara’s elite assassins. Filaro fumed in silence, his bruises aching while he watched the bandits pick their way through the ruins of the camp.
“Boss!” one man shouted from the ruins. “I found something!”
Vilch and the others scrambled over the devastation to the man. “What? What did you find?”
“A hand!”
Vilch recoiled at the sight of the severed limb. “Ugh!”
“Ain’t that Wraith’s glove?”
Vilch looked closer. “It is! Good work Mick. Right. Looks this way. Things didn’t go well. The witch and the swordsman stormed the camp and killed our boys. So we need to find Wraith.”
“But, that’s his hand,” Tommen said.
“Well the rest of him ain’t here, is it?” Vilch snapped. “The boss must’ve escaped. So we’re gonna find him.”
“What if his body’s been buried under the rocks?”
Vilch slapped the back of Tommen’s head again. “Shut your stupid mouth!”
“How we gonna find him?” another bandit asked.
“We head towards Vassara,” Vilch said. There was an uncertain shuffling among the other bandits. Filaro stiffened as Vilch approached him, eyes glinting savagely. He grabbed the reins of the elf’s mount. “And we’re gonna have some words with your patrons. Ain’t we, my lad?”
Gatherings
Drums beat through the night.
Thumping. Calling. Feet tramped across the barren earth to answer the summons. Wounds in the ground bled living magma, surging and shimmering with heat. Livid red and yellow light flickered off tusk and steel. Green skin cast like grey in the molten glow.
Above, Fulgrim Keep towered. The moon shone against it, the cursed castle seeming to twist in the haze. Warped to the will of its new master. The orcs of the clans looked to it with interest. Their shamans glanced at it, their eyes seeing past the shimmer at darker things, things that chilled even their savage souls and sent them clasping beads and charms of old bones, muttering invocations of protections in dark tongues.
The masters of the tribes followed the drums. Not to the towering fortress. Away. Away to where the molten river flowed. The Iron Tooth clan, when asked, would speak with awe, their skins maps of new tattoos in strange designs. That the master had sundered the earth with a word and made it bleed. That he who slew the demon that ruled the castle now wore its head as a trophy.
Rumors. Rumors.
And now, the clan chiefs would know if there was truth to them.
Tiberius watched them come from where he stood before the largest of the molten pits, his red eyes gleaming in the shadows of the demon’s skull. He’d managed to piece together a robe, the dark fabric hanging loosely off him, the glow of the runes etched across his flesh pulsating through the thin fabric. His finger tapped his wrist, his eyes taking in the varied banners waving above the heads of the gathering horde.
Socretha stood by his side. The amazonian orc glared at the assembled tribes. She’d taken a sword, having broken her axe on the demon Tiberius had killed. She leaned on it, her body clad in piecemeal armour, her powerful frame etched with thin white lines of scars, her hair shorn off half her head in the raider style. She sneered a challenge, baring her tusks.
The drums thundered. Rose. Beating a frantic pulse that shot through the gathered orcs like lightning.
Stopped.
Silence fell with the gravity of a thunderclap. Only the magma’s hiss, the torches flutter, and the faintest jangle of steel broke the stillness.
Tiberius, arms crossed behind his back, inhaled. Well. Time to get this show on the road.
The sorcerer stepped down the crude stone steps. The air crackled around him with latent power as he moved to the river of lava that twisted before him. He paused before the liquid fire, staring down at it.
The things he did to rule the world...
He looked up. None of the orcs were closer than a dozen feet from the river, but even there they sweated bullets, the stink of their musk filling the air. Tiberius sighed and rolled down his sleeve, then raised his arm.
“I require a volunteer! You.” He pointed at one of the orcs in the crowd. The savage started, pointed at himself.
“Me?”
“Yes. You. You’ve volunteered. Get over here.”
The orc approached warily. He winced as he came near Tiberius and before the magma, its light flickering across his harsh features.
“Would you say this is hot?” Tiberius asked, gesturing at the molten river.
The orc nodded, leaning away from the lava. “Yes.”
“How hot?”
The orc hesitated. “Very hot.”
“They’re going to need more than that. Let’s enunciate.”
Tiberius gave him a shove.
The orc staggered. His arms pinwheeled, eyes wide with horror as the lava rushed up to him. A collective cringe passed through the watching tribes as the orc fell into the magma. His screams chilled the hearts of even those savage brutes.
Tiberius watched with disinterest as the orc warrior flailed about the burning river, the scent of roasting flesh searing the air along with the poor orc’s horrid screams. Tiberius breathed deeply, then exhaled. Finally. A relief from the stink. As he waited for the orc to die and stop screaming, he reflected on one of the best lessons he received in his career of infamy. When staring through the gulfs of time, he had seen things. Other worlds and other men. One of them, a strange man wearing dark goggles like mirrors, had told him a secret he’d taken to heart. No matter what you did, do it with style.
Style, Tiberius mused as he flexed his hand. That’s what people wanted. Any idiot could cut out a maiden’s heart and sauté it on a golden dish. It took style to sell it to the clamoring worshippers.
Finally, the orc had the decency to stop screaming and die. Tiberius knelt by the pool, raised his hand. Style or not. This was going to fucking hurt.
He plunged his arm into the lava.
He practically heard the intake of breath from the stunned orcs. He had just enough time to appreciate it before pain happened.
A lot of pain.
“Mnnnnnnnnnn!” Tiberius hissed, biting his lower lip so hard blood trickled down his chin. None of the orcs noticed. They were enthralled as a shape took form on the molten stream. Twisting lines of burning crimson stretching down the simmering surface. Winding about each other, blazing with power.
“NNnnaaaaaaaah!” Tiberius roared, jerking his arm out of the molten rock to reveal what he held. A staff of steel strands entwined around each other, flaring out at the tip like the skeletal limbs of a dead tree. Red marks glowed along its expanse like extension of those along the sorcerer’s arm.
“There!” he snarled. “You want to know what you’re getting if you follow me? This!” He slammed the tip of the staff against the earth, stone cracking beneath the blow, fissures flaring with light. “So listen close and listen well! You lot follow me, I’ll give you the world on a platter! Slaves! Kingdoms! Whatever else you bastards want. Follow me and you get it.
“But fuck with me!” he growled, panning the tip of his staff at the assembled orcs. “And you fuck with the man who’d dip his hand in lava! Well! What say you!”
Socretha stepped forward, her eyes gleaming, her breast heaving with excitement. “Tiberius!” she roared, thrusting her sword into the air. “Tiberius!”
The call spread. The name rising. Bellowed from a thousand throats. Spreading out across the horde. Banners fluttered as their bearers pounded their staves on the ground. Feet stamped in a sound like thunder spreading across the valley.
Tiberius grinned, red light flickering in his mouth. He turned sharply, the roars of the crowd pounding into his back. Leave them wanting more. Always leave them wanting more. First rule of showbusiness and global domination.
“Wonderful, Master,” Socretha breathed as she fell into step beside him. Her eyes gleamed in the dark like the wolves her clan rode. “The clans will be yours!”
“They better be,” Tiberius hissed as he moved from them and up the steps into Fulgrim’s Keep. The doors slammed shut behind him, sealing them in the tomb-like stillness of the great hall. He shrugged off his robe, the markings that sprawled across his skin pulsing with the effort of forging his staff. Braziers crackled to life as he passed, burning with a lurid red glow.
As he pulled off the skull of the demon, Socretha stepped forward. He paused, watching as she undid her breastplate, letting the heavy steel fall to the floor, baring her hard green breasts, nipples dark as coal. The sorcerer observed with interest as she shed the rest of her tattered armour, unveiling the hard perfection of her body. Her pussy damp, her eyes blazing with unrestrained lust.
“So that’s how it is,” Tiberius said, carefully placing the skull on a table.
Socretha strode forward. “Master,” she breathed. “Please. Mate with me.”
The sorcerer grinned harshly as he settled down on the throne of hide and bone that once belonged to Morgoroth, the former head of the Iron Tooth clan. He beckoned her. The orcess had no idea of the finer means of pleasure. She moved forward, all eagerness and rude strength. She straddled his lap, reaching between them and pulling open his pants. She hissed in pleasure as her hand wrapped around his cock, the heat of his body fairly burning her hand. Her pule quickened at the thought. At the memory of his hand, dripping the molten rock, holding aloft the cruel looking staff for the hordes to see.
With a shuddering moan she lowered herself, impaling herself on his shaft. “Oooh Masssster!” the amazon moaned.
Tiberius grasped her hips, his grip almost painful against her muscular thighs. She began to bounce, riding him atop the chair. The markings on his skin glowed against the darkness, outlining her toned stomach and broad shoulders. Her panting echoed in the tent. Her pussy tightening around the cock of the one man she could call her better, let alone her equal.
“Yes. Yes! Master! Mate me! Breed me! Fill me with your seed! Ahn! Nnnn!”
“Fuck you’re eager,” Tiberius growled. He grabbed her firm breast, his palm pressing down on her hard nipple. She cried out, pain lancing through her, but the sensation excited her, drove her on. She hammered herself atop him, every thrust of his cock inside her rocking her with pleasure. Her dark eyes were lidded, every breath dragged from her in ragged gasps.
“Yes! Master! Close! I’m close! Please! Ah… Ha! Ahhhh!”
She slammed herself down, taking him to the root. Her roar shook the air. Her pussy tightened in orgasm around his cock. Tiberius cursed, his cock pulsing as his hot seed rushed inside of her.
Socretha panted, falling against him. She let her arms rest on his shoulders, her face against his neck. She welcomed the heat of his markings, relished the feeling of them against her muscular form. Idly, her finger traced some on his chest.
“You should not hide your flesh, Master,” she murmured hotly. “All should see the marks you bear and your naked flesh. So they might know the strength of the one who leads them.”
Tiberius scoffed as he cupped her firm ass, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Socretha, it is damn cold out here and I am sick of dancing around half naked all the time. Besides, robes flutter magnificently in the winds of sorcery. It’s imposing!”
Socretha frowned a little. She didn’t like it. She’d admired her master’s pale flesh. The sight of his musculature, traced with the strange crimson signs had stirred her desire such as nothing but battle could. But she assented with a, “Yes, Master.”
“Good,” Tiberius growled, hand stroking her rear, making her stiffen with a gasp as his finger traced the firm crease of her bum. “Now, I’m going to have a task for you.”
“Anything, master. I would ride against the southlands alone at your command.”
“Admirable, but not yet. What’s the biggest kingdom there?”
Socretha frowned, thinking. “…The land of Orlas is largest. It spreads against the southern tips of the Dragon’s Teeth and edges the Night Woods.”
“They have a king?”
“Yes. A weak man who sits atop others by stint of birth. No true warrior. Though I have heard his son and daughter are skilled generals Their people are soft, for the rangers keep us at bay, and their wars are paltry things.”
“Well, we’ll soon change that.” His hand squeezed her ass, making her growl hungrily beneath his possessive touch. “We’ll ride over them and grind them under my heel! But first. Tomorrow, I want you to get me a slave girl. The prettiest one we have.”
The orcess’s frown deepened. She tensed around him. “Master?”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, Master.”
“Good. And see if you can find a virgin.”
Her brow crinkled. “Why a virgin?”
He scoffed. “Who knows. But they’re preferred. Maybe it’s like a sandwich. You’d rather eat it if no one had fucked it.”
The orc blinked. “You want to eat her?”
“Not me. The orcish clans are the hammer, Socretha. But your enemy dies a lot quicker if he already had a dagger in the back.”
“I don’t understand,” the orc said.
Tiberius rolled his eyes. Little wonder the orcs had been locked behind the mountains of the Dragon’s Teeth for so long. “I’m going to be treacherous, Socretha. Cunning. It’s what I do.”
Still sounding somewhat doubtful, the orc said, “Yes, Master.”
“Good. Now get on the bed. I’m going to show you what else I can do.”
She brightened, tusks flashing in a grin as she eased back. With far more enthusiasm, she parted her thighs and purred, “Yes, Master!”
Arrivals
“Behold!” Auria said grandly. “Vassara!”
From atop the hill, Felix stared. To be sure Auria praised her home with near every breath on the journey back along Solita’s highway, but hearing and seeing were two very different things.
For a moment he thought he’d been dropped off in another world again. Gone was the heavy, night wrapped forest of the Dusk Wood. Vassara seemed to burst from the forest as if it w
as the forest that had grown around it. Silver towers and countless spires like silver spears climbed into a twilit sky, gleaming with stars and ribbons of blues and violets. The city had a strange, organic air, like the stone had been grown rather than built, shaped without corners but only sensuous curves. From the rise Felix could see the many canals and the winding streets. Lanterns floated in the air, glowing a violet light which washed over the milky stones.
And above it all, was the fount.
In the center of the city stood a great lake, ringed by docks. And in the middle of this, led to by a narrow white bridge, was a towering building. Pillars rose around its expanse, and from its center flowed what could only be the Fount. Felix stared, awestruck at the great ribbons of violet, black, and crimson light streaming into the sky, spreading out to cover the elvish capital in an eternal twilight.
Auria laughed with joy, her violet skin fairly glowing beneath the mana enriched light. She kneed her horse, her slim limbed mount prancing down the hill, tossing its head with a whinny of delight. The ribbons of silk that gowned her fluttered in her wake like banners, barely masking her shapely curves. Curves Felix had become intimately acquainted with on the journey back. Auria was nearly insatiable when it came to pleasures, and Felix had often found himself challenged to keep up. A challenge, of course, that he had been more than willing to face.
With a start Felix spurred his own mount after her, racing down the path and towards the gates.
Statues flanked the impressive walls. Towering figures of black stone, they were worked in the shapes of elves, massive blades crossed over their chests and silver veining their forms. Felix caught a gleam of magic in their stone eyes, and felt a tingle of unease. He had a feeling the statues were far more than mere decoration.
Guards waited at the gate but didn’t try to impede the pair entering a broad avenue leading deeper into the lavish elvish capital. Silken awnings hung over windows. Laughter and sighs echoed from graceful parks of slim limbed trees.