Chapter Two: Hidden Assassin
True to her word, before the Princess left her bedchamber with the rising of the sun, the Champion's big cock had indeed sprayed out it's thick seed once more into her womb, as well as down her throat, and up the tight, heated passageway of her asshole.
The Champion sighed drowsily in contentment as the Princess kissed him on the forhead while putting on her silken gown. Quietly she left him lolling on the divan, dozing as the new day dawned.
As he slept he groaned every now and then as his big penis gave an erotic twitch, pulsing in a half-erect state. It has been well used that night, and was beginning it's recovery from the four intense spends it had undergone.
So much semen had it spurted out of itself during those four powerful orgasms that the muscles of his penis were pleasantly sore. Patiently, his prostate gland set about the business of replenishing the rather large supply of seed that it had lost due to his long night's pleasure with the Princess.
As he slumbered he was also mildly aware of the fact that the energy created by his four orgasms was building in his crotch, and a warm glow suffused his middle and began to spread to the rest of his body. He smiled in sleep, feeling the energy spreading all over him in it's pleasant way, as it always did after lovemaking.
More than once had he marveled at the ingenious way Aphrodite had chosen to make him immortal and to build his powers. Many a time as he was groaning and shuddering atop a pretty girl as his seed blasted it's way out of his spasming cock had he gasped up a grateful prayer to the Goddess of Love. Often as he had lain on his back, as a beautiful woman gazed up at him adoringly while sucking away on his erupting penis he had turned his head toward Mt. Olympus and shouted out a cry of praise.
From the day that he had been born over 3,000 years passed, millions of people had come and gone in this worlds-realm and he was still here. Millions had been born, played as children, gone to school, plied trades, married, fucked, had children, grown old, and then died, being lowered into the ground and turning to dust. And still he remained walking the lands and fighting the fight.
He slumbered for awhile, his great chest rising and falling, and then the instincts that had been honed on hundreds of fields of battle alerted him. Someone had come into the room, and it wasn't the Princess.
Without opening his eyes or giving any other sign that he was now awake, the Champion suddenly rolled from the divan to the floor.
As a heavy broadsword cleaved the furred pillow where his head had been a a moment before, the Champion rose to his feet and regarded the person standing on the other side of the divan.
Clad in black armor from head to toe, with the peculiar bucketshaped helmet that was unique to the Brythunian Horse Guard, the attacker pulled his sword back, obviously surprised that his sneak attack had not worked.
Slowly and deliberately, the black-clad assailant came around the divan, holding the sword ready for a lethal thrust.
The Champion simply stood and watched him approach, his mind working.
Despite the legends that swirled around him, the Champion knew he could be slain. Magical weapons were not entirely unknown in this world, and he had seen a few of them.
Over 1,000 years back the Wiches of Nin had managed to hit him with an enchanted arrow that had laid him low for the better part of a year. By the time he had recovered from the wound, with the help of the Priestess of the Temple of Aphrodite in Asharia, the Witches and their allies, the Picts and the Woads and the Uglaks, had consolidated a strong foothold on the Coastlands. It had taken him the better part of a decade to dislodge them, and at great cost.
300 years back, he had grown lazy and incautious after many years of peace and prosperity, and had let his guard down. He'd seen a particularly beautiful girl, a tanned, raven-haired lovely with green eyes in the court of King Neriah of Kazakh, and had taken her into his bed.
He had been intoxicated by the girl's beauty. Their lovemaking had been incredible. The look in her eyes captivated him. The waggle in her ass thrilled him. The enchanted poison she slipped him almost killed him.
She disappeared as he spent 10 days wracked with indescribable pain, teetering on the brink of death. At last his iron constitution asserted itself, and he began to recover. In the meanwhile, the Kazakistan Elite Guards captured his poisoner on the border with Irudistan, where she had hoped to find passage back to the Enchanted Isle, for she was a Witch of Nin in disguise.
They brought her back to him, and King Neriah left her fate to his discretion. When he was sufficently recovered, he had her brought to the room he was given in the King's Imperial Palace, near the roof, over 30 stories from the ground.
There, on the same bed he had laid for ten days shuddering in pain, he enjoyed the girl for one last cockride, shuddering now in pleasure as he filled her womb with his hot seed.
He had then thrown the wailing girl from the roof of the Palace to the stone courtyard below, where she exploded like a ripe tomato when she hit the pavement.
And just 50 years ago, as the Champion sourjorned in Gonbor a man who appeared to be a traveling merchant had suddenly struck the Champion from behind with an enchanted spear in the midst of a crowded market. Unfortunately for this would-be assassin, the Champion was wearing a shirt of light chain mail under his leather jerking and cape, so the spear didn't penetrate.
A minute later the Champion had continued on his way, leaving behind him the would-be assassin twitching in his death throes, impaled on his own spear, which ran up from the ground, through his rectum and on up out of his mouth.
So because of his past experience, the Champion could not assume the sword in this attacker's hands was simply an ordinary sword. If this armor-clad man knew who his intended victim was, the chance he would use anything but an enchanted sword was very small.
Confident at facing a totally naked man, the attacker edged forward, sword held along his forearm with the right hand firmly grasping the hilt. The Champion knew from experience that the man could either savagely stab forward or could also swing the blade up and around for a chopping strike, either one in an instant.
Pausing just outside arm's range, the attacker gathered himself..........and thrust!
Into the empty air.
Where the Champions broad, bronzed chest had been just a second before the man peering through the slit in the armored helmet suddenly saw only empty space.
"When faced with an attacker who is armed when you are not," Kyoto Kashakiwiri had told him in his peculiar sing-song voice over 2,000 years past in the mountain ranges of Nepalia, "you must move not before he strikes; you must move not after he strikes; you must move AS he strikes!"
Since Kyoto was 80 years old and killed over 200 men in combat and another 40 with his bare hands in challenge matches, the Champion had paid strict attention in the 10 years he studied the fighting arts of that ancient society as Kyoto's chief pupil.
The Champion called on that training now, waiting until the last possible second when the attacker had begun his strike to suddenly turn his body and slide up alongside the arms holding the sword. One hand came to the back of the startled attacker's neck, the other pulled the arms down and around.
Pulling the man in a wide circle, the Champion made him lose his balance, forcing him to bend forward. Then, the Champion suddenly let go of the man's neck, and the fellow then did the instinctive thing, which is what this technique counted on: he tried to straighten up and turn toward the Champion.
And when he did that, the Champion suddenly stepped in and struck him on the front of the neck with his arm, cuttings as if holding a sword with that arm while his other arm pushed the armor-clad man in the small of his back.
The result was that the man's head snapped back while his feet shot up, and he landed on the stone floor with a resounding crash.
Quick as a cat, however, the man brought the sword, which he had managed to hang onto, around in a swipe at the Champions knees. Only a quick jump back saved the large naked man from being cut off at the knees.
Rolling to his feet easily despite the over 50 pounds of armor he was wearing, the attacker brought the sword back around in a huge backhanded slash. He wasn't trying to hit the Champion with it however; it was simply to make the other man back off and create space while he regathered himself after his unexpected trip to the floor.
Holding the sword out in front of him with both hands now, the attacker advanced, silently and grimly. Once again the Champion waited, his hands down at his side.