Darkfyre Ch 12

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All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

The next morning was mild, if not as clear and sunny as the day before. Clouds hung in a haze over the sky, drab and dreary and promising cold and snow to come, but all in all it was a favorable day for the middle of a Dale winter.

Rael was sitting against a wall in an alley mouth, studying the grand building across the street. He was on the opposite end of Trelling's Rest, right in the heart of the Palace District, watching the Hall of Valor, home and seat of power for the Knight Brotherhood of DarkFyre Dale. He knew the hall well, had spent near his whole adolescence in those sweeping halls, making his home beside the bravest men in the kingdom. He had trained, studied, learned, grown, and become a man in the Hall, and finally taken his vows as a Knight and protector of the realm. He hadn't seen the Hall in a number of years, hadn't even visited it upon his return Home. Seeing it never failed to stir memories, sweet and bitter alike.

He wouldn't chance walking into the Hall openly as Lord IronWing. There could be eyes, even here. But he knew other ways into the Hall, secret ways he'd discovered as a boy. He'd try the great tree around the eastern side of the compound. It's strong, gnarled branches overhung the tall and sturdy iron fence surrounding the Hall. That yard was rarely patrolled and he could easily slip into the Hall from there. Once inside, he would make his way to the Lord Commander's office. If anyone happened upon him along the way...well, he would deal with it, somehow.

The Nobleman stood, rested one hand on the short sword he had concealed under his cloak, and made his way slowly across the road in a meandering, lackadaisical fashion, as if he were just another beggar on the street wandering no place in particular.

As he was about half way to the Hall, the guards opened the front gate to let a rider through and out onto the street. The older man sat his horse well, tall and proud of bearing. Rael looked at him from under his low-pulled hood, and gave a start of recognition when he saw the Knight's raiment of red on gray, the colors of house Cador.

"Galin?" he said as loud as he dared.

His old friend pulled up short upon hearing his name. His horse danced restlessly as Galin stared down at him, his eyes narrowed at what he probably thought was some common back alley rat all bundled in rags and grime.

"What are you doing here? I thought I ordered you to stay at camp and command until I returned!" Rael hissed.

Galin's eyes went wide with recognition. He sputtered half a dozen curses under his breath before finally growling, "What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You fool! You stupid, stupid boy!"

Rael hesitated, giving his friend a perplexed look. He'd expected Galin to be surprised, yes, and the Knight was always sour when met with surprises. But this felt different. Wrong. Galin had an air of frustrated panic about him. It wasn't like the old veteran at all.

"I came to speak with Commander Dern. Some terrible things have happened, and I need his help."

"His help?" Galin gaped incredulously. He leaned forward in his saddle so that he was face to face with Rael, and said through his grimace, "You're an even bigger fool than I thought. We can't talk here or they're going to have your head on a pike, and mine too! Forget Dern. Come to my holdings here in town, at sundown. Come through the back, and don't be seen!"

Before Rael could ask him what this was all about, Galin raised his voice to shout in clear, carrying tones, "No, I've not got bread nor alms for you, you sodding mangy cur!"

He pulled his boot from his stirrup, and kicked Rael forcefully in the chest. Rael stumbled almost to the ground, stunned, and Galin turned in his saddle to shout to the guards, "Get this trash back into the gutter where it belongs!"

Galin rode off, kicking his horse hard and sending it surging down the road. Rael looked up to see the guards at the gate walking toward him at a pace that suggested they'd rather do just about anything but go chasing after a beggar. Rael levered himself to his feet and went stumbling off back into the alleyways in a respectable impersonation of a drunken hobble.

Once out of sight, Rael cursed softly and made his way back toward the Siren of The Lake. He didn't understand what was going on. Why was Galin back in Trelling's Rest, and why was he acting so strangely? And what had he meant, 'they' would have their heads on pikes? Did he mean his hunters? And if so, how did he know about them in the first place?

The thought even flickered through his mind that Galin could be leading him into some kind of trap. But he dismissed it; he'd known Galin too long, too well. The old Knight had been his friend and mentor through his entire adolescence, and close friends with his father before that. No. Galin was gruff and surly and crass. He drank too much, went whoring too often, and had a love for slaying an enemy that at times bordered on reckless and unhealthy. But he held firm to his own sense of honor, and his loyalty was above question.

Wasn't it?

***

Silmaria was bored. Even though she recognized, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Lord Rael was right to be cautious and careful, the rest of her felt smothered and trapped and stifled by his overprotectiveness. She felt pretty certain that the murderous group coming after them knew nothing about her. And she was capable and competent. She could go out, or at the very least down into the common room, and she'd be fine. She could take care of herself.

So why, she asked herself not for the first time as she sprawled across the room's only spacious bed, did she do as he bid? What was stopping her?

Fear. As much as she felt confident that she wasn't being searched for, even the possibility was enough to give her pause. Her last encounter with the assassins had been enough to convince her she didn't want to encounter the men again, ever, and certainly not without Lord Rael's sword arm near at hand. But for all that, more than fear of the murderers tracking them kept her cooped up in the small room.

It was hard for her to admit, but Silmaria was obeying Rael because not obeying him was a fearful notion as well. Oh, she didn't think he would hurt her, but she knew he would be angry with her if she defied him. And, somehow, that notion didn't set well with her. She was uncomfortable with the thought of him being angry with her, and it was even worse because she was sure if he were to become angry, she'd respond in kind. And then she'd say something stupid and thoughtless in the heat of the moment, like she always did.

And then he'd start hating her. She was sure of it. She'd already pushed her luck and his patience far enough with her spectacular little meltdown in the forest a few nights ago. She'd known, even as all the hurt and pain and anguish spilled like so much venom from her lips, that she was going too far. The Nobleman could decide at any moment she wasn't worth all this grief and difficulty. How easy it would have been just then for the man to turn his back on her, withdraw all his help and protection, and leave her stranded and scared out in the middle of the woods, hunted and hungry and alone! She knew it, even as she accused and blamed him and cursed him and beat on him, and he had taken all of it and not said a word.

They hadn't spoken about her behavior. Part of her was relieved; he hadn't seemed changed one bit toward her. Indeed, if anything he was speaking with her more than ever. She fervently hoped with all she was that he had attributed the whole thing to an overwrought woman too full of grief to think straight.

Yet, for all that, the incident weighed on her heavily, and she dreaded what would happen if she pushed his tolerance too far.

The stubborn, willful part of her interjected, then. So what? So what if she pissed him off? What she had said hadn't been entirely without merit, and even if he became enraged and tossed her aside in his anger, so what? She was capable, and she could take care of herself. It would be hard and ugly, but if she were on her own, she would survive.

Silmaria rolled over onto her side, tangling the sheets around her. Yes, she would survive. Alone. And that more than anything, that notion of being alone, terrified her. Not because she couldn't take care of herself. But because she was already so much more alone than she'd ever been before. All her life, Silmaria had imagined herself alone. Isolated and shunned by many of those around her, because no one understood her. Because she was a Gnari, a Demi-Human. Because she was different. But that hadn't been 'alone'. She'd still had friends, people who cared about her, no matter what she was, no matter if she were different. She saw so clearly now just how much she had taken those people for granted.

And now they were gone.

Rael was all she had left. He was the only remnant of her life, now lost. It had been a good life, really. And Lord Rael was all that remained of it that hadn't been snatched away. Despite all, despite how she struggled with conflicting feelings about him and even now found it almost impossible to understand him, she could at least admit he was a good man. And he was trying his best, for both of them. She couldn't take that for granted, not now.

The Gnari woman reached out and grabbed one of the pillows and clutched it to her chest as she fought off feelings of fear and loss and loneliness. She buried her face into the pillow and took a deep breath, and was startled to find she keenly recognized Rael's scent. Her sensitive nose took the smell of him in, earthy tones of sweat and leather and steel and a mild, pleasant masculine musk.

The smell recalled distinct memories of lying beside him last night. He'd tried being a gentleman and sleeping on the floor, but Silmaria's stubbornness had won out. She insisted on the impracticality of him sleeping uncomfortably on the floor, arguing how much he needed to rest well for once during these dangerous days. Her final insistence that if he didn't come sleep up in the bed, neither would she at last brought the man, grumbling but relenting, to lay down in the bed where he promptly and soundly fell into a sleep the dead would envy.

Sleep had been more elusive for her. Lying beside him, Silmaria had watched the dark, large shape of him in the night beside her, her sensitive eyes able to pick the details of him out in the night. His face was relaxed in sleep, some of the lines of care and worry smoothed on his face so he looked young and almost at peace. She lay there just so, not-quite touching him, with the warmth of his body heat chasing away the night chill and the scent of him surrounding her comfortingly. She felt just as she had that night in the forest. Raw, exposed, yet protected and safe.

Silmaria pressed her face into the pillow and inhaled Lord Rael's scent once more, and remembered the warmth and strength of his powerful arms around her as she cried into his chest.

Before she was even fully conscious of it, the Gnari woman was pressing her firm thighs together, her hips tilting and wiggling as she clenched her muscles tight. The heated pressure in her loins came unannounced and quickly took on the desperate, almost painful ache of the Stirring.

"Not now," Silmaria groaned softly, biting her thick lower lip as she squeezed her thighs together again, feeling her sex becoming wet and heated already. Her mind flitted to the sight of Lord Rael, bared from the waist up, the taut, strong muscle that corded his shoulders and chest, his toned and powerful arms. The traceries of scars and the huge, jagged one crossing along the fair white flesh of his chest and abdominals...

The memory did nothing but send her wanton desires soaring. Part of Silmaria hated herself for the lurid thoughts centering on the Knight, and she wasn't sure why. She'd certainly never had qualms with her avid and wicked imagination in the past, no matter who it chose to wander with.

The stirring took hold of her and she trembled as the overwhelming need made every inch of her flesh long to be touched, to be tasted, bitten, scratched, pinched, slapped, anything to stimulate her raw never endings.

Silmaria quickly shimmied out of her dress and ran her hands along her body, letting her own slender fingers trace along the lush curves of her flesh. Her touch played along her flat belly and up to the ripe swell of her breasts. She cupped them, hard, her fingers playing along the sensitive, heavy orbs. She bit back a soft moan as she found her nipples already stiff and thick and demanding attention. Gladly, she gave it, rolling the pink nubs between her fingers before giving them a firm pinch.

Gods, please... let this be enough, she silently prayed.

As one hand remained at her heaving, generous breasts, pulling and plucking and twisting her nipples roughly, her other hand slinked its way sensually down her body. When she cupped her puffy cunt, her sticky arousal was already flowing in a thick and liberal dribble of juices. She let her knowing fingers glide along her slit, teasing at the pink, glossy flesh between her engorged lips for a few moments before firmly plunging two into her desperately clenching hole. Silmaria moaned, her hips immediately bucking and thrusting upward to take her fingers in deeper. Her pussy squeezed tight and wet around those thrusting, tunneling digits.

It wasn't long before Silmaria was bucking and gyrating, grunting and groaning in concentration as she fingered her slippery sex, her fingers working in as deeply as she could. Her other hand was between her widely splayed thighs as well, working her clit hard as her tits bounced with the swaying of her lithe, curving body. Her ears laid flat atop her head and her tail lashed about as she energetically pleasured herself, building a light sweat beading along her short, velvety pelt.

The Gnari girl rolled onto her belly, her back arched, ass raised with her bosom crushed into the bed. She jammed a third finger into her yearning cunthole while she pinched and pulled at her clit. Her sticky, thick juices glistened and ran down her trembling inner thighs while her fingers plunged in and out of her clutching tunnel.

Her first orgasm shook her to the core, her whole body going taut as she came. Silmaria buried her face into the pillow, screaming into it as her cunt exploded and all the nerves in her body came alive with white hot fire. She pinched her clit, hard, and the pain lanced into her belly in a way that made the orgasm that much more intense and fulfilling. In that moment, no matter how hard she tried not to, in her head Lord Rael was behind her, fucking her, using her like the wicked whore she was.

The very thought made her sob into her pillow. This is how it would be. He would fuck her just like this, behind her with her head shoved into a pillow as he treated her like his own personal fucktoy, because that's exactly what she was. She loved it, and it filled her with a shame she couldn't explain and didn't understand. She loathed that feeling even as she fucking loved it, too, and that twisted duality made her launch uncontrollably into a second even more intense orgasm.

An uncertain number of orgasms later and it still wasn't enough. Silmaria needed more. In a moment of desperation, she tugged her sticky, wet fingers from her sodden, dribbling pussy and slid them between the round, meaty cheeks of her deliciously toned ass.

She pressed two fingers against her tight, pink asshole and quickly, roughly worked the slippery digits past her twitching pucker and into the gripping heat of her bowels. She shrieked into her pillow as she pumped her asshole fast and hard. She was already in too much of a frenzy to be patient, and the pain of the rough penetration only added to her wicked pleasure anyway. With her free hand rubbing and pressing at her clit, Silmaria fingered her ass quickly and relentlessly until just a few moments later her body began to spasm and quiver in a powerful orgasm. Her head swam, light and fuzzy as her whole body jolted and writhed in orgasmic bliss.

The trick, which she sometimes turned to when especially desperate, was fruitless. Her need was if anything, even greater. After another anal orgasm got her no further, Silmaria reluctantly pulled her fingers from her asshole, leaving the muscles there wonderfully sore and aching. She had half a mind to abuse it further, because it did feel so very wonderful and carnally pleasurable, but it just was not getting the maddening itch of her Stirring under control.

As Silmaria began to miserably consider having to descend down to the common room in search of someone to tend her needs, her eyes fell on the bundle of her belongings placed neatly in the corner. Her gaze found the dagger Lord Rael had given her, still in its leather sheath, the hilt a simple crossguard at the foot of a long, smooth, hard iron grip with a heavy, polished, round iron pommel.

Silmaria didn't even hesitate. She snatched up the dagger, flipped onto her back, and splayed her athletic legs wide open.

"Oh, fuck," she whimpered as she pressed that hard, heavy knob of the dagger's pommel to her drooling slit. It was cold and unforgiving and she didn't care. She gripped the dagger firmly and pressed inward, spreading her hot slit wide around that round iron head and then shoving forward, working the dagger hilt into her desperately stretching sex. She was so wet it slid in with little trouble, and after giving herself just a moment to enjoy the fullness, the unyielding hardness and cold bite of the iron hilt, Silmaria began to drive and thrust the dagger hilt deeply in and out of her quivering, gripping sex.

The dagger was uncomfortable and rigid and rough inside her tender sex, and exactly what she needed. Silmaria yelped and squealed and screamed, turning her head to press it into the pillow once more, inhaling Rael's scent and envisioning him over her, pinning her down to the bed and pounding into her as hard and vigorous as the iron shaft of the dagger. She bucked and swayed, her hips arching up off the bed as she fucked herself, reveling in her wickedness and shame.

"Yes...yes, fuck yes! Gods, please...please...!" she cried into her pillow, and with one last, desperate thrust of the dagger deep into her widely stretched sex, she violently orgasmed, her back bowing up off the bed. Her belly clenched until it hurt, a deep, throbbing, vibrating ache coming from her core. Her limbs shook and her toes curled, and she was nothing but a twitching, out of control thing, her body playing out its own viciously beautiful release while she became just a passenger along for the intense and painfully pleasurable ride.

Silmaria had no idea how long she lay there, panting and dazed and hardly even connected to her body, floating along on a haze of bliss and endorphins. All she knew was, one moment she was gone, dead to the world, and the next there came three firm knocks on the door.

And she was laying naked and covered in sweat with the hilt of a dagger stuck up her greedy little cunt.

"Who is it?" Silmaria shouted, her voice breaking on her panic.

"Rael, son of Edwin."

The dagger went spinning carelessly across the room, hurled away like it was about to burn her. Silmaria paid no mind where it landed as she scrambled up from the bed, got tangled in the sheets, and went sprawling ass first to the floor.