Part 1:
In which a Paladin meets a thief, and loses more than he bargained for...
The text below is original content which belongs to the author. This work must not be reproduced either in part or in full without the permission of the author.
That said – enjoy! This is my first Literotica submission (as it were), so please let me know what you think! It's a three part story, and all the parts are online.
*****
Trystan saw it ahead of him in the swamp, twenty metres away through the mist - a delicate, purple marsh rose. It looked innocuous enough, but Trystan knew the power held within those rare petals. Wading through the mire, mud sucking at his armoured shins, Trystan headed for the bloom.
He heard a squelch of mud behind him and, before he could turn, a voice saying "
mebra bindet
". Trystan felt his arms and legs clamp stiffly to his body, as through suddenly bound by invisible ropes. His armour gave a clang as he fell face-first into the swamp, spitting out mud. He kept his eyes on the flower as he struggled to hold his nose out of the water. Straining his ears, he heard footsteps circling around behind him.
A small hand reached down and tugged at the marsh rose. A dark head descended with it, suddenly appearing in Trystan's field of vision; the cheeky, lop-sided grin seemed out of place on the doll-like face. He watched as she tauntingly folded the blossom into a roll of waxed silk. Then the dark-haired woman stood up and Trystan felt a pressure on his shoulder – she was rolling him over onto his back with her booted foot.
"That's so you don't drown," she explained, with a wink, looking down on him.
"You can't just leave me here," he protested, his words slurring futilely as her spell held his muscles taut.
"You're free to get up any time you like," she grinned. She glanced left and right; there was no one else about. "It'll wear off in five minutes or so. Just enough to give me a head start." She tipped her leather hood to him with mock-gallantry, and disappeared altogether from his field of view. He heard her footsteps splash off – shut his eyes for a moment, listening to her retreat, working out her path. She was going north.
Trystan lay flat on his back in the mud for some minutes, angry and frustrated. He took slow breaths, trying to calm himself. He was a Paladin of Arnan. His calling was to balance chaos with order, and to bring justice into the darkness. It seemed impossible that the small, dark haired thief had got around him, but he couldn't let injustice go so easily. Gradually, the feeling returned along his limbs and he was able to hoist himself up. He stood still for a moment, casting his eyes around the swamp. The ankle-deep water covered any prints but, glancing around at the scrubby weeds, he saw a clear disruption heading north. On closer inspection, it then doubled back on itself along a few rocks. She was sneaky, but he could track her. He nodded to himself grimly and set off after her. Trystan's business in Glainmarsh was finished for now, and he'd been heading to Fenacre where some sort of legendary monster was apparently terrorising the town. Well, he would finish this first - the infamous beast would just have to wait.
The marsh was eerie, and he could feel the damp breeze quashing his spirits. He muttered a prayer to Arnan as he walked, more to keep himself cheerful than anything else. He stopped short when he heard a low hum on the chilling, wet wind. Mudlings. Cursed, ugly things – they looked like homunculi, with webbed feet and strange, flat faces. They weren't very strong or very smart, but damn did they swarm. And they ate meat, and they weren't very fussy about what it was. Usually they stuck to birds, or even luckless travellers, but Trystan had cleared out some nests recently searching for local children who had been taken from Glainmarsh. He'd eventually found and rescued the children, and recovered all the bones he could find of the little girl who'd been taken first and hadn't survived their appetites. He shuddered, remembering the Mudlings' greedy, sucking faces, remembering the girl's parents as they wept. His ears pricked up as he heard a high-pitched screech, carrying across the damp air. It could possibly have been a lonely water bird, but then he heard it again. It stopped abruptly. Perhaps something else had found his thief first...
*****
Ellia was not happy. The mist clung to her, the swamp was disgusting and the first piece of luck she'd had all day – wresting the marsh rose from that gigantic oaf of a warrior – was rather clouded by her current predicament. She was trussed up like a chicken, bleeding heavily from a gash in her side as the Mudlings splashed excitedly around her. One of them was clearly very hungry, smelling and pinching her flesh, coming so close to her that she could see every fold of its grey gills. Her first instinct had been to try to talk her way out, but the creatures bubbled away with phlegmy guttering she could barely distinguish as speech, let alone copy. Her second plan had involved screaming for help – there were sometimes merchants brave enough to cross the swamp for a profit, and perhaps one would hear her. So she had screamed. Clearly the Mudlings disapproved of noisy food and had quickly gagged her. Now she felt cold and dizzy, and was covered in mud. This wasn't how she wanted to go out. Not happy at all.
She heard a clanking sound and looked up. That lumbering warrior from earlier, it looked like – his armour was thoroughly daubed in mud now, his face a grimy mess, but the heaviness of his tread and his bulky outline was unmistakeable. He towered above the Mudlings. She watched him raise his sword, slashing through the creatures, brushing them off with an iron-clad fist when they tried to climb him. Most were already fleeing in the face of this furious giant. Those who stayed to fight were swiftly dealt with. When the last Mudling lay still in the brackish water he looked about, poised for a moment. He had a ruthless efficiency in battle, Ellia acknowledged to herself grudgingly; the way he whirled and swung, predicting attacks, almost approached gracefulness.
Trystan pulled out a dirty rag and wiped his sword.
"It's you again," he observed levelly, turning to the bound-up woman. She glared at him, unable to speak with the gag in place, her eyes shining with rage. "You're free to get up any time you like," he added, repeating her words mildly and gesturing out to the marsh. Trystan tried always to be patient, but this woman riled him. Arnan had made her beautiful, and he felt somehow that she should know better than to use her gifts for ill. The people of Glainmarsh had mentioned a lovely looking woman, a thief who had come through before him and abused their kindness, stealing keepsakes and a few petty treasures. Perhaps this was the woman. He spent some time rustling through the boxes and packs of the Mudlings' camp, quite certain that she would run the moment he untied her. He found a few trinkets, mostly shiny baubles and a few rare items; the Mudlings certainly hadn't made them, and he wondered how they had come by them. He also turned up a potion-maker's pouch of healing herbs, which he pocketed. Potion-making was a rare ability amongst humans, and had become rarer still since the Dragonhorde massacres had destroyed the bloodlines. Those with the old blood, though, like the Mudlings and the giants, still practised it regularly. Trystan had the gift, which along with his height and muscular build had been the only legacy his anonymous parents had left him. His apprentice-master had often speculated with him (in private, given the taboo nature of the question) that giant's blood ran in his veins.
Presently it began to rain and he could put it off no longer. He knelt by the woman to untie her. It was then that he realised something was wrong. Her skin was greyish and sweaty, her pulse was fast and weak. Her eyes, which had been glaring at him, were now glassy and vague. Lifting her slightly he realised that the dark brackishness of the water around her was her own blood-loss – she was going into shock. He swore under his breath; his own delay might mean the woman's end.
