Godfang Ch 08 Fertile Fantasy Epic

Author's Note: I'll try to be better about giving readers a heads-up about the amount of erotica in a chapter. No pun intended, but I think the no-sex chapters rub some people the wrong way.

With that, this chapter features: M/F, anal, pastry pie!

H'orvan had watched the young queen for the better part of an hour. Observed as the maids unraveled and unspooled the girl from a sea of gilded fabric. The once-great House of Vulgaht had been brought to heel, but mortals still clung to their traditions. Peasants needed their figureheads to give the illusion of stability, without which societies devolved into chaos. Not to say chaos had not already seized swaths of the two realms. The other had seen to that. Yes, H'orvan would be forced to deal with the House of Blue & Gold in due time. Such as it was, Queen Tagyia Migylt was dug in like a chigger in a sow's throat. Dagg'ar Harbor would have to wait.

The young puppet, Keema, was a curious creature. There was a fire in the child—a cold fury that could prove quite useful. He'd watched her after the maids had left for the night. Keema wore a gossamer gown that swirled about her sumptuous curves like a mist. Her long dark hair, so recently coiled and piled and coiffed with jewels, fell in cascades of black silk down her back. Her fair skin glowed by firelight, firm and full of sweet nectar whose aroma he could readily smell on the evening air.

She had muttered to herself for some time as he made his silent observance. Cursed the world and circumstance for stealing her from a dream free of familial duty. She was a wild one, that much was evident. Had H'orvan been of shorter fang, he might have enjoyed hunting her. Such as it was, he had plans for her battered realm. He'd come this night to see if the puppet would surrender to him willingly, or if she would need to see her people further humiliated. He was surprised to find a young queen who apparently found her throne uncomfortable. When she'd asked if he was there to kill her, did he detect a note of hope? This could be quite useful.

"Set me free?" she asked. "How?"

"To the point," H'orvan said. He remained at the window ledge, silhouetted by moonlight. "I admire that." Keema did not shy away. Indeed, her firelight aura gave her a cast of some magnificence. If her delicious scent were not so overpowering, he might think her greater than the sum of her mortal coil. H'orvan chided himself inwardly for being beguiled. It had been many years since a mortal touched him so. Collecting himself, he entered the bed chamber and strolled toward the fireplace. Not directly. He needed the girl focused, not expecting an attack.

"Humanity is dying on the vine," he said, staring into the hearth. "Your leaders only hasten the rot. It is clear to those of us with a vested interest that you can no longer manage your affairs."

"You'll hear no argument from me," Keema said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "So, we are to be yoked?"

So fatalistic—who is this girl?

"Some, perhaps, will require corralling. War is inevitable. However, I would hope to find allegiance in those with a more pragmatic disposition. Considering your fate, otherwise." H'orvan did not sense in the girl a desire for power so he chose not to dangle the prospect before her. "If an agreement can be made, many lives will be preserved."

"For you..." There was no accusation in her tone.

"Delivering man's salvation must have its price."

"And that's how you see it?" Keema returned. "Not as conquest, but as a benevolent deliverance from doom?" She sighed. "Very well. Let us play this out. How many must die to win this... salvation? I should like to see the butcher's bill before agreeing to anything."

She was not stupid, this puppet queen. How so ever the girl found herself thrust into the position, H'orvan did not know. Nor had he the luxury of time to discover the truth of it. But Keema Vulgaht had a steely mind for governance. That much was clear. Even if it was also clear she didn't want it. "Fewer, I hope, if wisdom should still be found among you."

"I'm afraid," Keema said, "you've arrived at the wrong royal window by several hundred leagues. There is no power here, no authority."

In spite of himself, H'orvan smiled. She was testing him, even as he was testing her. "Come, now. I suspect you understand more than you let on. If I have come to you, it is with means. Authority may derive from Ladd'ar Harbor. For now. But what accounts for power in the two realms is fragile."

"I do see," Keema said. "You would have me remain a puppet. Except, I would be

your

puppet. Perhaps you should kill me. I grow weary of a conversation that seems likely to deliver me back to where it started."

For a long while, H'orvan simply watched the fire. When one was master of dusk and death, time—like those at its mercy—could be made to bend. He had the commitments of the Vaunted Houses of the Undead, enough of them at any rate. His legions could sweep the two realms clean. But the divine title of Godfang carried with it more than ceremony. The very fate of vampyr kind lay in H'orvan's hands. Such as it was, he did not wish to sacrifice so many in a needless war. Oh, indeed. War

was

coming. But the scope was the crux.

The Ancient One had made as much clear when he secretly commanded H'orvan to stake him. That honor had been almost too much to carry.

Vaunted Gol had seen truth as H'orvan did. Vampyrdom was itself fractured after eras and eras of distrust. While man bent himself toward self-destruction, his shepherds retreated farther and farther into shadow. Now, the possible end of man had come. The vampyr had become so nested, so cloaked in the old ways that the traditional path to Godfang would have meant a civil war that might have taken years to settle. Their numbers had already grown too few. Still, when the Ancient One proposed the sacrifice, H'orvan had thrown himself at the Dusk Lord's feet and begged him to consider an alternative. Great Gol had merely smiled and caressed his cheek.

How cunning it had been to goad H'orvan's young General. Porcer's temper would lead to his undoing one day. No doubt about it. But he had played his role well, if unwittingly. Strange how H'orvan felt the Vaunted Lord's power even as he drove the stake that unmade him. He did not believe for a second that Gol had not seen his move. The Ancient One could have stopped him if he wanted. Such power. Unfathomable power. And not just in the Ancient One's taloned hands, but in his razored mind. The Godfang would not let the Dusk Lord's sacrifice be for naught.

"We do not always choose the moment, Keema of Vulgaht. Often, the moment chooses us. This is not the life you envisioned for yourself. That makes you wise. But suppose I gave you leave to fulfill your fantasies. To leave this realm behind and spend your years—the last years of humanity—forging your way through the wilds. Would you greet the end satisfied by all that you had seen? What of your guilt at not exercising that wisdom? The knowing that you did not try to save mankind."

"How can I save them?"

"A wise woman sees not an enemy before her, but an ally. It may not seem so, but that is exactly what we must be if both species are meant to endure."

"And if a cure can be found? What comes next? Slavery to the lusts of the Dusk Lords?"

"Perhaps it needn't come to that at all." The girl could only be told so much. Let her dwell in possibility rather than fantasize about unsavory futures.

"Mankind will never recognize the vampyr as an ally."

H'orvan finally let his gaze be drawn to her gilded silhouette. "I am not speaking to mankind. I am speaking to you, Queen Keema of House Vulgaht."

***

Two days ago, Anton allowed himself to think of home for the first time in months. Doing so until then had become too painful. But an unbidden memory of faintly tasted glory came to him just as he was waking beneath a damp cave mouth's eave. The sunlight, so long obscured by glowering storm banks, had shone on his eyelids just as he was regaining consciousness. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he let the memory transport him back to Ta Glen.

Springtime brought not only the promise of hope for foothill farmers but also the onset of the year's most abundant rains. Goldgill farmers downstream spent their winter months constructing living dams on the river—a combination of moss, fast-growing dok vine, and felled timber—so by the time the rains arrived they could farm a migratory species of yellowfish that was much sought-after throughout the realm. The Goldgillers' work transformed the river upstream. What was most of the year a lively, shallow waterway as it passed Ta Glen suddenly transformed into a languid moat.

Much to the chagrin of traders nestled in the foothills who lamented the loss of low crossings, their paths now diverted to the congested queues at the Queen's Road, or to the mercy of costly ferries. But then again, traders never failed to find something to complain about.

Anton found his joy, and a surprising talent, at an event that became known as the lily pad swim. Birthed a generation before by a ferryman's apprentice, the lily pad swim quickly burgeoned into a spectacle that swelled the population of Ta Glen during a season in which rain otherwise put a damper on travel. Each spring, jelly lilies, uprooted by the rising waters, drifted down to the shallows. There, they congregated to form a vast floating meadow, dotted with dark purple blossoms amidst a sea of green. Challengers lined up along the southern bank of the river, dived beneath the living mass of plants, and swam for the northern shore. As long as one could hold his breath.

The game was initially a test of lung capacity. But the ferryman's apprentice, enterprising and perhaps realizing that underwater swimming offered scant entertainment for spectators, came up with a stroke of genius. See, the true test was not merely the swim. The real game was in thwarting the whims of the purple lily blossom; each flower carried spores nestled within. When disturbed, the blossom would cough out a beautiful cloud of white mist. But as it happened, the very best way to agitate the blossom and release the spores was to brush the dangling root ball beneath the river's surface. Doing that resulted in a swimmer's disqualification, regardless of how far he had managed to swim on a lungful of air.

Before Anton was old enough to compete, he loved nothing more than watching the annual sport. It was while spectating that a simple insight wrought his future flirtation with glory. Most swimmers attacked the racecourse. These were men whose powerful arms were like oars in the river, propelling them beneath the lily pads with tremendous speed. But when balanced by the fragile blossom, Anton noticed that smaller swimmers often did as well or outperformed their stronger adversaries.

He realized that there was more involved than mere power. A delicate balance of skill, breath,

and

finesse made the lily pad swim more than a competition but a dance with nature. Above all, it was a testament to the delicate interplay between human ambition and the whims of nature.

Under the light of the moon, Anton practiced. Instead of diving into the river as soon as the bully horn sounded, he planned to wade gently. He was not big enough to challenge the lungs of greater men. But he'd learned well enough while holding his breath and hiding from elder twin sisters that much depended on one's state of mind. The more nervous, the more his heart pounded, and the less time he could hold his breath.

When he finally sank slowly beneath the surface to push off the submerged rocks at the riverbank, he simply let momentum carry him. Unfortunately, at night he could not see the dangling root balls. But he kept his eyes open, trying to sense the dark riverbed below and hugging as close to the cool mud as possible. When he began to slow, he would stroke with his arms, never powerfully, but just enough to keep moving forward. At last, when he could no longer quiet the fury of burning lungs, Anton broke the surface. The lily pad blossom beside him belched its white spores into the night sky. Lit by the moon, they looked like so many twinkling stars glittering and swirling above him. He turned his head to look. He was more than halfway across the river.

The next year he was old enough to enter. He made it beyond the floating green and purple meadow. Only one man had swum farther. But Anton did not so much as disturb a single blossom. He had won. The youngest ever to do so.

***

Anton opened his eyes to almost total darkness. The rushing river Danube had him pinned to the side of his cell which had come to rest on the deep riverbed. His heart was beating wildly. If he could not calm down, he was going to drown that much faster. He tried to remember the lily pad swim. Tried to cast himself into the mind of the boy who'd swum lazily through the river of his homeland. He tried to remember how his confidence had made him stronger the next year, and how he'd won by an even greater margin. Peace came slowly, but it came.

Pulling himself by the bars, he felt for and reached the hinges. Sliding a hand along its length, he found where the prybar had slipped the top hinge. The cell door was nearly free. He just needed the strength to lift it the rest of the way. Unfortunately, after a bit more feeling by hand, he realized something terrible. The cell was facing down. The door was on the riverbed. Panic shocked his heart before he could control himself. He could feel the burn rising in his lungs. Time was nearly up.

Suddenly, something enormous collided with the cell. Anton fought the urge to scream his every last breath in abject terror. But he remembered noticing something as the wagon was mounting the bridge. The river was rain-swollen. That meant debris making its way downstream. Impulsively, he shot a hand up through the iron bars. Something tore past his arm. Snapping his hand shut without thinking, he found himself grasping a tree branch. Before he could do anything with that knowledge, though, he was suddenly and violently wrenched backward where he slammed against the side of his cell up to the armpit. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he clung for dear life. The branch must have been attached to a tree if the way it threatened to rip his arm from the socket was any indication.

Anton was gritting his teeth, on the verge of letting go, when he felt the big iron cell shift. Twisting himself, he wedged his knees against the bars, reaching his other arm through to grasp at the branch with both hands and relieve the threat of dislocation. His face and chest felt like they were being driven through the too-small iron gap like a potato through a peeler, and this time he did scream. In agony. But the cell began to tip. Anton held on as long as he dared, then let go just as the cell was rolling over.

Fire and panic were the only thing left in his chest. Now directly overhead, Anton wedged himself against the bars below and pulled on the cell door until it came mercifully free. Swinging inward, it nearly slammed him against the riverbed before he could squirm away. Then he was out. Launching off the cell and flinging himself for the surface. He didn't bother paddling. Gods be cruel if he managed to get free only to drown a few inches from the surface. But perhaps the gods were cruel. The surface never seemed to come. A stream of bubbles poured from his mouth as he expelled the last of his breath.

Then he saw it. Blurry daylight. This time, he did kick. With his reserve strength, he broke the surface and gulped fresh air, and enough water to cough himself hoarse. The sounds of shouts behind him barely registered. They were faint, the current had carried him downstream. His only focus was on drawing the next breath.

At last, he got the water clear of his lungs. On the point of exhaustion, he cast a weary glance behind him. A few of his armored escorts still milled on the bridge. The bulk of them, however, were scouring the eastern bank. The river was very wide, and when Anton realized he was much closer to the eastern shore, a fresh wave of fear threatened to pull him under. Turning his back to the guardsmen shouting and pointing his direction, he swam for the western bank. He knew better than to swim directly for it. The current was strong. His best bet was riding the flow—it would take him farther away anyway—and aim generally for the far shore. He'd seen none of the dreaded Diviners amongst the guardsmen, but he knew they couldn't be far.

Reaching the western shore, he hauled himself out of the water only to discover that his legs had become leaden. It was like trying to carry twice again his body up the riverbank. He got halfway up before he collapsed to his knees. Anton stared in confusion at his trembling hands. Slickened gods, his entire body was shaking.

"She nearly had you," a voice said. Anton tried to look up, but the edges of his vision were clouding over. Dizziness spun the world like a whirling tempest. And a second later, he was face down in the mud.

***

The Diviner Maxima eyed the trickle of white life leaking down High Lady Vagyia's ankle.

"Is the timing poor?" she asked, watching the anguished bliss slide off the woman's face. It was replaced with something like horror, but just as quickly became barely suppressed fury. Calila was impressed. She forestalled the angry question already forming on Vagyia's lips. "One of them is seed-strong. I have just tested them, personally. The others, inadequate. But it was wise of you to try all three. If the gods are good, you will take. An excellent strategy to strengthen your position."

Vagyia was pulling the skintight gown down over her sumptuous hips. "Speak nothing of position to me," she snapped. "What of our work?"

There was little chance of the men overhearing their conversation. Still, Calila kept her voice low. "Progress. We have captured twenty candidates. The strongest are being diverted to your stronghold."

"The situation has changed," Vagyia said. "It turns out the Vulgaht seat is rife with insurrection. We have lost three of the Queen's advisors to assassination. My sister grows volatile. I need verifiable seed wielders before I can move."

"The Legion has already bedded the captives. We shall soon know."

"And the shepherd?"

The Diviner Maxima did not hesitate to produce the lie. "We are...closing in on his whereabouts."

"Good. Assuming it was his seed that duffed the innkeeper's daughter—village women have turned trollop, after all—he still represents our best hope."

"He is more than our best hope," Calila said. "The Legion has taken another girl who is said to be ill with the change. She was seen with our shepherd at a boarding house." Calila relished Vagyia's naked expression of wonder.

"When?"

"A fortnight ago."

"Who knows of her condition?" Vagyia demanded.

"None. She was seized the very night of the liaison. On her way to your palace as we speak."

"Very well. Spare no resources in locating the young man. I shall want every womb in the Women's Legion filled to a lather by his white life."

"To that end," the Diviner Maxima began—she had laid her trap well and now it was time to spring it— "We require additional coin to ensure continued progress."

"You will have to make do," Vagyia said dismissively. "We have just begun to pay for the war my sister waged. The crown is overextended, and I have diverted as much as I can without raising suspicions in the treasury."

"Perhaps an entreaty to the puppet Queen? I'm sure the coffers in House Vulgaht have not been entirely drained."

Vagyia raised an eyebrow, then laughed. "And if word of that reached my sister's ears, it would not be a charge of royal misappropriation, but treason. It would mean my head on a spike."