Sunblade Ch 02

** SUNBLADE OVERVIEW **

Sunblade is a free erotic fantasy novel that is written in instalments and posted to Literotica. It is an adventure that spans many timelines, dimensions and themes and is currently an ongoing work in progress. If you enjoyed this chapter, I implore you to check out the rest of the Sunblade story.

** CHAPTER OVERVIEW **

In this second instalment, Ashlyn and Delorys Flitt deal with an accident on the farm, and the stresses that are caused by all the commotion.

** GET INVOLVED **

I'd love to hear any thoughts or feedback you have on this story, so please feel free to leave a comment at the bottom of the page.

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** THE STORY SO FAR **

CH. 01 - Silkfarmer

** OOPS... **

* In last week's first instalment, the tagline gives the incorrect chapter title of "Silkfarmer". The correct title - "Silkworker" - is then mentioned very early in the text.

* When Ashlyn learns that Shakokami prostitutes are known for removing all their pubic hair, Shakokami is incorrectly spelt as "Shokokami".

* Similarly, when the character Amaju is first mentioned, his name is spelt incorrectly as "Ajamu".

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CHAPTER TWO - GIN & ORANGE

Walking out into the great expanse of the bedroom, Ashlyn regarded the enormous four poster bed; how cold and empty it looked. Phillip was signing a new distributor contract with a shipping merchant in Alderport, with looks to taking the silk up to Northstone Isle, and he had been gone for a few days now. Northstone already had plenty of silk, he had told her, but the Armonde brand was Wyrld famous. Sometimes she felt like Phillip just did as he pleased; running his own little commercial experiments, to see how far he could push his industry.

The emptiness of the bedroom depressed her further, especially after the heights of her bathroom antics, so she exited to the south, across the annex, where Gabriel's fantastical room sprawled out across the first floor of an entire portion of the mansion. It was filled with all conceivable manner of toys, books and bric a brac. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar, so Ashlyn quietly approached and peeked in. Mr. Grensham; old, authoritative, and robed in green, animated himself wildly as he prodded at an equation on a chalkboard that had been erected in the centre of the room. Much to her surprise, her son Gabriel sat, playing with his curly blonde tangled mop as always, seemingly deep in concentration with what Mr. Grensham was showing him. Ashlyn cracked a warm smile of pride at her son's behaviour.

With nothing else to do for the evening, Ashlyn thought to herself that she would go back to the kitchen, apologise to Mrs. Flitt for being short with her, pick up some oranges and some gin, and maybe cobble together a plate of whatever they were serving tonight; she had neglected to check whilst chatting earlier on - food didn't seem to have the same draw for her as it did when she first moved to the farm; the rich, fantastic flavours of cheap, bountiful local ingredients at first hit her like a exploding gastronomical bouquet.

However, back down in the kitchen, Mrs. Flitt and one of the immigrant girls were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they were with Mr. Flitt and some of the groundsmen and housemaids, carrying all the food over to the bunkhouse at the workshop for serving to the men. Only Prisha remained, scrubbing a few of the larger pots and pans in a bubbling sink of suds and hot water. She did not seem to see Ashlyn peering into to the kitchen from the store room alcove.

"I'm just going to help myself to something to drink, darling," Ashlyn informed the girl, but it was apparent that she did not hear her.

Ashlyn lingered a few seconds, watching the girl a few moments longer before slowly drawing back into the storage room, hunting down the latest batch of fruit. Once she had found the fruit basket - perched inconveniently high on the furthest shelf - and taken a fat orange from it, she returned to the part of the store which she knew better than anyone else; the spirit shelf. She was only interested in the gin, of course. The Shakokami whiskies and priceless Comstaatian liquors - some even with their planetary customs seal still not broken - did not interest her in the slightest.

Over time, the staff had grown somewhat aware of her penchant for gin, and sometimes the guard or caravan would come back from a far-off climb with a new, interesting variety for her to try. All the shelf held at the present moment however, asides from a few cut crystal glasses, was her absolute favourite variant; a Spineal gin with the seal of Kol'Koloth Raag'Drogoth. Ashlyn had no idea what it meant, as she could not speak Spineal, but figured she would ask Mr. Gresham one day, if the subject ever came up. She did know however, that it was available by the crate-load at any Southstone City market, despite coming from the other side of the Wyrld. She had drank it many times during her aristocratic gatherings of yesteryear.

Scooping up a bottle of the clear liquid and a crystal glass, Ashlyn headed finally for the cold store, to fill her glass with ice. The dark sub-pantry was nowhere for a noblewoman such as Ashlyn Armonde to be found, but she often ventured in alone to fetch herself mainly ice, or sometimes some milk if she fancied a drink. Phillip, and of course Gabriel by proxy, had no problem bothering the servants for any wants or needs, but Ashlyn found that by the time you'd fetched a member of the staff, you could have just done it yourself in half the time.

The room had an inviting darkness, however. Perhaps it was the fact that the cold store was filled with food stuffs and other goodies, and not with scary monsters. The steps were narrow, old and crooked, but Ashlyn knew them well. Down into the sub-pantry she went, shivering as she went along. The ice store was close to the entrance, and therefore easily within reach. In the shadows of the mansion's bowels , she could see animal carcasses hanging on hooks, and stacks of boxes. A shelf towards the back held great jugs of milk and orange juice. There was all manner of things stacked away here, but Ashlyn did not know what most of them were.

The ice store was a large copper drum that was filled with cubed ice. Ashlyn was not privy to how the ice ended up diced like that, nor to how the temperature was suspended at such so that the ice did not melt, but also did not freeze so much that it was impossible to separate each cube, although she greatly suspected that some sort of household magic from Mrs. Flitt was to be thanked for this feature. It was intrinsic to her enjoyment of many glasses of Kol'Koloth Raag'Drogoth.

"Ice! We need ice!" bellowed a booming male voice from within the kitchen or dry storage room. Ashlyn froze up with the urgency of the demand. She stood in the dark, clutching the gin, waiting for what was going to come next.

"Stupid whore dog!" the unnamed male shouted, "Yes, you! I'm talking to you!"

She could hear Prisha responding with a verbal torrent that she did not understand, or even recognise.

"Bah, come on, girl!" the voice spat, and there was the banging and clanging of pans. "Are you dense? You've come all the way to Southstone Isle but don't know a shred of the language? We need ice, damn it!"

More alien bleating followed in reply. Ashlyn imagined that from the strain in her voice, Prisha was quite animated, and startled by the boorish male's requests and rebuffs.

"Girl, I'm a shade of shit darker than you, I'm Bumese too - from the Minor, and I've been able to speak Imperial since I was a boy, innit. You'd better get practicing, or you'll end up in one of those whorehouses, where you belong, no doubt. By the Gods, all I need is some ice!" The pair continued their charade, going around in circles almost comically.

Ashlyn decided to get stuck into the ice pile. She used the scoop to pull out far more ice than she needed, and she let the lid fall on the copper kettle with a clang. She struggled a bit, tottering back up the narrow staircase out of the cold stores carrying a bulbous crystal wine glass stuffed to the brim with ice, an orange and a large bottle of expensive gin.

"What is the meaning of this?" she inquired robustly, upon entering the kitchen once more.

Both the maid and the man stopped to stare at her.

He was incredibly tall, musclebound and dark of skin, with long red hair and a pierced eyebrow. He wore a beaten jerkin and plain pants. Prisha, still in her black frock, looked absolutely terrified.

"M'lady, I apologise for the disturbance," the man proclaimed, in low, dulcet tones, "I am Abdu Abayomi; I have been working on your grounds for near a year, and I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you."

His daring blue eyes seemed to drink in her very being. Perhaps despite his best intentions, the peon looked her up and down with the subtly of a sledgehammer to the skull. Ashlyn glared back at him; the way that he looked at her like nothing more than a piece of meat absolutely repulsed her, but also set off another fire in her core. Flushed, she gathered herself to speak, but again he spoke first.

"Ma'am, there has been an accident at the brewery, and I must insist with much haste, that I can gather some ice."

"Wait..." she placed the gin on the workbench, and held out her hand as if to stop him, "an accident? What has happened?"

"Expansion tank, Miss," Abdu explained, "we've had a new one installed, to er, cope with demand, likes," - he cracked a wicked smile - "but, the strut collapsed. Woodrot. Ol' Timmiffy Twelve-Teeth took a hell of a knock. Out cold, he is, m'lady. Safe to say, he ain't got twelve feckin' teeth no more, if you'll pardon my Spineal. Amaju Nangwaya got a leg broken in half too, Miss. Either ways, Mrs. Flitt needs ice to cast a bone-mold spell, likes."

Ashlyn's heart dropped. Amaju was hurt.

"Is Amaju okay?" she enquired, tossing the orange into the bowl on the workbench.

Abdu seemed slightly taken aback that the lady of the house even knew a silkworker by name, let alone cared for their wellbeing.

"Aye, aye," he nodded, "for someone who's had his leg split in half, he's doin' alright."

Ashlyn confronted the darkened giant and passed him the crystal glass full of melting ice.

"Is this enough?" she asked.

"Aye, Miss," he confirmed, snatching the glass, "Mrs. Flitt say we need a pint gless o' ice, but this will have to do. I best be goin' over - thanking you kindly, m'lady."

He bowed at her, shot Prisha one last menacing glare, then turned and ducked down into the narrow corridor, leaving the two women standing in silence for a few moments.

"It is true you cannot speak the Imperial tongue?" Ashlyn said eventually, addressing the girl directly.

The young Prisha glared back at her, eyes ablaze as if she was about to burst forth into a torrent of tears. Ashlyn did not wait for a reply. Instead, she tore off down the corridor after Adbu Abayomi. Prisha's language issues could wait for now.

*

Timmiffy Twelve-Teeth had worked on the Armonde silk farm for - ironically - just over twelve years. He had never had a workplace accident. In fact, they were never really all that common, in general. He had to laugh at the fact that it had all happened in the brewery, and not on the farm or in the workshop, and the event had transpired whilst he was still stone cold sober! Life was a strange trip, he thought to himself.

He had been affectionately dubbed as Timmiffy Twelve-Teeth by his peers, many, many years ago, on account of only possessing twelve teeth in his skull. It was a simple, straightforward nickname for a simple, straightforward man. Now, all of that had gone out the window. Timmiffy had not only lost more of his teeth; he had lost the right to his namesake. Timmiffy Four-and-a-Half-Teeth didn't quite have the same ring to it.

They had him laid out on the brewery floor, which two bags of grains under his head to prop him up. The workers all stared down at him, mostly unsure of how to proceed until Abdu Abayomi and Mrs. Flitt returned with whatever it was they needed to make everything better. Over the crowd's mostly hushed whispers, Timmiffy could hear the moaning of another injured man.

"'Isch 'ish fuchi' fuchech!" He confided to Old Man Bill-Trev, the nearest silkworker in ear shot.

"Ah-heh!" Bill-Trev sputtered nervously in reply, eyeing Timmiffy's mangled features, "Fucked it is, aye, ol' Timmy lad, fucked it is - you are right about that. Mrs. Flitt'll have you put right now jest though, so worry not - it willnae be long!"

Timmiffy was an ugly man at the best of times, but his obliterated jaw left his mouth hanging open like a wide, gaping wound. His nose, bashed in almost to the point of inversion, had shot a cascade of crimson splatter across his face that garnished the injury as if it were some mad display of art. His tongue flapped around in his open mouth like a dying fish.

"Put it right, I'll be fucked!" laughed Ronco, "Timmy's never been right, mate - there's nothing to put right. Besides, his face looks like a rentboy's arsehole. I don't know of any magic that can fix that!"

Old Man Bill-Trev scratched his dirty beard nervously before replying: "You've always been a twat, Ronc'."

This, despite the gravity of the situation, garnered a murmur of laughter, in what Bill-Trev could only assume was agreement with his statement. Ronco - a stocky beast of a man - seemed to subtly flex his muscles. His standard issue Armonde Silks field-working jerkin was almost too small for him.

"Maybe so, but he's always been an ugly cunt," he retorted, pointing at Timmiffy, "I'm just stating simple facts, mate. Nowt that you or fat-arsed Flitt can do about it."

"Maybe someone should make ay similar sinkhole outta your face, see if you're still so fuckin' clever then, ye over-inflated bag ay fuckin' cocks!" piped in Jonny Thirty from somewhere in the crowd.

"Ch'omon, guysch," Timmiffy protested; he did not want them to fight, it would only make things worse.

"Y'all know why they call him Jonny Thirty?" Ronco asked, raising his arms and twirling on the spot to face the crowd, "'Cos that's how many men cummed in him on his eighteenth birthday!"

There was a rapturous bout of laughter from the silkworkers. Even Timmiffy, despite his somewhat horrifying predicament, gargled out a painful laugh. Everyone knew, of course, that Jonny Thirty was nicknamed such because he drank thirty pints of mead on his eighteenth birthday, but the retort broke the back of the seriousness of the situation. Timmiffy thought to himself that he should have known better; the silkworkers stuck together, especially in times of need - this was no different, and the banter had made everything a bit more bearable.

"What is all of this commotion!" Barked a commanding female voice, "Away with you all, there are sick men to be tended to!"

Mrs. Flitt bumbled through the crowd and appeared before Timmiffy, who stared up at her hopefully.

"Alrigh' fat-arse Flitt, keep yer petticoats on," Ronco retorted boisterously, smacking her on the behind.

She scurried away from the man quickly.

"Ronco Von Steer," she hissed, "no wonder your mother named you after a pleasure-house stud, you've had smut in your veins since before you were born, boy!"

"Yeah, yeah, my mother was a hoor, we've all heard that one Flitty, come on now," Ronco continued, cracking a devilish smile.

"Boy, I helped bring you into this Wyrld and I can do my damnedest to take you out of it, unless you zip that mouth of yours!"

Ronco decided it was best not to offer a retort.

"Make yourself useful, you bloody scoundrel, and check on our Amaju over there," Mrs. Flitt commanded, producing a jar of a mysterious purple dust from her apron, "Abdu will be back from the kitchens any time now, please can you make sure Amaju's leg has stopped swelling, likes."

"What about Timmi-"

"I'll deal with Timmiffy here, boy," Mrs. Flitt snapped, wagging a finger at Ronco, "Amaju's leg will be an easy bone-mold spell, so go and sort out that swelling, okay? Bill Trev? Can you help me with Timmiffy here?"

The old man shot forward, perhaps a little bit too eagerly, to be of assistance to his injured colleague.

"An' the rest of ye's, clear off!" Mrs. Flitt bellowed, waving her hands erratically in the air, "Go do something useful with your time, instead of gawking at a poor injured man!"

Ronco saundered, half-willingly, over to the sprawled mass that was Amaju Nangwaya. He lay propped up against the wooden wall, legs akimbo, with both his hands on his right thigh, as if he was squeezing it, trying to stop the pain of the broken leg from crawling any further up into his body. There was no crowd of laughing well-wishers and gawkers present around Amaju, just two other Bumese immigrants that spoke very little of the Imperial tongue. Both of them were very new, and did not mix that well with the main gang of silkworkers - that was until, of course, everyone headed over to the brewery at the end of every shift. Ronco guessed that they had stuck with Amaju because he was strong, kind and somewhat authoritative.

"Leg's giving you a bit of gyp, is it son?" Ronco asked sarcastically, swanning over to the injured man.

"Ronco, brother," Amaju gazed up through watery eyes, "what is happening with the witch-woman? I overheard speak of magic."

"Yeah, good God!" Ronco spat, kneeling down next to him, "She'll have your black ass fixed up in no time, son, don't you fuckin' worry about that, my ol' boy."

Amaju glared at Ronco; his eagle-like blue eyes judged every fibre of Ronco's being. Amaju considered him to be boisterous, ignorant, and a shining example of everything that was wrong with entitled Western men. They worked the same fields, yet men like Ronco received a bigger pay packet than men like Amaju, even though men like Amaju worked a lot harder than fools like Ronco. Amaju; a calculated and careful individual, swallowed down everything he wanted to say and do to Ronco Von Steer, and focussed on the situation at hand.

"There... will be no magic," he sighed, through gritted teeth, "the leg, it will heal naturally, with time."

"Are you mental, 'Ju?" Ronco replied, looking almost dumbfounded, "she'll have you fixed up in two shakes of that fat arse now, you watch."

"No magic," Amaju repeated, "her hushed whispers are not pure or true; she commands forces that she does not even begin to understand."

"Don' be fuckin' daft, mun," laughed Ronco, "that old cunt has been spinnin' spells since she was a wee tart. Shit, I bet the only way she can get guys to fuck her is with a love potion or something. She's probably got a spell to get her husband's cock hard still, as well!"

"No," Amaju sighed deeply, "you are an ignorant fool."

"What did you call me?" Ronco asked, indignant.

"An ignorant fool, and a rude one to boot," Amaju responded, almost smiling, "but the fact remains the same. I will not partake in the witch's healing magic. I know I won't get the pay packet for being bed-bound, and I know I might even have to pay for lodge, but she'll not weave no spells o'er me, you hear me, boy?"

A dark look came over Ronco's face as he leaned in towards the injured man.

"I thought you savages loved a bit of juju," Ronco whispered, "that's why the village fuckhole - that would be your mum, by the way - named you Amaju, right? Doesn't that translate to "man of juju" or something, in your arse-backwards language?"

Amaju breathed through his nose.

"In my homeland, I would proudly wear the skin of any man who spoke to me the way you have just done so. But, we are in Imperial lands, and I will respect Imperial laws. Nevertheless, I wish for a curse on your head, white man."

"Suck my fat Imperial cock, you savage," Ronco laughed, grabbing his groin proudly.