The Life Heroic Ch 03

Prologue- seventeen weeks past

Spending four hours getting an injured woman through tropical swamps is not an experience I would recommend for anyone. If not for the path cutting through the worst parts, keeping us elevated above the boggy depths with their slithering inhabitants, we'd have been insect food at best.

All the same, we made it, even if my left boot did not, taken by an unseen but very enthusiastic sinkhole in the path. My cheap pig-sticker of a sword had been carried off embedded into some feathered thing that rushed us from the side of the path, squawking furiously from a sharp-toothed beak. I considered it a fair trade for our lives.

The base of the tower was something of a disappointment. It was just rudely piled stone, with one unusual feature: every tower I've ever seen has a door. I helped Merri down to rest on the manicured grass surrounding the tower and did a circuit to confirm its lack of entrances.

I had made my way back and was about to report that we were still entirely screwed when the same green light of the burning letters caught my eyes. Merri turned to see what had caused my jaw to drop and we both witnessed a doorway burn itself into being on the side of the tower, covered in runes that crawled continuously out of focus. Out of it, treating the lump of simmering flame like any other doorknob, came the oldest man I had ever seen.

That he was a wizard was self-evident; while the robe was nothing more than a simple blue-sleeved tunic worn long, the pointed hat, waist-length beard and a staff that had a good foot of height on him made his profession very clear to even those who might have missed the fire-based clues.

He took a few steps toward us, and even at a hundred paces I could see the sour look on a face, like an elderly apple made of leather. One bony finger crooked toward us in a come-hither gesture and a wave of that same jade fire welled up beneath us, feeling no more than warm to the touch, and carried us to him as though on a cresting wave. The wave dissipated back into the ground as we reached the old man, leaving us to slide to a stop on the grass with injury only to my dignity.

"Well, up with you, up with you, let's see what we've got," the old man snapped. I stood and helped Merri to her feet, the both of us glaring at the old man the whole while. I wasn't about to cause trouble with a wizard, particularly one to whom I owed my life, but I was not enjoying being treated like a piglet brought back from market. And that is exactly the way he was looking us over.

"You know our names, master, but we do not know yours," I said as I clambered to one knee, aping the occasional nobles I'd encountered as closely as I could manage. "Will you do us the honor of an introduction, that I may know to whom I owe my life?" Beads of sweat had broken out on my forehead by the end of the sentence but I was pretty sure that it had made sense. The old man nodded peremptorily.

"Fool boy, I am, of course, the Archmage Thallos, master of the Growing Lands. You'll both do nicely," he said with some satisfaction.

"For what?" Merri asked, and I realized that I was holding my own breath.

"Raw materials, of course," he said in a casual manner that I found somehow more unnerving than any cackling villainy. "You have heroic things ahead of you." He turned and made a gesture to follow. Our protests were ignored in another wave of jade flame, wrapping us in its embrace and carrying us both into the tower, and this time, it held me tightly enough to make clear that there was no escape.

Morning

When I returned with armor and weaponry strapped into place and satchel packed, Canthi was mopping the puddle she'd left, skirt pinned back on but now showing yet more of her pale legs. She glared at me as I descended the stairs and I returned a winning smile.

I paused to have Lucine pack me up some meat, bread and cheese for the road while I amused myself by cornering Mila. When the barkeep's husky voice called "All set, hero," from the kitchen I had two thick fingers buried in the serving girl's tight pussy and the palm of my other hand holding her head against the wall, her fingers pinching at her nipples. Her gasps sped up and her tongue hung out of her mouth as my fingers pounded in and out of her relentlessly, her lush hips pushing back to meet me. A deep push to a steady flicking of the fingers deep within her and the caress of her puckered little asshole with my thumb drove her shaking through an orgasm and brought a gorgeous flush to her dusky cheeks. Once she had licked my fingers clean I let the girl go to stumble away, encouraged by a hearty slap on the ass and a good-natured chuckle. I thanked Lucine for the provisions with a deep kiss and a friendly squeeze of her nicely padded rump and made my way out of the inn and the town itself.

The lazy civilized lifestyle is nice, but it's not where a hero belongs for long. The wilderness called and I had no choice but to answer.

Noon

Towering conifers lined the wheel-rutted road that straggled easterly from town. It was the first time in the past month that I'd chosen the east, having been engaged in clearing out a cluster of Goblin burrows north-westerly that were getting restive, but there'd been rumors in the market recently of trouble to the east and that was enough to make it my new destination.

The spring day was clear and a trace of winter's bite lingered in the air to give it a refreshing crispness. By the time the sun was due overhead I had walked off the last lingering traces of my hangover and was starting to think about shooting a coney for lunch when I found the wreckage.

At some point it had been quite a nice carriage, I gathered, now reduced to little more than a pile of lumber ready to become a gilded bonfire. My initial check found quite a few tracks of horses, along with heavy boot prints too large and wide to be human, and a few pools of mostly-dried blood with an acrid odor that declared its non-human origin.

So, an ambush, clearly, I thought as I wandered through the debris, scratching my chin thoughtfully. Sorting out the prints, I counted four horses in additional to one coach that could seat half a dozen, or half that number in luxury. Three guards, then, escorting one or more nobles or merchants of some wealth, ambushed by a dozen attackers or more, at least one of whom was badly wounded. No human blood, though; slavers, then, likely with clubs and nets.

A search through the bushes on the edges of the road quickly uncovered the answer to the identity of the attackers, not that it had been any great mystery. With its massive chest and shoulders, its short, ape-like legs, its piggish near-human face with heavy tusks and the look of red-eyed malevolence even in death, it would have been obvious as an orc even if it weren't green. A short sword with a griffon rampant on the base of its pommel was rammed through the beast's sternum, but with one foot braced against the beast's face I was able to pry it loose to examine it more closely. Fine make, good weight, clearly made for an arm significantly shorter than my own, and the blood on it still fresh. Wiped clean on the corpse, it went through my belt loop for safekeeping.

Rummaging through the remains of the wagon uncovered little more of interest. A few scraps of torn brocade confirmed some of my first guesses, as did a signet ring of the same griffon design as the sword. Into my pouch it went.

So. Orcs, wealth, violence... My day was shaping up nicely, I mused, as I stalked off into the woods on the track of my prey.

Scarcely an hour later, I was looking down at the greenskin camp from a scraggly copse of trees. I shared the spot with the corpse of a goblin that'd been sleeping its way through guard duty and wouldn't be waking up again. My timing was good; I had moved faster than the raiding party with its captives and the orcs had just begun inspection of their prizes under the westering sun. Twenty or so of the beasts had come out to meet the returning raiders and the two groups formed into a mob around the smaller figures in their midst.

Accompanied by the guttural cheers of the greenskin mob, a quintet of women were herded into the center of the clearing, wrists shackled to chains looped together through a coffle. A spike at each end of the chain was hammered into the earth.

Once it was secured, a hooting call from somewhere sent the mob rushing forward, knives raised. I tensed, ready to rush out and get myself killed as is the heroic way, when I realized that they were laughing as they swarmed the women. That still wasn't ideal, as Orcish humor is rough at best, but these were clearly still valuable property. Rough green paws held the women still as their expensive clothing, layered in brocade and puffed up with underskirts, was rapidly cut and torn away from them. When another hoot caused the green tide to recede, carrying pieces of cloth as trophies, the line of women were left standing nude, still chained by their wrists, in a line before the warband's slave master.

He was gnarled like bitter old wood, down an eye and a hand, though the spiked eye patch and the wicked hook on his wrist suggested that he wasn't letting it stop him. He began an assessment along the line; hefting a breast to feel its weight, slapping a thigh to see the jiggle, pulling open a mouth to check teeth. The third woman, a fierce-looking redhead with visible muscle in her shoulders even at a distance, snapped at his finger and he showed much larger, much yellower teeth in return. He made his way along the line, and if the quality of the clothing now piled on the ground had not made it clear who was the highest ranked here, poise alone would have.

She was spectacular even from hiding. No half-starved farm girl here, she was sleek and well-fed, rounded hips smooth, the length of her golden braid hanging down to tease just above soft buttocks. I'd nocked an arrow while observing, deciding on the most heroic moment to arrive. When the slave master arrived at the pale beauty, cultures clashed: he reached his remaining hand out for her breast and was given a stinging slap across his porcine jaw.

A green first the size of my head lifted to strike and that just couldn't be allowed. Before the fist could fall my arrow sprouted from the creature's throat and I was already charging out of the woods, sword drawn and bellowing a war cry in hopes that some of them would run.

They didn't, of course. Orcs never do, even as I keep trying it. They're simply too dumb to understand that remaining might be a bad idea without some enforcement.

The one nearest the wooded edge was still staring in incomprehension at the shaft in his boss's throat when my sword parted its neck and its ugly head flew free, still looking deep in thought at these developments.

Dumb they may be, but the greenskins have focus. Before I'd gotten another five steps they'd turned on me in a mob, rushing forward with war cries of their own pouring forth over peg teeth.

This would be death for most men at most times. The smart move would be running, trying to draw the brutes into ambushes to wear down their numbers and pick off stragglers. It might work, it might not. But I'm a hero. We cheat.

"Valakithris," I said, invoking the name of my blade, and while it may not have burst into flames, it smoldered, black threads of smoke curling as the blade heated to red-hot. My greatest prize, I had found it in the grave of a king years ago while separated from the crew on a raid before I became what I am now, and it was the only thing that kept me from being throttled by his animate corpse. The hedge-wizard I brought it to in secret told me that there's a tiny core of still-liquid dragon blood in the heart of the heavy two-handed blade, still hot and angry, ready to challenge when its name is called.

The sword may not have been wreathed in dramatic flames, preferring a sullen glow, but by the gods my foes were. The first heavy club swung at my head was lopped off short, the legs of its wielder made to match on the backswing. I ducked a pitted scimitar and the snarling heat of Valakithris made my swing through the brute's midsection effortless.

The swift deaths of the first two brought the rest of the mob up short, snorting, bellowing, but not advancing into range of the sword they'd learned to fear. It was a good start, and I was considering a charge to hopefully break them entirely when their chieftain changed the calculation.

He was massive, almost double the size of the brutes he punched out of his way with thoughtless brutality, scarred and hunched with grotesque musculature. It seemed that he had been preparing his entrance when I arrived; a pair of goblins were still tying up the last few straps of his scrap- and pot-metal armor as he faced me and bellowed something ugly.

The Orcish tongue is largely made up of grunts and roars. I've never bothered to learn any of it. Gestures will convey anything their barks will, at least as far as I'm interested in communicating with them. Leveling my smoking blade at the chieftan and spitting got the message across just fine. He growled something but all that I cared about was anticipation in his red eyes and the paired headsman's axes he drew from his back.

The details aren't important. Oh, it was dramatic enough, with shouts of "Ha!" and "Not even close!" and I may have gone so far as a "Have at you!" Bounding off boulders, a dramatic moment when one of his own minions, seeking to interfere with the duel, stabbed his master by mistake and was in turn smashed into the ground. The heroic usual, in other words. All that was really important was that at the end, I was standing over the chieftan's body in heroic pose number six (my personal favorite, though four comes close): arms spread wide to show mighty chest, face red with bellow of victory, bloody, smoking sword held high in phallic gesture of potency.

It was impressive enough that the rest of the warband broke and fled, which was just as well, as had they chosen to attack they'd have killed me in a few seconds. The sudden lack of their bellowing, bellicose presence left the place feeling suddenly abandoned. Every battlefield feels strange when the battle is over, and many warriors will tell you that it's a place of despair regardless of whether they've won or lost.

I would argue that they need to choose their battles better. Despite the scattered green corpses on the ground already starting to stink, being cheered by a half-dozen nude women in chains is anything but melancholy.

My first step toward the women had a wobble to it and a hand touched to the side of my hair came back wet and red. The skull beneath seemed sound enough, though, and the uncertainty faded in the short walk over to retrieve the shackle keys from the slavemaster's already-pungent body.

I tossed the keys to the redhead I'd seen bare her teeth earlier with a gentle underhand. She was clearly one of the guards and I took a seat on the slaver's body to have a look over at who I'd rescued as she unlocked their shackles and get my own balance back. After a quick nod of acknowledgement and barely stopping to unlock her own shackles, she first went to the opposite side of the line of prisoners to the woman who'd caught my eye earlier. Clearly the carriage's occupant. Alone of all the prisoners, she had not cheered or applauded my victory. Leaving the guard to her work, I stood before the blonde noblewoman, keeping my eyes firmly on hers, ignoring the nudity that she vainly sought to cover with her hands, and most certainly not noting the way that her breasts overflowed the arm with which she covered them.

"Greetings, maiden fair, and well met. I am Sir Arum the Bold, protector of these lands and slayer of beasts. I will leave you to compose yourself, but before I do, I must ask the name of the Lady whose protection is now my sacred duty." I was, admittedly, laying it on thick enough to call for a shovel, but there are forms to be observed in these things and a proper pose and sufficiently gleaming smile will generally carry a hero through.

The raised chin and thin-clamped lips of the noblewoman suggested that she wasn't going to be answering for herself, but the wide eyes of the handmaid behind her made clear that she was frozen to the spot. I was about to prompt them further when the noble's eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted. A hand that had been demurely covering a thatch of fine blonde hair flashed up to grip the maid's honey-colored braid and roughly pull her forward. "Stupid cow," she hissed. The handmaiden, for her role was clear in every line of her posture, did not meet my eyes as she spoke to my chest.

"You have the honor of escorting the lady Misselyndra von Aurebach, sir knight, third daughter of the duchess of Aulhaven, to the lands of her betrothed, Prince Elligar, son of King Gerilland of the Marches of Lisken." I nodded.

"I had much wondered what might draw such a jewel of the nobility to so dire a place," I said with a bow, "But further questions can wait. For now, collect yourselves, ladies, and I will make preparations for our departure from this wretched place."

Turning my back on the former captives to allow them the chance to gather up their clothing I headed to the scrap-wood lager where the stolen horses had been herded. Orcs don't ride; to them, horses and cows are just different cuts of meat, though fortunately they hadn't done for all the new arrivals. The trough set up for the horses wasn't exactly clean water, but it was the closest that I was going to get, so I stopped there to wash my blood from my scalp and the Orc blood from my travel leathers.

The wound on my scalp had bled a fair bit, but with Thallos' gifts, it had healed already. My fingers found the slight raise of a new scar that I was sure would have faded to nothing within a few hours. As I washed, I reflected on my new companions.

The name von Aurebach was not unknown to me. Thallos' process was always too power-intensive for wide-scale use, and dear entitled Misselyndra was the great-granddaughter of one of my predecessors. Thallos had gone over a few of them during our time with him; Arturias Aurebach had been a hero of great renown, but Thallos hadn't yet fully worked out the passing on of his spells. Every hundredth offspring of mine will be a hero, as strong and potent as I am myself, and their offspring will be the same; Arturias' lineage swiftly diluted. I gathered that by this point his legacy is exceedingly headstrong granddaughters. Her betrothed, by contrast, I knew of well- a soft, spoiled coward unlikely to so much as fulfill his wedding duties, much less produce an heir. A plan began to form.

I returned to where my new travelling companions were now dressed, leading the trio of horses that had been spared the Orcs' attentions. As dressed as the remains of their clothing would allow, that is. Cuts in the fabric had been tied shut as much as possible but large amounts of skin were still exposed in a way that I could not help but find enticing. I took a chance to look them over properly as I approached.

The blonde noblewoman stood center and drew the eye as though she were in the foreground of a painting, but I wished to know more of her companions. Just behind the noble's left shoulder stood another blonde, similar enough in coloring and features to be a sister or a cousin at the least, yet in every way, it seemed, lesser. The patterns stitched into her dress, the braid into which her hair was woven, the shades of the makeup she wore: each of these was in echo of the noblewoman, yet less ornate, less intricate. Even the curves beneath her tattered clothing (more visible because, of course, less care had been taken in repairing her clothing) were less pronounced in hip and bust. Her posture gave the impression of a mouse attempting to be a maid: fussily attentive yet skittish and ready to flee at a moment's notice, hands and eyes never still.