Ascension - New Eden

Ascension

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New Eden

                New Eden is an oasis of calm, peace, and progress amidst a barren and desolate landscape.  Built upon the remains of Alexandria, in what used to be Egypt, the arcology of New Eden had been in development long before the events of the Second Fall, the day the angels and devils were all vomited out from their respective afterlives, and Earth became their battleground.  When that fateful day came, New Eden had been less than a week away from going live.  As such, before civilization entirely collapsed, it had been possible for the project to be finished and the power to all be switched on.  While it would be a bit of a stretch to call New Eden a paradise, it was at least secure, had plentiful electricity, clean drinking water, and many of the other essentials of modern life that had been taken for granted by billions of people only a few years before.  In a world that had gone to Hell, New Eden was as close to Heaven as any could hope to get.

                Right at the centre of the pyramid-shaped arcology there is a great tower, known as the Tree of Life, and which leads right up to the pyramid’s summit, bursting through and into the air above, reaching beyond the pall of smog and dust that choked the landscape of northern Africa.  The tower served two principal functions – the disc near its summit, one hundred metres across, was studded with photovoltaic cells that provided much of New Eden’s power; and the very tip of the spire was a massive intake/exhaust, where fresh air could be drawn down into the arcology, and stale air and fumes pumped out.  Within the disc itself was a private club and the offices of its owner, one Addison Caine.  Caine, an immortal Nephilim, was generally considered the most influential, if not most outright powerful, person within New Eden, and subsequently one of the most important people in the whole of the Mesopotamian region.  An information and power broker, there were many who believed him to be the real power in the city, with New Eden’s mayor little more than a figurehead in Caine’s employ.

                Donovan reached into his jacket again, fingers nervously checking that his gun was still there.  It was a snub-nosed Defender, absolutely lethal at five metres but unlikely to cause much more than minor flesh wounds at ten.  For what he had in mind, it was all that was needed.  Besides, if everything went well he’d not need to even fire it.  The Mattix Defender series of pistols were as ugly as they were powerful, and were designed to look about as intimidating as a handgun possibly could.  Some guns were for pros, but the Defenders were definitely for show – the idea was that if you were attacked and pulled one of those out, your assailant would need proverbial balls of steel to not back right the frak off there and then.  And if they did have the balls, or the stupidity, to not leave you alone, then the short-range firepower of the gun would leave an exit wound in their back the size of a football.  The selection of the weapon had been important in the planning.  The Arcology for The People Movement, or ATP for short, were very specific in their intents, and how they went about them.  They absolutely would not stand for any kind of civilian collateral at all, and they recognised that the majority of the people that worked in the arc, even here in the Spire, were still just ordinary folk trying to make a living.  They could be reasoned with, they could be intimidated, but they were not to be hurt because that would only harm the ATP’s agenda.  Tobias had also insisted on a lack of body armour in the mission.  Donovan hadn’t been quite so happy about that, but Tobias had assured him that the extra bulk under his jacket would only draw attention and wouldn’t really help him because the Spire’s security packed non-lethal takedown devices that would bypass any armour anyway.

                Getting the gun had been easy.  Getting a holster that was impervious to the Spire’s automatic screening had been trickier.  A lot of places in New Eden had metal detectors on the door, some even scanned for specific types of electronics, currents, and densities.  But the Spire had nearly a kilometre of scanners, detectors, and counter-measures built into the elevator shaft, and the elevators were the only way of getting up here to the club.  Well, unless one wanted to leave New Eden’s environs entirely and go mountaineering up the side of the arcology through the dust and smog outside, then try to find a way in through the air intake at the very summit and crawl through the air duct to get to the club.  Which had actually been considered, but what limited blueprints the ATP had managed to get their hands on had suggested that this option was only viable if Donovan was somehow immune to the effects of going through a particle scrubber, i.e. getting liquefied into a protein substrate and then vaporised in a plasma field.  Besides, he was an activist, not a damned ninja.

                Of course, what had been really tricky had been getting access to the Spire at all.  Technician access would have been straightforward, but that would only have let him use the maintenance elevators, and they didn’t stop at this level, or at any other level that had access to here.  So they’d had to get a one-day guest access to the club itself, which had required calling in just about every political favour they currently held.  To call the Spire’s club ‘exclusive’ would be an understatement – nobody got up here without the knowledge and consent of the club’s owner, Addison Caine.  Donovan couldn’t even remember under what pretence he was here under but it didn’t really matter.  If he had access, nobody would ask how or why, they just accepted that he was cleared.  And once in the club itself, everyone operated on the basis that anyone else there was demonstrably allowed to be there.  So he’d bought a drink to help steady his nerves – just the one, partly because he didn’t want to line Caine’s pockets any further, but mostly because he couldn’t afford a second.  The club’s exclusivity was matched by the exorbitance of its prices.  You could get anything you wanted up here, no matter how black market, but it didn’t come cheaply.

                Donovan stared at his glass of synth-rum, and then downed the last mouthful.  For something produced in a chemistry lab from synthesised sugars, it wasn’t actually too bad.   Right, now or ne-

                “Mr Donovan Zahra?” enquired a polite voice from somewhere behind his right shoulder.  Donovan froze.  Whatever name had been on his access card he was damn sure it hadn’t been his own.  He turned slowly on his bar stool, pushing down the urge to flee or panic.

                “Yes?” he managed, his voice betraying just the barest squeak of tension.  There was no point denying his name – if they knew him, they knew him.  Before him stood someone with a complexion like those NeoItalian coffees his ex-wife loved so much – smooth mocha with a hint of caramel.  That was the first thing Donovan noticed.  The second was that the man was shirtless and had neither nipples nor navel.  Which meant he was an angel.  Fuck.

                “My name is Allegory, and I work for Mr Caine.  Could we speak for a moment in private, please?”  Allegory.  That was the name of Caine’s bodyguard.  He sure was a lot politer than Donovan had imagined, but this was still not good.

                “I’m, ah… I’m kinda busy.  I’m waiting for someone and I don’t want them to pop by while I’m in another room and have them think I’ve ditched them, y’know?”  Donovan smiled uneasily.  It wasn’t the most convincing of lies but it was plausible enough.  The angel stared at him with unblinking violet eyes that were older than Donovan’s entire species.

                “It will only take a minute or two, Mr Zahra.  Please.”  A hand was placed on Donovan’s shoulder.  The touch was gentle, and vaguely comforting on a level he’d struggle to articulate, but also vice-like.  Donovan knew a little bit about angels.  Knew enough to know how much of the popular knowledge about them was just urban myths and how much was actually true.  One thing that was definitely true was that they were physically superior to ordinary humans in just about every way – tougher, faster, stronger.  If the angel wanted him to go somewhere, then he wasn’t really left with a lot of choice.

                “Uh.  Okay.  So long as it’s quick.”

                “I promise I won’t detain you for any longer than is necessary.”  Donovan didn’t find that particularly comforting.  He stood unhurriedly, despite his arteries clanging with adrenaline, and covertly thumbed the safety on his pistol.  If… when this went south, he knew that every fraction of a second would count.  The angel stepped back and gestured towards one of the side doors that led to the quadrant of the disc’s interior that was occupied by offices and storage rather than the club.  Without even seeming to notice, the crowd between Allegory and the door parted, as if every person along that line had subconsciously and simultaneously decided to take one step to the side.  Donovan walked ahead of the angel, his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists as he focussed on his breathing, trying to keep calm.  “Just through that door up ahead, if you please.”  Allegory hardly needed to give directions, the Miracle of the Parting of the Crowd had effectively created a tunnel of people for them to walk through.  Donovan suspected, too, that besides them moving to make way, they’d also have moved so that the crowd would be at its densest by the gap, to make it as difficult as possible for him to run.  He stopped at the door, and the angel reached past him to open it.  Beyond was a small, well-lit, and very modern office with a woman about Donovan’s age seated at the room’s only desk, intently staring at the screen before her and frowning slightly.  She gestured vaguely to the seat on the side of the desk nearest to Donovan.

                “Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment.”  Allegory motioned towards the indicated chair and, hesitating for a moment, Donovan went over to sit in it; this was not what he’d been expecting.  The woman opposite him sighed and leaned back in her chair, hands folded behind her head.  “With all the places that were turned into a radioactive wasteland during the Cataclysm, why did Somalia have to be one of the ones to escape?”  Her eyes looked over to Donovan and she blinked, as if not expecting to see him.  “Sorry, you probably don’t care.”  A hand was waved irritably at the monitor, “Increased pirate activity around one of our shipping routes.  They’ve been a constant thorn in our side.  Now…”  She waved her hand again, this time with more intent, switching the screen to a different view.  From the angle, Donovan could make out a picture of a man that looked very much like him.  Exactly like him, in fact.  “Donovan Zahra.  Born in Alexandria and a citizen of New Eden since its founding, you’ve been with the Arcology for The People Movement since 14 AC, were divorced later that same year, and lost your job at InVoq Pharma the year after.  No formal adult education, no formal military training, and no criminal record or history of violence.”  Donovan stared at her.  How the frak did they know so much about him?  “Please, close your mouth; I have no desire to see your molars.  Now, with your history or lack thereof, why in God’s desolate Earth did the ATP choose you to be the man to carry out the assassination of my employer?  Incidentally, please don’t make any sudden movements towards your Defender sidearm – Allegory doesn’t like violence but he is very good at it.”  Donovan’s mouth opened and shut a few times, with no sound but the slight hiss of his strangled breath coming out.  Opposite him, his interrogator leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk, steepling her fingers and peering across the top of them at Donovan, one eyebrow quirked.

                “I… I… who the frak are you and h-how do you know so much about me?!” he spluttered at last, hands gripping the arms of the chair he sat in.

                “I’m Talija Janer, Mr Caine’s head of security, which neatly answers both of your questions.  Now, let me be very clear in this matter – you are going to tell us the names of everyone in your organisation, and you are going to answer all of my questions.  Then, I am going to kill you and have your body disposed of.  That is the ‘easy’ option.  The alternative is almost identical except that there’ll be a considerable amount of torture involved.  Allegory’s good at that, too.  He’s been studying humankind ever since we learned to say more than ‘ook’ and what he doesn’t know about how to press our buttons could be written on one of your fingernails.”

                “Then,” he swallowed, and closed his eyes, “you’re going to have to torture me.”  Talija stared at him for a few seconds – she sensed no bravado there, simply resignation.

                “You understand you will break, eventually, and you will give us the information we require.  Not even a dedicated spec-ops agent is capable of holding out indefinitely, and you, Mr Zahra, are not even close to that mettle.”

                “Yeah, I know,” he said, shaking his head.  “You’ll get what you need.  But I’m not about to frakking give it over willingly.”

                “I see,” she sighed.  “I wonder, Mr Zahra, if your wife – sorry, ex-wife – and daughter would feel the same way if they were here right now.”  Donovan’s eyes snapped open and stared at her.  “They’re not.  But they could be, quite easily.  I would estimate it taking us,” she swiped at the air in front of her monitor and read the info of a new page, “oh, about twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes to get them here.  And that’s including the five minutes it takes to ride the elevator.  Don’t get me wrong, Mr Zahra, I admire your integrity, I really do.  So many people spill at the mere suggestion of being tortured to death, so to declare your determination to face that speaks of your bravery.  But would Ardelia and little Tayna feel the same way?”  She watched him, dispassionately, while the angel stood by like a vaguely menacing statue.

                “You’d kill them too?” He asked, his voice quavering with emotion.

                “Are you familiar with exotics, Mr Zahra?”

                “Huh?  Sure, yeah.  Hybrids that didn’t take or went wrong.  But wha-“

                “Close enough.  They’re a hybrid whose mind could not cope with the change, nor with the duality of being part-human, part-beast.  Generally they’re insane or of very limited mental faculties.  Barely sentient, in some cases, and little more than wild animals.  The interesting thing about exotics is that a disproportionate amount of them are people who underwent the hybridisation process for sexual reasons – they wanted genitals the shape and size of an animal’s, and the physical power to go with it.”

                “I don’t se-“

                “I wasn’t finished.  Exotics, the ones who aren’t completely brain damaged, therefore tend to have a hard time finding sexual partners.  Most people aren’t that keen on being fucked by a two-foot-long horse cock wielded by a retard.  I say ‘most’ because there are always exceptions.  But anyway, no, we would not kill your family, or at least not your daughter.  How old is she now, seventeen?”

                “I-“

                “No, what we would do is abduct her, and then give her to Mr Caine’s pack of semi-tame exotics as a fuck-toy.  She would spend days, weeks, even months being fucked in every hole by near-feral creatures with some of the largest and most weirdly-shaped dongs on the planet.  Eventually, she would beg us to kill her.  But we wouldn’t.  Instead we’d get her physically patched up, rig her with a Lust implant, and then send her back into the world knowing full well that she’d be helpless to fight the urge to fuck everything that made a pass at her, and that every time she gave in she’d relive her time as a plaything to guys with donkey dicks.”  Donovan stared at her, mouth agape and a tear rolling down his cheek.  “Ardelia, your ex-wife... no, you’re right there, we probably would just have her killed.  In front of you.  After explaining to her what would happen to her daughter, and that we were only doing it because of your actions.”

                “You... you’re a monster!” he shouted, his voice shrill with a mixture of anger and horror.

                “Oh quite undeniably.  And yet what I said was perfectly true – it is your actions that will result in them being hurt.”  Donovan hung his head and stared miserably at his feet.  She was right, in a perverse way – if he’d never got involved with the ATP, he would never have ended up here, upsetting someone with the power and influence to have his family killed, and worse.  Hell, he’d probably still be married.  His involvement in the ATP had been one of the major factors in Ardelia leaving him.  Kinda contributed to losing his job, too.  Frak.  He’d really messed up.

                “If,” he took a deep, shuddering breath, “if I tell you everything you know, you’ll leave them alone?”

                “I promise,” came Allegory’s voice, from behind him.  That was another thing Donovan knew about angels – they were incapable of lying.  Sure, they could weasel around things with careful wording but they couldn’t outright lie.

                “And me?” Donovan asked.

                “Oh we’ll still kill you,” replied Talija, her tone absolutely matter-of-fact.  “But it will be quick and pretty much painless.  A bullet to the head, nothing fancy.  Hell, if you’re cooperative enough I might even leak to the ether that you held up under torture for a number of days before finally succumbing, and that you cursed us with your dying breath.  At least then you die a martyr to your people, right?”

                “What choice do I have?  Either way you’ll get what you want and I’ll end up dead.  Only difference is whether my family suffer because of me or not.”

                “Exactly!  That’s the spirit!” she replied, while giving a smile that was all too cheerful for the situation.

                “Okay.  I’ll tell you what I know,” conceded Donovan.  Defeated, he held his head in his hands and wept bitter tears.

                “Thank you, Mr Zahra.  You are making the right choice,” said the angel, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, as Talija leaned across the desk and presented a list of names on a tablet.

                Five days later, when Addison Caine was walking through the streets of the New Eden arcology, the Arcology for The People stepped up their protests against his influence on their city.  A young man, not much more than twenty, stepped out of a crowd and fired a pistol at Addison, while shouting the usual ATP rhetoric about how the arcology belonged to “the people”.  Like Donovan Zahra before him, this would-be assassin was neither trained nor experienced, and cut squarely from the cloth of people who felt that sufficient belief could overcome such obstacles.  Had Addison not been who he was, the young man might well have succeeded.  As it was, he barely managed to raise his weapon before time seemed to slow to a crawl for him, and the shirtless presence of Allegory the Twice-Fallen made itself known, knocking the assassin’s gun off target before landing a blow on the youth that caved in the front of his skull, killing him instantly.  The woman who had been standing to Addison’s immediate right died shortly after from the grievous wound received from the stray shot, but Addison himself was left unharmed and unfazed by events, carrying on as normal and leaving his new head of security to deal with the red tape aftermath of the attack.  It was not the first attempt on Addison’s life, from either the ATP or the other factions that wished to see the Spire’s overlord killed, but it was the one that had come closest to success.

                “I am just expressing my concerns, sir,” explained Allegory later that day, in the privacy of his employer’s private office.  “The frequency of these attempts is increasing, as is the brazenness and desperation of them.”

                “And yet they still meet only with failure,” replied Addison, his tone indifferent, as if the whole subject of people trying to kill him was but a minor nuisance, and a boring one at that.

                “Today is the closest they’ve come.  That shot missed you by less than half a metre.  Had I not intervened, you could have been seriously injured.”  Addison shrugged in response to his bodyguard’s concerns; he had seen far too much over his existence to be fazed by the prospect of being shot.  “I am not bullet-proof, sir, and nor are you.  Gone are the days when mortal weapons could not pierce our sides.”

                “Not sure I ever had those days.  I do recall being stabbed and run-through a number of times over the years,” was the flippant reply.

                “Figure of speech, sir.  My point is that it is entirely conceivable that a well-aimed, or lucky, shot has the potential to kill you.  As your bodyguard, it is my job to ensure that this does not happen.”  He paused and took a breath, quite unnecessarily but out of sheer habit, “Which is why I will be confining you to the Spire from now on.”

                “You’ll be doing what?” demanded Addison, his blasé attitude evaporating.

                “Sir, there are simply too many angles to keep an eye on down in the arcology.  Here in the Spire we control who comes in and who goes out, and about the only attack that I would not be able to see coming is a tactical missile strike.”

                “You are my employee, angel!  I give you orders, not the other way around!”  Addison slammed a fist into his desk, incensed by Allegory’s intentions.

                “Sir, that is correct.  And the principal order you have given me is to protect you from harm.  That overrides all other concerns, and if confining you to the Spire is the only way to do achieve that end then that is exactly what I will do.”  Despite his boss’s sudden anger, the angel’s tone remained as level and as patient as ever.

                “And if I disregard this?” asked Addison, glaring at his bodyguard.

                “You were a nomad, sir, a wanderer.  I was a warrior.”  Lavender eyes met pale red, as Allegory calmly held his employer’s stare, leaving the implied threat hanging in the air.  Minutes passed as the two immortals stared at each other, until at last Addison relented.

                “Very well, I shall agree to remain in the safety of the Spire.  However, I want you and Miss Janer to track down these socialist upstarts and eliminate them.  I will not be confined to my home by a rag-tag bunch of bleeding heart activists.”

                “We’re already on the case, sir,” replied Allegory, giving a solemn nod before turning to leave Addison’s office.

                The Laurent neighbourhood of New Eden was always busiest at night, and the sight of it tended to conjure to mind words such as “bustling”, “heaving”, and “fucking noisy”.  It was a good place to get lost in, deliberately or otherwise, and boasted the second-lowest crime rate in the city.  Of course, this was due almost entirely to the limited police presence in the neighbourhood, meaning more than 80% of crimes committed there went unrecorded.  If one accepted unofficial statistics, it was the most crime-ridden region of the city, by a considerable margin.

                Laurent was where the poor and downtrodden lived, and where the illicit and immoral worked.  As well as being the best place in New Eden to get mugged, it also had an excellent array of tattoo parlours, unlicensed implant surgeries – or “chop-shops” – and brothels.  A good night out in Laurent could see you waking up with a tattoo of the name of a girl you couldn’t remember, and the hastily fitted body modification of your choice. 

Despite this less than savoury reputation, there were a few relatively pleasant areas in Laurent.  Those of a not-so criminal nature tended to band together, like a herd of sheep before a wolf, and there was the odd tenement block that was entirely self-policed by its residents, and where parents could raise their children without having to worry too much about them being abducted and sold into slavery.  The imaginatively named “Block 3” happened to be one of those few apartment buildings, and it was the home of over a hundred hard-working citizens of New Eden and their families.  Across the street from it was the Blue Dragon, a bar/club that defied traditional descriptions, and was a one-stop place to buy all the best and worst things that New Eden had to offer.  The suited and heavily-armed guards at the front of the Blue Dragon spent their day casually watching the constantly-rotating militia that protected the entrance to Block 3, and while there was no hostility between the two groups this was purely on the condition that they both kept to their own sides of the road.

In one of the higher level bars in the Blue Dragon, Talija Janer, the head of security for the Spire, was having a quiet drink with a long-standing contact of her employer, while information and payment were being passed back and forth.  A few metres away from them, a group of naked people, both male and female, were bending over and holding their toes while a large and hairy man with a huge canine penis went up and down the line, taking each of them in turn.  Neither Talija nor her contact paid this the least bit of attention.  Eventually, the pair stood and shook hands, with Talija heading back to the elevator down to the ground floor, while her contact sat back down and finished his drink, casually watching the floor show. 

Returning to the club’s entrance, Talija nodded to her waiting colleague, who fell in step with her as she headed back out onto the street, where they turned off towards the tramway bridge that ran through this section of the city.

“Kenny Lu’s been able to furnish us with three addresses,” explained Talija, as they walked into the poorly lit area under the bridge, “None of them are exactly top billing but if we can hit them all in the same night then it will send out a clear message.  Meanwhile, he’s also confirmed that one of the other names on our list, Tobias Albach, is pretty much their de facto leader.  Apparently ATP don’t exactly go for hierarchy, which we kinda already knew, but this Albach guy is definitely the first amongst equals.”

“Did he have any leads on where we’d be able to find Mr Albach?” asked her companion.

“Nope, but he knows a guy who does; said he’d be back in touch with us when he knew more.”

“Which means, I suppose, that we’d have to go back to that den of iniquity.”

“Jesus, Mel, what is it with you and ‘sins of the flesh’?” said Talija, a playful smirk on her lips.

“I used to be a messenger,” replied the angel, shifting uneasily and looking away, “I never really had to deal with…” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “all this.  It just makes me uneasy, that’s all.”

“But you’re cool with us storming into people’s homes and murdering them in cold blood?” asked Talija, her smirk spreading into a grin.  The angel shrugged before returning the smile.

“I didn’t always deliver nice messages.”  Talija’s laugh echoed off the stone and steel supports of the bridge overhead, but stopped abruptly when three men stepped out of the shadows to stand in front of them.  Tatty faux-leather jackets, vinyl patches and duct tape holding them together, and with chains and metal plates stitched into every bit of clothing that could take them, the three were clearly gutter rats.

“Ello, pretty girl,” said the one in the middle, before pointedly turning his attention specifically to Talija, “And ello to you, too.  Going for a lover’s stroll?”

“Nope, just out on business.  Now back the fuck off before I bury you small-time pricks,” she replied, in a calm and level tone.

“Oooh, sounds like someone’s on the rag, eh?”  The gang leader turned to the cronies either side of them, who laughed and egged him on.  “Now now, precious, just you be handing over your cash and valuables like a good girl and maybe we won’t hurt either of you.”

“Last warning, maggot.  I’ve been killing fuckers tougher than you for two decades, now back off or you’re rat fodder.”

“Tal…,” began Mayim’el, putting a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

“I know,” she replied, “You take those two, and these three are mine.”

“Alright!  Talky-time is over!  You cunts want it the hard way, I’ll give it to you th-,” he got no further, as a well-aimed throwing knife struck him squarely in the throat, cutting off his words and causing him to drop to his knees, clutching at his neck as he tried in vain to stop his life’s blood leaking away.  Talija had already moved onto the next target while the knife was still in the air, drawing her sidearm with her off-hand and firing two shots at the goon to the left of the dying mugger.  Behind her, Mayim’el had turned to engage the pair of thugs that thought they had been sneaking up unnoticed, and drew a short hatchet from the inside of his jacket.  The shocked thugs hurriedly tried to ready their guns, with one managing to get a single shot off before Mel was upon them, his hatchet raining down like the judgment of God Himself, and the bullet glancing off his shoulder to leave a minor flesh wound that would be gone by the morning.

“I surrender?” tried the remaining goon before Talija, dropping his knife and holding his hands up as, a dozen metres away, his two remaining colleagues were swiftly and savagely turned into road kill by Mel’s furious onslaught.

“Good idea,” replied Talija, calmly shooting him in the forehead.  She shrugged to herself as he fell lifelessly to the ground, “I mean, it wasn’t going to save you, but at least it meant I could get a clean shot off.”  She retrieved her knife from the gang leader, casually cleaning it on his t-shirt before tucking it back away.  “I swear, street thugs get dumber every year,” she said, as Mayim’el walked over to her, blood dripping from his hatchet and splattered over his jacket and face.

“And they were pretty dumb to begin with.  Oh, looks like laughing boy’s still alive.”  Talija glanced over to where the thug with the neck wound was indeed still drawing faint, gurgling breaths, his terrified eyes staring at his intended victims.

“Not for much longer he isn’t.  Anyway, let’s go get you cleaned up before we get back in the drop ship.  Kaede will have kittens if you get blood on the seats.”

“You know, I’ve never understood that particular idiom.”

“Eh,” replied Talija, shrugging, “I’ve often suspected that ninety percent of most cants were designed purely to confuse the fuck out of other people.”  Beside her, the angel chuckled.

“Ah, humans.  You have a greater capacity for complex communication than any other animal that’s ever existed, and you spend much of your energies deliberately trying to prevent others understanding you.”

“Sounds like we had a shitty designer,” she replied with a grin.  The angel scowled and lapsed into silence as they made their way to the nearest hostel to get him washed down.

 Later that week, three members of the ATP were killed in seemingly random attacks – one by a mugger, another in his own home by men who looked to be enforcers for a local loan shark, and the third in a bar fight that got out of hand.  That these three events occurred on the same night and within minutes of each other was a fact that New Eden’s police force completely failed to pick up on.  Three murders happening in one night was hardly unusual in the heavily-populated city, and aside from the victims all being affiliated with the Arcology for The People movement, there did not look to be anything that connected the crimes.  Tobias Albach, unofficial head of the ATP, felt otherwise.

“Five people.  Five good people, in barely more than a week.  Meanwhile, what do we have to show for their sacrifice?  We’ve killed an innocent woman, and our target has apparently now confined himself to his personal fortress.  Hardly a success story.”

“He’s got angels, Tobias, we barely have guns!” shouted one of the council members.

“Which just means we need to be even more careful, Arron.  We’re out-manned, out-gunned, and out-funded; we can’t afford to be sloppy.”

“So what are you proposing?” asked another.

“We need to be patient, and methodical.  Everyone has a weakness, and we just need to find his.  Until we do, and until we have a concrete, water-tight plan on how to get rid of the monster at the heart of our city, I am suspending all aggressive operations.”

“You don’t have the authority!” cried Arron.

“So we vote on it.  All in favour of continuing to sacrifice good people for no gain, raise your hand.”  There was a murmuring around the council table, with a number of members exchanging glances, but none wanting to show their hand.  “I see.  Now, all in favour of biding our time and calculating a solid plan before we act, raise your hands.”  There was more murmuring, and this time four of the seven councillors, Tobias included, raised their hands in favour.  “Good.  Motion carried, with three abstentions and no nays.”

Following the vote, as the councillors started to file out of the chamber, Arron Forgrave caught the eye of one of the other abstainers.

“It seems our ‘leader’ no longer has the stomach for the fight, Jinny,” he commented as they walked out of the chamber together.

“Seems so,” agreed Jinny Wynn, “But what can we do?”

“We need to marshal our people.  Inspire them, if you will.  It is through commitment and sacrifice that we will slay this beast, not through caution and cowardice.”

“Y’got something in mind, Arron?”

“I do,” replied Forgrave, “But it won’t be pretty.”  They walked in silence out onto the arcology walkway that led away from the rented chamber they used for their council meetings.  After allowing his colleague some time to consider the matter, Forgrave spoke up again, “Do I have your support in this matter?”

“Just t’be clear,” replied Wynn, stopping and checking to make sure there was nobody within earshot, “We’re talking coup, right?”  Forgrave nodded, and Wynn hesitated, mulling the idea over in her mind.  “Alright,” she said at last, “I got y’back on this.  Do what need be done.”  Forgrave nodded again, and the two councillors shook hands before heading their separate ways.

                                                                                                      

k'Tacha - The Emissary

          To His Majesty the Great Uzgal Gashagr, Ruler of the Empire of Gashhur, Lord of Mauhak, and Mightiest of the Horde.  May the contents of this package please you.  It was under your esteemed orders that I was dispatched to the Kingdom of k’Tacha as an emissary, in order to better understand our neighbours and to ascertain their weaknesses as well as their strengths.  Contained herein is the journal of my days spent in this land to the east of our mighty empire.  I humbly hope that what I have discovered may in some small way assist the growth and strengthening of our great land.

***

                Right from my very first arrival in the lands of k’Tacha, it became apparent that their society differed considerably from our own…

I alighted in the port city of Ahdada by a route most circuitous to aid my cover as a Gashhur merchant noble who had spent many a year developing trade links in Eridesh, and immediately upon setting foot on the docks my senses were assaulted from all sides.  The docks, like our own, were awash with the smell of pitch, fish, and sewage as one would expect in any busy port.  In addition to that, the renowned Ahdada spice market was open, and even though it was a hundred rods[1] or more from where I disembarked, the warm desert winds brought those pungent scents to me, almost masking the more immediate odours of the bustling harbour.  None of this came as a surprise to me, for it was not the first port I had visited in my life, nor the first time I had been near a spice market.

What did surprise me was the multitude and variety of businesses that operated in the dark of night – though the port was so awash with burning braziers and lanterns that I suspect even in an eclipse it would seem bright as day.  While every port the world over will have inns for weary sailors and merchants to rest their bodies and sate their hungers, the port of Ahdada teemed with all manner of tents, booths, and other ramshackle structures, their owners out front loudly hawking their trade to all and sundry.  Even when compared to the heaving ports of Eridesh, Ahdada is something to be experienced.  As I walked from the jetty and set out in search of travel to the k’Tachan capital of Karnu I was offered more services and items than I could observe, some of which I did not even recognise and some of which, to my shame, I did.

That the k’Tachans have a different view of the sexual act to ourselves is not news to Your Majesty, but I feel that even Your Grace would be taken aback by the openness with which workers of that trade offered themselves.  If I may speak plainly, for I fear as this journal goes on I will find it increasingly difficult to be circumspect without obfuscating matters entirely, there were enough whores in the port of Ahdada to keep an entire legion of soldiers entertained.  They showed no abashment at their trade, either, and seemed to have adapted their sales patter well to cope with those who did not speak the language.  Certainly, one would need to have lived one’s entire life a hermit to not understand what was on sale.  The variety, too!  Females, males, young and old, slight and gross, and even one woman who appeared to have lost both of her legs – either by accident or design I would not wish to speculate – and who apparently used a suspended harness as a means to…

I apologise, My Lord, the image burned so brightly in my memory that to recall it at all was to distract myself from the purpose of these writings.  Your Grace, of course, does not need to read the finer details of how these men and women plied their trade.

I will confess that even a disciplined and experienced man as myself found it difficult to make it from the portside to the main thoroughfare of the docks district, and that by the time I had managed this it had long since become necessary to rearrange my robes for the sake of decency.  I add this detail only for comparison, for the men of k’Tacha did not seem similarly inclined, and many could be observed to be conversing with the various flesh peddlers or simply watching the display acts with their lusts quite noticeably inflamed.  Most at least kept themselves covered, if not concealed, but there were numerous persons there who were not in the least abashed about exposing their ardour to the cooler evening air, and walked around with it for all to see.  Not only was this apparently so commonplace that it did not draw any comments but it would seem that the majority of denizens of the docks did not even find such a thing worth a raised eyebrow or second glance.

After reaching the edge of the docks district, I was able to hire myself both transport to Karnu and a local guide and bodyguard, the latter two being one and the same – a grizzled man older than myself who both claimed and certainly appeared to be the veteran of a number of wars.

***

The bodyguard’s name was Betepah, and he was a native of Nhanr, far to the east of Eridesh and Dimashk.   Emissary Orbakh had selected the man for a number of reasons, not least of which was that he had been the only guide who was both fully dressed and looked like he belonged in battle rather than in a brothel.  The Nhanerian’s lack of zeal had also caught Orbakh’s eye, for while his competitors were shoving each other out of the way to get the space to extol their virtues to a potential customer, Betepah had been leaning against the side of the building they were gathered outside and had barely spared the emissary a glance.  To the Gashhur, such composed indifference suggested a quiet confidence in one’s own abilities, rather than the insecurity unintentionally implied by those who tried to make a show of themselves.

The Nhanerian veteran also spoke excellent Eridian, and had a far better grasp of it than Orbakh did of k’Tachan.  Orbakh, of course, would have preferred a guide who spoke the Gashhur tongue but there were few people outside of the Gashhur Empire who spoke even a smattering of the guttural, snarling language.  Eridian, on the other hand, had become something of a trade language for the whole area, and was understood by educated or well-travelled individuals as far away as Chellu in the north and Akaria in the south.  As well as the language having a relatively straightforward structure, the king of Eridesh was keen on his nation exporting its many texts, essays, poems, and any other form of the written word.

Betepah soon started to earn his coin as a guide, advising his newest employer on the best transport for getting to Karnu in both a reasonable amount of comfort and time.  The road to the capital was well-travelled, he said, and equally well-patrolled.  As such, attacks from bandits were almost unheard of, and even the local tribes had over the years got up and moved rather than contend with the k’Tachan legion indiscriminately devastating villages in retaliation for any and every attack on merchants.  The roads of k’Tacha, it seemed, were impressively safe.

“Unlike Karnu itself,” commented Betepah as he leaned back against the side canvas of their coach, his eyes closed and his body swaying from side to side with each bump on the hard-pack dirt road they travelled on.

“The capital is dangerous?” asked Orbakh as he scribbled notes in his personal journal, from which he would later write up a version more suited for his king.

“No more so than any other big city,” replied the veteran, giving a lazy shrug of his scarred shoulders.  From what Orbakh could see of his guide, just about every part of the man had been struck by some bladed weapon or other over the years.  He estimated Betepah to be perhaps a dozen years older than himself, and the man had either seen a great number of battles, or just been very heavily involved in the very worst of a handful.  Either way, the veteran seemed disinclined to discuss his military history, save that there had been a lot of it.  “They’re just scars,” he had said when asked by Orbakh, and when pressed for details the man had simply given another shrug, a gesture that the emissary was starting to realise he would be seeing a lot of during their time together.

“I am from Gashhur, I have lived in Eridesh, and I have travelled extensively.  If there’s one thing I have learned, no two cities are quite the same.”  Betepah opened one eye at the emissary’s statement, and gave a lazy half-smile.

“True words, O Esteemed Merchant.  True words, indeed.  Hm, perhaps I should say instead that Karnu is no more dangerous than any other big city in k’Tacha.  Not significantly more dangerous, at least.”  He opened both eyes and gazed thoughtfully at the dust trail their covered cart was leaving in its wake.  “Well… so long as you’re not a slave, or a foreigner, or poor, or weak, or unable to defend yourself in a fight.”

“I think… I probably come under two of those things,” replied Orbakh, doing his best to look apprehensive.  In truth, as a Gashhur emissary he was more than capable of defending himself against common street thugs and even against moderately determined assassins, but he knew of precious few merchants who had any idea as to what to do with a sword except sell it.

“And that is why you hired me, yes?  You see the other guides, clamouring for your attention, pressing their bodies against you and hoping to elicit some form of response.  You think ‘I need a guide who can protect me, not one who can suck my cock’, yes?”

“I perhaps would not have put it in quite such terms,” said Orbakh after clearing his throat, “but the message is the same.”

“Yes.  And then you see me, and you think ‘that fellow looks like he has seen battle, he looks confident, I will hire him to protect and guide my flabby merchant arse,’ yes?”  Orbakh let out a small chuckle; he had forgotten the mannerisms of mercenaries.

“Again, not quite the same wording I was thinking.”

“Yes.  And if you want your cock sucked,” Betepah leaned forward abruptly, and the emissary found himself involuntarily leaning away, “then just say.  I know many fine whore pits in Karnu.”  The Nhanerian grinned broadly, displaying a mouth with a surprisingly full set of teeth for a war veteran, even if several of them were made of gold.  Orbakh cleared his throat again.

“In Gashhur, sex is something we keep much to ourselves.  There is no shame in lust, but it is not something we display in public.  Even in Eridesh the women keep themselves covered and while the men will flirt there is at least a certain discretion to it.  But here in k’Tacha…”

“Whores fuck in the street,” finished Betepah, leaning back again.  “Not your words, yes?”  Orbakh laughed.  “In k’Tacha,” the guide continued, “fucking for money is seen as an acceptable occupation for anyone born free, so long as they are not noble.  The nobles… they do it for free.  You will see a noble woman, she finds a freeman she likes the look of, she will go up to him and ask if he wants her cunt.”  Another shrug, then “It is a fool who says no, even if the woman is not so young or as beautiful as she once was.  Women have the power here, yes?”

“I had heard as much,” replied Orbakh.  “You have your priestesses-“

“Our official whores,” interrupted Betepah.

“- your queen,” continued Orbakh, grinning.

“Our head whore.”

“Is such a statement not treason here?”  Orbakh, amused though he was by the mercenary’s attitude, still found himself surprised to hear a man speak of his regent in such a way.  Betepah just shrugged again.

“You are going to report me to the militia at the next stop, yes?  You will say ‘hey you, militia man, this old bastard here says your queen is a whore!’, yes?”  Orbakh opened his mouth to reply, but his guide continued, “They will not care.  If you are lucky, they will tell you to fuck off.  If not so lucky, they will hit you with the butts of their spears, then tell you to fuck off.”

“The militia do not care for the law?”

“They care for peace and quiet.  If the law gives them an excuse to stick their spear into something, or stick their spear into something, then they care about the law.  Otherwise, not so much.”

“Interesting,” was all Orbakh could think of to say.

***

My journey to the capital was uneventful yet informative.  My guide had many interesting things to say on the matter of both discipline and patriotism amongst the k’Tachan militia, none of which displayed them kindly.  While I suspect the core of the k’Tachan army to be somewhat different, it would appear that the common soldiery are little more than barely-organised rabble, who have little interest in anything grander than their own lives.

The towns we passed through on the road to Karnu differed greatly from the port city of Ahdada, as one would expect, but still they offered insight into the society of this land.  Every settlement had a temple or a shrine to their principal goddess, Nzerdune, and even those that were little more than an inn by the road at least had an altar for votive offerings to their goddess.  It would seem that the priestesses of k’Tacha wield considerable influence throughout their lands.

***

The other ubiquitous feature of k’Tachan townships that Orbakh discovered was prostitution.  Anywhere larger than a village had at least one brothel, and they did not visit a single inn where the serving girls were not prepared to have sex in exchange for coin.  It seemed that in k’Tachan society, people were no more prepared to go without sex than they were food or drink.

Orbakh realised he would have to take advantage of the ready availability of opportunities to fornicate before too long, but he sought to resist the urge for as long as he could.  Though he might be in the nation under pretence of being a merchant, he had a very real mission to undertake and one from which he would prefer a minimum of distractions.  Besides which, he had a wife and family back home in Gashhur, even if he had not seen them for a few years due to the travelling needs of his job as emissary.  One particular inn had made it very difficult for him, with the serving girl inviting both him and Betepah to examine just how moist her nethers were for them both.  Thankfully, having her offer translated by Betepah – though he’d have understood the general gist even had his ears been plugged – somewhat lessened the impact.  The mercenary had seemed to understand some of Orbakh’s discomfort and had removed temptation from his path by passing the girl a couple of coins and taking her off to a side room.  None of which did anything to calm the painfully hard erection he had under the table, but it did at least give him some mental breathing space before they resumed their travels.

“Is no shame in it,” commented Betepah after the two had ridden in silence for some miles beyond that in, “everyone wants to fuck, yes?”

“It is not the Gashurr way,” replied Orbakh.

“The Gashhur do not fuck?  How do you make little Gashhur?” the guide’s tone was playful, and even in the gloom Orbakh could see the smirk on his face, from the gleam off his golden teeth.

“In the dark, with our eyes closed.”  Orbakh found the mercernary’s flippancy all too infectious.

“Ah, at least you have a sense of humour in Gashhur, even if you find sex so distasteful!”

“Not distasteful,” said Orbakh, absent-mindedly rubbing his temples – the date wine at the inn had been far too drinkable, and he was starting to regret imbibing quite so much of it.  “We consider it to be a private act between two people.”

“Just two?  So tame, so boring.  Sex is like food – an intimate meal for two is nice, but a feast with all of your friends is better, yes?”

“Is it the same in Nhanr?  Is Gashhur really the only nation to be reserved about fornication?”

“I have not seen my homeland in over three decades, my friend.  But when last I was there, young women of wealthy families would be sent away to schools where they would be taught how to pleasure their future husbands, and themselves.”

“Really?” replied Orbakh, his eyes widening at a variety of mental images.

“Truth,” said the veteran, “I began my military career working as a guard at one such school.”  His grin was so broad that Orbakh could see the man’s back teeth.

“Tell me more,” insisted the emissary, leaning forward eagerly.

“Ah, it was a happy time.  I was barely an adult myself and I thought that the guard duty would be easy but boring.  I was wrong on both of these.”

“It was difficult?” enquired Orbakh, puzzled.

“In a sense, yes.  You see, these girls were keen to practice what they were taught.  Mostly, the practiced what they could on each other.  The school’s mistresses did not disapprove of this, they saw it as a healthy way to release the tension that built up.  But now imagine you are me.  You stand on duty, yes?  You stand there, watching attractive girls just a summer or two younger than yourself.  Watching them being taught about sex and sexual pleasure, watching them run around in between lessons,” he paused and licked his lips, “watching them in the dormitories at nights, when they let out the tension of the day.”  Opposite him, Orbakh cleared his throat and shifted slightly on the cushion he sat upon.  “You remember being that young, yes?  When it seemed that even the wind changing direction would…” the guide gestured with one hand, “cause your breeches to tighten.  Now imagine you are surrounded by lust-filled girls who are busy learning the best way to fuck a man.”  Orbakh blinked, and then nodded.  He was imagining it, and was finding it helped if he leaned forward a bit more.

“Guard duty when you’re, ah, standing to attention?”

“Ha, yes!  Truth, my friend, truth.  In one hand I held my staff – they did not think guards around young women should have bladed weapons, yes? – and in the other hand I tried to hide my other staff.”

“Did you get into trouble?”

“Not in the sense you are thinking, but of a sort, yes.”  Betepah grinned massively again, and Orbakh laughed before gesturing for the man to continue his tale.  “Sometimes, not so easy to hide my arousal.  Sometimes, a girl would notice.  Sometimes, that girl would like what she saw.  Sometimes, I helped them put their theory into practice.  Other times, they would tease me, touching and kissing each other, making me watch but staying too far away for me to do any more.”  He sighed, then chuckled quietly to himself.  “It was a good job.  Truth, a very good job.”  The two men sat in quiet contemplation for some moments, Betepah leaning back against the side of the cart’s canvas with his hands behind his head, while Orbakh continued to lean forward in moderate discomfort.

“Do you miss Nhanr?” Orbakh asked at last.

“I miss getting my dick sucked by sixteen year old girls,” replied Betepah, grinning and closing his eyes.

***

It was three days and nights travel from the k’Tachan coast to its capital, though the pace was hardly pressed. The citizens of the Empire are friendly and welcoming of strangers even when they are foreign.  My guide also acted as my translator, for though I know a passable amount of their tongue, I found it best to feign ignorance.  When he was not available and I had to pretend to speak in slow, hesitant k’Tachan, I found no trace of annoyance in those with whom I conversed, and they seemed only too happy to help me out if I acted uncertain of a word. 

They are a very expressive and tactile people, something which on occasion became distracting due to their tendency to wear little more than a loincloth or a simple apron when they were not working.  I do not think our soldiers would have any issues with being resented or even resisted by the people of this land, for none that I met seemed interested in their queen, and more than one professed to not being able to remember her name.  It seems that the ordinary people of k’Tacha, like their militia, do not care about anything beyond their own lives and homes.  If they had a foreign ruler on the throne of k’Tacha, would they care or even notice?

***

“You have made arrangements, yes?”  Betepah asked as the great north gate of Karnu – visible from some miles back – finally came close enough for them to be able to see the details.

“Pardon?”  Close enough, too, to notice the numerous archers stationed atop the gate itself and along the high walls that flanked it.

“Arrangements.  You have spoken to the Merchant Guild, yes?”  When Orbakh just stared at him blankly, Betepah sighed, “I see.  Not registered.  Well, that is first thing to do, yes?  Speak to the Guild, register as merchant in Karnu, then you will be able to trade and set up business contacts.”

“What happens if I don’t register?  We have no guild in Gashhur, nor is there one in Eridesh.”

“With no licence, nobody honest will trade with you.  You can still trade with criminals,” his nonchalant tone passed no judgement on that potential path, “but if the City Guard find you doing this, they make you regret it.  But not nearly as much as the Guild make you regret it, yes?”

“What level of regret are we talking about?  Fines?  Imprisonment?”

“First, they cut out your tongue so you cannot haggle anymore.”  Orbakh raised his eyebrows.  “Then they break your fingers so you cannot count coin anymore.”

“I see,” said Orbakh, swallowing.

“That is for first offence,” continued Betepah, “For second offence, they remove your genitals and make you eat them, then they leave you in street to bleed to death.  Merchant Guild, they do not fuck about.”

“I see,” repeated Orbakh, “All things considered, I agree that a licence would be a good idea.”

“Truth,” replied Betepah, grinning.

“Is there anything else I need to be aware of before I start business?”

“Most guards can be bribed, unless they are a captain.  Do not try to bribe a captain if you like walking.”

“Walking?”

“Most people with broken knees, they not walk so good.”

“Aha.  And how can I identify a captain?”

“Is easy.  If you try to bribe them and they break your knees, then they are captain.”  The guard grinned again, while Orbakh sighed.

“Your level of helpfulness varies quite a lot, Betepah.”

“Relax, friend!  You with me, I see you safe.  Anyone tries to break your knees, I break theirs first.”  The gate’s shadow loomed over them, the massive structure blocking out the sun when they were still hundreds of yards away.  With the sun still in the sky behind the capital city, the smaller access gates that were cut into one door of the true gate were open, and through the still sizeable portal Orbakh could see and smell the vibrant city of Karnu.

---

[1] A rod of cord, or just a “rod”, is unit of length equal to approximately 50 metres

6Hills - The Wolf’s Head

The Wolf’s Head
-
A Tale Set in the Lost City of Six Hills

                The rain that fell in the forest descended like the vengeance of Nature herself.  As Malle ran beneath dripping branches, her clothes and skin already soaked, she thought of how she and her brother would use the trees for shelter from the rain when they played in these woods as children.  She remember leaning tightly against old oaks, the bark rough against her back, laughing breathlessly alongside her twin as they watched the summer showers fall between the cover of the trees, leaving endless circles of dry grass, each with a mighty tree bursting up from its centre.  Back then, it had seemed almost magical, the way they could stay perfectly dry under the protection of the trees, while just a few feet away the grass was drenched and the dry, parched soil turned to mud.  More lately, it was if Nature no longer cared for these little pink things that ran among her green children, and had forbidden the trees to offer them succour.

                Onward she ran, as the rain pelted her with its cold, wet sting.  Ahead, a small cave loomed out of the weather’s damp and grey shroud.  Really, it was little more than an outcrop of rock that jutted from the side of a small hillock, but in Malle’s eyes it was sanctuary from this vicious and unseasonably cold downpour.  Arms held ineffectually over her head to shield her, she darted out from the treeline into the little clearing that surrounded the outcrop’s opening and flattened herself against the cold stone at its back, turning to watch the world vanish behind the curtain of water that fell before her.  Panting for breather, Malle leaned forward to wring her hair out as best she could, before trying to do the same with her dress but there was a limit to the success she could achieve.  Still, despite the rain it was a warm enough evening and she wasn’t concerned about catching anything worse than a slight chill, so she stood, and she waited, looking at the forest through the grey blur of rain and hoping that the summer downpour would soon pass.  When such an event looked a long time in the waiting, Malle realised she might as well get comfortable, and sat down upon the bare soil that was sheltered by the outcrop, water from her clothes slowly seeping into the cracked earth.

                She leaned against a squat stone that sat beside her, and sighed.  It wasn’t just the weather that had lately grown surlier; the city’s alley cats, never the most sociable or affectionate of animals, now hissed at anyone who came near them, even those bearing scraps of food.  Her parents always seemed to be at one another’s throats, and the traders of Lower Flightfire’s market were more prone to arguing than bartering.  It seemed that everyone and everything in the City of Six Hills was growing more and more choleric.  Times like these, she missed having someone to talk to.  She missed her brother.  When he’d been around, it didn’t matter how bad things got, there was always a glimmer of hope that everything would turn out right.  But it was months since anyone had seen either hide or hair of him.  Sighing again, and now bored as well as damp and morose, Malle looked down at the rock she was leaning on; it was surprisingly comfortable for piece of stone.  Perhaps it was just her boredom talking, but it was actually quite an interesting rock to look at.  If she leaned back and regarded it from the right angle, it looked a little bit like the head of a wolf.  Or at least, like the head of a wolf might look like if it had been made out of stone and then left in a damp forest for a number of years.  It was weird, but the moss growing on the top and down one side of the stone gave it a look almost like a shaggy pelt, and a chunk of some impurity or other in the stone formed a small patch of red just where the eye should be.  It was probably just one of those things, like how if you looked at a certain cloud a certain way it would stop being a cloud and become a lion, or a bear, or the face of someone you know.  Certainly astrology showed that, if nothing else, people were superlative in the matter of seeing familiar patterns in nature.  Shrugging to herself, Malle again turned to regard the dreary rain beyond the shelter of her little cave and leaned upon the wolf-rock.  In time she grew tired and, making a pillow of her folder arm, lay her head down upon the rock and dozed.

* * *

                Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, though the ground was still damp and the air smelled of wet vegetation.  Her clothes were still wet, too, and cold where they clung to her body.  And her body… her body felt weird.  She was in the middle of a forest, she was cold, and she was soaked to the skin, but for some reason she felt excited.  Had she more experience of such matters, she’d realise it was blossoming arousal, but to Malle it just felt like a strange, almost tickling heat that built up from her loins and warmed her despite the chill of her wet dress.

                The cracking of twigs, some distance behind her, brought her out of her reverie and had her looking about the forest in a startled panic, but she could see nothing beyond the vegetation all around her.  Then another snap, and this time she turned in time to see the stems and leaves of a small bush twitching, as if someone had just brushed past them.  The third sound was a growl, a low and bestial growl that bypassed Malle’s ears and brain and reached deep into her spine.  Over the hundreds of thousands of years of their existence, human bodies had developed just one response to that kind of growl – RUN.  And Malle did, not even looking to see where it was coming from and concerning herself more with making sure she was going away from it as fast as her legs could carry her.

                Her bare feet pounded on the slimy surface of the wet top layer of soil, struggling for traction and only sheer terror keeping her upright as her body took over from her brain.  Behind her she could hear the crashing sound of the creature – a bear, a wolf, a cougar? – charging through the undergrowth and bearing down on her.  She leapt over a fallen tree trunk with agility that surprised her, and barely even slowed as she landed on the other side.  What was it her father had taught her, all those years ago?  Four legs are faster than two, and can run for longer, but two legs can turn quicker.  And so she skidded into a turn and darted off in a new direction through the trees, flailing at low hanging branches that whipped at her face, while her pursuer growled in outrage as it slid past where she’d turned and thumped into the side of a tree.  Within moments it was back in pursuit, though, and already making up the lost ground on its prey.  Malle’s heart pounded in her chest and she could feel wetness between her thighs, coupled with an ancient and powerful yearning that she had felt before but never so strong.  Tears in her eyes as she fled in panic, her feet sore and bleeding from a myriad of tiny cuts and punctures courtesy of the pine cones and twigs she ran across, Malle carried on through the forest, her legs and lungs burning with exertion.  She didn’t know how much longer she could stay on her feet for, but the growing fear in her chest told her that however long it was would not be long enough to out-pace the beast at her heels.  Ducking under a branch that would have left her flat on her back, Malle had to react quickly to hurdle a log on the other side.  Too quickly, in fact, and the foot of her trailing leg clipped the broken remnants of a branch that stabbed upwards from the obstacle, forcing her into an graceless landing, with her other foot finding little purchase in the slick mud.  She knew, in that moment, she was lost.  Time seemed to slow down for Malle as he senses drank in every last bit of information they could managed, desperately seeking something that would prolong her survival, but ultimately they came up with nothing that could combat the combined forces of inertia and momentum that bore Malle to the ground.  She landed hard, the wind driven out from her and a sharp, searing pain in her arm telling her she had in all likelihood broken something as she hit the ground.

                Gasping for air in great, wracking sobs, Malle rolled painfully onto her back to at last face the creature that had been pursuing her, and beheld the largest wolf she had ever seen.  The thing was huge, and seemed all the more massive as it strode towards her, looming over her prone body and standing above her.  Her eyes met those of the wolf and she saw nothing but hunger there – remorseless, pitiless hunger.  To the wolf, she was not some poor girl on the cusp of womanhood, she was not an innocent life about to be snuffed out, and she was not even a poor wounded creature.  No, she was nothing more than dinner.  She continued to stare into those intelligent, golden eyes as the creature stopped and looked down at her, its forepaws planted either side of her chest and its hindpaws between her ankles.  The wetness at her loins was such that she idly wondered if she’d emptied her bladder in fear, while her eyes drank in every detail of the wolf’s face, from the damp, slightly bumpy surface of its nose to each individual hair that covered the rest of him.  They remained that way for a moment, each gazing into the other’s soul, before there was a blur of motion from the wolf, a sudden and overwhelming burst of pain around her throat, a sickening crunch, and then nothing.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, the ground was dry and the air smelled of hot, baked earth and of flowers.  Her clothes too were dry and there was a pleasantly warm breeze drifting past her, stirring what little grass grew on the forest floor.  A voice spoke behind her and she turned to face a man, standing comfortably at ease despite being entirely naked.  He was tall, taller even than Gerald the smithy of Lower Flightfire, and as broad as he across the shoulder.  Though where Gerald’s arms and torso were rounded with bulk and his wife’s home-cooking, the man before her was lean and sinewy.  He looked as though home-cooking was not something he would even recognise, and there was not an ounce of fat upon him.  He spoke again but Malle wasn’t listening, she was too distracted by this specimen before her, her eyes roaming hungrily over his nude form, noticing the slight twitches of muscles under the skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  Noticing, too, the dark, thick hair that covered his body, especially noticeable on his forearms, across his chest, and on the widening trail that led from his navel to his groin.  There her eyes lingered till she felt her cheeks flush hot with blood.  She hadn’t seen very many penises in her seventeen years of life, but she could tell that this one was larger than most.  It was magnificent, to her.  Even if it had suffered the indignity of being hidden behind trousers its shape would still have been plain to see.  The man spoke again and Malle reluctantly dragged her gaze away from his loins and to his face.  He was tanned, with no lines or marks to suggest her ever wore any more clothes than he wore now, and his cheeks and jaw were thickly covered in a wild growth of beard.  His eyes were golden, and looked upon her with clear intelligence, but also with a hunger so pure, so burning and primal that she felt her heart tighten in fear.  He stepped forward, speaking softly as he reach up to cup her cheek.  His touch was gentle, almost kind, and though his fingers were stained with mud they felt soft and warm against her skin.  She leaned into his hand as he stepped close enough that she could smell the animalistic scent that rolled off of him.  The smell of his sweat, his breath, his hair, his skin, and his sex.  This close, it became intoxicating, and Malle felt her knees weaken as the man curled his other arm around her waist, pulling her in close to him and taking her weight.  She leaned against him, one hand on the thick hair of his chest and the other reaching up to hold onto his toned shoulder, and Malle gasped quietly as she felt his beard and lips brush softly over her neck.  He asked her a question, and she nodded her agreement, moaning quietly as he kissed first her ear, then her cheek.  Another query and Malle nodded again, her breath catching in her throat.  Once more, the man asked her the same question, this time with more urgency, and the slightest hint of a growl in his voice.

“Yes,” vocalised Malle, at last, and she felt his hands move lower over her body, smoothly running down her back to her rump, squeezing and lifting at the same time and pressing himself to her.  Her clothes were no longer so dry, though the weather could not be blamed this time.  His sweat began to soak into the fabric of her dress as her arms wrapped around him, while the softer linen of her underwear was so wet she may as well have just stood a lake.  He lifted her bodily and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirts bunching up between them and something rising from beneath to prod insistently at the damp union between her thighs.  “Yes,” Malle repeated to his unspoken question, as he pushed her up against a tree, one hand reaching down to tear at her underthings, ripping the flimsy and sodden material and casting it aside.  “Yes!” She cried, a third time, and all she felt was a slight pressure against her nethers before her world exploded.  Light became sound, sound became touch, and touch became everything at once.  The forest was gone, and the rest of existence with it, till it was just him before her, with her in his arms and his prick within her.  She hurt, she hurt so much, but that was nothing against the feelings that flowed through her.  Her veins felt as though they were on fire, and her muscles quivered with barely-contained energy.  He pushed deeper within her and the stars before her eyes gave way to inky blackness as she gave herself to his hunger.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, the ground was dry and the air smelled of distant smoke while small eddies of breeze sent dry leaves tumbling over her feet.  Her clothes were gone and though the air was cool enough to raise goose bumps from her bare skin she did not find it uncomfortable.  Malle looked ahead and beheld the largest wolf she had ever seen.  He was huge, and seemed all the more massive as he strode towards her, his golden eyes watching her carefully.  She knelt down as he approached, her arms spread to greet the great beast as he padded over.  She felt his teeth brush her cheek, biting with the slightest of pressure, just barely enough to dimple her flesh, and she threw her arms around his great neck.  Her fingers groomed through the wolf’s luxurious pelt as he sat on his haunches, and her breasts pressed against his chest, the hard rosy pink nubs of her nipples caressed by soft fur.  Smiling, Malle sat back on her heels and moved her hands to caress his face, stroking over his head and rubbing behind those huge, ever-alert ears.  He bumped his muzzle against her chin, before hunkering down to place his head between her thighs, there his broad tongue lapping out slowly to taste the dewy nectar that clung to the hair surrounding her sex.  Malle sighed peacefully and ran her fingers through the shaggy pelt of her lover’s back, cooing soft terms of endearment to him.  Suddenly, the wolf was alert and sitting bolt upright, ears pricked and his nose sniffing all around.  He stopped as abruptly as he had started, staring fixedly off into the distance and starting to quietly growl.  Malle turned to see what had got his attention, and spied a solitary doe, wondering serenely through the forest barely a hundred yards up-wind of them.

The wolf looked to her, a question in his eyes, and Malle nodded in response.  “Yes,” she said, and then the wolf was off, bounding across the forest floor with a quiet that belied its great size.  She was on her feet and following, surprising herself with her own fleetness as she caught up with the wolf, running alongside him as they bore down upon their quarry.  The doe heard them, but far too late, and was able only to look round and bleat in terror before several hundred pounds of wolf collided with it and knocked it to the ground.  Malle was barely a second behind, and arrived at the doe just as the wolf tore its throat out with one swift, merciless chomp of its great jaws.  Blood sprayed against his face, staining his grey fur crimson and reaching as far as Malle’s bare feet.  With the deer’s life’s juices dripping from his maw, he turned to Malle and growled a question.  “Yes,” she replied, nodding numbly as she stared at the doe’s ravaged throat.  Kneeling down as the dying animal’s limbs kicked and thrashed, Malle placed on hand gently upon the doe chin and tilted its head back before leaning in, her wolf companion mirroring her and watching her curiously.  Her loose hair dangled down into the doe’s raw wound as blood continued to spurt freely, though with rapidly less and less force as life fled from the stricken creature.  “Yes,” said Malle again, before lowering her head and sinking her teeth into the hot, wet flesh.  Her vision blurred, and everything else in the world went away save for her and her lover, and the food before them.  Her sharp teeth tore at the deer’s meat and Malle swallowed a bloody chunk, relishing every exquisite sensation it aroused as it slid down her throat and down into her belly, there to sate her hunger.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  She could not have slept long, as it was still raining, though not nearly as heavily as before.  Up above the shelter provided by the rocky outcrop, a crack in the grey clouds could be seen, with bright blue sky beyond.  Stretching, she yawned loudly before sleepily licking her lips and nose.  Then, golden eyes blinking as the early evening sunlight started to filter through the gaps in the rain clouds, Malle gave her hindquarters a shake and trotted off into the forest.

6Hills - The Wyrm's Bridge

The Wyrm’s Bridge

-

A Tale of the City of Six Hills

                Up ahead lay her goal.  Or rather, the final path to her goal.  A narrow rope bridge that spanned a terrifyingly deep crevice between her side of the mountain and the cave built into the peak above.  After crossing the bridge, she would still have a winding and rock-strewn path up to the cave itself, but that wasn’t much of an obstacle to anyone with reasonably sure feet and some climbing gear.  No, the real obstacle was getting across the perilous bridge to the other side.  The bridge itself wasn’t a problem – good balance and a head for heights would see her through.  The problem with the bridge was that its owner was known for not being too keen on visitors.  Damaris knew without looking that the bottom of the ravine below the bridge was decorated with the broken bones of most of those who had come before her.  “Most” because a goodly proportion of them had decided that caution was the better part of valour and had rather sensibly turned around and gone home, preferring to face ridicule rather than a fall to their death.

                Damaris, however, had confidence that she would continue where they had faltered, and succeed where they had failed.  Still, it was something of a gambit.  Taking a deep breath to steady her jangling nerves, Damaris took a half-step forward and placed her foot on the base rope of the bridge, holding one of the mooring posts for support.  And there she waited; if there was one thing that all of the cowardly but sensible survivors had been clear about, it was that one did not rush ahead, here.  Actually, they’d also all agreed on the matter of the sheer breeches-shitting terror of what was to come, but that wasn’t helpful to think on right now.  So she put her weight forward onto the bridge, and then stepped back and waited.

                Minutes later, just as the chill of the thin mountain air was beginning to seep through her leather jerkin and the urge to start moving about again became almost irresistible, Damaris heard the signal that she had been waiting for.  High above her head, in the grey mists that encircle and hid the mountain’s summit, came a sound like somebody rhythmically hitting a heifer with a carpet-beater, only the heifer in question was the size of a building and they were being struck by a giant.  And then, amidst the swirling cloud, she saw a hint of movement and a shadow that rapidly grew larger before bursting out of the mist and into plain sight.  The creature was enormous, with its scaled body easily the size of the mayor’s office back in the city, it’s great tail half as long as the street she grew up on, and each bat-like wing the size of a half dozen mainsails stitched together.  With gradually softening wingbeats that were still loud enough to make Damaris wince, the dragon settled down across the gorge from her and regarded her with undeniably intelligent eyes.  Its horse-like head, on the end of a long and serpentine neck, moved through the air as it regarded her from a number of angles.  Quietly, patiently, and one small step away from abject terror, Damaris continued to wait.

                “Who are you, and what do you want?” Boomed the great voice of the beast, at last.  Damaris braced herself as the gale-force wind of its breath buffeted her.  Steeling herself, Damaris swallowed before speaking.

                “I am Damaris de Montfort, and I come seeking your most valuable treasure!” Her voice was raised, as she sought to hide her fear behind a bold face; the dragon seemed indifferent.

“Many have come seeking my treasure.  All have gone away empty-handed, or died here.  Why should you not join them?” Demanded the dragon.

“All that have come before me have underestimated you, oh great wyrm.  They have sought to wheedle you with flattery, or outmatch you with their wits.  The truly stupid have even tried to assault you, like birds pecking a mountain.” The dragon allowed a slight smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.

“You, I take it, have another strategy in mind.  Will you appeal to my reason or my honour?  Will you seek to bribe me, or to convince me with moral arguments?” His tone was amused: he enjoyed it more when they tried to talk him out of his treasure.  Defeating an idiot in a suit of armour was no challenge at all, and while these dull little creatures were not difficult to outwit, it was at least a minor diversion and a moment’s entertainment.

“Nothing so banal, my lord dragon.  I wish to trade.” Damaris spread her arms, showing that she had not even brought any weaponry with her, besides the equipment required to make it this far up the mountain.

“Trade?  My, that is a new stratagem!  But what, dear fleshy little human, do you have to offer me that you think will be of comparable worth to my treasure?” Leaning his head out over the chasm that separated them, the dragon gave a wry grin.

“It is not your regular treasure that interests me, but you greatest treasure.  And I offer mine in exchange, that we might pool them together and both benefit greatly.”  With several minutes having gone by without any hint of being eaten or roasted alive, Damaris grew bolder.  She understood that she was still at the whim of this terrible creature but knew also that so long as she had his interest she was safe.  Dragons were nothing if not curious, after all.

“My greatest treasure? And what is that?  And what is your greatest treasure?” The great beast folded its forelimbs under itself and leaned forward further, its neck stretching halfway across the chasm.  Damaris smiled.

“Your seed, oh great dragon lord, and my womb.”  This was it, the moment of truth.  Either she had him now or she wasn’t going to need to worry what tomorrow held.  The dragon blinked, slowly, and reared its enormous head up, regarding Damaris with a puzzled look.

“My…?  Hm.”  The area fell into silence, save for the whispering of the wind as it wound its way around the canyon below.  Damaris shifted her weight from foot to foot, starting to grow impatient as the dragon considered her offer.  At last, the dragon spoke, “It is true that I have no offspring, and it is also true that am quite capable of mating with one of your people, perverse though the act might be.  However, the creature you would birth would be neither dragon nor human, but a half-breed.  He would possess some of my intellect and a fraction of my puissance, but he would not be able to fly and would be nearly as frail as you.  What use would I have of a bastard creature such as that?”

“Influence, my lord,” replied Damaris. “He would be able to pass as human, would he not?  And he would, as you said, be mightier and more cunning than any human.  Individually, there is no person in the City of Six Hills who could hope to stand against you, but the combined power of the city, its magisters, and its artillery, is such that even one as immense as yourself could not hope to prevail.” She hesitated; dragons were, as a breed, arrogant creatures and it was risky to remind him of his inability to conquer the lands at the foot of his mountain.  However, she clearly had his interest, as there was little more than a raised eye-ridge at her comment, and a flaming death failed to materialise.  “But if you had an ally, a creature of your blood who could infiltrate the city and bend it to your will, would this not be achieving with guile that which pure force could not deliver to you?”  The dragon stared at her, its reptilian eyes unblinking and its focus unwavering.  She felt her own eyes begin to water, just trying to hold the creature’s gaze.  And then it smiled; at least, she hoped that was a smile and not a snarl.

“You are insolent, but also bold and, dare I say it, wise.  You speak the truth, Damaris de Montfort.”  There was a shimmer in the air like that of a smithy’s forge, and the dragon seemed to become blurred, as though she was looking at him through eyes too tired to focus.  Then, where that just a moment ago sat many tonnes of dragon, there stood a handsome and very much human male, dressed in red silk fineries.  The thunderclap that accompanied the transformation nearly pulled Damaris off her feet as the air rushed in to fill the space so recently vacated by the dragon’s bulk.

“You may cross freely,” he said, his voice no longer so loud or so powerful as to make her ears ring.  The figure turned and rose, gracefully and effortlessly, through the air and up to the mouth of the cave at the mountain’s summit.  Still hesitant, wary of being tricked by a capricious dragon, Damaris started to follow, crossing the rope bridge with great care before making her way up the scree-covered path to the dragon’s home.

* * *