Demon Child Ch 01

An unexpected visitor stirs up memories of times almost forgotten.

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She sensed his presence, but there was no threat in his heart. Her voice was a cracked dry rustle, "You are not here to kill me. What brings a man into the high priestess's quarter's uninvited and unaccompanied by the official escorts?"

The voice was young, "How did you know I was here?"

Her laughter was the sinister rattle of a snake's tail, "Never underestimate the magic of a demon boy."

She looked at the image in the polished bronze mirror. In the background she could see his furtive movement in the alcove. As she reached for the red wig to cover her sparse white hair she asked again, "So I ask you again, what brings you to my quarters. It has been decades since a Bak warrior has visited my bedchamber." She cackled at this witticism, the toothless gums showing pink against her ancient wrinkles.

"You were once the Aga Khan's demon truth sayer. You were once high priestess of the temple of Pan'Shash'Sha'Am, mother to us all. You have great magic in you. I have question to put to you."

"I was once many things but now I am an impatient old woman waiting for death. If you have a question of me, stop skulking in doorways and present yourself brave and proud like a true Bak warrior. I was ha'akh to the Twisted Dagger since before your father was in sucking at his mother's teat. If a Bak warrior has use of me, it was once and will always be my duty to serve."

She peered at the tall form of the boy as he slipped on cat's feet into her room. A toothless smile creased her face as her almost colorless gray eyes took in the unscarred torso of a boy who has yet to face his manhood. "Tell me your name boy."

He stood tall and brave, "I am Jhim'kah, second son of Hanna, first daughter of Jhardron Aga Kahn."

The mention of the name of Jhardron made the old woman pause, a wave of nostalgia clouding her mind. Again she was a wild colored girl, a simple ha'akh to the regiment, riding a red mare across the grasslands. "Ah yes my first love. Jhardron was my first Khan and brought me to this city. I stood at his side and used my magic to help him become the greatest Aga Khan that ever led the Bak. I remember your mother. She was a charming child but was always afraid of me. Most children are afraid of me." She cackled again. "I cannot blame them. Look at me now. I am a horror. I have none of the beauty of my youth. And I was once a beautiful woman. The warriors would ride for miles just to lie between my legs."

The boy stood uncertainly looking at her; she could see the disbelief in his eyes. Her voice was bitter, "How typical for youth to forget that their elders could have been young once." She scowled impatiently at him. "Well boy you had a question. Spit it out and then leave before the guards find you sniffing about the women's quarters. Even without the scars of a man you would still be suspect of wanting to dip your jhambar where is does not belong."

"Winter is almost over. Soon it will be time for me to go to join a regiment. My father was Broken Spear but I want to join the Twisted Dagger. By birthright I can choose either. They say you can see the future. Which pathway will lead me to greatness?"

"Foolish child I have no magic to see the future. But if the blood of your grandfather flows in your veins, you will find greatness no matter what path you choose. There is honor in both clans, but I must confess a strong loyalty to the Twisted Dagger." Unconsciously her fingers stroked the faded and almost indecipherable scar on her arm, again memory taking her back to when the cherry red branding iron had been pressed to her flesh. "Go then Jhim'kah, grandson of Jhardron, go and find your destiny among the warriors. Perhaps you will find a demon for your own like your grandfather did all those many years ago. If you do, she will bring you luck like I did to the Twisted Dagger."

The boy was gone as silently as he came, but she did not notice his leaving. Her mind was spiraling back to a younger time, to a story she had not thought of for untold years, a story of how a demon came to lands of the Bak and found her own greatness there.

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Prologue: A demon is conceived.

A demon is marooned a strange land and seeks his death, but before he dies he sows his seed and leaves a child behind to find her destiny among the Bak.

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Their ship had struck a hidden reef on the northern coast of this unknown land. Only four had survived the wreck of their ship on this distant coast of this unknown desert land. The land was harsh and they knew little of survival on the land. He was the last one alive.

He had no goal to his wanderings beyond his death. He just knew he did not want to die alone and forgotten. His gods demanded he die in battle. He longed to join his ancestors. An honorable death would please his gods. He would have a seat at the table of heroes.

This godforsaken land offered little in the way of food or warmth. Few animals lived on the windswept plains. Fewer people wandered under the endless sky. He had found the signs of villages; old tracks and abandoned fire pits. He traveled south seeking his fate.

He first smelled the smoke from their cook fires, the stink of burning dung, tangy and sharp, carried on the endless wind. Grinning with eagerness and cold determination, he turned and followed his nose. Moving carefully, always hidden, he began to stalk his prey.

It was a small clump of leather tents. Some youngsters were standing guard over a herd of goats and some larger four legged beasts unlike anything that lived in his homeland. He lay on the ridge overlooking the village for a whole day. The people were unusually small; the tallest man would stand only as high as his chest. He counted maybe twelve adult males and maybe another twenty or thirty women and children.

The sun was dropping into the west when he observed a female walking alone. She was moving toward the area he had observed them using for a latrine. He grinned, if he was going to find his death tomorrow, he would have a woman one more time before going to meet his ancestors.

She was working at a small object in her hands, braiding some red strings into a small net as she walked. Her attention on her task, she did not even see the red haired giant move up behind her on cat's feet. Her first awareness was a hand the size of her face, covering her mouth and being lifted off her feet. The red strings on the ground were all the people from the village found when they went to look for her.

He carried her for a long distance. He wanted to take his time to use this woman's body. As a warrior he had little opportunity to mate and his experiences were all with the taking of women as booty of battle. He had never had a willing partner. Rape was the only act he knew.

She could not make much noise, but she screamed through her nose and struggled fruitlessly against his massive strength. When he was satisfied that they were well hidden and her loudest cries of protest would only reach the ears of the birds and the spirits of the sky, he dropped her hard on the ground. As soon as his hand was off her mouth, she began to shriek and call loudly. Reaching down he grasped the front of her dress, he pulled her to stand. He leaned down, his face inches from hers', and screamed back, a deliberate mocking screech.

Shocked into silence she looked up at him, her eyes suddenly huge and terrified. Suddenly in a total panic she bolted. Laughing he pounded after her, easily running her down in just a few yards. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. His huge hand reaching almost all the way around her neck, he lifted her up. Her feet dangled inches off the ground. She hung, her legs kicking, her hands on his around her neck, trying to breath. He roughly grasped the front of her dress and ripped it, neck to hem.

It took only a few more forceful jerks at the material of her dress and loincloth and she was completely bare in his hands. He lowered her feet to the ground. She staggered, coughing trying to force air into her lungs. He looked at this tiny female. She was small, her head barely as high as his chest, but she had all the parts of an adult woman. Black haired and dark skinned, she had small breasts with dark brown nipples and a thick patch of black fur covering her sex. He could feel the heat gathering in his loins. She felt his eyes on her and suddenly aware of her nakedness tried to cover herself with her hands. She began to back away, babbling in her strange language.

He roughly told her to lie down, and pointed at the ground. She wailed and turned, running away one more time. Once again he caught her easily. Casually grasping an arm, he pulled her to face him. Carefully gauging his strength to her smaller stature, he slapped her across the face, once, twice and a third time. He was careful not to hit her too hard, but the blows still rocked her. She hung from the hand holding her arm, limp and sobbing. Giving her an impatient shake, he again pointed to the ground. Abruptly releasing her arm, he let her drop to the dirt. She huddled in a tiny ball at his feet, weeping softly.

Satisfied that she was not going to run away again soon, he began prepare himself. He unbuckled his sword belt and laid his scabbard with his long sword to one side. Next he pulled off his chain shirt. Pulling aside his long tunic, he unlaced his leather breeches and freed his manhood. Already hard and ready, he cast a silent prayer of thanks to the sky and knelt down.

She fought hard, twisting and pushing at his hands as they roughly turned her onto her back and spread her legs. He grinned wolfishly as he looked between her spread thighs seeing his prize for the first time. Looking down at the hard erection rising between his legs and back at the small writhing woman he knew it would be hard to force his manhood into that narrow slit. A struggle he was looking forward to.

"Be still." He raised his big hand, threatening to slap her again. She froze and he nodded, tapping her firmly with his hand instead of the hard blow she had feared. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and leaning over he spat on the narrow dark slit between her legs. She flinched and whimpered. Reaching up he began to work the spit into her opening, pushing one and then two fingers into her, sawing them roughly in and out. Her legs clamped around his fingers and she tried to push his hands away.

Lifting the same hand, damp from her slit, he slapped her hard. This blow shook her and she went limp, sobs shaking her tiny frame. Forcing her legs wide, he looked at her, his eyes daring her to close them again. Spitting a second mouthful of spit on his hand he again began to work his fingers into her tight opening. First two and then three fingers he twisted and plunged them into her, spreading her, opening her wide. He spit a third mouthful onto his hand and rubbed it over his weapon and kneeling close he placed the hard red tip against her wet opening.

Gripping her waist firmly, he began to force himself into her. Her sobs turned to shrieks as he wedged himself deeper into her center. She was tight, tighter than any woman he had ever had before. He groaned and shuddered as he worked himself into her all the way to the hilt. Once he had her fully impaled, he stopped, savoring the heat and pressure of her tight little hole. She lay still under him gasping in pain and terror. Slowly he pulled out and then, almost free, he stopped and again forced himself into her again. She was dry and tight, the friction almost painful around his raging erection. The feeling was beginning to fog his mind, he began to thrust harder more quickly. She was squealing in pain, mindlessly trying to push him off, her hands weak against his massive chest. He finished quickly. Lunging and growling, he grunted and pumped her full of his essence.

The woman under him lay sobbing, her hands still trying to push off the heavy body crushing her to the ground. He eased a portion of his weight off her, keeping her pinned with his manhood still lodged deep in her. He began to move, sliding his softening flesh in and out, enjoying the slippery feel of her now copiously lubricated opening. Soon he was rising again and began to thrust against her. She wailed as she felt him hardening inside her and began to strike at his chest with her small fist.

He raised his hand once more and she cowered, covering her face with her hands. Kneeling upright, he grasped her thighs and spread them wide, lifting them high to her chest. She lay quieter under him, her hands hiding her face, soft sobs and whimpers rising from her lips. Moving steadily in and out, he took his time, slowly building the heat and pressure in his loins. Her tight sex had stretched and accommodated his invasion, but she was still amazingly tight and the slickness from his essence providing more freedom to move quickly. He began to lunge into her hot wet opening hard and fast, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. He plunged deep as he pumped his seed deep into her womb.

He knelt between her legs and became aware of how the muscular sheath around his easing maleness was clenching and releasing, the hips of the woman under him trembling and jerking. Rearing back he looked at the woman lying on the ground. She still had her face covered with her hands, but her chest was heaving with more than panic, and the tiny nipples on her chest were hard and erect.

He pulled her hands away from her face and looked down at her. Her dark eyes, red with weeping, stared up at his. She flinched, closing her eyes and turning her face away. He chuckled and reaching down between her legs, he roughly fingered her slit. Her hips jerked and surged toward his touch and long tremor shook her.

He had never had a woman respond to his assaults with anything other than terror and shame. But he was familiar with stories around the campfire of women who gained pleasure from the act of mating. Curious, he continued to rub his fingers along her opening. Her hands reached down to his, but instead of pushing him away she pushed him to herself harder, crushing his fingers against the wet slippery flesh, her hips rocking and jerking furiously. Her eyes still closed and her face turned away from him, she began to make soft mewling sounds and then she froze and jerked convulsively. Suddenly limp against his hands she began to sob, pressing her slimed fingers against her mouth, trying to stifle the sound of her shame and defeat.

Pulling away from her he began to methodically tear her dress into strips and tying them together he fashioned makeshift rope. He tied it around her neck, forming a crude leash. He donned his chain shirt and sword belt, and strode off toward where he had last camped. He had little food but there was water and he had no reason to ration what little he had left. He planned to die tomorrow.

The tiny woman staggered along behind him, her shorter legs having to move twice for each of his long strides. He stopped at a small spring. Drinking his fill, he gestured for her to do the same. He filled a small water skin he carried on his belt. It was long after dark when they arrived where he had left his meager store of food and a few rank hides he used for a sleeping pad. He pulled off his chain shirt and sword belt again and pointed to the skins. She sank down to her knees and looked up at him with terrified eyes.

Getting out the little amount of dried animal flesh he had, he offered half to her and began to chew on the hard rank food. He ignored the taste, forcing the sustenance down. She sniffed the meat and looking fearfully up at him; put it down on the skin. He shrugged and ate her share.

Once he had finished eating he pushed her down on her back and taking her hand pushed it down between her legs. Her eyes huge and terrified, she began to reluctantly rub her fingers against the red swollen flesh of her cleft. He nodded and began to unlace the opening of his breeches. As his manhood raised its head, he ran his hand up and down the shaft. She whimpered in fear.

He knelt before her and pulling her face to him, he jabbed his hard member at her mouth. She reared back, looking up at him in alarm. Taking his fingers he forced her jaws open and pushed himself deep between her lips. She gagged and began to try to say something, her words muffled and confused by the gag of hot flesh filling her mouth. He raised his hand threateningly and she instantly stilled. Her mouth passively opened, stretched around him. Holding her head he began to lunge against this new place of pleasure. She gagged and coughed but did not fight, tears running down her face. He noticed her hand still rubbed against her loins.

He could feel the heat of his finish approaching and he pushed her away and down onto her back. Spreading her legs wide he forced his aching manhood deep into her. Her legs spread wide and he slid into her tight hole with one long stroke. She squealed and arched, her little hand still rubbing. He lunged into her over and over, with each thrust into her hot depths, her hips would surge against him and she would moan deeply in her chest. The muscles of her sheath clenching and pulling him, wanting him to fill her. She began to squirm and her legs tried to clasp around his hips, her moans turning to babbling words, her head thrashing back and forth. Suddenly her whole body went rigid, and then she arched her back and groaned a loud wail and began to convulse under him. He could feel her muscles squeeze rhythmically around his plunging manhood. He slammed deep and exploded into her.

She lay under him gasping and shuddering for many seconds. She opened her eyes and said something, and began to push against him, her words becoming more urgent. He rolled to one side and let her up. She stood and staggered a step and then stepping to the end of the rope around her neck she crouched and released her water, turning her face away from his in shame. She stood and returned to the makeshift bed and curled up with her back to him.

He used her twice more in the night, her cries of pleasure and shame blending with his grunts and growls.

In the morning he carefully sharpened his great sword, and the pair of short swords. He carefully braided his long red hair and beard. He turned and sent a prayer to the rising sun, sending a message to his ancestors and dead comrades that he would be joining them soon. He took the rope around the woman's neck and pulled her to feet. He lifted her face to look up at him and smiled down at her. She had pleased him greatly. He felt no need to take her life. There was no honor in killing a defenseless female.

Gesturing for her to follow, he led her back toward her village. As they crested the hill overlooking the little huddle of tents, he untied the rope around her neck and pushed her down the hill. She looked up at him fearfully and then darted away toward her home. Halfway down the hill she began to scream and yell. People looked up and seeing the naked figure running toward them, began to call and shout. Soon the whole village looked a like a kicked anthill.

He grinned and pulled out the great sword. He swung the six foot long steel blade in a blinding spinning circle over his head and began to sing the battle chant of his ancestors. Still swinging the shining blade he began to advance on the small cluster of tents.

A small group of dark men were hastily gathering their weapons and yelling at panic at the sight of this red haired giant advancing on their village. The weapon he was swinging was longer than most of them were tall. He roared in defiance and charged. His first swing completely decapitated the first man that did not flee. He began to methodically chop his way through the few men who did stand up to him. He was disgusted. This was not battle, this was slaughter. Neither mercy nor surrender were in his heart. If they would not fight back, he would kill them all. Battle madness took him, roaring in mindless rage, he chased down and killed every man in the village.