πŸ“š the champion Part 2 of 5
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SCIENCE FICTION FANTASY

The Champion Ch 02

The Champion Ch 02

by drawandstrie
19 min read
4.58 (24000 views)
adultfiction

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.

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The attacker feinted one way with the sword tip, then cut back the other way, and the Champion simply leaned back and watched the sword pass by, and straightned up again.

A muffled curse sounded inside the black bucket-like helmet, and then the attacker unleashed a furious two-handed waist high slash as he stepped up, a tremendous blow that would have cut the Champion in half........had it landed.

Instead, the large naked man did the last thing the attacker expected: he stepped right up to him and turned, grabbing one of the attacker's sword-wielding wrists and, continuing the turn, pulled the attacker's arms around in a big circle that ended with his arm folded back over and behind his head.

Only the Champion didn't stop the swinging circular motion there. He pulled his center of gravity straight down to the floor, the result being that the attacker flew up and over into the air and landed face first on the stone floor.

The sword went flying with a clatter, and the naked man quickly kneeled on his attacker's back, pinning the arm he was holding and effectively immobilizing the other man.

"All right." the Champion finally said. "Let's have a look at you."

Reaching out with his free hand, he tugged the straps on the back of the helmet that held it into place.

He tugged it off, and what was revealed was a red-faced young man of about 20 years with corn-yellow hair and blue eyes. He was gasping for breath, trying to get his wind back after having it knocked out of him.

Presently he turned his head to the side and glared at the man sitting on his back.

"You FUCKER!!!!! I'll kill you!"

"You haven't done such a great job so far." The Champion said nonchalantly. "Now who sent you? Was it the Witches of Nin? King Wodred of the Picts? You have a Scandia sort of look about you, so is King Altamontus still mad about his daughter?"

The young would-be assasin gritted his teeth and made no reply. But the Champion felt the subtle movement down under his knee, and a second later there was a flash of metal as the trapped man used his free hand to pull forth a dagger.

The Champion was ready, however, and simply pinned the other arm behind the man's back with his knee while capturing the knife-holding arm with his two strong hands, one at the wrist and the other at the elbow.

He then bent the arm all the way back, and the elbow joint snapped and the ligaments and tendons went pop-pop-pop one by one.

"GAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" the young man screamed, dropping the knife.

"That was very foolish of you." The Champion said. "Whether or not you leave this room alive is entirely up to me and you're not doing a whole lot to stay in my good graces."

"FUCK YOUR GOOD GRACES AND FUCK YOU!!!!!" the young man roared, his face now redder than ever.

"I want answers and I'm going to have them." The Champion said simply. "Who sent you, and where did you get the armor you're wearing? You're no Brythunian, that's for sure."

"And that's a peculiar looking sword you have there." the Champion went on. "I note that it's got a blue blade and the handle has a silver glow. It's no ordinary sword, is it?"

The young man grinned wickedly. "Wouldn't you like know?"

"Why, yes, I do as a matter of fact." And the Champion reaced out and pressed the trapped man's temple. And audible crack sounded.

"YEAAAAARRRRGGGHHHHHH!!!!!"

The Champion waited until the screams and moans subsided.

"That's one pressure point in your head. There's 4 more on this side of your face I can reach from here, and that one I pressed is the one that hurts the least. Now where did you get this armor?"

"FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOUUUU!"

The Champion's big forefinger came down on a spot behind the man's ear.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!"

More screaming, crying, and epithets followed, but at last the fellow began to sob out his story.

"I-I killed a Brythunian captain.....in the woods! S-shot a horse with an arrow on the main road and when he stopped.....to help I cut him down and took his armor! Hah! No one would question me in this armor! I walked right into the palace unopposed!"

"And the sword" the Champion prodded.

The young man grinned nastily. "A gift.....from the Witches of Nin! They haven't forgotten you, you bastard! They're coming again, and I am only the first of many! I didn't get you but the others will! You're a dead fucker and nothing more!"

"The Witches gave you the sword, eh? And you're just the first of many? Well if they're all like you, I'm not too worried."

The trapped man shot him an evil look. "I'm the youngest! The others are finest assasins the Witches have ever trained! We've never failed them!"

"Right, right." The Champion said absently. "You know, you killed a Brythunian captain. They impale murderers in this country. It takes some of them more than 3 days to die on a stake."

"Hah!" the young man sneered. "I'm not afraid to die! Why, it's an HONOR to die for the Witches of Nin! I have 40 Witches waiting to pleasure me forever in the Next World for dying in their service!"

"Is that right?" the Champion said. "Well, no sense in keeping those lovely ladies waiting."

And he reached out with both his strong hands and lifted the startled young man's head from the floor, lacing his fingers togther around his broad, flat forehead.

"I....wh......NO! Wait! What are you DOING!!!" the young man screamed.

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The Champion paused. "I'm saving my hosts a trial. And I'm doing you a favor, if you think about it. It's this or 3 days on a stake."

"N-no! W-wait! D-don't kill me!!"

"Why? Do you have something to add?"

"I.....I'll tell you EVERYTHING!" the young man gasped hopefully.

"You already did." The Champion said evenly. And he began pulling the young man's head back towards him.

"GAAAAAGHHH!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!" the doomed assasin screamed, and then the range of motion of his neck was reached and the vertebrae began to resist the Champion's relentless pressure.

The head began to shake, and the young man's word's tumbled out frantically. The shaking of his head caused him to stutter terribly.

"I-----d-d-d-d-on't w-w-waant t-t-tooo d-d-ieee!" he stuttered out.

"Tough." the Champion said, thinking of a corpse lying in the woods a few miles away. He had to be careful how he did this; if he pulled too hard he might yank the man's head clean off and make a dreadful mess, and he wanted to spare his hosts.

"AAaagghhh........oohhhhh G-g-gods it h-hurrrrrrrrrtssss!"

"I know, it's supposed to. I'm breaking your neck." The Champion said.

All the young man could do was lie there, totally helpless and feel his neck creaking, getting ready to break.

"Aaaaaagghhh.....................AAAAGHHHHHHH!!!!! AAAAGGHHHHH----!!!!"

CRACK!

The vertabrae of the young man's neck suddenly parted with the loud snapping sound of a tree branch breaking, and the Champion looked down into the widened eyes and the gaping mouth as the head sprang magically backward in his hands, all resistance gone as the vocal cords and ligaments snapped and popped. The young man's body began shuddering and jerking wildly in it's death throes, his hands spastically opening and closing and his legs kicking spasmodically.

When the man-becoming corpse was still except for a slight kicking of the legs, the Champion dropped the head and stood up. It landed on the floor with a loud 'thunk', laying at an impossible angle.

Turning, the Champion looked for his clothes, finding them where he had casually tossed them last night as he prepared to take the Princess on the divan. He was struggling into his breeches when he was startled by a loud scream behind him.

Spinning around, he found the Princess standing in the doorway, a tray of food held in her frozen hands and her widened eyes fixed on the corpse on the floor.

She dropped the tray and put her hands up to her mouth and burst into tears as the Champion reached her, gathering her into his arms.

He turned her and walked her out of the room, soothing her as they went down the corridor.

"There there, it's all right, highness. I didn't mean for you to see that."

They came to the guards station he remembered at the top of the stairs leading down into the main castle dining room, and there were three guards there, all of whom leapt forward when they saw the Princesses' face.

"What is it? What happened!" one of them demanded, a redhaired fellow with a busy mustache that completely covered his upper lip.

"An intruder, Octorious. I had to deal with him, and she saw the body. It gave her a fright."

The redhaired man glanced down the corridor incredulously. "An intruder? HERE? But sir, there's no way past us men here!"

The Champion handed the Princess off to a young warrior with a scar on his forehead and another on his chin. He looked like a tough, competent soldier. "Gaius, see to her. Take her to her mother and tell her what happened."

The young man nodded, and drew the crying Princess down the stairs.

The Champion turned to Octorious and the other man, a small, dwarfish fellow with a full black beard and usually twinkling eyes, though they were not twinkling now.

"Come with me and see how he got by you."

They all went back down the corridor, and when Octorious got to the doorway and looked down at the corpse on the floor, he exploded in a vicious oath and stepped forward and kicked the dead man full in the face.

He then turned to the Champion, his face stricken. "By the God's balls, your Lordship, it's the armor of my own cousin, the Captain of the Balmouth Horse Guard!! He came up the stairs not ten minutes past and though I thought it strange he had his helm on, and spoke not to me, I let him pass by, thinking him on official business!"

"He was on official business." The Champion grunted, reaching down and picking up the limp body and walking with it over to a table on the far side of the room, where he dumped it unceremoniously. "Just not for King Saul."

"Then for who?" Octorious wondered, as the Champion began pulling off the armor from the body and setting it aside.

"The Witches of Nin." The Champion said calmly.

Both of the other men gave a start, and the smaller one made the sign for the warding off of evil.

"The Witches! Again? But didn't you lead the victory campaign against them over 300 years ago? At the Great Sea Battle of Corinth?"

The Champion nodded grimly, then smiled at the other man. "That was my 10th victory campaign against them, my friend. I've yet to drive those murderous bitches from the face of this world. Until then, I have to win every time. They only have to win once."

The other man gulped and looked down. The Champion had the body naked now. He regarded the corpse with a practiced eye.

Reaching out, he took hold of the left hand and held it up to the light. "Selvinus, the lamp." he said to the smaller man, who quickly fetched the lamp from over the fireplace. Holding it closer to the dead man's hand, they all saw the intricate tattoo of a spider's web on the arch between the thumb and forefinger.

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