All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives".
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Dara knelt behind the broad trunk of the gnarled, old oak tree and peered down at the covered wagon rattling down the grassy lane. Her icy blue eyes narrowed in determination, and her strong hands readied themselves on the stout longbow and nocked arrow in her grasp. Around her the thick, musty forest seemed to suck in its breath in readiness; even the trees above stopped their seemingly constant sussuration in preparation for the presumed carnage about to transpire.
Across the narrow road she heard the unmistakable sound of a whippoorwill trilling softly. She readied herself for action, drawing back the bowstring and setting her sight on the heavily mailed armsman holding the reins. Ahead of the large, armored wagon three other men rode on long-legged steeds, two with axes and swords belted to their waists. Their strangely-garbed black-robed leader, a dark-skinned man with a tattooed shaven head and alert eyes raised a fist and called for the procession to halt. Still several hundred paces from the ambush point, he raised a massive rune-etched crossbow and peered into the forest gloom.
The girl slowly eased herself back behind the oak. She was dressed in her leathers and soft doeskin knee high boots. A deep green hooded cloak fell across her shoulders and head to hide her golden hair and help her blend in with her lush forest surroundings. Dara knew it was not she that the dark-skinned man sensed, but she slowed her breathing and knelt on one knee stock-still just the same.
Dara smiled to herself as she thought back on how far she had come. A little less than a summer ago she had been a street urchin, a common thief living off of stolen bread and scraps of meat. For the last several months she had been living with the black forest bandits, learning how to hunt and shoot with a bow and fight with her gleaming blade. Gone was the wide-eyed innocent girl eking out a meager existence, now she was Dara Firebird, last great hope for the Le'Phoenix bloodline, and personal attendant to Jack Straticus.
In spite of her lineage and lofty new moniker, she still felt like a lost little girl in Black Jack's presence. Every night she shared his tent in the bandits' elaborate underground cave system. Each night she went to him, naked and docile, and each night he speared her with his knobbed manhood, sometimes taking her forcefully, sometimes not. Just thinking of his craggy, scarred face caused her heart to beat in her chest, and her breath grew ragged. Early this morn, Jack had left the hideout to go on a secret mission, leaving her with his second-in-command, a crusty old veteran named Ornn, to lead this merchant ambush.
As Dara studied the men below, a look of consternation passed across her pretty face. The black-robed leader did not look like a typical merchant, and his men-at-arms looked suspicious as well. Usually during these raids, the guardsmen were...noncommittal, almost to the point of laziness. These guardsmen looked...
twitchy
. Their fingers never strayed far from their weapons; their eyes never stopped moving and constantly made furtive glances into the trees lining the roadside.
A feeling of dread foreboding welled up in Dara's chest, and for the first time in a long time she could almost taste fear. Fifteen longbow-trained bandits versus three ambushed men-at-arms and one measly merchant should be over quickly, and always had been in past raids, but Dara's heart skipped a beat none-the-less.
The whippoorwill whistled again -- the signal for the bandits to begin firing. Dara drew her bow and sighted on the wagon driver's throat, and let loose, just as fourteen others did the same.
At almost the same instant, the dark-skinned man barked something guttural in an arcane tongue. Dara sensed a
shift
in the air, and felt a strange crackling energy that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The bandits' arrows, instead of piercing mail and flesh and bone,
sparked
and cracked and snapped several feet from their targets, as if they had struck an invisible stone wall. The heavy wooden roof of the wagon burst off, and suddenly deadly red crossbow bolts were streaking through the air. Dara saw Ornn take a bolt in the eye, and he fell to the forest floor with a crash and a thud. All around her, Dara saw her fellow bandits fall, blood red shafts protruding from throats, chests, and guts. A bolt smacked into the tree trunk next to her head, and Dara ducked aside, trying to hide from view.
Within seconds, all in her party lay dead and bleeding on the forest floor except Dara. Moans of pain and agony from her fellow crew filled the heavy forest air. The guardsmen strode through the trees, silencing the wounded with deft cuts and chops from their axes. The dark-skinned sorcerer looked up into the trees and his piercing eyes homed in on Dara.
"Sssset down your weaponsss, girl, and come down here at once," he hissed, his evil serpent-like voice causing her to shudder in abject terror.
Dara stood and turned as if to run into the trees. She knew if she could get even a small lead she could outrun these heavily-armored men-at-arms. The forest had become her haven; she knew every hillock, every stream, every deer path within leagues.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the black-robed man make a twisting gesture with his hand, and Dara's feet tangled. She fell, banging her skull hard on a knotted, gnarled oak root, and stars swam in her head. She attempted to scramble to her feet and run, but lurched head first into two massive, leather-studded thighs. A huge mailed hand, easily the size of a dinner plate, wrapped itself in her long hair and pulled her face back. She looked up into the visage of death itself. The man was easily seven feet tall, and as wide as a barn door. His impossibly wide chest and shoulders were covered in black-enameled spiked plate mail, and in one hand he held a huge hand-and-a-half bastard sword, dripping in blood and gore. His hair was long and black and stringy, his beard equally matted with grime and dirt. Deepset black eyes glittered down at her with a malignant ferocity, causing Dara to quake in fear. Grinning a black-toothed evil grin he motioned with his sword hilt toward his bulging crotch.
"Loik what ye see, wench?" His monstrous cock traveled down the inside of one leg of his leather-studded pants and ended almost halfway to his knee. He chuckled and tugged her head back painfully.
"Mebbe later ye can have some 'o that," he winked and proceeded to lead her down the hill towards the wagon.
Dragging her by the hair, he pulled her in front of the dark-skinned man on the horse and threw her to the ground. The black-robed man was small and wiry, his skin almost
stretched
over his skull, as if he were a walking skeleton using borrowed flesh. Black arcane symbols and letters tattooed his face and pate, several of them glowing in the forest gloom. His eyes were completely red, with no discernable pupil. Dara's throat clenched with fear as he looked balefully down on her from his mounted perch.
"Allow me to introduce myssself. I am known as Spector, persssonal sssorcerer to his eminence Rolf the Red. The greassssy giant is Captain Slade, Rolf'ssss personal enforcer. King Rolf requestsss your presence in High Reach. I believe he hasss planssss for you, young lady. He has planssss indeed." Spector ran his tongue over sharp, pointed teeth. Dara shuddered, feeling queasy.
"Ssstrip her down and chain her inssside the wagon," Spector ordered.
Within moments, Dara was naked and shivering, her hands manacled behind her. The men leered and made catcalls, and several ran their hands over her, pinching and prodding. One man ran a hand down the crack of her arse and thrust a saliva-wetted finger painfully into her anus.
Slade pushed the men away roughly and bellowed, "All roight, then -- 'ands to yerselves. At camp tonoight she'll do 'er best to service yer needs. Fer now we 'ave a job to do."
The men grumbled, but acquiesced. In all, Dara now counted seven men, including Spector and Slade. Seven men had just wiped out fourteen bandits in a reverse ambush. Dara was forced to acknowledge that these grizzled veterans were highly trained professionals -- not your run-of-the-mill rented guardsmen.
"Danner, Grist, go get yer horses and fly to High Reach -- stop only to water yer mounts. Let Rolf know we 'ave the wench and are bringing 'er to him," Slade ordered, and two of the men hustled back down the lane.
That left five men -- three armsmen and Slade and Spector. Dara gritted her teeth and pondered her predicament. Maybe she would find a chance to escape after she "serviced" the men...
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hours later, as night fell, Dara found herself sitting at the base of a great elm, her hands stretched around the trunk behind her, tied at the wrists. Impossibly sore and stiff and still naked, sharp bark scraped her tender back and her bum was aching from being rattled and bounced inside the wagon all day. She still looked as beautiful as ever, however, her golden hair cascading down in ringlets, partially obscuring her pert, rosy-nippled breasts. Her intent blue eyes shifted around camp, constantly observing, trying to find a weakness. The men were well-trained, unfortunately. They left no opportunity for escape, transferring her from wagon to campsite efficiently, albeit a bit roughly.
