The Sword And The Soul Ch 05

Sorry again for the wait on this one, my dear friends, but we got a good one for you today! This chapter has two pretty raunchy sex scenes for you, some magical stuff involving basically demons, as well as some plot and characterization and themes, you know, literary stuff. Check my profile for more information about this story. Enjoy!

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Sain was close. Every thrust sent beads of sweat rolling down his lithe, muscular chest and dripping onto Luca's back. The pliant flesh of her arse smooshed and jiggled with their movements, and the overpowering urge to smack it came over him. He gave it a glancing blow with the flat of his palm that made her yelp and undulate the toned muscles of her abdomen. Luca clutched his side table so hard her knuckles had turned white, and his inkwell bounced in time to their movements.

His dice cup bucked especially hard, the pips twisted on their faces, and Sain couldn't help wondering what the odds were he'd come before her. He kept pumping away, the pressure in his balls getting tighter, and he realized it would be him for sure.

"I'm gonna do it," he announced, just so there were no surprises.

"Not yet," gasped Luca.

She twisted beneath him and pushed him away with heel and elbow. Sain yelped and stumbled back, his cocking coming free from her with a slick pop. Luca stood and brushed back her straight flaxen hair. Her breasts, near flat except for the peaks of her light brown nipples, were flushed and heaving, and her bronze Sworzan skin glistened with sweat. Between her legs the pouty lips of her engorged sex were open, blooming with wetness.

"Lick me," she pleading in her husky voice, deep for a woman. "Like this, with me standing. Bring me off Sain, oh please, and then I'll finish you."

Saint chuckled, seeing now why she'd thrown him off so violently, and obediently dropped to his knees. He shuffled across the wooden floorboards and arranged himself betwixt her legs, grasping the globes of her arse for support as he angled his face into the cleft of her thighs. Her womanly musk filled his nostrils, intoxicating him, and he opened his mouth wide to capture as much of her as he could. She trembled above him as Sain pressed his tongue into her gaping sex as far as he could, revelling in their mingled flavors. Dragging his tongue to the top of her cunt, he swirled it over her swollen pearl, feeling her jump in response. Sain wasted no time, urgent to find release himself as his cock throbbed in sympathy with Luca's pleasure. Flicking his tongue back and forth across her jewel relentlessly, Sain felt the tremors in Luca growing. She clutched his golden hair with both hands, twisting so hard it hurt, and clamped her thighs down hard, trapping his head in place.

"Fuck!" cried Luca. "I'm coming Sain, oh gods, oh gods..."

Her thighs vibrated against his cheeks, her juices drenching his face, his nose buried in her cunt so that breathing became impossible. There was nothing but her intoxicating flavor and heady aroma. Sain was getting light headed and on the verge of passing out when Luca at last relaxed her vice and slumped to her knees before him, draping her arms limply across his shoulders. Luca kissed him sloppily, sighing as she tasted herself upon his lips.

"Now," she muttered. "Now for you. Lay back."

He did as she requested, positioning himself supine on the wood. Sain's cock was painfully hard and standing straight as a flagpole. Luca mounted him smoothly, her drenched sex parting easily for him. Cooing words of encouragement, she undulated her hips against his purposefully, riding him with intensity, begging for his release.

Sain gritted his teeth, trying to delay it, because he knew he'd have to pull out before he came and he wanted to enjoy her silken sex as long as possible. Glancing to the side, he saw that his dice cup had overturned when they'd jostled the desk. Seven pips showed on the pair's upturned faces, always his lucky number.

I wonder if I should risk it,

he thought to himself.

What're the odds she conceives if I just go off inside?

It had been a week or so since her last blood, which meant this wasn't peak conception time, but still risky, of course.

He was so lost in calculating the probability that he forgot all about coming. It was only when Luca tweaked his nipple that he snapped back into focus, remembering that there was a naked and sweaty woman astride his cock.

"Focus," hissed Luca. "Or are you bored with me?"

"I'll show you bored," growled Sain.

He flipped her over smoothly and pinned her to the floor. Spurred on by her needful, wanton attitude, Sain fucked her forcefully, hard and fast. The need for release was overpowering him again now, and he drove forward relentlessly, making Luca squeal with every thrust. His balls tensed, his cock flexed, and then he burst in her hot and cozy depths.

But one shot within her was all he dared. He pulled out smoothly and grabbed his cock, stroking himself off so that the rest of his seed landed on her smooth belly, the pearly white making a lovely contrast with her olive skin.

"Ahhh," sighed Sain, the pressure finally relieved. His cock was wilting fast, the last drips of his essence falling onto Luca's waist.

He fell down onto the floor next to her and they both lay on their backs, looking at the wooden beams bracing the roof of the barracks. They caught their breath, hearts slowing back to a more normal rate. Then the usual pangs of regret started poking at Sain's heart.

"We really have to stop doing this," he said, as he always said when they finished a romp.

"We really should," agreed Luca.

"I'm your sergeant, after all. I'd hate to be accused of favoritism."

"I'd hate to be accused of fucking you just to get ahead."

"So we're agreed," said Sain. "This was the last time."

"Agreed," said Luca. "Absolutely the last time."

They said very little as they dressed. As he pulled on his breeches, Sain couldn't help gazing lecherously at Luca's delectably firm buttocks as she slid her own tight trousers on. She glanced over her shoulder and smirked when she caught him looking, taking her time pulling on her undershirt, letting him see the way her taut muscles rippled as she stretched and bent. His tired cock twitched again in spite of himself.

Sain sighed and focused on getting his clothes and armor on. His steel breastplate was standard issue for the Selecan Guard and much the same as Luca's, except that his had the mark of a officer: the pick and coin emblem of Seleca embossed over the heart. He didn't bother with his helmet, and neither did she. It had been months since any stupid bandits had attempted an attack.

To be honest, it's getting pretty boring around here.

They agreed that she should go out first, then him a few minutes later. Not that they had any delusions that their trysts were a secret to anyone at Abin's Lode. It was more for appearances sake, a sort of collective act of looking the other way that they all shared in.

Outside the barracks, the sun was going down, falling slowly behind the curtain of the Courser Mountains that girded the mine to the north and east. The orange-red rays fell across the gaping, open sore of the pit. It was half a mile wide at the top, with seven levels in concentric rings leading to the lowest point in the center. Saint thought it looked like the kind of stairs the giants of Yorn must use. At the lowest point, accessible by a network of ramps and ladders, was the narrow entrance to the shaft, a duergar innovation that let them dig straight and deep towards the rich veins of ore entombed in the earth. The mine was producing prodigiously now, and soon enough they'd be shipping the smelted bars of silver back to Seleca so the Duke could fill his coffers once more.

This was his domain: Abin's Lode, the source of Duke Seleca's wealth. A wooden palisade protected the site from attacks from the south and west, and the treacherous cliffs that made a natural wall to the north and east. The barracks stood against the eastern cliff, the foundry to the west near the palisade wall, and in the center, the pit itself. Sergeant Sain was ostensibly in command of it all, though sometimes he felt like a prisoner.

His unit, fifty strong, was composed of men and women, mostly lowborn, provincial folk, strolling lackadaisically across the grounds, shouting playful barbs at the dirt-covered miners emerging from the massive, yawning pit. This was what passed for duty at Abin's Lode.

The boredom is to blame,

he told himself.

I wouldn't feel the need to fuck Luca so much if we actually had something to do. Fucking passes the time. That and dice, of course.

A group of miners, some human, some duergar, pushed a barrow containing the last of the day's haul of silver ore to the foundry, which smoked and smouldered and choked the air with stench and heat, like some slumbering dragon huffing and belching fire as it hunkered over its hoard. The forge fires would be lit all night as the tireless duergar smiths smelted the ore into bars and stamped them with the Duke's emblem.

Old Kazad, the duergar overseer, had come down from his house built into the side of the cliff north of the mine. He stood with arms akimbo at the edge of the pit, his beady eyes gleaming darkly as surveyed the barrows rumbling up the earthen ramps. Kazad had never much trusted the human miners, despite years of working alongside them. A miner tripped, nearly spilling his barrow, and Kazad barked a harsh word of rebuke in the gutteral duergar tongue. The miner, who spoke not a word of duergar, got the message clear enough all the same, and with a look of terror straightened up and hurried his barrow to the foundry.

Sain waved to the old duergar miner, who caught his eye and nodded in stern salutation. The sergeant crossed the distance between them, wanting to have a quick word before Kazad disappeared back to his sanctuary. The taciturn overseer watched intently as Sain weaved his way past the barrows and soldiers. The duergar wore a leather jerkin and kilt, studded with brass. He wore rings of gold and silver, two on each arm and one on each leg, a sign of status and wealth among his people. Around his neck was a silver torc set with jade and opal. His long black beard, shot through with streaks of gray, was wound and coiled into an elaborate braid. The overseer's face was craggy and deeply lined - he was over one hundred and fifty, Sain had heard, though duergar were cagy about telling humans their true age. Yet his frame was stocky and powerful, and though he only stood as high as Sain's neck, he had an aura of authority that even Sain found intimidating.

"All right, Kazad?" he asked amiably.

"Huh," grunted the duergar. "Yes. These men should be more careful, though."

His speech was harsh and clipped, though he spoke the common tongue impeccably.

"Yeah. Well. They're just men, after all. Your folk have always had more patience when it comes to the details. You live a lot longer than us, after all." He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "But all the same, I think the men like to see you out and about, observing their progress. If you don't mind me saying so, we'd like to see the you more often."

"I will observe when I am able, Sergeant," replied the old duergar in an even monotone. He had the heavy and sometimes harsh accent of his people, but he spoke the common tongue with fluent ease. "But I have many important matters to attend to. Private matters. My assistants are more than capable of overseeing the daily operations."

This was his usual retort when Sain tried to casually suggest that Kazad not spend all his time cooped up in his house, an imposing edifice of dark hardwood cast at sharp angles in the duergar mode. Sain himself had never gone into the building - none but Kazad's senior assistant ever did - so he had no idea what these "important matters" might be.

Saint was considering some other line of attack to draw some sliver of information out of the close-lipped overseer when a horn sounded from the watchtower at the southern gate.

"Ah, bloody hell," he muttered. The horn could only mean one thing.

The gates whined open on their hinges and Lieutenant Glabber's division rode into Abin's Lode. They had all the pomp of a nobleman's parade, with bannerman at the fore, waving the blue and silver flag of Seleca. Behind them came the trumpeters, blowing a trill of announcement. And then came Arnis Glabber himself, that thick-set, huge-necked poppinjay, with his gleaming armor and plumed helmet, smiling with smug self assurance. He rode a stupendous black warhorse, clad in plate along its neck as if about to charge into battle. Glabber's division came behind him, and no coin was spared in their equipment either. Evidently, armor polish was greatly prized among Glabber's guardsmen, and they radiated a lesser version of their commander's pompous aura, like the moon reflecting the sun.

"I will leave you to deal with this," said Kazad, and Sain wondered for a moment if he detected just the faintest hint of mirth in the old duergar's words. Kazad retreated swiftly up the stairs to his house.

Sain sighed, adjusted his breastplate, and walked over to meet his commanding officer, wondering oddly what the odds were that Glabber would be a complete fucking asshole this time.

Pretty damn good, no doubt.

Arnis Glabber, nephew of Count Hawkmoor, on the fast track for lordship and rumored to be a suiter for Lady Marilla Silver. He was also the most arrogant, brash, and foolish officer Sain had ever had the displeasure of serving beneath.

Glabber didn't even have the decency to fucking dismount, but just pulled his horse up short in front of Sain and called for his division to halt. Sain saluted smartly, earning a half-hearted wave that sort of resembled a salute in return.

"Lieutenant," said Sain. "Abin's Lode is yours."

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Glabber, sounding bored. "I must confess, I thought you might have made efforts since my last visit to transform this place into something not resembling a latrine. But it seems I set my expectations too high yet again."

Sain tried not to take the barb personally. This was how Arnis Glabber treated everyone, after all.

"My apologies, sir. It's just a mine, after all."

"Hmm. Still. It represents the splendor of the Duchy of Seleca, and by extension the Realm of Cairen. You ought to have more banners about. And your armor." He glanced at Sain's well-worn breastplate, spotty with dirt and a bit of rust. "Well, I'm embarassed for you, frankly."

"My men are commoners, sir," replied Sain. "We've the best we can afford."

"Yes, I suppose that's the crux of the problem, isn't it?" He turned to his adjutant, a reedy man with a thin mustache waxed into two sharp points. "Tally, you take over matters here. See that the shipment of silver is loaded into the wagons immediately. Make the barracks ready to accomodate our division. And be quick about it, I should like to depart as soon as possible. First light tomorrow, I think. This stench of this place does not suit me. Sergeant Sain, you are relieved. Please tell your men to stay out of our way."

And with a wave of Glabber's gauntleted hand, Sain was dismissed. Tally dismounted and began calling out orders. The wagons were brought forward, and Glabber's men fell out and moved towards the foundry to collect the bars of smelted silver. Before Sain could slink away, humiliated, Tally caught hold of his shoulder.

"Sergeant, a word. If you happen to see a mercenary, a brutish man with black hair and knives strapped to his chest, you are to restrain him and bring him to me at once. Is that clear?"

Sain blew air out his nose and shook his head. "You know I outrank you, right?"

Tally gave a thin, bloodless smile. "Do you?"

The adjutant moved away, leaving Sain feeling even more bewildered than before. Tally, despite being an adjutant to a lieutenant, really only had the rank of a common guardsman, whereas Sain was a sergeant and commander of his own division. But Sain was a commoner, a nobleman's bastard, and Arnis Glabber was the nephew of Count Hawkmoor. Sain had been soldiering twice as long as Glabber, had fought in several skirmishes and two pitched battles, and rose to his rank through experience alone. But that didn't matter. He was a camp commander, the head of a band of commoners, who depended on meager funds from the guardsman corps' treasury to outfit themselves. Glabber, as a nobleman, was gifted his rank, and could afford gleaming armor for all his men. In a year's time he'd have moved on to some other more illustrious position, taking that hanger-on Tally with him, while Sain would still be right here, sergeant-stuck at the arse-end of nowhere.

Odds are, Tally's right,

thought Sain.

Ah, well. Fuck it.

He was still feeling sorry for himself when Luca sauntered up beside him and poked him in the shoulder, breaking his reverie. The Sworzan woman had a wry smile on her face an a wicked gleam in her eye.

"Daydreaming, sir?" she inquired.

"Nah," Sain replied. "I was just considering how unlucky we are to be born commoners. Surely if we had been born into the nobility, Luca, we wouldn't be pompous shits like Glabber, would we?"

"Couldn't say, sir. But since the Lieutenant's men are busy doing all the work, would the Sergeant mind me and the rest of the mine division doing a bit of drinking and gambling? You could even join us if you like, sir."

Sain gave Luca a sidelong glance a half-smirk. "I have no objections, Guardswoman. Go on ahead, get things started. I'll be along shortly. Gonna watch the sun set."

"As you command, sir."

Luca started back for the barracks, and Sain snuck a peek at her delectable arse, looking incredibly well-defined in her tight breeches.

I like it when she calls me sir. Wonder what the odds are we'll fuck again tonight?

He snorted at the thought and shook his head, silently reproaching himself for thoughts unbecoming of an officer of the guard.

About even chances, I think.

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Bending low, Rovish inhaled the scent of calendula blossoms, bursting with molten orange and yellow and smelling faintly of spice. The scent invigorated him, and he could feel it spreading along his veins and into his bones. He straightened again, wincing slightly at the dull ache in his spine.

When did I get so old?

It seemed only yesterday he had won the King's Tourney in Cairen City and the favor of the finest lady in the realm.

"Your mother loved these," he remarked.

Marilla stood at his shoulder, ready to catch him if he lost his balance, though it wasn't necessary. The Duke's daughter had her mother's chestnut hair. In fact, Marilla took after his late Duchess in so many ways. Her sharp eyes, her fondness for green in her dresses, her affinity for gardening. At times, when Rovish was mired in the delirious throes of fever, he thought he saw his Ellora before him once more.

"I know," she said, her voice wistful. "You've often told me so, not that I remember. I was so young when she died."

"Yes," agreed Rovish. "And I was a much younger man as well."

They walked on through the garden, Marilla dutifully at his side, but he gently resisted her attempts to take his arm. He didn't need it, not today. The sun was setting over his castle, and the reddish tint cast a calm glow over the twisting cobblestone path, lined with low trees and thick clusters of late-summer blossoms.

"You seem much better," Marilla remarked. "There's color in your cheeks."

"I am better," said the Duke. "Walking in your mother's garden fills my Soul with vitality. And Magus Brand's spells are a great boon, of course. I feel stronger than I have in weeks, and more alert as well. I dare to hope that I have finally turned the corner on my long affliction. Soon enough I shall return fully to my duties as Lord of Seleca, and relieve you from this burden."