Yra and the Swordstress

This story was written as a part of the "

Tales of Leinyere Story Event 2023

" event on Literotica, a collaborative fantasy worldbuilding event from many talented Literotica authors. Look for the event on Literotica's story page to find links to a map of Leinyere, the official timeline of all our stories, and links to all the stories in the event from all the fantastic authors who have participated. Thanks for stepping into this world with us, and happy reading!

Author's Note:

As a sort of prequel to my story, 'Queen of the She-wolves,' which I wrote for last year's "Tale of Leinyere" event, this story tells of an early adventure of Kyra the Witch Thief. In a sense, it is an origin story. In another sense, it is a reimagining of a character which I very much enjoyed writing.

This is part 1 of a swashbuckling romance adventure novel, Kyra and the Swordstress. There are elements of erotica in it, but the erotica will be on the lighter side, and where there is erotica, it will tend towards the sapphic. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All characters in this story are above the age of eighteen.

Special thanks to

Rustyoznail

, a great writer that you should check out, and to a wonderful beta reader who shall remain nameless, but to whom I also owe a debt of gratitude for their help!

Kyra and the Swordstress

Prologue. Hyla of the Wind and the Stars

Hyla had gone to sea countless times. But never in the middle of the night. And never in a storm. The winds whipped the sea ferociously. Icy rain pelted like needles against the small deck of the dhow. Lightning spidered through the low storm clouds, illuminating the inky sea with its harsh light, revealing nothing but chaos. A topsy-turvy world where waves peaked like mountains and tumbled into chasms. The poor dhow was doing its best to hang on to the ride. Hyla had never been so scared.

Hyla's mother was a hunched-over silhouette. One hand on the tiller, the other desperately grasping a coil of the main sheet to try to catch the powerful gusts with the lateen sail.

As with all Myssean girls, Hyla's mother had taught her how to sail since she was old enough to walk. She so wished she could help her mother now. But she was helpless now, strapped in at the bow, clutching, as she was for dear life, the sack of food and water hurriedly packed right before they escaped into the stormy night.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the storm finally subsided, and the sea slowly but surely calmed into a lull, and the clouds parted to reveal a speckled satin night sky.

A half-moon rose above the eastern horizon. In the south, the storm's remnants rumbled like a giant turning in for sleep.

The Islands of Myssea were beyond the dying storm. Hyla knew this because she spied the Slumbering Tortoise peeking his head out from the glowing arc of the western horizon and above him was the majestic Firebird stretched out his vast wings, pointing his beak towards the Northern polestar, lonely Dracona and to the east, while in the east, the Great Watcher dipped her starry feet into the sea, her watchful eyes twinkling as they always do. Hyla knew by heart through which stars in these constellations to draw imaginary lines to find her way home. Every Myssean, even the littlest girl, knew how to use the stars to find their way. And Hyla wasn't just any little girl. She was the princess of Myssea.

Hyla's mother brought the dhow onto the shore of a small island inhabited by nesting longwings. Hyla helped her mother draw the dhow onto the white sandy beach and helped her collect driftwood to make a small fire. The longwings didn't seem to mind the new company. Longwings were like that -- curious and friendly birds. Sometimes too curious and too friendly for their own good. They don't spend enough time on land to learn how terrible land dwellers can be. Mysseans share that quality with them. Or at least, they did until tonight. Terrible land dwellers was why Hyla wasn't in her cozy bed in her tiny room in the palace tonight.

Seawraiths, they were called. Pale-skinned scavengers and slavers from the vast continent in the south. Always happy to take advantage of gentle people.

After helping her mother make the fire, Hyla quietly watched her mother prepare a small meal. A fish she speared with a stick to roast over the fire and hardtack she softened in water and set on a flat stone to warm.

Though the storm had passed, fear continued to pound on Hyla's heart like an incessant hammer. She had never seen the palace on fire before. She had never seen chaos and violence. She knew in her gut that life would be vastly different now. There was no going back to the palace. There was no going back to Myssea. With these overwhelming thoughts swirling like mad butterflies in her mind, Hyla began to sniffle.

Her mother handed her a warmed morsel of hard tack, and, as she took tiny bites from it, her mother sidled up to her and stroked her hair, whispering in a gentle voice,

"Don't worry, little song, you are safe now."

Then she told her the story about the Great Hunter and the Mermaid, and she traced the corresponding stars that hung above them. She told of how the hunter chased the mermaid for years and years, deep into the great fjords of Kelthala's Wound, until the mermaid could swim no more, and how when the hunter finally had the spear against her heart, how he looked her in the eyes and at once fell deeply in love.

Hyla had heard the story a million times, but it was her favorite. It was a happy story, and from hearing her mother's soothing voice and seeing the hunter and the mermaid above, knowing their happy destiny, her heart had begun to calm.

After the story, just as Hyla was about to doze off, her mother reached into the sack that had held the food and water and pulled out a stone that Hyla recognized but did not know of its significance. She only knew that it was significant. For as long as Hyla remembered, it had sat on a grand pedestal in the palace throne room. Seeing it pulled out from a wet burlap sack was surreal and distressing.

The stone gave off a cool blue glow and hummed. It was warm to the touch and polished so smoothly that its surface was slippery.

Her mother placed the stone gently into Hyla's palms, and Hyla raised it to her eyes and stared with awe into it. Tiny specks within glittered like the stars in the sky above.

"This is the Starstone of Myssea. The heart of your family, Hyla. The heart of your ancestors. It is yours now to keep safe. So, keep it safe."

Hyla tried pushing it back to her.

"You should keep it. It's not mine. It's yours," Hyla squeaked.

Her mother smiled at her. She cupped Hyla's hand around the stone and hugged her tightly. The hug ought to be warm, but her skin was cold. Her mother shivered, which worried Hyla greatly, but her mother looked at her with those eyes that told her to listen, so she should listen carefully.

"When a young Myssean comes of age, she is given her full name," her mother spoke with great effort, her voice rasping.

"Oh, how I hoped it would be many years before I would have to give you yours. How I wish I could watch you grow into a lady before naming you."

Hyla whimpered. She knew very well what that meant. She knew that her mother would name her now because this may be the last chance she could. But Hyla was not ready to be named. She pushed the stone frantically into her mother's chest. Warm tears streamed down her cheeks.

Her mother pushed the stone back to her, held her cheeks in her hands, looked her intently in her eyes, and spoke as if making a pronouncement to the heavens:

"My daughter will be like the wind. Her spirit will be free no matter where she finds herself, and though she will be gentle, she will also be fierce. She will be like the stars. She will shine in the night as a source of hope for those who are lost.

"It is from the wind that you will draw strength and from the stars from which you will find the light to guide your people, my daughter. The Myssean people have been robbed of their home. One day, when you are ready, lead them back home."

"What? But how?" Hyla squeaked.

"I'm afraid I cannot give you the answer. That is your calling. That is why you are named Hyla of the Wind and the Stars."

The Starstone in Hyla's hand seemed to glow more brightly. The stars above began to dance as if in celebration of her naming. Of course, she knew that it was only an illusion. That it was the high wind and the humidity brought by the storm that made the stars dance like that. Still, they danced, and the Starstone shone with great brilliance, and she was now Hyla of the Wind and the Stars, though she wished she wasn't.

Her mother proceeded to sing a sweet song. A song she had always used to put Hyla to sleep since she was a baby. In the warmth of her mother's arms and the nearby crackling fire, and listening to her mother's calm song, Hyla dozed soundly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

The following morning, Hyla woke to the sound of seagulls. They had gathered on the beach. They stared at her with their cold, beady eyes and waddled warily away as she stood and rubbed her eyes awake. The sun was already high above and bright.

The ocean was turquoise and flashing. It was a beautiful day. Still, something was wrong. Something put a giant pit in Hyla's stomach and tightened her throat. The longwings in their nests croaked, stuck their necks out, and cocked their heads at Hyla. They too sensed trouble.

Hyla looked down at her mother, curled up by the smoldering ashes of the fire they made last night. She looked so peaceful there, her beautiful head resting on her hands, her thick beautiful black hair soft and curled and stark against the white of the sand.

She went to nudge her mother awake. Her mother did not respond. Her mother remained as still as a statue.

"Mother! Wake up!" she yelled curtly.

Hyla's heart stopped. Her thoughts immediately flashed to what she had said last night about having to grow up fast. She had hoped it was all a lie, but seeing her mother now, she knew now that it had to be true. She had to grow up.

"Mom!" Hyla croaked. Her lips quivered. "Please wake up!"

She collapsed atop her mother and shook her. She turned her over to face up. Her eyes were shut. Her lips shut in a thin, blue smile. A look of peace that upset Hyla greatly.

"Mom!" Hyla cried. She shook her more. That's when she saw the tiniest thin slash in her side. A sickly gangrenous color marring the beautiful brown of her mother's skin.

Seawraith raiders were known to use all sorts of poisons. Her mother must have been attacked with a poisoned blade in the night. Her mother must have known that the poison would take her. Otherwise, she wouldn't have named her and given her the Starstone.

Hyla stood quietly. Tears burned her eyes. Her ears rang. She wanted to bawl, but she was so shocked that she didn't even have the energy to do so.

She reached into her pocket and clutched the Starstone. The heart of her ancestors. She thought she'd feel comfort from it. But really, she felt nothing but a cruel coldness.

The seagulls crept closer. Angrily, Hyla kicked sand in their direction, and they flew off cawing. But they would be back. Seagulls are always persistent when there is a dead thing to eat. Even if that dead thing was Mikala of the Far Horizon, the Queen of Myssea.

Hyla wiped the tears from her eyes, and when her eyes cleared, she noticed the black sails on the horizon. She knew to whom those sails belonged. The Seawraith raiders. They had found her. They were coming for her.

Chapter 1. Kyra the Expelled

Kyra was not upset by getting the boot. She always felt it was destined to happen. She knew that as soon as she first stepped foot through those towering, gilded gates over a decade ago, that the Topaz Order Academy professors would like nothing more than to see her gone. She was nothing but trouble. A headache. And even if she wasn't, they were sure to figure out a way to make her one. That's how it was long before she was placed in that wretched school for sorcery. It was just the long way -- a detour -- to getting back to what she always was: a 'swallow child' of Portoa. A street orphan, in other words. She was a street orphan through and through. Always has been. It was so ingrained in her blood that no amount of magic was ever going to make it go away.

In a way, the expulsion was liberating. At least the streets made it crystal clear to you that it would always be against you. The streets didn't dress up in arcane fineries and erudite snobbery to seduce you into a false sense of belonging. Instead, it held a dagger right to your gut, daring you to make a mistake. That callous honesty she knew how to handle. She was at home in the streets.

The first thing on Kyra's agenda after getting kicked out was to leave the wretched city with its bright and clean streets. The people there -- even the beggars -- were all too satisfied with their lives. She couldn't help but feel put off by it. So, she collected as many coins as possible, from as many pockets from the happy people of Portoa as she could in a morning and bought a one-way ticket on a coach to Galtin's Port, a city, she once heard, that had more vices and fortune than it did people. And it was a city absolutely teeming with people. It was her kind of place.

The journey to Galtin's Port by coach took a little more than a week. Four other passengers were on the coach, heading to the city for various reasons. Some sought the vices that Galtin's Port was known for, while others were drawn by the promise of fortune. Despite the cramped conditions of the coach, the company of these fellow travelers was as good as one could hope for on a week-long journey. They were pleasant for the most part.

Over the weeklong journey, Kyra learned what her companions traveled to the city for. An orc sailor seeking riches by joining a merchant crew on a three-year journey. An elven woman from Grennskogur unhappy about going to see her son get married to a dwarf. A drunkard with a half-baked plan to open a bar where patrons can get up on stage and sing their favorite chanty against the backing of a hired band (a dubious but admittedly very intriguing concept). Perhaps the most interesting traveler on the journey was a beautiful woman carrying a thin saber. She had a brown complexion not typical of these parts of Leinyere, and her hair was long and black and braided, and she hid her eyes beneath the long beak of her felt bycocket cap, in a brooding fashion. Kyra couldn't help but feel attracted to this mysterious woman though the woman wasn't keen to any of their travel-wise conversations. In fact, it wasn't until the last day of their journey did Kyra hear her utter a single word. And quite a momentous occasion it was.

The driver brought the coach to a jolting stop in the middle of a sunny and soporific afternoon. Yells and fearful whinnying from the horses woke Kyra from a wonderful dream. The orc sailor, eyes wide with fear, wheezed, "bandit!"

Immediately, the coach door was thrown open. Hands reached into the coach cabin. First, they yanked out the orc. Then they yanked out the drunkard with the dreams of opening a singing bar, rousing him from sleep. Then the elf woman, then the woman with the saber.

Kyra went to grab her wand out from inside her robe to try a quick invisibility spell, but before she could whip it out, she too was grabbed and harshly dragged onto the dirt road, along with all the other passengers, and the coach driver, and when she looked up, she found a dozen or more burly men in thick fur coats and skullcaps, wielding spears and axes.

Kyra reached for her wand again, but one of the men, the biggest brute of them all, noticed her, and grabbed her by her wrist with his meaty paw before she could cast a spell.

"What you think you're doin', pretty girl? Hands outta your pocket!"

Then he reached into her robe and fished her wand out.

"What's this, then" he growled as he twirled it around in his hand. "A stick!? What's this stick for?"

"Nothing," Kyra squeaked.

"Nothing, eh?" the man said, scratching his scraggy-bearded chin with the wand.

"Yep. Nothing."

"If it's nothing, then you wouldn't mind me doin' this now, would ya?"

He bent the wand with both hands, threatening to snap it in two.

"No!" Kyra squealed and lunged for it.

The man raised the wand just out of Kyra's reach. He kicked her back and laughed as she landed hard on her butt.

"You stay there. This stick is mine now," he said, then laughed again. But a voice spoke out, ending the brute's laughter abruptly. It was the dark-skinned, saber-ladened woman.

"Give that back to her."

The brute turned to face the woman in the bycocket cap, who stood coolly as if she wasn't facing a goblin-stomping maniac twice her size wielding a great axe.

"Oh yeah? Is that what I'm goin' be doin' now, little one?"

"That's right. If you value your life."

Her voice was smooth, low, and steady. There was an incredible sense of calmness in it that did more to put a chill down Kyra's spine than did the muscles on the arms of the brute now currently in possession of her wand.

The brute glanced confusedly at Kyra, who returned him a non-plussed shrug. He then gave a booming laugh.

"Is that a challenge then?"

The other bandit men encircled Kyra, the brute, and the woman in the bycocket cap.

"That's right," said the woman, resting her hand nonchalantly on the hilt of her sheathed saber.

The brute's eyes glinted with hunger, and a yellow-toothed grin spread widely on his face.

"Alright, pretty one. Let's see how this duel works out for you. If you win, the woman gets her stick back. If I win, you get the sorest ass this side of the Mournful Mountains. To tell you the truth, I like my odds."

He thumbed the blade of his axe and licked his lips as he approached the woman, who remained motionless, with her arms nonchalantly crossed, her saber still sheathed on her hip.

He lunged to grab her, cackling delightedly as he did so. She hopped a step backward, causing him to stumble. He growled, then lunged at her again. She hopped a step backward again, and he stumbled again, catching only air in his brawny arms. All the other bandits laughed, which turned the brute purple in his face and made his veins bulge out of his neck.

"Stay still, pretty poppet, or I'll pop your pretty head right off!" He yelled. Then he swung his axe right at her neck.

Kyra meant to close her eyes, but she couldn't help but watch in horror as his axe arced toward the woman.

She was right in the path of its powerful sideways arc, yet she did not dodge this time. Instead, she curled her fingers around her sword's grip and, in a motion quicker than a Greywood fox, swung the sword out from the sheath. All Kyra saw was a sharp flash of metal in the sunlight. But in that sharp flash, that moment as fleeting as a lightning strike, she had etched a deep gash across the brute's torso.

The brute froze mid-swing, his axe suspended in the air, inches away from his opponent's neck. He gurgled as he wheezed a scream. His axe fell to the ground with a clatter, then he fell, his eyes wide with shock as if confused as to what could have possibly caused his demise.

The woman coolly sheathed her sword as if she had just used it to perform some menial chore, like cutting the wheat from chaff, or slicing a loaf of bread. She then picked up Kyra's wand and extended it to Kyra.