The Place for a Man to Be By pr_squared@hotmail.com Be careful what you wish for. Prince Milas followed his massive shield bearer,. Krumm, into the noisy hall. Emerging from the opaque darkness of the moonless night into the smoky light of a score of burning oil lamps, their war-like accoutrements and solemn demeanors contrasted starkly with the casual garb and raucous gaiety within. Prince Milan, eldest son and heir to Mi'ast, Khan of the Varanniya who dwell east of the river, stood bare-assed and grinning between the widely splayed thighs of a battered and bruised woman of the Dam Galeion. His worn yellow tunic, soiled from his oiled mail, reached half-way across his buttocks, revealing his pale, long-muscled thighs and upper legs to the top of his brown leather boots beneath. The woman lay prone, her dress bunched up around her shoulder and nakedly exposed, amidst the remnants of the dinner she had come to clear. Her thick red hair was all disheveled and filthy with food. The prince, crowned only by his head of straw color hair, was otherwise undistinguishable from his comrades as he battered her rectum while she struggled to lift her face from the stinking pool of her own vomit. Milan's bannermen, their shield bearers, and the men of Milan's guard drank and shouted rude encouragements, when they lifted their faces out of their drinks and were mindful of anything at all. Prince Milas surveyed the scene and nodded wryly. He motioned with his hand. Krumm read his sign and drew his heavy sword. The well honed and oiled blade hissed as it cleared its crude wooden scabbard. All noise ceased at the unmistakable sound. Hands grasped unsteadily for recently forgotten weapons, now piled out of reach in a corner of the drunken gathering. Prince Milas' brother, Prince Milan, looked up from the moaning woman and flashed his younger dark-haired brother his most mischievous smile. He separated himself from the wretched woman and almost as an afterthought, dragged her from the table by her grimy, matted hair and held her against himself so that she might lick him clean of her blood and feces. The terrified woman, hardly more than a girl, cowered and did as she was bidden. She said nothing but her features betrayed her rage. No one seemed to care. "Hey, brother," Milan exclaimed, uncaring of the woman's hatred and confident of his power. His winning grin had once more disarmed the tension in the room as it had served him many times before. "This is the place for a man to be! Between the wide-spread thighs of a sweetly bottomed cunt." Milos shook his head. "Krumm and I have walked the perimeter of your camp." He reported quietly, then paused to remove his helmet and mailed gloves. He stretched his neck and combed his hair roughly into place with his hand. "All is quiet tonight, but by the father whom we share, brother, I cannot speak of morning if you treat our hosts thus. This girl must have a father, brothers, a suitor, cousins." "Dour as you are, brother, no one would ask you to speak," Milan reported, rather pleased with his cleverness. "This cow doesn't matter to anyone. Come! The burden of a Prince is to lead where no man has gone. I saved her other side for you, Milas - no sloppy seconds for my brother." His grin turned more sly. "Tonight is for merry-making. Tomorrow is time enough for war and seriousness." Suddenly, Milan found the woman's slobbering ministrations irritating and released his grip on the back of her head. She collapsed to the floor and quickly scurried away, seeking some sort of safety under the benches. She paused for a moment, turned, and hurled an inchoate curse in her native language. Milan had lost all interest in her but the glow of the blessed amulet at his neck alerted him of her malice as it deflected the power of her hex. He kicked out at her and made solid contact with a dull thud. She lost her breath with a 'whoosh' and collapsed back into a heap. Milan stood over her gloating. He held his still-warm amulet cradled in his palm. The reflected power of her curse rebounded three-fold. Her unconscious body rose from the floor, shuddered, and collapsed again. In a land infested with witches, the amulet was a gift beyond compare. His mood as dark as his dark features, Milas restrained his anger with great effort. "The Priest-King asked our father to aid these folk against the Witch Bitches. This aid you bring will win us no allies. If you would rule our people, brother, learn first to rule yourself." Milan stared back, matching the strength of his will against that of his younger brother. "The strong always demand tribute from the weak and seize it, if it is not quickly forthcoming. He hitched up his tunic to reveal a flask shaped birthmark on his right flank- perhaps the size of open hand - and re-fastened his breech cloth. "Perhaps, distaste for us and our gentle courtesies will inspire these reluctant warriors to face the Witch Bitches and their trophy knives so that we might finish our business and depart home. The prince cradled his amulet once again, concluding with a sign against evil that was echoed by all those sober enough to follow the proceedings. Milan looked to Kazimir, his shield bearer, who signed that he and those present not disabled by ale, had retrieved their weapons and were ready to defend their prince. He, like Krumm who warded Prince Milas' sword arm, was a large men, even among the Varanniya, who stood larger than most men. Tall and broad-chested, few horses could bear him. Milas intercepted the sign and gestured in turn to Krumm, who sheathed his sword. The two turned as one to exit the makeshift hall. The black of their soot-darkened mail faded into the blackness of the moonless night. The mood in the hall lightened once more. With the renewed clamor, Niklot, Milan's cousin and standard bearer, stirred in his drunken stupor. He was as blond as Milan but more slight. Although he had not come fully into his growth, he would never share Milas' bulk, let alone that of the larger Milan. This was his first campaign away from home. In this his first skirmish, ale had overwhelmed his untested judgment. He snored loudly and drifted into deeper slumber, knowing nothing of the evening's proceedings. The Priest turned and twisted on his cot and tried in vain to find some shred of comfort. He was a scholar and not a horseman or a warrior. Spasms of pure pain wracked his much abused back and he gained new empathy for the unending anguish of untainted spirit trapped in baser matter. He disliked the Varanniya and doubted the true orthodoxy of their primitive beliefs. He was unused to the coarse trail food and his bowels were quite outspoken in their complaints. The damp night stank of ale and urine and his stomach threatened renewed bouts of retching. The noise of the festivities only exacerbated his pounding headache. He longed for his study and the simple comforts of his warm, dry cell. How had he been selected for this assignment? Whom had he unknowingly insulted? Far from his Temple, he felt exposed, but still more at risk from the shifting alliances and subtle plotting of his fellows than from the open malevolence of the Daughters of Darkness. He was a son of Light and did not the Light always dispel the Darkness. Suddenly, his amulet grew hot against his chest. Magic was being worked somewhere tonight. Just as suddenly, his amulet grew cold. II Emon and Signy rode up from the town of Inbher Obenn that sat on a hill above the confluence of the Rivers Obenn and Murenn in eastern Gathma. The Obenn joined the Onenn, girdling the great mountain known at the White Crow, at Cruach An, the High Queen's Seat. The crude wooden buildings and wooden palisade contrasted with the capably laid brick-work of Torpest, the chief city in Apone and more so with the skillfully worked stone of the capital, Amaranthis on the Amalorenn to the West. At midmorning, the town was alive with buyers and sellers. They saw the slave market, and the table where an officer of the Keeper paid her bounty for the foreskins of their enemy to the North. The Temple stood on a neighboring hill, outside the palisade. They passed through the threshold of the crude wooden enclosure that served as the Temple of the Goddess. Signy, her younger cousin, followed but a footstep behind her. Both wore the brief off-white tunic and stripped leggings of their Banner, hemmed and seamed in purple and embroidered with the bull's head emblem of their home province of Apone. Both had shaved head of the nulla, the mark of a woman who had as yet borne no daughter. Emon, though, boasted a thick, dark braid that almost reached her ear. She was a veteran who commanded a lance of 20 riders of the light cavalry reserve of the second Banner of Apone and she had a confirmed kill. Signy, a visitor from Holaa to the north, had come to Gathma with her friend, Anneth. Both had been assigned to Emon's lance of twenty riders. Signy was in Elene's five and Anneth was in Martis' five. The High Queen - the Morag - of the people of Damoin had requested help against the increasing incursions from the North. The First of the Gynarchy in Amaranthis had dispatched the Purple Cows to Inbher Obenn in eastern Gathma and a banner from Amalorenn to Inbher Onenn in western Gathma. A Temple novice, the same age as Signy and not yet a full year past her own initiation, greeted them and led them to a preparatory chamber where they might leave their weapons, bath, and exchange their military costume for Temple robes of simple white. She returned after a time to find them dressed in their Temple robes and she conducted them to a minor altar. There, they knelt and prayed while awaiting their presentation to the Priestess Superior. Despite the rustic surroundings, the air of sanctity was unmistakable and overpowering. Images of Signy's own initiation alternated in her mind with the awesome rites that she had first witnessed on last High Summer's Day in the splendid stone Temple in Nant on Tarenn in Apone. Emon's initiation was buried several years deeper in her past and her mind turned to her last visit to this very Temple and the hazards of war that faced her and her banner. Suddenly, the Priestess stood before them, her everyday face hidden behind the carven wooden mask of her Office. The diadem of the Eye crowned her brow in recognition of her gift of inner sight. Behind her stood a single postulant, several years older than the woman who had guided them to this place. In Nant on Tarenn, a senior Priestess was escorted by a full score of attendants. As supplicants, Emon and Signy. knelt before her, first one then the other. In turn, she searched the mind of each. She healed that which was hurt and nurtured that which was good. Both passed her test and she signed to her assistant to lead them into the Temple gardens. It was late summer and the Temple gardens were lush and green. The three women encountered two Temple youths, gowned in short red tunics and marked with the Sun-in-splendor, the emblem of the Mistress of men. The robes were brief and sheer. They accentuated rather than concealed the fineness of the men's forms. With them stood their grooms. Emon and Signy's interest was not subtle. The grooms grinned and each disrobed her charge at a sign from the Postulant. Both men were true sons of the Summer Lord. As was required, the youths prostrated themselves before the women. "We acknowledge the Goddess within you," they intoned together. Signy looked at the two. As was the custom among the Dam Damoin in Gathma, Artegal, Apone, Ormur, and Tarennion, the two displayed elaborate tattoos with heavily leafed vines twisting around their right legs, buttocks, and flanks, then climbing and curling over their bellies and left chests. One had chestnut brown hair and a medium build; he looked to be about Signy's age. The second was several years older and had a fair complexion and flaming red hair on his head and between his thighs. Emon looked at the two and at her new trooper. She chose the second of the two, touching his shoulder with her foot. The Goddess is well served," she responded with the traditional reply. The older youth pressed his mouth to the ground before Emon's feet. Emon reached down and touched his shoulder, then helped him to his feet. He stood, head bowed and eyes cast down humbly. He was a servant of the Goddess. Twice a year, he reached into the clay pot and removed a tile to learn if he had been chosen Lord of the Waning or Lord the Waxing Year. Each year, he was hunted with his fellows through the forest on Samhain, the cross quarter day between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. Thus far, the Goddess had chosen to leave him for his duty here and he was fully grateful. Emon embraced him and enjoyed the feel of his body against her own. She relished the line of his back and buttocks and the fullness of his male parts. The God entered into him and she grinned broadly. "Lord and Lady! See, you later cousin!" Signy helped the other to his feet and followed him to one of the timber pillared porticos the lined the wooden walls that enclosed the Temple gardens. Following two steps behind, she chuckled, comparing his supple grace with her own self-conscious ungainliness. In the portico, she felt even more awkward when she removed her Temple robe. Such thoughts did not linger for long. The feel of his body against her own, brought back the recent memories of her own Initiation in Nant on Tarenn. She had been first in her troop in Archery. When she stood among her age mates in the inner courtyard of the Temple, the Bull King - the Lord of the Waxing Year himself had bowed before her. He had conducted her to the Chamber of Ablutions where he had bathed her with his own strong hands and massaged her with fragrant oils. At first, his nearness and alien maleness had frightened her, but he had assuaged her fear with attentiveness, patience, and gentleness. He had helped her don her Temple robes for the first time, and led her into the Sanctuary for the first time. The Priestess herself had served as her second and held her hand when she mounted him and took the God into herself. The pleasure that women take is so intense that custom requires that a woman be accompanied by a second lest she lose her bearings in her overpowering feelings. Many have confused lust for love and surrendered themselves to a cute boy's masculine wiles. Afterwards, he had soothed her soreness with his mouth and tongue and seemed as if she were indeed the Goddess and the entire universe centered in the pit of her belly. The memory warmed her still. Her Bull of Apone had met his fate bravely on that hilltop on High Summers Day when the Priestesses had sent him back to the Goddess. Signy had shared in the awesome rites and somehow believed that he knew that she had been there amidst the multitude and drew strength from her presence. This Lion of Gathma was less masterful, but Signy now knew better what was needed and took full pleasure from him. He arched spasmodically beneath her and she confidently accepted the Power that he offered. Emon returned, also radiant with transferred Power, had had no cause for disappointment as she related to Signy later in the day as they recapitulated in the gentler ways of women, the harsher pleasure that they obtained from the Temple youths. Both knew that the day was only an idyllic respite in the midst of a grimmer reality. However, the Goddess asks that mortals seize what goodness comes within their reach. III By mid-day, Prince Milan marshaled his forces. He assigned 80 Varanniya light horse and 120 Varanniya light foot to every 360 man company of Dam Galeoin spearman. Ten such detachments would cross the border at dusk. They would slip across the border by the light of the full moon with their Dam Galeion guides. Traveling swiftly down the valley of the Obenn towards Dun Aoife where they would regroup to threaten Inbher Obenn. He was not prepared to take the town but followed his orders to bring war to parts of Gathma previously though safe and force the Morag to commit her reserves at the headwaters of the Uarch at Cruach An. Milas would cross the border behind him to secure his line of retreat and pin the damned Warchief of the Dam Damoin and his warriors to White Crow Mountain. He looked to face only the tribal militia of the Dam Damoin - light chariots, light cavalry, and infantry spears. The Morag and her troops were at Cruach An in the south at the confluence of the Onenn and Obenn rivers that formed the Uarch. The Amarantines were no further north than Inbher Onenn. The Ravens of Battle would likely never descend from their mountain eyries. If they did, they were only women and likely more strident in sound and aspect than deadly in the clash of steel against steel. It will be like fighting with your sisters, he had re-assured Niklot, but without your mother there to chase you with a broom if you made them cry. Niklot had laughed with him. But however much he himself laughed, he feared their weirdness and wished from more aid than he might expect from the pot- bellied, loose bowelled Priest who cursed the crude cuisine and puffed and wheezed even more than the unfortunate horse who bore him. The amulet at his neck had been blessed by the Priest-King himself. The Prince grasped it and found comfort. The flames of Dun Aoife lit up the morning sky. Prince Milan rode inside the burning timber gates and surveyed the carnage that his men had wrought. The Dam Galeion warriors had stormed the wooden palisade in the pale light that precedes dawn. Emboldened by surprise and a first taste of victory, they overwhelmed the few defenders awake and armed and slaughtered the villagers as they stumbled from their huts in confusion, awaken by screams and smoke. Prince Milan would leave this to the Dam Galeion and lead his Varanniya south to test further the metal of these Witch-Bitches. The Dam Galeion could regroup when they had finished and catch-up. Liadane awoke. Though her weapon bearing days were done and her daughters had grown daughters of their own, she taught the children of the village and like the ancient olive tree, bore fruit still. She grasped the situation at once and quickly knelt in prayer. "Goddess, see us your people. As surely as the life of the life of the Summer Lord brings forth life from the land, let our lives bring forth vengeance for your people!" A Galeion warrior smashed down the door and burst into the darkened interior of the hut. Liadaine's houseboy leaped onto the invader with only a kitchen knife in order to protect his mistress. The warrior swatted him away like an insect, then crushed his skull with his booted foot. Regretting the waste of his finely honed blade, he skewered the old crone kneeling before him. Domnall awoke and stretched her long body, stiffened by sleep. At once, she had an ineluctable awareness that something was amiss. She strained to hear a keening on the wind. Casting aside her great cloak, she stood unclothed and skyclad, but covered head to toe with intricate runes. The dense, convoluted markings made her nearly invisible in the dawn's half- light. She drew her two handed battle sword from its lovingly made man- skin scabbard. The blade was as dark with runes as his mistress but glowed fiercely in the dawn with a preternatural light. The half-sentient blade sensed fire and slaughter on the wind and growled like a beast too long denied its prey. The sword had been tempered in the body of a freely offered sacrifice whose spirit animated the iron and whose skin provided the scabbard. He would serve his mistress well today. The Ravens of Battle would hunt. In the Temple at Inbher Obenn, the priestesses maintained a vigil. In the silence of the Inner Shrine, Liadane's cry was heard. A hand of riders was stationed at the Temple against just such an eventuality. Three carried word; one to the barracks; one to the wooden structure that served as the Keeper's Palace in Inbher Onenn; and one to the high Queen at Cruach An. Priestesses were aroused from bed to join the circle and to send word on to Red Boar in Artegal and to Torpest in Apone beyond. Two riders awaited any subsequent messages. The pot bellied Priest's back hurt and his legs chaffed from too long riding for one used to a more bookish life. However, even he felt something on the wind. Prince Milan noticed an increase in the level of his distress and queried its cause. "Indigestion, my Lord Prince. It's indigestion. Can we not stop and rest so that I might find some relief," he pleaded. Prince Milan increased the pace. IV The plan had gone awry. The Dam Galeion had fled north from the ruins of Dun Aoife, refusing to risk their plunder. The Varanniya advanced south towards Inbher Onenn alone and halted to regroup when they ran into the first elements of the Amarantines moving north. However, their deployment was disrupted by the onslaught of the Ravens of Battle. The Varanniya were shattered by the slashing great battle swords wielded by howling half- invisible demons. As fugitives, as individuals and in small groups, they fled north. Last but not least, Prince Milan had not crossed the border to cover their retreat as planned. The Warchief of the Dam Damoin, brother to the High Queen, had come down from his mountain to threaten the border. The Ravens of Battle returned to their eyries, but the battle turned into hunt as the Amarantines and Warchief's Fianna bands hunted fugitives. Emon's lance burst upon a group of Varanniya who scattered with the ferocity of their attack. The Varanniya warriors were heavier and wore more armor than the women, but the Varanniya horse were tired from the night's march and the Purples Cows just ran them down. Elene saw five warriors, one more finely equipped than the rest and better mounted too. Signy stayed close to her first as Elene set off in pursuit. Ferris, Mareth, and Alycia were close behind. The Varanniya split and Elene sent the other three in pursuit of three warriors while she and Signy pursued the richly accoutered enemy - likely a noble of some sort - and his gigantic companion. Signy carried a quiver of twenty-four arrows on her belt and a second quiver hung from her saddle. Fewer than a dozen arrows remained. Hitting a moving target from a moving horse was well nigh impossible, so Signy did not waste an arrow. Elene and Signy pursued doggedly and gained steadily on their foes. The Varanniya's steeds tired noticeably and their lead diminished steadily. Under his great bulk, Kazimer's horse tired more quickly. Facing the inevitable reality, Kazimer shouted a salute and reigned in, hoping to slow the pursuit and help his lord escape. Prince Milan mumbled a quick prayer for Kazimer, and for Milas and Niklot. Then he rode on and didn't look back. Kazimer dismounted from his failing horse and turned to face his foe. He banged sword and shield together and shouted taunts at the smallish dark haired woman who confronted him from about 50 paces away. Elene reached behind her saddle and retrieved her lariat. She secured the rope to her saddle, then charged the gigantic warrior. His heavy armor had frustrated many arrows and offered little prospect for her light sword. However, it offered no protection and in fact, impeded his ability to evade the lariat that snapped close around his neck. The horse's momentum jerked him from his feet, despite his bulk, and his own weight broke his neck. Signy pursued the other. After a fair chase, Prince Milan reigned in and faced his lone adversary before his own horse was totally blown. He stared at Signy surprised that he faced only one enemy, and a girl at that. He took several deep breaths and searched the woods for others. His mood lighted as he saw that he faced one enemy alone. Suddenly, he spurred his tiring horse and began a head-on rush, aimed at the narrow gap between the road and the trees. His armor and his horse's barding frustrated several arrows. Signy, moved to his flank and looked for a better shot, heedless of any danger in the excitement of the moment. Should she put herself in his path, his larger horse would simply overrun her smaller gelding. Abruptly, Milan pulled hard on his reign and turned directly toward Signy. His larger horse threatened to run over her smaller horse with no hint of subtlety. Signy's gelding danced away at the last moment as she ducked under his sweeping sword stroke. The armored horseman charged past, carried irresistibly by his own momentum. Signy loosed an arrow that struck him solidly between the shoulder blades. His fine mail turned her arrow. Prince Milan pulled on his reign so sharply that he cut his horse's mouth. The beast whinnied blood, but the brave beast turned smartly to confront Signy again. The tired horse charged valiantly but stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell. Milan jumped clear and quickly regained his feet, bellowing defiance. "Witch Bitch! Fight like a man, by Kopolo Mokosh and her flaming Bridegroom!" Milan challenged in his own tongue. His rage was apparent even without words. Signy watched the large warrior wave his heavy sword impotently and just waited. His armor was fit for the Companion cavalry and would fetch a year's pay for her hand. She nocked an arrow and released. His fine armor frustrated even her mastery of the bow. He grasped at an amulet at his neck with his left hand and made a sun-sign with his right. He muttered something hoarsely. His malice was evident even though she could not understand his words. She felt a sinister Magic challenge her now replete Shield. Calmly, she nocked another arrow and waited. He charged her on foot and again she moved away to maintain the distance between them. Out breath, he just stopped. He grasped the collar of his mail shirt and pulled it away from his neck to ease his breathing. "Fight like a man!" he bellowed. "I'm not a man," Signy whispered through tightly closed lips. She gauged her breathing and that of her gelding. She centered herself, took a deep breath and loosed another shaft at the figure 100 cubits distant. This time, she took him through his throat. Spewing hate and spitting blood, he tried to close with her. Signy never let him close. Ferris watched while Elene stripped the gigantic warrior whom she had slain. She pulled off his helm and mail shirt, then wrestled with his boots. Elene looked up exasperated. "Ferris, help me!" Ferris quickly joined in the struggle against the unresisting foe. Soon Kazimir lay naked except for his loincloth. Elene slipped her blade under the cloth. With a flick of her wrist, the cloth was gone too. Her sword had left a shallow cut on Kazimir's left groin. The shallow cut in the dead flesh did not bleed much. He was a giant of a man. His arms were as thick as Elene's thigh's and his massive thigh's were as thick as her waist. She lifted his sex on the flat of his blade and his flaccid cock was fully as thick as her wrist. It would make an enviable trophy. Niklot looked up in his bonds and moaned. Martis turned from watching what Elene and Ferris were doing to attend to her naked blond-haired captive. Niklot lay supine, his wrists and ankles securely tied. An average size cock and balls nestled in the scant hair of his groin, which was as blond as the hair on his head. He was adorable. Niklot eyes glazed his with terror of his captors. If they were women, they were nothing like the women whom he knew. One knelt beside him. Her name was Martis, she explained using single words and simple hand gestures. Niklot lay naked and exposed to her thorough examination. His humiliation only increased when she took his sex in her hand and his body responded involuntarily to her rough ministrations. He had imagined that women would quail at the sight of his manhood. Instead he was the subject of her casual manipulation. Martis grunted her approval and reached under her skirts and ripped off her breechcloth. She straddled Niklot's shoulders and sat on his chest. She grasped his blond hair with both hands ground his face into her sex. Niklot tried to turn his head, but cold not overcome the strong hands pulling on his hair. Had Niklot known how other women were made, he would have known that she was made like other women. Martis moved against his face and more than made up for his lack of ardor and experience. She soon rode her way to orgasm. When she had taken her pleasure, she stood straddling him. In full view of others and without embarrassment, she spread her labia with her index and middle fingers, and peed on him. A warrior marked her possessions. Signy, exhausted but elated with victory, rode with Martis and searched for stragglers in the lengthening shadows amidst the trees. Niklot lay bound and gagged over the back of the horse that Martis led. Something moved over to her right, and Signy pressed her sweat slick right leg against her horse's flank and urged him neatly to the right. The horse was well trained. Though tired and thirsty, he turned and moved smartly in the new direction. Signy whistled her challenge to the unseen others. Alycia, Ferris and Elene answered and emerged from the woods. Unseeing eyes stared blankly into the darkening forest. A head crowned in yellow hair bounced in perfect counterpoint to Signy's gelding's easy gait. Earlier in the day, her bare thighs would have pressed against her woolen saddle blanket. Now, her sweating legs straddled a shabrack made from the skin of her first kill. His distinct man-shape was vaguely discernable. His arms and legs hung like empty sleeves, draped over the horses' withers and hindquarters. His extreme pallor contrasted with the gelding's deep rich chestnut. His lifeless head hung limply over the horses' shoulder. Signy's right knee pressed against his flask-shaped birthmark. Prince Milan's face was twisted in a sardonic smile and his unmoving lips seemed to say, "This is the place for a man to be - between a wench's wide-spread thighs!"