Welcome to the mythical world of King Argud The Defiler, a young lad by the name of Hal O'The Shitbuckets and a delightful young female dragon whom Hal is the official handler. Welcome to an erotic adventure involving magic, sorcery and The Master At Arms daughters - and so much more!
The story starts when Hal is destined to a session with the castration vice for his handling of the Master of Arms daughters, but things don`t quite happen that way.
A delightful read, in five scrolls, lots of humor (or is that humour) and beautiful erotica, in the style to which the author has become famous.
EXTRACT
The early morning sun shone down on the ancient walls of Giant's Pass
castle. It fell on patches of green moss clinging to the weathered
stone blocks of the Outer and Inner Wards. Shards of light sparkled
uselessly against the only window in the castle, the stained glass
panes now covered in dirt and hiding the long disused Royal Chapel
from view. But the glittering day made a brave showing of the banner
of King Argud the Defiler flying high above the keep and reflected
brightly from the string of wind polished skulls hanging below the
flag. A few rays of shimmering sunlight even penetrated the arrow
slits of the prison tower, to be instantly snuffed out amidst the dark
stench of despair and corrupting flesh within. More glittering rays
were wasted in falling on the steaming surface of the castle moat and
its covering of rotting turds.
King Argud and his Master-At-Arms were no fools. Any attacking
soldier who fell into that reeking gray-blue semi-liquid with even the
smallest of wounds on his body would soon be dying a most painful and
poisonous death. True, the smell on a warm day like this was truly
awful but since everybody in the royal household stank like a dead
goat anyway it was of no great consequence.
The King should have been in his counting house, counting out his
money. Unfortunately, there was hardly any to count, since there was
nobody in marching distance who had anything left worth stealing. So
instead, the monarch had taken a newly arrived serving wench into the
buttery, bent her over a table and applied double handfuls of butter
to her bared hindquarters. The girl was mystified by his actions but
in a few seconds time she was destined to find out two things: why he
was called Argud the Defiler, and also the real reason why the buttery
was called the buttery.
The Master-At-Arms, on the other hand, was dealing with more delicate
business. A matter of negotiations which called for diplomacy and
cordiality. Not easy qualities to summon up in a proud old soldier
covered in scars and past glory: in his time the Master-At-Arms had
killed and raped more victims than a boatload of Ice Land Warriors. He
resented having to be unduly deferential to any other official of the
royal household. But even he had to respect the authority of Sir
Tarquin as royal tax collector and keeper of the castle torture
chamber.
`A fine day, Sir Tarquin.`
`A fine day, Master.`
Sir Tarquin reluctantly laid aside a series of woodcuts left behind
by a visiting trader of tormenting equipment. He often gazed at them
wistfully, especially the ones showing the young lady with the long
legs stretched out on a rack, the legs getting longer and longer in
each succeeding picture. What he wouldn't give to have a bit of
glamour like that spread eagled in his own tormenting implements
instead of the dreary peasants that were all that ever came his way in
this backward apology of a backwoods Kingdom. Not that he'd ever dare
to let such words pass his lips, not if he didn't want them sewn
together with a hornet in his mouth. On matters patriotic King Argud
was so right wing he was almost a Tiberian Republican.
`How can I help you, Master?
`I'd like to book a session in the torture chamber, Sir Tarquin.`
`Certainly -- a personal one, Master? Ha, ha, the old ones are always
the best, hey?`
The Master smiled dutifully with a twitch of his lips as the head
torturer reached for his appointments diary, a movement which paused
halfway as an earsplitting scream came from the direction of the
buttery. Sir Tarquin cocked his head to one side and listened with
professional judgment.
`She'll be able to carry around the mead tonight, but I hope it's not
at my table. Her hands won't stop shaking for a week. Now, Master, was
it a group booking?`
`No. Just the one, thank'ee, my lord.`
`Fine. Any particular torments in mind? Male or female?`
The Master-At-Arms grinned, displaying his ill colored teeth like a
wolf finding a sheep caught in a briar patch: `Definitely male, Sir
Tarquin. It's the castrating vice I want to use. Could I have a couple
of hours, if that's agreeable to you?`
`A couple of hours? That's a long time for such a simple little job.
Is this business or pleasure, Master?`
`Oh, both, Sir Tarquin -- both.`
The old soldier looked as if he'd seen a divine vision of a thousand
virgins, each one more beautiful than the next, and all driving carts
heavily laden with wine barrels.
Sir Tarquin felt a touch of unease. As a normal thing, letting
enthusiastic amateurs loose in the torture chamber was a mistake.
Blood everywhere afterwards, and all the tools bent out of shape with
overmuch heating. But as an officer of the Royal Household there was
no way the Master-At-Arms could be decently refused access to the
in-castle tormenting facilities.
`The day after tomorrow? From the third emptying of the water clock
until the fifth emptying?`
`Thank you, Sir Tarquin. Your co-operation is appreciated.`
The Torturer fastened his weak blue eyes on the Master's vicious
brown ones.
`You'll appreciate that you'll still have to raise an
inter-departmental invoice for the hire of the chamber. Two florins an
hour, four florins in all. You'll need to make six copies of the
invoice, all signed by yourself or your deputy and counter-signed by
myself or my deputy. One copy for your files, one for mine, one for
the routine-of-the day clerk, one to the Royal Accounts Office, one
for the Royal Archives, and one for the Bureau of Births, Deaths,
Marriages and Castrations. And, naturally, it's your department's
responsibility to ensure the removal of all bodies and bodily parts
from the chamber at the end of the hire period. All equipment used is
also to be cleaned and lightly oiled afterwards.`
`You know me, my lord. I always leave the torture chamber the way I
would wish to find it.`
Sir Tarquin suddenly realized that the Master-At-Arms wasn't looking
at him, but over his head and through an arrow slit in the wall. He
turned in his chair and glanced out of the narrow gap himself. On the
other side of the moat were the straggly lines of filthy wooden shacks
where those of King Argud's subjects unfortunate enough to be still
alive eked out their wretched existences. But one building at least
was well built, the size of a barn, close to the protection of the
castle walls, with a patch of scorched grass outside it. Playing
happily together on the bare ground was a young boy and a young
female. The female was much younger than the boy, but a great deal
bigger. About thirty paces longer, in fact, bright pink in color -- at
the moment, anyway -- and gently weaving her snout and her sinuous
body like a giant ferret as the boy tickled her underneath her left
wing joint.
`By the Gods, Master, I still can't believe it -- not even after
seeing it every day for nigh on five years. A living, breathing
dragon. And when I was a boy we all thought they'd never existed. Even
the witches and warlocks said the old carvings were only make believe.
Just dreams and mind pictures from nearly forgotten stories. And then
a dirty little sniveling son of a night soil spreader comes out of the
forest with an great egg he says he found in the roots of a fallen
tree.`
The Master nodded absent-mindedly. Everybody from far and wide knew
the story, and how young Hal O'The Shitbuckets had not told anybody
about the egg but hidden it inside a pile of warm dung near to his
family's hut. How the boy had come out a few weeks later and found a
newly hatched dragonet frolicking around on top of the pile of shite.
And by the time anybody of importance had found out about any of this,
it was too late. The dragonet and Hal had instantly developed the same
kind of affection as between a man and his dog, and any attempts to
part them had sent the young dragon into such a state of fretful
decline that the companionship had to be restored immediately. But
otherwise the hatchling seemed perfectly healthy and had grown at an
astonishing speed. And of all its mysteries, three had continually
dominated King Argud's thoughts.
The first: was there was any truth in the old legends about dragons
breathing fire?
The dragonet had never shown any sign of being able to do so but
there had been a lingering hope in King Argud's breast that the
facility might develop as the creature reached adulthood. A hope which
had found triumphant resolution one night when a pack of starving
wolves had slipped into the dragon hut and attacked the dragon and
Hal. The resulting flames had not only burnt down the hut but also a
dozen others belonging to peasants unfortunate enough to be living
nearby. As the suddenly dispossessed poor fled for their lives the
King had capered wildly in delight in his night shirt, calling for his
pipe to light it from the burning fragments of the huts, and then for
his trio of fiddlers to provide music for his pyromaniacal prancing.
At dawn he'd demanded that Hal demonstrate the dragon's incendive
skills again by burning down more huts, clapping his hands like a
delighted child as the dragon had coughed out tiny spitballs which
flew for hundreds of paces and then ignited into raging fireballs
whenever they hit anything.
`By Odin, I love the smell of dragon spit in the morning!` King Argud
had roared in ecstasy at the sight of so much destruction inflicted so
quickly.
The second mystery was whether the promise of the pup's nascent wings
would eventually be proven. Could a dragon fly?
The answer had been yes, a fact finally determined in the last few
weeks. Although, in truth, the dragon only flapped her wings barely
long enough to be airborne before locking them into outstretched sails
and seemingly riding the currents of the air upward and ever higher,
then gliding across great distances before turning and turning like a
falling leaf in the sky. Yet instead of drifting down she would drift
upwards again. Nobody could explain how this could happen, except
through magic. Apart from Hal O'The Shitbuckets, who thought that the
air rose in bubbles from pieces of hot ground, like the bubbles in
water coming to the boil, and that somehow the dragon could see or
sense where these air bubbles were rising.
Under normal circumstances nobody would have paid any attention to
young Shitbuckets ideas. The one thing which did get them something of
a hearing was that Hal was the only person in the whole kingdom who
had ever flown with the dragon. At least that was what most people
thought, but four people knew differently. Hal, the Master-At-Arms,
and two of the Master-At-Arm's daughters. Unfortunately for all of
them, the Master had accidentally overheard Chelinde telling her young
sister how she had twice been aloft with Hal and how he had rewarded
her with what he called a frequent flyer point.
It was Chelinde's candid description of where young Hal had inserted
his point whilst they were together in the dragon's riding net which
had resulted in Hal's recently arranged appointment with the
castration vice. The next item on the Master-At-Arm's daily schedule
was arresting the still unwitting boy and explaining in great detail
about what was soon going to happen to him. Hal might have spent most
of his life emptying latrines but if he'd thought before he was in the
shit, he was soon going to know better -- or worse.
Sir Tarquin shook his head in sorrow as he watched the boy and the
dragon at play: `Such a shame. Worse yet, a tragedy. Is there anything
sadder than the sight of a promising life destined never to know true
fulfillment? The King comes near to weeping every time he thinks of
it. What say you, Master, are you still of the same opinion?`
The Master-At-Arm's expression was one of bewildered surprise, until
he realized what Sir Tarquin was talking about. It was the third great
mystery about the dragon, the impasse which had King Argud groaning
with despair during sleepless nights for a solution.
`Absolutely the same opinion, my Lord. As things stand our tiny army
had no chance at all of defeating the Imperial Legions. One dragon on
its own might win us a battle but never a war. We'd need a whole flock
of them to be assured of destroying the Emperor's forces and capturing
the great cities of the plains.`
`A rise, Master. The collective noun for group of dragons is
apparently a rise of dragons. So the Chief Warlock tells us of the
High Council from his reading of the ancient writings. And no wonder
the King weeps when he looks down from these hills onto an empire he
could easily conquer -- if only we could find a single male dragon to
mate our female with. Nature can be so cruel.`
Sir Tarquin sighed heavily in quiet despair.
`How many peasants have we worked to death digging up the forest
floor seeking another egg -- a male egg, in all love? How many spells
has the castle warlock cast, seeking a trace of other dragons in the
great wide world? How many spies have we sent out seeking news of such
beastlings? And not one trace, not one rumor, not even one tavern tale
about such creatures existing. No, what you see innocently playing
there, Master, are two virgins, and destined I think to stay that way
for a long time.`
The Master's face was pale, only two red spots on his cheekbones
revealing the pure fires of anger burning within him. `My Lord, I
intend to make sure one of them will certainly never have need of a
mate.`
He tapped the cover of the torturer's diary with heavy significance
and Sir Tarquin's eyebrows rose in sudden concern. `Hal? It's our
young dragon handler you've a mind to geld? Nay, I think the King must
know of this first. Why do you want to do such a thing?`
The Master-At-Arms had no intention of shaming his family by telling
the truth on that subject. Nor did he think that he needed to.
`My Lord, my duty is to the security of the King and the Kingdom, and
that dragon is a menace to both. It cannot defeat our enemies but
should Hal ever decide to turn on his true lords and masters that
beastling would be a formidable threat to us. Many of us would perish
and much damage would ensue before he and that confounded dragon were
killed. Since we cannot breed from it, better to destroy the monster
and its handler's spirit now before they acquire a taste for more than
they can ever be given.`
Sir Tarquin shook his head: `A sound argument, Master, but not
sufficient to achieve your purpose. Leave our dragon handler alone for
a while yet.`
`Dragon handler? That's not his substantive rank on the household
rolls. He's a privy purveyor, he empties the shit pans into the moat
and he was only allowed to work in the castle at all because he tends
the beastling a few hours each day. The dragon is of no use to us,
only danger, and the sooner we get rid of it and debollock that young
upstart, the better.`
The Royal Torturer waved his hand at the chair the Master had
recently vacated: `Sit you down again, Master, and breathe no word of
what I am about to tell you. For you have unwittingly touched upon
decisions recently made by the High Council and it were better for you
to know something of them and thus keep discreetly silent.`
Sir Tarquin leaned forward across his desk and spoke in lowered
terms.
`The King and council in secret session have decided that now the
dragon has reached true maidenhood there is one last turn of the cards
we can yet play. If we can't find a male dragon, perhaps the young
female dragon may. She can fly, and she can seek, if we let her go
hence to try her fortune.`
The Master tried to absorb the implications of Sir Tarquin's
statement: `Go? Go where?`
`Out into the wide world, wherever the winds may blow her. Into the
northern mountains perhaps, or southwards over the provinces of
Lyonesse to that great city itself and beyond. Or the east, to the
forests of Prydein, or westwards, into the sea mists of Tintagel.
Wherever it be that the beast may feel drawn to go. Like calls to
like, Master, and if there be a scaly and horny mate for her anywhere,
surely that female dragon will be drawn to him like a homing pigeon to
its nest.`
`But what use will that to be to us? We shall never see the dragon
here again.`
`Our young duke Hal will go with her to bring back a clutch of
fertile eggs. Let the dragon go hang, if only he can find dragon
hatchlings enough for us to breed a rise from.`
`But . . . but . . . what young duke is it that you speak of, my
Lord?`
`Why but think, man! The dragon obeys only Hal O'The Shitbuckets, so
he must go with her. But if a dragon or dragons be anywhere in the
world, surely they will be owned by the King of those parts. Can we
send a mere shit-carrier's offspring to negotiate on behalf of the
Kingdom of Argud with another royal court? No, of course not. Know
you, Master, that in the next issue of the castle gazette there will
be a notice raising young Hal O'The Shitbuckets to the aristocracy. A
lifetime peerage.` The Royal Torturer's lips tightened in sardonic
amusement. `However brief that lifetime may be.`
The Master-At-Arms looked as if he'd taken a crossbow bolt in the
stomach: `That ugly little piece of trash is to be ennobled!`
`Aye. A strange world we live in, hey? But you know yourself that the
boy is the only human in the Kingdom who has the dragon's obedience
and love, so he must go with her. The King sought our advice on a
suitable title for him and I suggested Duke Skyrider as being apt to
his station, yet the Chief Warlock would have none of it. He said it
sounded too foolish to be believed. So we have had to seek further
afield. The Chamberlain said we should simply use the boy's family
name, but the Warlock laughed at that.`
`I never even knew he had a family name. Why, he wasn't even born
into his family. The stinking brat was found newly born wrapped in a
shawl and abandoned at the forest's edge.`
`True, but he was bought up by the Shitbucket emptying clan.
Apparently they were given a Tiberian family name by those interfering
monks before the King finally drove them out. One of the holy men must
have had a sense of humor though because the family name is Merdinus.
The Warlock thought the notion of a Duke Merdinus a great jest because
the word in the Tiberian language for dung is merdus. So it was
proposed the boy be dubbed Duke Merlinus instead. And in a few day's
time Duke Hal and his dragon will leave on his quest. What think you,
Master?`
The Master-At-Arms snorted in anger mixed with disbelief at what he
was hearing.
`What do I think? To speak truth, my lord, I think the whole council
must have been sniffing that white powder the traders bring from the
Happy Isles. I think the young tosspot will sell that dragon as soon
as he is safely out of the Kingdom and spend the gold on bribing
serving wenches to let him fuck them.`
Sir Tarquin snorted with brief laughter: `So think we all, Master, so
think we all. It was also said that a duke who spoke not a word of
Tiberian, knew nothing of magic or ceremony and who stinks of the
privy would have much trouble playing the part of a nobleman. Someone
must go with him, someone able to educate Hal to courtly ways as they
travel together, someone who will be respected in any land by any
ruler. We have now decided on a suitable escort and consort for our
aspiring Duke Merlinus.`
The Royal Torturer leaned forward, even closer to the Master-At-Arms
and spoke even more confidentially: `Tell me, Master, have you any
lingering desires to see more of the wide world?`
The Master, the victor in a score of killing fights, whimpered like a
beaten dog: `Me, my lord! Go up on one of those things? I beg you, no,
no, a thousand times no! I'm a man, not a bird!`
`Ho-ho-ho! Your face, Master, your face!` The Royal Torturer slapped
his thigh in glee. He was a man whom dearly loved a joke above all
things, well accustomed at taking full advantage of a captive
audience.
`Be calm, Master, be calm. Did we need a bulldog for an honest fight
you would be our choice, but the Chief Warlock has found us something
much better for our needs. A cunning serpent able to fly as well as
that dragon, a serpent of fascinating wickedness and as full of venom
as a lawyers' tavern. A serpent well versed in all kinds of magic and
courtly behavior, a speaker of many tongues and a convincing liar in
all of them. Best of all, a serpent whom both enchants and terrifies
every man she meets. And I say enchants in the full meaning of the
word.`
`Enchants?` The Master-At-Arms stared at Sir Tarquin. `A witch? You
are sending a witch with Shitbucket? Which witch -- I mean what
witch?`
`Look at my finger, Master.`
The torturer traced the outline of three letters on the desk in front
of him. The Master-At-Arms blinked, blinked again, and then smiled a
little. So did Sir Tarquin. Both of them looked at each other and
smiled even more widely.
`So, Master, have we not found you a better ball-breaker than
anything I could provide in my torture chamber?`
The Master-At-Arms laughed aloud, clapping his hands together as
though applauding a play or an execution: `The bitch-witch! The
bitch-witch herself!`
Sir Tarquin stood up again, his belly heaving at the same joke as he
looked down at the antics of the boy and his pet, both of them
completely unaware of the terrible fate speeding towards them.
`But what could bring her to this small kingdom, my lord? What does a
lady of her powers care about our dragon?`
`The lady has the King's sworn promise. Bring back the eggs which
will create an army of warrior dragons for him and she will be
rewarded, even unto half of the Empire once he has seized it. But if
ever that should come to pass, Master-At-Arms, be assured I'll make
sure that I'm living in the other half of the Empire.`
Had Hal been able to overhear this conversation he would have been a
thoroughly frightened eavesdropper. Though one part of it would have
given him at least a moment's satisfaction. For, if a member of the
High Council should talk so lightly of his selling the dragon, it
meant that none of the great men of the kingdom knew about the most
profound of her mysteries, one of far more value to a growing boy than
mere tricks like flying or flame throwing. A mystery he had been
taking advantage of under any watching eyes from the castle walls in
his pretence of playfully tickling the dragoness. What he had actually
been doing was soaking a piece of rag near glands underneath her wing
joints where a colorless liquid sometimes seeped out -- a liquid which
drove all those who touched it into a flaming desire to couple as
madly as any March hare.
Hal had only noticed the liquid appearing in the last few weeks, as
the dragoness reached her maidenhood. He supposed that it was intended
for male dragons to lick and thus encourage them to mount the female.
Certainly he had never suspected such a thing at first. He'd believed
the liquid to be sweat, the first sign that the dragon was as other
creatures.
Before then, in all the years since he'd first found it, the dragon
had seemed to live on a higher level than other life forms, including
men. It never ate, but spread its wings out under the sun whenever it
could, as though it drew life from the great fire like a growing
flower. Thus, it never dropped dung either, a great relief to Hal. All
the beastling seemed to need was a daily drink of water and lots of
affection. And now it seemed able to create affection itself,
uncontrollable affection in all who were touched of the dragon's
sweat.
By great fortune the first trickles were of a weaker potency than
flowed later. But such as they were, the dampness on his fingers had
driven Hal into a corner of the dragon hut with his breeches around
his ankles and his hand continually jerking at his lance, a lance
which refused to droop in tiredness after the first, second, third,
and even fourth eruption. It had felt as if the fires of hell itself
were burning in his loins and would never be doused.
The boy had almost killed himself before collapsing onto the straw
and suffered so much soreness afterwards that every movement for days
had been torment. He had quickly learned from his experience though,
and took great care now never to touch the liquid directly and to mix
it with plenty of water before use. A power intended for dragons was
far too strong for humans without it being much weakened first. But
what wonders even a trace of the sweat produced!
Carefully holding the rag by a still dry corner he led the beast back
into the hut which housed it. Blotches of yellow appeared on the
dragon's neck from its head to its front legs like daisies appearing
after rain. Hal quickly answered the unspoken question.
`Be content, Josephine, I see all the colors of your coat. We shall
fly this morning. But first I must prepare.`
As soon as the dragon was inside Hal pulled the doors shut and put a
bar across them. The thousands of cracks in the planked roof and walls
let in enough light for the shed's interior to become as twilight, a
million straw motes floating through the intruding rays and then
disappearing from sight in the darker areas. The dragon ambled over to
the largest pile of straw at the far end of the hut and sniffed at it.
Girlish laughter and cries of mock fear came from the depths of the
straw.
