"Infernaka"
(a high fantasy erotica novel by J.D. Savanyu)
Chapter One
King Gurnemanz gazed coldly at nine thousand enemies across a daisy-covered meadow in the shadow of Mount Cordag. The warrior king prayed to the gods for guidance, then he bellowed out the order to start the battle, and spurred Gringuljete of The Red Ears into action. His mighty red stallion carried him right into the heart of the action. Twelve thousand Tenabrocian troops quickly pushed the Partakkian army against the edge of the Feirfiz mountains, on an otherwise beautiful day in late spring. The white flowers turned red with blood, mostly from the inferior Partakkians. Those barbaric northerners buckled under the relentless pressure of the better-trained and better-equipped southern empire. Gurnemanz hacked a gory trail through his black-clad foes with Ither, his trusty elven-forged saber.
Meanwhile, Queen Alize waited for his return in the city of Anfortas, fifty miles due south. He loved the smooth feminine sensation of her silk garter against his big manly cock and balls underneath his brown boiled leather armor, as he decapitated yet another war-painted Partakkian. Alize gave him that intimate love token two months ago on the winter solstice to rouse his masculine vigor. She wanted to end the Third Great War just as dearly, and rule by his side over a peaceful united world. King Gurnemanz hadn't seen his queen since that chilly day at the Secundille Palace, when she pulled that expensive piece of lingerie off her left thigh and whispered a prayer to the gods to bring him "back to her loving arms" by the summer solstice. But "loving" had become a relative term. Alize hadn't even touched his dick for the past six months, after failing to produce any heirs to the throne, male or female, over five years of marriage. His sex life was stuck in the mud, and his patience was wearing thin.
Three years of hard work had finally backed the Partakkians into a literal corner, preventing their usual guerilla strategy of quick ambush attacks followed by quick retreats. His brown-clad troops forced them to fight like real men (which they sure as hell weren't.) Unlike the conscripted Partakkians, the Tenebrocian military was comprised entirely of well-paid volunteers, and their dedication made them the most powerful army since the ancient Wolframian Empire. The Partakkians dropped like flies, while the Tenebrocians suffered only a handful of fatalities. Their souls would surely ascend to the great hall of warriors in the heavenly palace of Frimutel, and their righteous martyrdom would ensure an eternal seat at the Banquet of Heroes.
Gurmenanz sliced off dozens and dozens of heads, clearing a path right up to Valakas, the ruthless tyrannical king of Partakkas. Catching him off guard amid a cacophony of shouting men and screaming horses and clashing swords. Gurnemanz waited until he saw the whites of his eyes, then he let out a blood-curdling roar and decapitated a madman who executed 38,000 of his own citizens just for criticizing his shit-crazy policies.
The Partakkian army was soon eradicated, and the war was finally over. A well-earned peace on the continent of Firenza. Gurnemanz led his jubilant army back to their camp by the banks of the Lascoyt River, reflecting the snowy mountains and the orange rays of dusk. The river was only thirty feet wide near its source, but it would stretch out to three hundred feet by the time it passed the royal palace at Anfortas. He gave thanks to Mazadan, the god of war, and Obilot, the goddess of fortune, for joining their divine forces in favor of Tenebroc, the southern Promised Land. Invoking their divine grace to ensure a thousand years of tranquility after a thousand years of turmoil.
His soldiers placed the unrecognizable hoof-squashed remains of King Valakas on a pile of logs, and Gurnemanz uttered a few sentences of customary respect toward his departed foe, without meaning a single breath of it. Clamide, The King's Hand, lit a torch and used it to send Valakas' soul to the hellish dimension of Veldek for a torturous eternity with the Dark Lords. Dozens of foot soldiers danced around the blazing funeral pyre, praising the Lords of Light in song and looking forward to an epic night of drinking and whoring.
Five hundred lovely courtesans emerged from their nearby tents, ready to woo their suitors and spread their legs at the drop of a coin. Prostitution was fully legalized by the raving sex addicted king of Tenebroc. He made sure his soldiers had easy access to homegrown hookers while on their military campaigns, to keep them from drifting away from the camps and sleeping with the enemy (and revealing secret plans to the enemy while drunk and horny.) Gurnemanz rode Gringuljete toward his large red-and-white tent in the center of the camp; eager to frolic with his own private courtesan. Untouchable by anyone but him. A pure untainted pussy for his majesty.
He dismounted his mighty red war horse and saluted two royal guards who stood watch next to the flaps of gray terrawolf hide that served in lieu of a real door. Clamide stopped by the tent on his brown stallion Garschil.
"Congratulations again, your majesty!" Clamide beamed toward Gurnemanz. "Victory is ours at last, and not a fucking minute too soon! Praise Obilot and Her Holy Providence, and may her divine wis--"
"Yes, yes. Stop praising that heavenly wench, and fetch me an earthly one."
"You mean, Katvana?"
"No, I'd rather catch the dick pox from some other trollop." Gurnemanz gave him a cunning sneer, and spat on a cluster of daisies. "Of
course
I want Katvana!"
"Yes, your majesty."
Clamide hurried toward the tents of "traveling ladies." Gurnemanz entered his own tent, unsheathed Ither, and carefully cleaned the dried blood off the incredibly sharp steel, forged on the holy hill of Monsalväsch. He lit a few candles, took off his blood-stained armor, and took a hearty swig of mead, shifting mind away from the unpleasant business of legalized slaughter and toward the pleasant business of coitus. The nagging shame of adultery was drowned out by the thrill of victory, echoed by the gleeful howling of his soldiers throughout the camp. A bunch of peasant boys having their last hurrah before they went back home and hoed their grain fields every fucking day.
Trevrizent, His Second Lieutenant, entered the tent unbidden, holding a wooden box with several small holes and the royal Partakkian insignia.
"Sorry to disturb you rest, your majesty, but we found something truly remarkable in the tent of Valakas."
"Ah, spoils of victory from my dunderheaded man-screwing foes."
"'Spoils' is much too crude a word to describe this priceless treasure, your majesty."
Trevrizent open the box cautiously and pulled out a gilded bronze cage. What was inside the cage took his breath away like a solid punch to the gut.
"Great Mazadan! A baby dragon!"
The infantile red lizard was only a foot tall at the shoulders, but the intimidating array of spikes jutting out of its head, feet, and tail brought back many bad memories from his early life during the Second Great War. It squawked curiously at the king, almost like a Juqqa bird from the far southern tropics.
"I though they were extinct."
"So did I, Your Majesty. I guess a few dragon eggs survived the Draconian Plague epidemic in the frigid mountains, in suspended animation. Valakas managed to find them and bring them down to warmer climes, restarting the incubation process. We found five eggs in the tent that haven't hatch--"
Trevrizent's voice was frozen by the entrance of Katvana, an impossibly beautiful twenty year-old redhead in a fox fur tunic. Her big emerald eyes immediately met his hazel eyes, and she grinned from ear to ear, striking a seductive pose near the terrawolf fur. A face and body worth killing for, no doubt. Milky white skin, flaming copper hair, large shapely breasts, a flat hourglass stomach, and wide toned child-bearing hips gave her a clear advantage over the other 499 whores who followed the Tenebrocian legions wheresoever they went.
"We shall converse more on that subject tomorrow," Trevrizent muttered as he shuffled past the toward the exit, leaving the dragon in its cage on the king's portable vanity counter. "Good night, your majesty."
"Indeed it will be," Gurnemanz beamed toward Katvana. Alone at last with the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, gazing into her her hypnotic fairy-like eyes. Her northern ancestry was painfully obvious, with a hint of elf blood from her extended family. They defected from Brumbane, a Partakas border province, when she was only five years old. Seeking a better life in the democratic southern kingdom.
"All hail the victorious King of Tenebroc," she proclaimed in a mellifluous voice.
