index


Message-ID: <38057asstr$1030709404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: david@f-e-mail.com (David Shaw)
Subject: {ASSM} RP: "DRAGON SWEAT" (myth) By David Shaw
Date: Fri, 30 Aug 2002 08:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


"DRAGON SWEAT"

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

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 which formed 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 decorating
the flag post. A few rays of shimmering sunlight even penetrated the
arrow slits of the Prison Tower, to be instantly snuffed out amidst
the pitch black stench of despair and corrupting flesh. Many more 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 slush of slimy semi-liquid with
even the smallest of wounds on his body would soon be dying a most
painful and poisonous death. The smell on a warm day was truly awful
but since nearly 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 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. Often and anon did he gaze
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 in his own appliances 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. 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 Torturer
reached for his 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
judgement.

"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. To be more exact, he bared his teeth like
a wolf seeing 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 a torture chamber was a mistake. Blood
everywhere afterwards, and all the tools bent out of shape with
overmuch heating. But the Master was a professional too, or at least
he'd always behaved up until now as a career soldier and pain giver.
And as an officer of the Royal Household there was no way he 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. You 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 seven 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 to
me as the head of  Value Added and Value Removed Tax department, 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 through 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 forty 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 root.

"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-At-Arms 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. And how the boy had come out a few weeks later and
found a 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 whether 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 puberty. A hope which had found
triumphant resolution one night when a pack of stray dogs had gotten
into the dragon hut and attacked the dragon and Hal. The resulting
flames had not only burnt down the dragon's 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 the snow in his night shirt, calling for
his pipe to light it from the burning fragments of the huts, and then
for his fiddlers three to provide the music for his pyromaniacal
dance. 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 of early summer. Although, in truth, the dragon only flapped her
wings barely enough to be airborne before  locking them into
outstretched sails and seemingly riding the currents of the air upward
and upward, then gliding across great distances before turning and
turning like a falling leaf in one place 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 Shitbucket's ideas. The one thing which did get them 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 young Shitbuckets 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 beastling's riding net
which had resulted in Hal's recently appointed meeting with the
castration vice. The next item on the Master-At-Arm's schedule was
arresting the still unwitting boy and explaining in great detail about
exactly what was 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 kept watching 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-Arms 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 mystery which had King Argud groaning
with despair at nights for a solution.

"Absolutely the same opinion, my Lord. 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 the war. We'd need a whole flock of them to be
assured of destroying the Emperor's forces in the field and taking 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 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
roundabouts that fallen tree seeking another egg -- a male egg, in all
love? How many spells have the Witches and Warlocks 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 monsters 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-At-Arm'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 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 help us 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 animal 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 are being 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-At-Arms 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, and Hal that was
will go with her to return a clutch of fertile eggs, be it nothing
else he can bring back. Let that dragon go hang, if only he can find
dragon hatchlings enough for us to breed a rise from."

The Master-At-Arms tried to absorb the implications of Sir Tarquin's
statement: "Go? Go where?"

"Out into the wide world, wherever the winds may blow the pair of
them. Over 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 west wards, into the sea mists of
Tintagel. Wherever it be that the great 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 dragoness will be drawn to him like a homing
pigeon to its nest."

"But ... but ... Hal, that was? What do you mean by that, my Lord?"

"Why but think, man! If a dragon or dragons there be anywhere, surely
they will be owned, as here, by the King of those parts. Can we send a
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 one in the Kingdom whom the dragon obeys, 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, but the
Chief Warlock would have none of it. He said it sounded too foolish to
be believed. So we have had to seek further. The Chamberlain said we
should simply use the boy's family name, but the Warlocks 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
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 Warlocks 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 our young Duke and his dragon will leave on his quest. What
think you, Master?" 

"What do I think? To speak truth, my lord, I think the whole council
must have been sniffing on a platter of 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 our kingdom and spend the gold
on fucking serving wenches."

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 stinks of the privy
would have much trouble playing the part of a nobleman. Someone must
go with him, someone to make sure the quest succeeds, someone able to
educate Hal as they travel together, someone who will be respected in
any royal court in any land. 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 still
any desire to see the wide world?"

The Master, the victor of a thousand vicious 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 nest of lawyer spiders. 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."

"She ... " 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 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
watched the innocent victims below, all unaware of what evil was
speeding towards them.

"But what could bring her to this small place, 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, be assured I'll make sure that I'm living
in the other half."

Had Hal been able to overhear this conversation he would have been
frightened witless. One part of it though would have given him a warm
glow of 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 infinite more value than 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 wings 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 a 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 seen 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. But now it seemed able to create affection itself,
uncontrollable affection in all who were touched of its sweat.

By great fortune the first trickles were of a weaker potency than was
to come. 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 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 damped down.

The boy had almost killed himself before collapsing onto the straw and
suffered so much soreness that every movement for days afterwards 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 dragon 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 be as dusky as early
twilight, a million straw motes floating through the intruding rays
and then disappearing from sight in the dimmer 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.

"Come away, my lady," Hal said severely. "There are terrible creatures
hidden in there, and I fear for your safety."

More giggles, and a mass of blonde curly hair popped up out of the
straw: "It's true, you do speak your dragon as though it were your
heart's love. Chelinde told me it was so but I didn't believe her, so
I came to hear myself."

"A good day between you and evil, Caelia," Hal said, little bothered
by the girl's banter. "And is it that long tongued sister of yours who
is hiding with you?"

Another head came out of the straw, more tangled fair hair filled with
stalks and two faces both of a kind, round and rosy, with bright blue
eyes full of mischief. "Why here I am indeed, mighty dragon master,
and have been since we crept in before the first light shone."

"And what of your father? How would our Master-At-Arms deal with me if
he knew you two were here in Josephine's pound?"

"He'll never know," Caelia answered lightly, brushing the problem of
her parent aside, and none of the three with the slightest foreboding
of the dangers closing in on them. "And anyway, I wanted to see the
dragon."

"See it, girl? And haven't you seen it every day for years past, just
as all hereabouts have done?"

"I haven't seen it the way Chelinde has."

Hal himself blushed furiously and unable to stop from casting a guilty
look at Chelinde's face: "And what way would you be talking about,
Caelia?"

The straw pile parted and Caelia emerged from it, pale skinned and
much freckled, hot eyed, wide mouthed, a cupid's bow on the upper lip
which was made for laughing and kissing. Her pleasing shape was akin
that of her elder sister, short in body and leg, but as well curved as
any piece of fruit sinful Adam ever plucked and as fully endowed in
the bust and bottom as Eve herself must have been. The forest green
gown she was wearing was much worn and overdue to be passed down to
another sister, for the buttons on the bodice were all but popping
off, and as her fingers stroked it, removing wisps of straw, she knew
full well what effect she was having on Hal.

"Why, I haven't been for a flight with your dragon as Chelinde has." 

Hal was speechless, not knowing how much Caelia had learnt and whether
she could be trusted to keep quiet. Bad enough she knew as much as she
did already, after he'd sworn Chelinde to silence by all the Gods in
the mountains.

"Chelinde!"

The straw broke apart again like the pool of Venus and Chelinde rose
out of it to stand beside her sister. Two buttons on her bodice were
already undone and Hal remembered -- as he would remember all his
mortal days -- what was still concealed below them, and how Chelinde
had squealed with excitement as he'd taken her full womanhood in his
hands. Now she was back again, her sister with her to boot, and the
pair of them looking like bear cubs that had found the beehive. 

"No need for hard words, Hal. Wouldn't you like to take the both of us
for a flight? Didn't you say yourself I could bring another girl next
time if I wished?"

True it was indeed he'd said some such thing -- or rather, his balls
had said it through his mouth when they possessed him body and soul. 

Had Chelinde not the slightest suspicion of how she'd been tricked
into washing with water tainted with dragon sweat? But why would she
think of such a thing when only Hal himself knew of the sweat? No, she
could know nothing of the magical power at his command and must still
believe her seduction had been fully consummated by a desire as
uncontrollable as Hal's own. But to bring her own sister to another
meeting! Had it truly been Chelinde's idea or that little minx of a
sister? And another of the Master-At-Arm's daughters! Lunacy!

Yet when Hal looked at both pairs of bright eyes, both pairs of red
lips, and at the taut female flesh underneath those gowns he knew the
argument was lost before it was even debated. If Josephine could lift
the three of them into the air he cared not whether Caelia and
Chelinde were the Master-At-Arm's kin or the devil's. He could no more
resist them than refrain from breathing.

"You  ...  you have the price of your flights with you?"

"Here," Chelinde said and held out a small white muslin bag. "I took
them from a batch that our mother has just finished drying."

Hal moved forward, took the bag from her fingers, opened it and
carefully spilt the treasure inside into his hand. Three pieces of
treasure in truth, three small squares of ash speckled potash mixed
with fats and essence of herbs. Three pieces of soap! Hal held one of
the squares to his nose and breathed in the smell from it as if he was
standing by the rose gardens of Paradise. The great head of the dragon
loomed over his shoulder, Josephine sniffing at Hal's hand in her
curiosity. Both girls cowered back as if they feared being bitten

"Ah, you need none of this, my lady. You are not condemned to do my
filthy work. But heed me now." 

Hal carefully pointed to himself, then to Chelinde and Caelia, held an
hand on each side of his head, and flicked two fingers on each one up
and down. Then he made a hooked question sign with one finger: "Can
you carry the three of us aloft, Josephine?"

Outbreaks of pink blossomed along the dragon's belly, running into
each other like spilt paint.  Like her namesake, her coat was always
of many colors. Hal cocked his head in some surprise at the boldness
of the display.

"So sure, hey? I hope you may not be coming it the phoenix. But on
your wings be it. Please to step this way then and oblige."

Hal pointed to the large drinking trough and the well pump beside it.
He plunged his fingers into the water inside the trough, then quickly
pulled them out again and shook his hand to show how cold the water
was. Afterwards he tapped his nose and stood back. The dragon waddled
forward, dipped her snout into the trough and made a coughing noise.
Then she apparently lost interest in the trough and slithered away.
The two girls clung to each other as the water in the middle of the
trough swelled up in a great boiling and moiling, with jets of steam
spurting out of it and waves running along the length of the trough to
splash over the ends.

"Tis nothing to fear, sister," Chelinde reassured Caelia. "Only a
little dragon spit being used to warm the cold water for us. For Hal
says that the dragon cannot abide the smell of mortals close to it
unless we are freshly washed."

Hal had indeed told her that. A lie of course, but a most convenient
one. As soon as the dragon's spit had been quenched he picked up a
stick, plucked the rag from his belt, pushed the rag deep into the
trough, then used the stick to swirl the boiling and colder portions
of water into a comfortably warm mixture. Only he knew what else was
also being spread through the water from the rag.

Two buckets Hal then filled from the trough, put a ladle in each and
carried the buckets to the dragon's washing place. The dragon had
scratched out the earth there and carried in the sacks of sand that
Hal had spread, for the boy hated mud almost as much as he hated dung.


In the middle of the sandpit was a waist high pile of straw from which
Hal drew handfuls of stalks to rub Josephine down with after her daily
bathe. He set the buckets down behind the straw.

"So, do you girls wash yourselves most carefully. You may crouch down
as necessary, though I will have no eyes to spare for you as I prepare
Josephine for her flight." 

Chelinde giggled, and then Caelia too, exchanging knowing looks, and
four rosy cheeks looking even redder. Hal handed one the precious
pieces of soap to each of them.

"Go to it, girls," Hal urged. And if the dragon sweat worked as well
as before, even much diluted, the pair of them would soon enough stop
blushing.

 From the wall Hal took down a net made of ropes, of the finest quality
the castle ropemaker could provide, furnished on the King's direct
orders. To try to ride on Josephine's back was impossible, for along
her spine were a single row of fins, each half the length of a man's
forearm, and each fin tipped with a needle as sharp and as strong as
the tip of an Iberian rapier. Any saddle on her would have been ripped
to shreds within minutes, and her rider with it.

As soon as she saw the net the dragon crouched down eagerly on her
belly, eyeing the door of the dragon pound like a dog waiting to be
released from a kennel. Hal laughed and first fetched four sheepskins
which he impaled in a row on her fins, each skin pressed well down so
the tops of the fins stood proud above them. Then he threw the net
over the sheepskins, carefully arranging the ropes to ensure none were
twisted and each fin projected through one of the wide mesh holes in
the net. The load must be properly spread along Josephine's body and
the sheepskins were to protect the net from chafing, not the dragon's
hide. Her scales had never been pierced to his knowledge, not even
with a pack of pi-dogs snapping and biting at her. They had been like
puppies trying to chew through chain mail.

At each corner of the net was a wooden ring, triple sewn into the
ropes, the rings hanging level with each wing root, front and back.

Hal fetched a second net and laid it flat on the floor, then spread
more sheepskins along the middle of it. "Come, my lady, come."

The dragon rose on her legs, scuttled forward over the second net,
then crouched down again. Like the other net, the belly net had rings
sewn into each corner and Hal had four lengths of rope over his
shoulder, the 'Fria und Odin!' lashings. They were called that because
if they came undone those would be the last despairing words he'd have
time to shout. As he secured each set of rings together Hal totally
ignored the laughter coming from across the straw pile. Only when the
nets were safely secure above and below Josephine did he turn and look
towards Chelinde and Caelia. And as he did so his lungs seemed
suddenly emptied of air.

Chelinde was standing behind the straw pile, visible from the hips up
and wearing nothing but her necklace of painted wooden beads. Her
expression was one of pure mischief as she rubbed a piece of soap over
and around her large tits, showing particular care to the dark plums
on the tip of each wet and wobbling mound.  Behind her was Caelia, not
even wearing as much as a necklace, and grinning at Hal as if he were
the castle fool. He stepped towards the straw, mouth agape, hardly
knowing what he was doing. Caelia laughed in delight at his obvious
stupefaction, then reached around Chelinde and began massaging the
trails of soap on her sister's breasts into a lather. The front of
Hal's breeches jerked upwards as quickly as a disturbed viper rousing
itself. Both of the girls giggled anew at the visible proof of their
effect on him.

"Come on, Hal, time for your wash as well," Chelinde called out.
"We've water enough left for you."

He stumbled forward, as dazed as a man hit with a club in a tavern
brawl. The more he tried to undo his jerkin, the bigger the toggles
seemed to get and the smaller the leather loops. But when he was
behind the straw pile the girls crowded close to him, each taking on
the task of loosening his clothing. And neither of them wearing a
stitch.

The smell of the soap on their warm bodies was the finest aroma ever
in his life's experience, even better than roasting pork. And when he
found four pillows pressed against him, four pillows of white flesh
sprinkled with freckles, pillows softer than any on the King's bed, he
nearly fainted.

The sisters had no more interest in teasing Hal's weaknesses though,
only in exposing his strength. Each of them held onto a sleeve of his
jerkin as they removed the dirty garment, and then Caelia pulled his
shirt out of his breeches as Chelinde undid the wooden buttons at the
neck.

"Ha, you're too tall for us, Hal," she chuckled, her breath caressing
the hair at the base of his throat. "Kneel down, dragon master."

He would have jumped into a bonfire if they'd asked if of him -- even
into the moat, perhaps. On his knees in the damp sand, he held up his
arms again and his shirt was lifted high and over his hands. Directly
in front of his face as this happened was Chelinde's loins and the
blonde patch of hair set above her sweet cleft. Hal pushed his head
forward and his tongue further forward yet, the tip of it not quite
reaching its target as Chelinde laughed and retreated half a step,
keeping her hands clasped around Hal's raised wrists. 

"La, Caelia, this monster is as fearsome as his dragon. He wants to
eat me!"

Her sister squealed in mock alarm: "Odin save us! What are we to do?"

"Never fear. I shall sacrifice myself to save you. Hal, lie down and
roll over on your back."

He did so, stared up with bulging eyes and saw Chelinde appear over
his face, each of her feet almost touching one of his ears, her smooth
legs and exquisitely shaped thighs wide apart, right up to the furrow
of the delectable man trap between them. She brushed some strands of
loose hair away from her knowing eyes, then looked along the length of
his body to Caelia.

"Sister, while I hold him down, do you remove his breeches and wash
him most thoroughly."

Caelia giggled: "How can you hold down such a beast?"

"Watch and learn."

Chelinde lowered herself, putting a knee where a foot had been before.
The entrance to the promised land filled Hal's gaze, and then nuzzled
against his lips. He snorted in delight and tongued away her hot flesh
like a cat at spilt milk. The fat bulges of Chelinde's rump quivered
in response, pressing the join between them down onto his nose, until
he was compelled to put a hand under each buttock to help support her
weight. 

It was something like death Hal decided, in some far corner of his
mind which still had a measure of calm. The last rites of pre-burial
washing and cleaning being performed on the body he could no longer
see but still feel. Half suffocated, blood pounding in his ears, and
above him the moans and lamentations of a grieving female. Well, moans
anyway, and warm water splashing over him, and a feeling beyond
compare of four busy little hands rubbing soap all over his grimy
skin. 

They went everywhere they could reach: chest, stomach, legs, feet,
Caelia washing his soles as Chelinde bounced up and down on his face,
scratching at his flanks with her finger nails. Until all that was
left uncleaned was his jutting cock and tight drawn balls. Then the
ladle was emptied over his parts, soap swiftly applied by twenty
vigorously active fingers and thumbs, all of them seemingly rubbing
his foreskin simultaneously and Hal was writhing as if he was on hot
coals as Chelinde rode on the tip of his tongue. She let out a great
cry, and another, and another, and then a fearful scream. Suddenly the
girl off his face, sprawled on the sand, knocked there by a push of
the dragon's head, and Josephine's eyes were staring into Hal's,
seeking assurance that nothing was amiss. A string of filthy curses
came from Chelinde's mouth in her anger at being interrupted during
her moments of satisfaction.

"Damn your eyes, be quiet, girl. You'll upset Josephine. Patience for
only a few minutes more,  my lady, and we'll fly."

"Damn you and damn your vile dragon," snapped Chelinde in a spat of
temper. "Get down on your hands and knees, Hal, and seek my
forgiveness."

Hal knew better than to argue with any girl gripped with the sort of
passion that Chelinde was in right then. He did as she bade him and
was instantly gripped with passion himself as she knelt behind him,
put a hand between his legs and rubbed his cock as if he were a
stallion being put to a mare.

"Wash his back, Caelia."

"Wash his back yourself. I want to hold him by the tupper -- 'tis my
turn."

Chelinde laughed: "So be it, sister. Here, get down by his side and
take whatever you may seize on."

Caelia crouched down, put her hand underneath Hal and caught hold of
his shaft. She stayed there, holding him like a groom holding a
waiting horse as Chelinde poured more water over Hal and rubbed soap
over his back and legs. The effect of the dragon sweat was passing
into his own body now, and every time the younger sister moved her
tightened fist up and down his cock he scratched out holes in the wet
sand and wailed. Caelia was delighted with the power she had found in
the palm of her strong little hand.

"Ah, Hal, you men may be masters most of the time, but not always,
hey?"

Again, in that faraway corner of his mind, Hal wondered at being
called a man. Surely he was still only a boy in age, even if he had a
man's lusts? But whatever he was, this was no time to think about it.

"Let me go, Caelia. 'Tis time we flew."

"Rinse him off, Chelinde."

The older girl emptied the two buckets over Hal's back. He shook the
water from his hair like a dog emerging from a stream, then staggered
to his feet.

"Bring your clothes."

He grabbed up his own, ran to the side of the dragon, pulled out the
side of the bottom net and dropped his filthy rags into it. Then he
took Chelinde's clothes from her hand and did the same with them,
followed by Caelia's.

"Chelinde, show Caelia how to get into the net."

The naked girl moved against the dragon's side, in front of the left
wing root. She reached up and seized handholds in the top net, put her
feet into mesh holes on the bottom net and scrambled upwards with the
nimbleness of a squirrel climbing a tree. As soon as her feet were at
the upper edge of the lower net Hal bit her lightly on each side of
her rump. Chelinde stopped moving and hung giggling as Hal pulled out
all the slack in the net and guided her feet into the narrow gap. His
hands reached up, underneath her arms and helped her to slip down
between the belly net and Josephine's smooth scaled side. Once inside
the net she lay on her back on top of the row of sheepskins, her face
and teats scarcely half an arrow's length below the belly of the
beast.

"Caelia, do you still want to fly?

The pink and swaying girl almost elbowed him aside in her eagerness to
follow her sister into the net. Only this time, after Hal had nipped
at her buttocks like a playful dog, he left her in place as he put his
hand up between her legs and rubbed his top finger along the outer
lips of her maidenhood. Caelia's knuckles went white as she wriggled
around with the feverish energy of a landed fish.

"Hal! Hal!" she cried out.

A hand came out of one of the net holes. It squeezed Hal's rod, then
rubbed it.

"What are you doing with my vexing sister, Hal?"

"Why, nothing but returning her a favor and showing that
master-is-as-master-does. Down you come, Caelia."

In a few seconds the belly net was full of girls. Full enough for
Hal's modest wants anyway, as overwhelming as they were. He rushed
towards the door, Josephine following behind on tipclaw, with squeals
coming from beneath her as the slung net bumped on the ground a time
or two. Hal removed the bar from the doors, pushed one open a head's
width and then looked out and about. 

There was no one else in sight. Only the glint of a polished helmet on
top of the Keep where a sentry stood guard. Hal partially opened the
doors, but not much, being careful to keep his nakedness from view.
Josephine needed little enough room to slip through anyway, she was as
lithe as a stoat. When he returned to her side flickers of purple
along it showed her eagerness to lift off.

With the skill of practice he hauled himself up, wriggled his toes and
then his feet into the belly net and let himself down handhold by
handhold. But as his waist slipped past the top of the net a warm palm
moved up the inside of his left leg and then held his cock. Something
damp and warm slithered around his cock's helm as if it were testing
the taste of it. Probably it tasted of soap, but whether or not, the
flavor must have been deemed acceptable, for a mouth followed the
tongue. A mouth that spread itself around the helm and lower yet,
sucking at him fiercely. Hal gasped and clenched at the top net.
Somebody was paying him back in his own coin, and he had little doubt
who it was. He could see a string of muscles behind Josephine's left
front leg tighten as the dragon trembled with eagerness to fly. Trying
to tell her to wait further was like ordering a dog to sit still as a
coney ran past.

"Let go, you silly bitch!"

Josephine took a step, a leap, a bound, a girl's voice squealed, his
cock was unmouthed and unhanded, he slipped into the net, down and
sideways, on top of warm and trembling bodies which hung onto him as
if they were possessed, the net flexed upwards as Josephine cleared
the hut and leapt into the air, his head hit the dragon's belly, a
curly haired head bounced against his chest in turn, a soft belly
rising up to slam against his cock and balls, a groan was forced out
of his mouth by pain, the great wings lashed at the air.

Then, as suddenly as the dragon had first lunged forward, the net
steadied and swung as gently as a hammock slung between two oak trees.
A breeze blew in along the dragon's belly like water flowing down a
river bed, the great wings appearing and disappearing on either side
in upward and downward beats. As they swung down into view with the
regularity of sails turning on a windmill harder gusts of wind
simultaneously slapped into the net from either side, the wind waves
clapping together as though applauding Josephine's efforts.

Staring down, Hal could see that the beastling's boasts about being
able to lift the weight of all three passengers seemed well founded.
Already the ground was as far underneath him as it would be if he was
standing on the castle ramparts. Both of the girls were squealing in
fear and delight and Hal cursed them as the dragon passed over the
town huts: men, women and children alike stopping and lifting their
faces upwards like frogs surprised in a well.

"Be quiet, you silly bitches, they can hear you down there," he
snarled, trying to quiet his passengers as quietly as he could himself
but probably still too loudly.

Hal knew well enough how easy it was to hear even the smallest sounds
from the ground when flying low above it, and also, he supposed, that
the opposite was true. The only small mercy was that Josephine was
still beating her wings, so perhaps the voices had been muffled by
their drum roll. At least none of the staring eyes below could pierce
the bottom covering of sheepskins which he and the girls were lying
on.

But worse was to come as Josephine's wings stiffened and she began
turning in a tight circle as if chasing her own tail, one wing tip
high up, the other held low, akin to a man stooping sideways with a
yoke across his shoulders to hook on a bucket. As Hal stared along the
underside of the lowered wing the thatched roofs it pointed at seemed
to turn in circles as though they were on a giant potter's wheel. 

 From some of them the smoke of cooking fires was still rising from
holes in the roofs, roofs still so close below he could not only see
the smoke but taste it in his mouth as well. Then the dragon's shadow
was moving away from the huts as Josephine kept dancing widdershins in
the air, slowly getting higher, and moving just as slowly across the
ground as she followed the air currents -- back towards the castle.

There was nothing Hal could do about that. A dragon could not be
ridden like a horse, nor yet guided like one. To even try to tell the
beastling how to lift herself into the sky would be like a blind rider
trying to follow a path by pulling on his mount's reins. Josephine
alone decided when to circle and when to fly straight -- and only when
she was high and flying straight could he seek to alter her
destination by tapping on her belly on the side he wished her to
favor. Down here amongst the sparrows she had no interest at all in
his desires, she flew entirely according to her own mind. And whatever
it was that was going on in the dragon's mind, at least he she wasn't
being distracted as much as he was, because Chelinde and Caelia had
already become used enough to flying for the dragon sweat to regain
its power over them.

One of the girls still partway underneath him had wriggled her way
down to his loins and was forcing him to lift himself up by nipping at
his sides with her sharp nails. Her tongue had started licking around
his balls as her sister had begun licking Hal's feet.

Again that distant part of his mind which was still unaffected by the
dragon's sweat and by Chelinde and Caelia's enticements warned Hal to
stay low lest the girls were seen by the sentry atop the Keep. It was
sensible advice and as capable of holding back his dragon sweat raised
lusts as a toddler was of penning a mad bull. He rolled over onto his
back and Caelia was dragging herself on top of him in an instant.

"Hal!"

Her mouth was against his, her tongue into his throat like an hedge
hog sucking out an egg, the pressure of her body forcing him deeper
into the sheepskins as she more than filled the gap between him and
Josephine. Odin, keep those lashings secure! Caelia's tits were so
squashed between his body and hers that he could feel their softness
spilling out onto his arms, yet even so she writhed against him as if
she was a mating snake, his straining cock rubbing uselessly against
the girl's cleft. And then a hand took hold of it and did his work for
him -- Chelinde was guiding him into her sister's cunt. 

Hal took his mouth from Caelia's, gasped, and felt himself slide all
the way inside her, every tiny muscle clamped around his cock holding
him tightly and rubbing against his flesh as though it was plunged
into a sack of baby eels. The boy shouted out his delight as Caelia
squealed and jerked herself against him even more frantically. One of
the sheepskins was pulled aside and Hal saw they were a little higher
than the Keep but hardly more than a short arrow shot from it and the
sentry. 

He was a tall, thin man with his hand shielding his eyes and the
pinhead speck of reason still left in Hal's head cursed as it
recognized the figure and stance of Will Spearshaker, a long limbed,
long sighted and long tongued fellow who delighted in spreading gossip
around the town. He was a particular nuisance because the less facts
there were for his stories, the more imaginative he became in devising
them. Thank the Gods nobody had ever taught him to write or he would
have been dangerous.

But all this trivia went out of Hal's thoughts as Caelia's cunt
caressed him even more tightly than Chelinde's ever had. Then all his
thoughts turned into fading vapor when Chelinde's fingernails
scratched underneath his balls and as Caelia screamed triumphantly,
knowing she was no longer a girl. The sweat from her face was falling
on his, her eyes were wide open, perhaps seeing him, perhaps not, and
her hands were clenched into the netting above his shoulders as she
slapped her belly against his. Then he knew his seed was spurting and
he clutched Caelia's shoulders as his loosed himself into her like an
overdrawn long bow. Another scream and her mouth was by the side of
his throat, biting into him as every muscle in her body went as rigid
as Josephine's wings. Eventually she gave out one last cry, sprawling
on top of him as if she was a doe exhausted unto death by hunting
dogs.

The net swayed and groaned itself in the lashings as Josephine's wings
leveled and she flew towards the mountains. The advantage in height
she had gained was being quickly whittled down as the rising ground
came closer. Hal eyed the mass of approaching treetops with fear but
also with great pleasure. Pleasure, of course, from what had happened
between Caelia and himself, and how she had been dealt with so
satisfactorily, but perhaps even more purely distilled pleasure from
simply being alive, in breathing the pure, pine scented air and seeing
the world in a way no other mortal could. Happiness seemed to be
springing from the depths of his soul as naturally as the streams he
could see below were trickling down the hill sides.  Then Josephine's
left wing dipped and she was turning and rising  once more, at the
same moment as Chelinde began licking the bottom of his feet again.

Surely, he thought, surely nothing could spoil an experience like
this?

Unfortunately for Hal, the answer was yes, something could spoil his
flight, his day, and his life and it was coming towards him from over
those blue-misted mountain peaks which made a perfect backdrop to the
summer's day scenery of Giant's Pass.

A golden eagle circling amidst the highest of the peaks was the first
to see the interloper. As black as a raven's wing, flying as fast as a
diving hawk, zig zagging between barren rock outcrops as if for the
pleasure of the twists and turns, now rapidly growing in size until it
could be seen to be as big as the eagle itself. The king of birds was
also emperor of the mountains, a fierce eyed defender of its territory
from anything which flew, even if it was something unlike anything in
the eagle's previous experience. The giant bird prepared to stoop down
in challenge. Prepared, then hesitated. Unlike a great many other
monarchs it had very sharp eyes and a well developed sense of
preservation. And there were things about this strange black creature
which suggested that it was much better left alone. 

The eagle had no words to shape its feelings exactly. But had it
possessed them, 'evil' and 'dangerous' would have been the ones which
would have been uppermost in describing them. Strongly coupled with
another feeling that things which managed to fly without wings were an
abomination to nature.

So the majestic bird decided on an alternative course of action. It
looked away from the black thing and decided not to look back until
there was every chance that it had flown past and disappeared. It even
ignored the distant whine of the passing broomstick. Which in some
ways it was a pity, for it was masterpiece of its kind.

To operate a witch's broomstick requires many years of training in
both symbolic magic and in a deep understanding and continuous mental
control of extremely complicated algorithms designed to keep reality
at bay. There is no way in which any outsiders can learn such
algorithms unless they become practicing witches or politicians.

The broomstick itself must remain in some way reminiscent of its
origins, but can be much modified to suit the owner's personality.
This one had the pillion seat sized bundle of twigs but a broom handle
much cut down in length. A special edition H-D (Hag-Driven) chopper
with customized high rise crossbar handles carved from a hangman's
gibbet.

This brush was being flown solo, but carried a bed roll and two
massive leather saddlebags with brass studs marking out the owner's
initials: 'MlF'. The very same letters which Sir Tristan had indicated
so discreetly to the Master-At-Arms. It would not be true to say that
the witch's name was well known to her friends, for she had none. But
her many enemies knew all about Morgana le Fay. And perhaps the
greatest reason for her multitude of ill-wishers was evident in the
words marked out with more brass studs on the back of her leather
jacket: "COVEN CHEATERS".

It was Morgana's dykie gang which had led a revolt against the
established order of witch precedence in their own coven. A revolt
which had attracted many supporters: promotion is slow in an
organization where senior members live many hundreds of years. But in
the final battle tradition and numbers had won and most of Morgana's
faction were now settling down to even more discontented lifestyles as
bats and mice. Morgana alone had fought clear and was realist enough
to know that a lot of melted snow would have to flow down these
mountains before she could begin another campaign in the witch wars.
In the meantime she would amuse herself by making life as miserable as
possible for as many mortals as possible, especially the male ones.

The body she had handcrafted for the purpose was ideally suited to its
task, designed to attract the absolute best of that breed to her like
hounds smelling blood. After all, there was no longer any point in
bothering with female lovers if she was going into a world run by men.
But Morgana was far too clever simply to make herself look beautiful.
Beautiful she was indeed, but that was only a part of the
presentation, for everything about her newly minted body was a walking
challenge to the male ego. And never had she encountered male egos as
inflated as those dressed in armor, wielding swords and calling
themselves knights.

These were men who had never known anything but submissive damsels
dressed in hampering gowns, silly hats and wimples. Women brought up
from birth to believe themselves as something rather less important to
men than horses or hounds. Women who knew -- knew absolutely -- they
existed only to serve, whether God as nuns, or their men as child
carriers and domestic slaves. This was the state of the world, and at
the first sight of Morgana the men who ruled it were dumbfounded. The
largest of them stood lower than the top of her vivid red hair, none
of their shoulders were as wide as hers, and the sight of her tightly
cut leather jacket and breeches dropped every jaw. Firstly, that any
woman would dare to dress in such style and, secondly, because she had
created for herself a figure which could lure a saint down from out of
a stained glass window.

Every one of those proud knights was scandalized and outraged at
Morgana's dress, her presence, her style, her insolent manner of
speech and -- above all -- because of her powers. Easy enough to
accuse an harmless old woman of being a witch and pass a pleasant
afternoon dunking her in a cesspit or rolling her through the streets
in a spike lined barrel. But a real witch, a witch who could knock
down a war horse with one punch, or tie a man's entrails into knots
without even touching him, well, that was a curse of a different
color. So the knights muttered in anger and, deprived of the use of
their swords, turned to the only other weapons they could think of to
conquer an overly proud woman who challenged all their beliefs.

It was a game which Morgana delighted in playing. Any man who was good
looking enough was welcome to share her bed and if he satisfied her,
he was allowed to walk -- or stagger -- away from the tournament.
There were few such winners though, and nailed along her broomstick
handle were a growing collection of small shriveled objects which had
once been the most treasured possessions of  fiercely proud knights
who had jousted with her: jousted, but not satisfied, and had
forfeited their manhoods as the price of disappointing Morgana le Fay.
Not for nothing had Morgana carefully studied the standard treatise on
witch-mortal relationships,  "The Male Eunuch And How To Make Him Into
One."

Over the mountains but very far from over the hill, Morgana dipped the
nose of her customised broom and gathered speed in the direction of
Giant's Pass Castle. She knew a lot about many things. What she didn't
know were how the fates were chuckling at the rendezvous they'd
appointed for her.

Nor were the fates alone in chuckling. Hal was as near to heaven as he
ever expected to be whilst still breathing, as far above his normal
stinking life as a privy emptier as the King was above him. The King!
Hal wouldn't have changed places with the Emperor. The trees which had
seemed so close had shrunk to the size of porcupine quills, the
rushing mountain streams to silvery snail tracks. The entire length of
Giant's Pass was his to look at in a single leisurely glance from over
Chelinde's right shoulder as he thrust his cock into her with equal
leisure. 

With one sister already shagged he was now calm and relaxed enough to
spin out the task of giving the other long, steady strokes that had
Chelinde sobbing in gratitude. Not that Hal wasn't grateful in his
turn to Caelia for the way she was busily licking his balls as he
fucked her sister. It was exactly the kind of family support which
helped families grow.

Hal changed his position slightly, grunting as he found a new angle at
which to plunge into Chelinde's welcoming loins. Now he was looking
over her left shoulder and could see the dragon's midday shadow almost
directly below, skimming over cultivated fields as Josephine glided
along the line of the valley. A minute more and she would be directly
over the castle. A vision came into Hal's mind's eye, a vision in
glorious detail, a vision of that bastard of a Master-At-Arms shouting
and bullying everybody in sight, and totally unaware that two of his
daughters were being fucked directly above his head by one of the
Shitbucket clan!

So inspired was Hal by the thought that he suddenly found himself on
the short strokes, the net flexing like a rope bridge underneath a
galloping horse and heaving Chelinde back up against him until his own
back was thumping against Josephine's scales. Like a village dance
fiddler Caelia instantly changed her own timing to meet Hal's new
pace, licking him feverishly and her fingers scratching at his rump.

"Pull out and put down!"

The movement in the net instantly stopped, except for the momentum
left in the net. Three heads flicked over in gaping disbelief. Hal's
brain simply refused to accept what he was seeing, a tall man in tight
fitting leather clothes with long black hair streaming back from
underneath a silvery helmet decorated with wings. Then Hal saw the
arched eyebrows, the glittering eyes, the perfection of nose and mouth
and knew he was looking at a woman -- he knew it even before his eyes
were seeing the massive curves of her breasts. A woman on what was a
broom, as strange a broom as could be imagined but a broom, flying
along as though it had every right to be in the sky with all the
creatures which Odin had given a home there. A witch! A real witch, a
witch beautiful beyond words and so close to him he could see the very
dimple in her chin.

"Put down!"

She appeared angry, her eyes apparently aimed directly at Hal. One of
her hands jerked down towards the ground, as though indicating that
she wanted Josephine to land. She also seemed to be having trouble
flying one handed, wobbling  from side to side, the handle of the
brush gradually lifting higher as though it was uncomfortable at the
dragon's slower pace. Hal had another sudden vision, of an accidental
collision between Josephine and the witch. The dragon's wing might be
damaged, or the net torn. He suddenly realized he was more terrified
of the death drop below than of anything else, even a flying
sorceress.

"Fuck off, you stupid witch!"

It was from there that things went very wrong very quickly. The witch
aimed her hand at Hal with fingers extended. A flicker of light showed
around them like a glimpse of summer lightning and Hal was writhing in
agony, as if a thousand red hot needles were jabbing all over his
body. And as he screamed he heard the girls screaming too. And Hal
also heard Josephine bellow in pain.

Witches travel a lot on broomsticks but rarely use them as fighting
platforms. Which is understandable. Just persuading a broomstick to
fly from A to B with U on it is hard work enough, without trying to
make the task more difficult by encouraging other broom jockeys to
knock you off what is a pretty precarious perch to begin with. And so
it had been aeons since most witches had encountered anything else in
the sky which was a threat to them, the occasional bird strike
excepted.

Had she known more about dragons, Morgana would not have been
surprised by the way the dragon tilted its wings and instantly applied
them as airbrakes. She would have known how maneuverable a dragon's
light wing loading made it. Most of all she would have known that the
last thing you do with an angry dragon is to get in front of it while
still travelling in the same direction. Because that offers the dragon
a simple nil deflection aiming solution right up your twigs.

Hal felt Josephine's cough through the beastling's belly muscles. Just
the one but it was more than enough. The spitball exploded directly on
the back of the broomstick in a giant yellow unfolding petal
surrounded by a ring of black smoke which instantly blew away.
Fragments came flying back through the air towards Josephine, a
burning unrolling bedroll, a saddlebag shedding a myriad of colored
lights and smells as the lotions, potions and spells inside flared up.
Then a coal dark figure with outstretched limbs whirling head over
tail -- literally, head over tail. The giant tom cat slammed into the
front of the net and hung there, claws fully extended, spitting with
anger and green eyes blazing.

The broomstick itself was spiraling down leaving a thin trail of black
smoke behind it. Defeating reality and gravity with constantly
replicated mental algorithms is never easy, even for the most
strong-willed of witches. It's especially difficult to concentrate
your mental powers while sitting on a bundle of burning twigs. Which
was probably why the witch was dropping much faster than was safe and
apparently heading straight for the castle walls.

So indeed was Josephine, her wings furled as she came swooping down
after her prey. Her entire body had turned a vivid shade of red, a
color Hal had only seen her display once before, when the pi-dogs had
attacked her. It meant that Josephine was spitting mad, and a spitting
mad dragon is bad news.

In this case bad news could be described for her opponent as ending up
with a choice between a high speed impact with several thousand tons
of stone wall or bailing out into an open sewer. Even a witch has to
make difficult decisions sometimes. But no one who witnessed the scene
had anything but total admiration for Morgana's timing: her cat
couldn't have fallen more neatly. She dropped off the broomstick while
she was still twenty paces or so away from the outer edge of the moat,
calculating exactly how far she would be flung by her forward speed.
The stick hit the wall and splintered at exactly the same time as
there was a disturbance on the moat's surface. It couldn't be
described as a splash, not in that substance: more like a heavy stone
being dropped into a cow pat.  

"Oh, Odin!" Hal wailed in despair as a brown covered head and
shoulders emerged from the hideous depths of the moat. A witch, a
powerful witch, a bad powerful witch, a bad powerful witch who was up
to her neck in shit because of him. Things couldn't get any worse.

There was movement on the lowered drawbridge. It seemed like every
soldier in the castle was streaming out along it, all carrying
crossbows, the Master-At-Arms leading them. And beside him was the
gangling figure of Will Spearshaker, an accusing arm pointing skywards
at Josephine. An indication followed by the soldiers aiming their
crossbows at her as the Master-At-Arms shook his fist in rage. Oh,
Gods, now things couldn't get worse. 

Josephine's wings began beating the air as she hovered low over the
moat, apparently savoring her moment of victory over the bitch witch
in the ditch. Hal rolled onto his back and thumped his fists against
her belly.

"Fly, my lady, fly. Leave this accursed place and we'll never return."

Both of the girls began wailing in despair at the idea of being taken
away from their home; if they thought they could find any mercy from
their father by staying they had much higher hopes than Hal had. The
cat seemed to be deeply unhappy as well, going berserk in its efforts
to reach in far enough through the net to rip open the boy's face.

"Fly, Josephine, fly!"

The witch raised her hand and again there was a flicker of lightning
that was somehow there and not there at the same time. The
supernatural disturbance ran around the left front net rings and they
had gone as if transformed into smoke rings. Hal actually saw the
lashings fall clear, still tied and untouched, before the corner of
the net fell open. Even as he tried to accept what had happened the
right front rings vanished as well, the front of the belly net falling
down as if to pitch them all into empty air. 

Chelinde and Caelia screamed in fright, twisting around exactly as Hal
was doing and clutching at the sagging net with hooked fingers. Hal
screamed too, not only for fear but because the cat was still hanging
on the opposite side of the net and now at last it had him within claw
reach. The first slash took a deep bloody furrow out of the top of his
leg, barely missing his balls. Hal was as terrified as he could be,
and more angry than he'd ever dreamed possible. He drew back his fist
and drove it with every shred of strength in his body onto the tip of
the cat's nose. There was a scream which was louder than Chelinde and
Caelia combined and the cat was falling, turning, spreading its legs,
slapping down into the weed speckled crust of the moat, disappearing
from view, except for a hand's breath of black tail sticking straight
up into the air. But the screams continued.

It was the witch, her hands clasped to her face and apparently in
agony. Hal had no time to worry about her. Josephine was landing,
letting the net fall slowly to the ground. Hal hit the grass first,
crawled out from under the net, looked up and saw the Master-At-Arms
staring at his daughter's bare bodies hanging from the net before they
tumbled into the grass as well.

"Kill the little cunt!"

Only the front rank of the soldiers could aim at Hal because he was
down so low, and they were hampered by having the Master-At-Arms and
Will Spearshaker in front of them. Josephine coughed and spat, the
Master-At-Arms burst into flames like a wax doll dropped into a fire
and Will Spearshaker was running for the moat with his breeches burnt
off and his chain mail glowing red. When he jumped into the mire a
cloud of evil smelling steam shot up around his head. The other
soldiers gaped at him, then at the calcinated remains of the
Master-At-Arms and finally -- and reluctantly -- at the dragon again.
There was an unmistakable air about them of warriors for the working
day definitely deciding that it was quitting time.

Hal seized his chance: "Drop those crossbows, you bastards, or I'll
flame mail the lot of you!"

Some of the palace guard fingered their weapons and looked sullen, but
there were good reasons for standing still. The first was the pile of
ash where the Master-At-Arms had stood, the second was Will
Spearshaker's cries of mingled pain and relief as the moat cooled his
hot armor. The third and fourth good reasons were the gleam in each of
the dragon's eyes as her snout swung back and forth across their ranks
in continued threat. Hal followed up his advantage.

"Two of you, get your cloaks off and give them to the girls." 

Hal's hand pointed towards Caelia and Chelinde, huddled together in
their nakedness and staring at their father's powdery remains gently
blowing away in the wind. An upsetting sight, slightly softened by the
fact that the Master-At-Arms had always been a total bastard to
everyone who'd had the misfortune of knowing him, especially his own
family. But before anybody could move a patch of air between the
soldiers and Hal clouded over as though a tiny fog patch was forming
there, no bigger than a man -- and forming into the ghostly outline of
a man's figure.

An old man, a hunched man, a man with no hair above his ears and a
white beard down to his belt, holding a long staff and wearing furs
that belonged to no animal that had ever prowled in these mountains.
Gaunt Gregory, Chief warlock to King Argud, somehow appearing to them
all as a shadow of his real self. Instinctively, every soldier glanced
at the castle, where the warlock had lived as long as any could
remember, as homebound in his tower chamber as a miller's donkey
tethered to a grinding stone. 

There, on the nearest wall, was the hulking figure of the King, waving
his arms in great excitement, and beside him stood the dwarfish
figure of his warlock. They saw the smaller man lifting his staff, as
tall as himself, and point it down towards the moat. At the same
moment the warlock's apparition also raised its staff and pointed. At
the place where both staffs were aimed was a head and flailing arms,
the arms desperately struggling to support their owner's head above
the filthy ooze of the moat. None of the witch's supernatural skills
seemed to avail her now as she fought to keep her mouth and nose out
of the squalid slime she was slowly sinking into.

Gaunt Gregory's words came not through Hal's ears, but like something
felt in the twilight time between sleeping and waking, some message
shining from snows on a mountain peak no mortal could scale: "Save
her, boy, save her! The King commands it!"

Not only was Hal made aware of the warlock's appeal, so were the
soldiers. They stared at him, then snapped to attention, as though the
fools expected Hal to start drilling them. What orders did they think
a bollock naked shitbucket emptier could give them? Yet suddenly he
was doing exactly that.

"Who's senior rank leader?"

A gray mustached veteran clapped a hand to his cross-bow. "I am, boy."


Corporal Clint O'The East Wood would have died rather than take orders
from Hal but that wasn't an option on offer. Subjects who failed both
the King and the Chief warlock in important matters suffered far worse
fates than simply ceasing to exist. 

"Get that net. Use your swords to cut it apart. Tie three of the long
lengths of rope together. Then give me one end with a loop in it. I'm
going to try to walk out far enough on Josephine's tail to throw it to
the witch. Keep hold of the other end and when the witch has hold of
the loop, haul her in. You understand?"

"Aye, boy, aye."

It wasn't in the Corporal's training to throw a weapon onto the ground
but he put down his crossbow with the greatest possible speed, pulled
out his blade and went at the net as though it were a living enemy.
Hal turned to Josephine, pointed at the witch, and then at the
dragon's tail.

"Can I walk along your tail to help the woman?"

Josephine growled, then snorted, a hint of flames as insubstantial as
the warlock's ghost flickering at her nozzles. The dragon was usually
in a good humor, but apparently not where witches were concerned. Not
witches who handled their broomsticks like a tipsy gipsy aloft on an
unbroken colt, nor yet witches who treated anything on the wing as
unfortunate flying objects. Josephine was still deeply in the grip of
sky rage.  

"Please, Josephine, the King and the Chief warlock have commanded me
to help the witch. Can you help me?"

A sickly shade of green appeared on her skin: Hal understood her
doubts only too well. The further he moved down her tail, the harder
it would be for Josephine to support his weight on it. 

"Well, the best you can do, my lady. And quickly!"

Her colors flickered and changed on her coat of scales again, and then
she was backing her haunches over the edge of the moat, then her back
legs, reluctance showing in every moment as she came into contact with
the filth. Her tail she held as high as she could until she was half
lying on the bank and half floating in the moat, and then she let it
drop straight down on top of the partly dissolved turds floating in
the scum. Hal noted with surprise the depths and intensity of the
shades Josephine was now displaying: he couldn't imagine where a nice
young female dragon had learnt so much bad language. Then his
attention was broken by two men-at-arms running up to him with the
looped end of a rope between them. With them was Corporal Clint.

"All ready, sir."

"Get your men to on the other end and to be ready to haul like
carthorses. I need a man here at the moat's edge to put a turn of rope
around one of the dragon's back spikes if you need her help in hauling
the witch out."

"Aye, boy." Corporal Clint O'The East Wood turned and pointed to one
of the soldiers. "You, when I shout, go ahead -- make my belay."

Hal grabbed the loop and stepped onto the base of Josephine's tail.
Which was a big problem itself. The needle sharp spikes that ran down
her back extended along her tail as well, gradually getting smaller
but no blunter. Right here they were as long as dagger blades and he
had to step between them with his toes pointed inward like a pigeon's.
An uncomfortable position, rendered much more uncomfortable by the
thought that if he slipped and fell astride the dragon's tail the
spikes would instantly make sure that Caelia and Chelinde would not
only be the first girls he'd ever fucked, they'd be the last ones as
well.

"Fria and Odon, Fria and Odon, help me, please!"

He began moving. One step, two steps, three, with the slime of the
moat lapping around his ankles, the dragon's scales becoming slippery
underfoot. Exactly as they had both feared, the further along
Josephine's tail he went, the harder it was for her to keep it up
above the moat's surface.

Hal stopped to regain his swaying balance and stared slack jawed at
what was happening out in the moat. For now the warlock's mirage was
hovering directly in front of the witch, arm and staff outstretched
above her. 

Somehow he seemed to be supporting her because both her arms were
raised above the mire, one pointing towards the castle and one towards
Hal. And close to the castle wall her broomstick was rising again.
Splintered and broken in the middle, the front half drooping down, its
bundle of twigs mostly burnt off, spattered in filth, but still rising
up into the air as lightly as a feather above a fireplace. The
broomstick stopped at knee height above the moat and swung around as
slowly as a rusty weathercock touched by a summer breeze. 

Then, close to Hal, a great bubble of air burst amidst the floating
scum, hard by where the witch's cat was still buried, the tom's tail
marking its last resting place. Hal hoped so anyway, since it was his
fist which had sent the feline familiar tumbling down into the deep
shite, and the memory of its malevolent green eyes would haunt his
nightmares for many nights to come. Yet even as he looked the thickly
furred tail began to disappear into the moat as if it were a plant
which was shrivelling instead of growing. Perhaps it meant the final
destruction of the savage creature which had torn his flesh and nearly
done much worse to his balls.

As the tail vanished more bubbles broke on the surface of the moat
like farts from a carthorse's bum, each one releasing a tiny rainbow
of color and smells which were far worse than any privy bucket Hal had
ever emptied. Then a head appeared in amongst them and green eyes
opened which turned towards Hal in pure hatred again. Yet this wasn't
a cat which had surfaced, but a toad: a toad as big as the cat had
been, a toad of brown and yellow, with masses of red tinged warts and
spikes, an apparition so unlike anything in nature that one look was
enough to know it as a perverse parody of anything the Gods had
intended to live on earth. 

Hal shivered in fear as he realized that nightmares were nothing
compared to seeing a terrible enemy resurrected. The toad came
swimming and slopping on its belly towards him, as near to being in
its own element as any creature could be in this foul bog. It stopped
about four paces from Hal and opened a mouth which seemed to be the
ugliest part of the whole swollen monstrosity. A sack of living venom
perched on a lake of poison, and a pair of emerald eyes looking at Hal
with a promise of agonizing revenge. He longed to run home. But he
could run nowhere from where he was and instead waited like a pig
penned for slaughtering as a tongue as long and red as a scarlet
tippet flicked through the air -- and stopped short of the loop of
rope in Hal's hand. Again, the same thing happened. And this time the
toad raised a webbed paw and pointed towards the witch.

Suddenly, and incredibly, Hal felt almost gratitude towards the
hideous creature. Because now he knew what it wanted him to do. Much
more importantly he knew what he might no longer have to do himself.
As well as he could he threw the loop towards the toad, watching as it
landed just short of the witch's creature. It went forward in one
quick movement before picking up the rope in its mouth as carefully as
a cat holding a kitten. Then it turned and began dragging the rope
behind it as it paddled towards the witch. Hal paid out the slack,
swaying on Josephine's trembling tail, still terrified but at least
hopeful that he need go no further into this shit filled slough.

The remains of the broomstick reached the witch first, the upright
handles on the broken front piece bent down towards her like a grazing
deer's horns. At the same instant the dim figure of Gaunt Gregory
disappeared, as if the two magics could not exist together. The witch
began to sink again, her hands shot up over her mud choked hair and
grasped the broom between the twigs and the break in the handle. Then
the broomstick bobbed up and down in her desperate grip, as though it
was floating on rippling water, but to no avail in lifting the witch
from the clinging mud. A handhold on life she had, but nothing more.
Unless her familiar could reach her with the rope. And, as big and
strong as it was, the toad seemed to be struggling to pull out the
ever increasing length of rope between it and Hal. 

In desperation he hauled out yet more line from the hands of the
soldier on the bank and took another step along Josephine's tail. The
dragon groaned, a startling thing for somebody so used to her normal
silence. Nothing could show more plainly how difficult it was for her
to keep supporting him on her tail: it was as if Hal was trying to
hold aloft a horseshoe on his little finger. He felt her trembling
underfoot and the tail sink lower, so that he was up to his knees now
in filth. But the toad had reached its mistress!

Hal thanked his Gods as he saw her take one hand off the broomstick in
a hasty snatch at the rope and then lift up the dripping loop. With
one deft movement she dropped it over her head and wriggled the free
arm through it before seizing the broom again in a double handed hold.
Then she removed her other hand, pulled down the free arm and slipped
it up through the other side of the loop whilst grabbing at the broom
again. The loop was safely under her arms and now they could act!

Hal waved to the Corporal and the soldier on the bank. A twirl of rope
around one of Josephine's spikes and she was pulling on it, and so
were the soldiers, stamping their feet into the turf as though they
were trying to pull the castle walls down. The problem was that
everybody was worried about the witch, not about Hal, and even
Josephine moved so quickly he was left behind in the mire as her tail
jerked forward. He lifted his feet clear of her spikes, then toppled
sideways with a cry of despair and grabbed at the rope. It was
certainly moving, moving too quickly, piling up waves of slime and
shit into his face as he clung on to the slippery strands. The only
recourse left to him was to roll onto his back and clutch the rope
desperately to his chest, the back of his neck then taking the impact
of the crusted filth.

A brief glimpse of the witch behind showed her in much the same
situation, but at least luckier than him by being able to lift her
upper body higher because the broomstick was travelling with her,
still offering the woman as much support as it could. Not that anybody
could have recognized her as a man, woman or demon, not with the slime
plastered over her limbs, her face, and her hair -- and Hal was in no
much better condition when the Corporal's men hauled him onto the
bank. The expressions of their faces as they had to touch him showed
that: not that he had any sympathy for their fastidiousness; they
should try his privy bucket emptying job once in a while. 

On the other hand he had every sympathy with the reluctance the
soldiers showed in hauling the witch out of the midden. A dislike of
scraping shit off somebody is one thing, getting up close and dirty to
an enraged witch was akin to putting a muzzle on a mad dog. Worse, in
fact, much worse. A mad dog might bite your balls off, but with a mad
witch you might end up pissing out of your ear for the rest of your
life. Which is an embarrassing place to carry your wedding tackle. But
already the King was galloping out over the drawbridge on his white
stallion and, whatever the witch might do, everybody else knew what
Argud the Defiler would certainly do if his orders weren't carried out
to the letter. So the soldiers helped the woman out onto the turf,
where she shook them off her arms as easily as if they were playful
puppies. Then she strode across the lumpy turf to Hal, the broomstick
drifting after her at waist height and two steps behind. 

Like a dutiful wife following her husband in a public place, Hal
thought, a hurt wife yet silent and submissive in showing off her
injuries. But there was nothing submissive about the hot coals glowing
in the witch's eyes behind her mask of mud. And behind her and
underneath the broomstick was that revoltingly ugly toad, hopping
along in great leaps which almost reached the broomstick at their
highest points. Hal's reckoning was that in about five seconds he was
going to be transmuted into something just as revolting. Unless he was
fated to mix his ashes with the Master-At-Arm's. How odd if he should
die the way he was now, as naked as when he was born -- and never of
any more importance to the world than a coney born in a burrow and
eaten by a fox.

He looked around for the last time with mortal eyes and saw Chelinde
and Caelia now wrapped in soldier's cloaks, and each staring at him
with pity on their faces. Caelia waved at him, sadly, on this moment
of parting. Perhaps it was some consolation that the girls seemed more
upset about his fate than their father's.

So when the witch turned, plucked the broomstick from the air and then
knelt down in front of Hal, holding it in front of her as if it were
an offering to a Druid, every onlooker was stunned. Soldiers, girls,
Corporal Clint and, most of all, Hal.

"Take it, Master. Take it, as I have promised the warlock."

"What?

She lifted her face, those hot eyes fanned into blue burning coals
with anger: "Put your hand on this broomstick, you butt ugly little
fucker, or I'll skin you alive!"

Hal instantly stretched out a trembling hand and touched one of the
hand grips. It was like holding onto part of a water mill built over a
raging torrent, the fierce energy of the rushing waters below passing
through the structure for a bystander to feel. But before he could
learn more he snatched his fingers away again as a shriek of anger was
heard. Behind the King's magnificent stallion was an old donkey, the
thin legs of Gaunt Gregory astride it, his even thinner voice cawing
like a squabbling crow. Completely disregarding all the normal rules
of the court he hacked at the donkey's side with his heels and rode
past the King, limbs flailing and jerking in his haste like a
scarecrow dancing with the wind, the long staff held out over his
mount's big ears in a parody of a knight's lance.

"What, Morgana -- you break your oath given to another who has crossed
the abyss between the worlds and returned? You dare to defy the Great
Ones themselves?"

"I gave my word to you to yield my person and my powers to my rescuer.
This boy was my rescuer and I have kept my word, you jumped up little
shit of a half achieved adept. I have yielded all to him. Now go hence
and lick your own mortal master's backside!"

Nobody present had ever heard or seen the like, a witch and a warlock
squabbling like urchins over a wind fallen apple. And there wasn't one
of the watchers who didn't wish to be many safe leagues away from the
scene. But one at least had no intention of remaining a mere
spectator. King Argud swung out of his saddle, dropping as lightly as
a feather despite his huge bulk and large belly. He thrust the horse's
reins into the hand of one of the soldiers, a man who blanched with
fear as he realized that the strange events had lured him into a fatal
error of lese majesty by not acknowledging his sovereign's presence
until now. The soldier hastily dropped to his knee and bowed his head,
an example followed equally quickly by all present save the two
sorcerers, still bristling at each other.

"Come, Gregory, what's amiss here? You promised to tame this hawk for
me. Yet she sits not quietly on your gauntlet."

There had once been a court jester unwise enough to make fun of the
King's appearance by reddening his cheeks, puffing up his cheeks and
somehow bulging his eyes so they seemed twice their normal size. The
secret of how he'd managed that had died with him, in a unusual and
distinctly revolting way, and since then nobody else had taken any
gambles on finding King Argud in a good mood. Which was clever
reckoning, because he never had any. The best that could be said for
his temperament was that sometimes he managed to control his blood
lust if there seemed to be a good enough reason -- but that was never
more than a temporary deferment of his appetite for death and agony.
Even the warlock acknowledged the monarch's worldly power and presence
by awkwardly dismounting from the donkey and bowing low to the wearer
of the crown.

But not so the witch. For all the scum and shit on her, she stood like
a Queen, arms folded in open contempt of King Argud, warlock and
soldiers. Hal's eyes moved towards the now abandoned donkey which
seemed uninterested in anything but eating grass. Would he have a
chance of escaping on it if trouble erupted? Odin alone knew what this
business of the witch and her broomstick was all about but,
irregardless, Josephine had killed the Master-At-Arms as the court
official was getting ready to kill Hal for tupping his daughters. That
was enough to have Hal impaled on a spike in the market place for as
long as it took to die. Better to perish trying to run away than wait
until the King got around to passing the death sentence. Let the
magicians fight each other and then he and Josephine could flee behind
a curtain of fire none would be able to pass. Left and right Hal
glanced, awaiting his chance.

Then a sword tip touched his bare flank and Corporal Clint whispered:
"You'll stay here, dirty Harry."

"Harry's not in this story -- Rowling would sue us to hell and gone.
My name's Hal."

"Whatever."

The King's impatient voice called out: "You said you could make her
your slave, Gregory. What happened?"

The spindly legged little warlock was almost dancing with anger: "She
promised to yield herself, body and soul, to whoever rescued her from
the moat. But now she says it was the boy who rescued her and has
pledged herself to him."

"What!" The bulging eyes swung towards a trembling Hal. "First the
dragon and now the witch. The Gods are making a plaything of this
shithouse emptier. But what I saw was that it was your help, Gregory,
which aided the witch long enough to call forth her own magic to her
aid. All the boy did was to pass her a rope and even in that he had
help from the dragon and that ... that thing." 

King Argud stretched out a boot towards the hunkered down toad, then
jerked it back as a stream of steaming spit landed next to his toe,
instantly turning a patch of green grass to brown stalks. The toad
leered at him and noisily cleared its throat again.

"Threaten my familiar once more, mortal, just once more, and I will
turn you inside out through your own arsehole." The witch's voice was
low and sharp -- and to be believed. "Twas the rope which settled the
matter and had it not reached me when it did I would surely have
perished. And without the boy that rope would not have been there. So
I proclaim him my rescuer and anyone who disagrees may call on the
Great Ones for judgement."

The King looked at Gregory for his advice and the warlock bit his
beard, then threw up his hands in frustration: "Your majesty, nobody
calls on the Great Ones without taking great risks. Their judgements
are not to be reckoned on in advance and Morgana has -- I have heard
-- some influence with them. She is now pledged to the boy and he is a
pledged subject of yours. Let us be content with that. Hal, stand up."

He did so, naked and frightened, and acutely aware of all the eyes
regarding his skinny frame. Not to mention the Corporal's sword point
almost pricking his backside. So this was where taking young girls for
dragon rides had gotten him. Then he looked at the Master-At-Arm's
daughters again and suddenly relaxed a little. To blame himself for
wanting them was as pointless as blaming himself for wanting food --
he had a stomach and a prick, and both made demands on him that had to
be satisfied.

"Hal, tell Morgana to kneel down in front of the King."

"Morgana!" Even he had heard of a witch with that name, a witch with a
reputation that made fierce warriors huddle close to the fireplace on
dark nights.

The warlock nodded in satisfaction: "Yes, the greatest witch of them
all, Morgana le Fay. Your slave, Morgana le Fay. Now bid her kneel."

The witch still stood as proudly as ever, and her eyes fastened on
Hal's with a strength of character he could never begin to match. Nor
could he forget for an instant the pain he'd already felt from her
magical powers and was still feeling from that damned cat's claw
slash. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to try to give
her any orders. Then he saw the King's face and remembered the spike
in the center of the market place. No, offending Morgana was the
second last thing in the world that he wanted to do. What totally
passed his understanding was why it should be expected that any witch
who treated a warlock and a monarch with contempt would obey the
lowest and least of all the King's subjects. But it seemed he had to
try.

"Morgana! Morgana le Fay, I command you to kneel for the King."

Never before had any words of his been so attended to by so many
people. Hal felt like an actor in a May Day festival, the one playing
the part of a prince with a wooden crown as a prop. Yet though his
words ended on a silly sounding squeak the witch did as she was told.
Not only did she kneel, she knelt as a woman should, on both knees,
then demurely lowered her head until it almost touched the grass. The
King laughed and clapped his hands in satisfaction, releasing a great
sigh of tension amongst the soldiers as they suddenly felt much safer.
Safer, but greatly puzzled. They looked at Hal's soiled and scrawny
body with questions on their lips. Yet none had so much need of asking
them as Hal himself.

"Sire ... Sire Gregory." 

The warlock beckoned him forward: "Give him a cloak, someone."

In an instant Hal had a fine woolen cloak to pull around himself, a
cloak instantly ruined by the filth he was spreading on it. But that
was a matter of little consequence right now. Gaunt Gregory looked at
Hal, at the still prostrate witch, then back to the boy again. Then,
incredibly, he smiled, revealing a row of rotten and yellowing stumps
in lieu of teeth.

"Why, 'tis a simple thing, boy. Morgana here was nigh on drowning here
in our moat and I made her promise on her witch's power to obey
forever anyone who rescued her. I assisted her and so did you, and
rather than give herself up to me she chose to yield to you. So now
you will compel her to do whatever the King commands. You understand?"

Hal nodded: "Yes, sire ... I understand." But did the warlock
understand? If he was telling the truth Hal could command both
Josephine and Morgana. With luck he could break free with both and
leave this kingdom forever. Or better yet ...

"Boy, look around you."

The King's voice was always a surprise to those hearing it for the
first time, a high pitched tenor from such a bulk. But it was a small
voice never used for small talk. Hal looked. Every man-at-arms had
picked up his crossbow again and each one was aimed at him alone, from
soldiers so widely spread out that Josephine could never burn them
down all at once.

"Boy, understand me. I can kill you whenever I wish. The witch would
be delighted to be free again and she'll soon teach your dragon to
behave herself. So be a loyal subject and bid Morgana to do my
bidding, and all will be fair weather between us. As a token of which,
I order you to kneel beside Morgana to be declared a Duke before all
present."

"To be ... " He must have misheard the King, but at least the gesture
towards the ground was unmistakable. Hal knelt, and dared to do it on
one knee, as the soldiers had done.

"When you arise, Hal O'TheShitbuckets, you will be Duke Merlinus. But
before I raise you up I would know what happened between the witch and
yourself. How came she to fall into our moat?"

Hal answered the King's question as well as he could. But, like Hal
himself, the monarch had more questions to ask.

"So, she saw you tupping one of the Master-At-Arm's little beauties in
the dragon's riding net. Why should she wish to interfere with that?"

"Your Majesty, I do not know."

"I can answer that," Gaunt Gregory said. "When mortals couple they
sometimes reach a level of ecstasy which is a form of primitive magic.
Since magics cannot exist side by side any practicing adept who comes
close to an act of mortal tupping may find his or her spells much
diminished and perhaps even completely cancelled by the tupping
effect. Their magic becomes ... what shall I say?"

"Fucked up," the King suggested dryly. 

The warlock bowed again: "Your Majesty has it in a nutshell. An
excellent description -- I'm surprised nobody has thought of it
before. Yes, I believe Morgana flew close to the dragon to examine it
without having the slightest suspicion that a mortal male could be
taking a mortal female in the riding net. By the time she realized her
broomstick magics were being, as you say, fucked up, there was no time
to flee before she must fall, so the only thing she could do was to
frighten the pair into abandoning their act of passion."

King Argud chuckled: "Ha, boy, some rise by sin and some by virtue
fall, but here was a great fall by a great witch because of your
sinning. And were my Master-At-Arms still alive you might have smarted
for your sins with his daughters." His voice paused as he looked long
and carefully at the two sisters. "But a handsome pair of bolsters for
any bed, I grant you, and since they wish for experience, I myself
shall see they have as much as they can take."

He chuckled again and drew his sword. "Boy, have you heard anything of
my plans for you and your dragon -- and for this witch?"

Hal couldn't stop himself from looking up in uncontrollable curiosity:
"I know nothing of any plans, your Majesty."

"Then tonight you will learn more, because I'm going to make you an
offer you'll have to peruse. For there are good reasons why I now
proclaim you Duke Merlinus of this kingdom."

The tip of the sword tapped lightly on each of Hal's shoulders:
"Arise, Duke Merlinus."

Hal stood up and waited for the King to finish off his joke by
decapitating him with the huge sword. But it didn't happen. Instead
the King drove the tip of the sword into the ground and rested his
hands on the handle, which was still almost as high as Hal's head. The
boy found himself staring at the incredibly fine stitching along the
sides of the Monarch's deerskin gloves.

"Well, Duke Merlinus, you have bought the wickedest witch in the wide
world with you as a dowry for your peerage, which is well to your
credit. But you are still the dirtiest and vilest smelling peer that
ever has stood before me. As for the mighty Morgana, she looks and
smells like dogshit. Even your dragon has the stench of a midden about
her. What's to be done with you all?"

Hal gulped: "There is a stream in the hills, not far away. Josephine
can clean herself there, under the waterfall. I would be happy to go
with there with her."

"Ho, my fine Duke, no doubt you would, but you won't. The dragon may
go there and return presently. You, I have heard, have betimes bathed
yourself in the drinking trough in the dragon's shed. You may do so
now, and take your bitch witch with you. And we shall see if you are
indeed fit to be a peer. For the two girls will wash both of you clean
and afterwards you may finish your business with the one you were
fucking before -- if you're man enough to do it with a squad of
soldiers and a King watching you perform!"

Hal stared dumbfounded at the smile on the King's face.

"What's the matter, Duke Merlinus? Have you turned shy now you're a
gentleman?"

Even the soldiers were giggling like schoolgirls. But they didn't know
about the dragon sweat, and they didn't know that there was enough of
it left in that drinking trough to set a whole village heaving and
humping like a gang of Iceland warriors let loose in a nunnery. 

Gaunt Gregory sneered at the filthy boy: "All your vigor gone already,
Duke?"

Hal stood tongue tied. He could tell them, warn them -- but dragon
sweat was his great secret and he wanted to keep it his own. But the
alternative! Master of Morgana le Fay -- and in the grip of the storm
lust that dragon sweat brewed up. Odin alone knew what he might do,
and should Morgana free herself afterwards she'd send him to hell for
it. But afterwards, he might not care.

"Why no, Warlock," Hal suddenly found himself answering with a grin to
match the King's. "All I ask is a favor. If I start chasing your
donkey after I've finished with the girls, for Odin's sake, please
have me shot."

King Argud bellowed with laughter and gave Hal a slap on the shoulder
which almost sent him down on his knees again. "Why, my young Duke,
perhaps you'll serve my needs better than I might have hoped. Let's
put you to the test and see if your tupping can match your words."

Somehow Hal found the presence of mind to look for his garments amidst
the torn remains of the riding net, only to be swiftly rebuked by his
monarch. 

"You no longer need those rags, Duke Merlinus. The cloak will suffice
until you reach the palace and then we shall outfit you better."

Merlinus ... Merlinus? Why that name? True, the shitbucket family had
a Tiberian name of Merdinus, now almost as forgotten as the long gone
monks who'd bestowed it. A suitable name, since merdus was Tiberian
for shit. But Merlinus -- was it because he was going to be allowed to
fly with Josephine again, allowed to fly like a hawk? May the Gods
make it so, for this seemed to be a day on which anything might
happen. 

But the sight of Morgana le Fay's luscious hips swaying ahead of him
was enough to make his glowing hopes fade like the sun hidden by
gathering storm clouds. The likes of her were for warlocks and knights
and persons of royal blood. Now he seemed to be trapped between King
and witch and as sure as cats ate mice, one or t'other would have his
balls spit roasted ere long. Perhaps she'd laugh at his love making
attempts so much that he'd fail, despite the dragon sweat. Perhaps the
trough water had made it so weak by now that the power had completely
gone and King, warlock, witch, soldiers and girls alike would jeer at
his cock as it drooped like a melting candle. A boy's ending for all
of his proud boasts of manhood, and with all the kingdom to hear and
laugh about it afterwards.

He sidled over against Josephine, the corporal close behind him at
every step, Clint O'The East Wood's finger never leaving the trigger
of his oversized magnum bolt crossbow. Hal desperately wanted to slip
his hand underneath the dragon's wing to seek for a trace of sweat but
there was no chance of doing it unobserved. Hal felt a sudden and
unexpected anger burning inside him at being so closely guarded.
Mayhap he'd teach these soldiers another lesson in dragon power before
long.

"My lady, go and clean yourself. When you return I may wish you to
warm the water in your trough for me again. If so, you must do it as
hard as you can."

A twirling pattern of interrogation swirled around her neck, a
question only he knew she was asking. In return, he winked when only
she could see him: "Yes, Josephine, as hard as you can. Now fly -- and
be back soon."

The dragon lurched forward, drove down her wings in a flurry of
movement and swept upwards, her sails smacking against the air as
though applauding herself for leaving the ground behind. Hal watched
Josephine rise up into the afternoon sunlight with an aching heart.
The ever alert corporal noticed Hal's sad expression.

"What's amiss, young Duke?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders: "Why, to see my dragon fly whilst I
cannot leave the ground."

Clint O'The East Wood laughed: "Duke, how can a man want to fly? Do
you want a nest with eggs to sit on as well?"

For the very first time Hal understood that he was closer to Josephine
than he was to many of his own kind. Why, perhaps he was even closer
to the witch as well. She might be evil incarnate but at least she was
a flier too. Not that her broomstick seemed good for much just then,
but perhaps it could be repaired and remagicked. If it could be ...

For a second Hal dreamed of learning how to fly a broomstick. To flash
over rooftops and meadows, around trees and across lakes, screaming
past gaggles of geese and flying so high that the mountains themselves
crouched down beneath your feet. All the filth and cruelty and
everyday battles of life left below as he explored the kingdom of the
sky, a kingdom which over-arched and over-reached all earthly ones.  A
fine dream, especially for a shit smeared boy who owned nothing in the
world but a borrowed cloak. And then he was back at the dragon's barn
again.

For some reason everybody else hung back and let Hal walk in first,
even though Josephine was only a faraway dot in the sky. Yet the
caution which most other people showed in approaching a dragon's lair
still seemed to be having its effect because only the girls walked in
close behind him. Hal stepped into the sandpit and drew his toes
through the still damp sand, then  looked up, exchanging rueful looks
with the sisters. How much had changed so quickly. Truth to tell, he
was in no obvious position to complain. Dubbed a Duke, gaining a witch
for a slave, praised by the King -- whatever the dangers to come, it
was still far better treatment from the Gods than Caelia and Chelinde
had received: orphaned, unprotected and lusted after by a King who
treated his dogs far better than his women. Hal had never intended
their misfortunate but it left a bitter taste in his mouth after the
joy the girls had given him.

"What are we to do?" Chelinde asked him, looking suddenly grown up and
serious.

"Why, only what we did before. But first you'd best serve as Morgana's
hand maidens. There are two pieces of soap left. One for her, one for
me."

"And afterwards? What we did before, Hal? With all these soldiers
watching?"

"Aye, and the King too, lass -- tis a Royal Command performance." 

The boy smiled and lifted his hand to chuck her under the chin, but
paused as he saw the filth on his fingers and the momentarily revealed
loathing in her eyes as she glanced to where the King was entering the
barn.

"Be of good heart, girls. What matters who watches if we enjoy
ourselves? And what I can do for you later, I promise I will do."

Hal went to the trough, splashed his fingers in it, pondered. The
water was still warm -- or, at least, not cold. He filled both
drinking buckets and set them down in the sandpit. Then he turned
towards the witch and gulped.

For the first time since his one swift glimpse of her riding the
broomstick he looked as a man at the magnificent shape underneath the
clinging mud. Her breasts were pillows compared to Chelinde's
dumplings, her unskirted legs promised delights beyond belief... he
gulped again, and decided that perhaps the dragon sweat was still
potent, even at a touch.

"Lie down on the straw, Morgana. On your back."

Her eyes glittering with repressed emotions, the witch obeyed. 

"Take off your cloak, Chelinde. Spread it over her."

The girl's face was almost as angry as the witch's as she undid the
throat cord, but she obeyed, her and her sister spreading the cloak
over Morgana's body. Then Chelinde stood self-consciously, hands by
her side and eyes downcast as she tried to ignore the soldiers lining
each side of the barn, each of them grinning at her nakedness and with
no threatening dragon around this time to distract them from studying
it closely.

"Your cloak too, Caelia. Strip Morgana and then clean her with the
water and the cloak, as well as you can. Mayhap some straw will help
as well."

The King grinned but raised no objection at taking another look at the
sisters in her raw state. Nor did he seem to mind that the girls were
reaching underneath Hal's cloak to get at the witch's indecent attire.
King Argud was a hunter and enjoyed the thrill of a drawn out chase.
His soldiers also licked their lips as they saw the swaying tits and
taut bottoms of the figures kneeling at either side of the cloak to
fumble with Morgana's tight fitting leathers.

"Help them, witch," Hal ordered. 

She looked at him, for a second only, and it was like being forehead
to forehead with a mad bull. But her hands moved swiftly under the
cloak, undoing the lashings which held her garments in place, then
rolling from one side to another as she helped Caelia and Chelinde tug
her jerkin over her arms. Hal would have liked to have kept watching
but the desire to start removing the filth from his own body was even
more compelling than staring at Morgana's movements underneath the
cloak. So he took his cloak off, seized two handfuls of straw and
began rubbing down his arms and legs.

Straw and sand and water, straw and sand and water, over and over,
tickling and scraping and soothing his skin in turn as black rings of
removed corruption spread around him. Then the King's voice boomed out
in glee.

"Plenty of sand for her as well, girls, all over her tits. I want them
as smooth as your arses." 

As spoke several of the soldiers closest to the straw pile also dared
to smile in approval. They looked as they were spellbound as they kept
gaping at the straw. But when Hal looked himself at the wet cloak
sticking to the now naked body below it he decided that the audience
was literally bewitched. There were curves and hollows and a sheer
symmetry of female shape underneath the damp wool that was more
magical than anything a warlock could conjure up, be he the greatest
adept ever. Chelinde and Caelia put their hands beneath the cloak
again to rub Morgana's large tits, setting them shuddering and swaying
around. The witch whimpered as he nipples were scoured and every
soldier lucky enough to be able to see her instantly summoned up his
blood and stiffened his sinews. In fact most of them were already more
tightly cocked than their cross bows.

Hal grabbed his cloak and began wiping the traces of sand and wisps of
straw from his skin. But his eyes stayed on the females, noting the
increasingly coy way that even Morgana was glancing towards her
watchers. Surely a witch couldn't be affected by the dragon sweat like
any normal chit of a girl? But there hadn't been any dragons around
since time out of mind and maybe witches knew no more about them than
anybody else. Morgana had certainly badly underestimated Josephine's
abilities in their aerial bitch fight. Maybe the sweat did work on
her. Certainly she'd had enough of the treated water splashed and
rubbed onto her body to give it every chance.

As for Caelia and Chelinde, just having their hands in the bucket
seemed to be affecting them like piglets suckling on a barrel of mead.
They were giggling at each now across Morgana's body and blatantly
shaking their plumpers for the audience. The witch began twisting her
legs and hips from side to side as the sisters scrubbed at her tits,
her mouth open as she began moaning. Morgana's long fingers rose up to
stroke the girl's arms as though encouraging them to hurt her more ...
and Hal's own prick reared up like a stallion's in chase of a mare. He
held the bundled wet cloak in front of him and rubbed it against his
straining flesh as he decided what to do.

"Morgana, stand up. Chelinde, Caelia, hold the cloak around her."

The witch put her hands down beside her and sat up, got on her knees
and stood, the sisters keeping the cloak up around the top of her
swaying breasts, the damp fabric displaying the perfect contours of
the unsupported flesh and the hard nipples, each one so big that his
thumb and forefinger would scarcely encircle it. Her legs up and even
beyond her knees were bare, showing off smooth thighs made in heaven
for a man to slide his hand between and upwards.

"Go to the drinking trough. Step into it. Then take off the cloak and
the girls will soap you. Everywhere."

She obeyed, still walking with infinite pride, head and shoulders
above her escorts, the girls behind her holding onto the cloak as if
they were train bearers, their eyes darting from one male spectator to
another. But always returning to Hal -- and the King. His Majesty was
breathing even more heavily than usual and he seemed fascinated by the
display being unfolded in front of him.

There was scarcely a ripple in the water as Morgana entered it
gracefully. Looking directly at Hal, she shrugged the cloak off her
shoulders and let the maidens catch it. Without a stitch on, she stood
before them with one hand flat by the side of her leg, the other one
between her legs. And what might have been thought a protection of
modesty took on a different meaning when the spectators saw that the
fingers pressed over her patch of dark red hair were gently moving as
she felt herself. She giggled at the open mouthed astonishment of the
soldiers, lifted up both hands and held up her breasts for the
spectator's eyes. Certainly Hal's felt as if they were popping out of
his head as he watched her proudly displaying a body of perfect
wantonness. Then Caelia and Chelinde began working their hands over
Morgana, leaving trails of suds and pure white skin behind them in
spreading patches.

Hal stumbled forward, stepped into the other end of the trough facing
the witch and threw away his cloak, letting her see his rampant prick.
Morgana smiled at him: "Shall the girls wash you now, Master?"

"One of them," he grunted. 

He was grunting because Morgana's hand had reached forward and gently
tweaked the tip of his cock. This was unbelievable, to have a woman
like this in thrall of him, doing his every bidding. Then she moved
back, holding her hands up behind her head for him to better see her
body as Caelia continued soaping it and Chelinde rubbed her hands over
Hal, soaping him quickly but thoroughly, arms, chest, back, legs and
then rubbing her slippery palm up and down his shaft. Caelia laughed
and applied her hands just as thoroughly to Morgana's pure white tits
and the red flowers tipping them.

There was a vicious sounding twang and zip from nearby, and Hal
glanced around to see that one of the soldiers had accidentally
discharged his cross bow in his excitement, the bolt sticking out of
the straw littered dirt floor two paces away. But nobody seemed to
care, not the King, not even the Corporal. Nobody said or did anything
as Morgana knelt down in the trough and put her hand with Chelinde's
on the boy's throbbing tool. Together the two woman stroked it, and
then Caelia joined them, her fingers tickling his balls. Hal called
out in pleasure, his arms around each sister's shoulders and then
something very large and fat plopped into the water between his legs
and the kneeling witch. The toad sank out of sight, down below the
foam covered water and Hal's toes curled up in readiness for a savage
bite or sting.

It never came. What did come was a string of bubbles breaking between
Morgana's opened thighs and her response, a wild cry with her eyes
rolled back in apparent pain. Hal wondered why the toad was attacking
its mistress. And then he realized what was really happening as
Morgana bent forward, pushed Chelinde's hand aside and took him deeply
into her mouth in one swift movement. There was a gasp and a stir
around the barn as everybody saw four finger's length of the boy's
cock disappear between the witch's scarlet lips and her cheeks
contract with the effort of sucking off her master. And all saw how
her body was quivering and jerking as though she was being eaten from
below.

It was the King who responded first. He bellowed, unbuckled his sword
belt, threw it aside and swayed forward like a bear untimely woken
from winter sleep. He seized Chelinde first, from behind, kneading her
plump round breasts in his huge fingers, squashing them up with only
the stiff tips standing proud of the press. Caelia instantly bent
forward to suck on her sister's nipples, sending Chelinde squirming
and pressing her bare bottom against the King's crutch. He roared
again, pushed her away and began tearing at the lacing in the front of
his breeches The girls rushed back to him, wild eyed and their
fingernails tearing at the cords with the same urgency. Out from
behind their restraints came a cock that seemed as thick as Hal's
wrist and almost as long as one of Corporal Clint's magnum sized
bolts. Caelia still went down on her knees without hesitation to
suckle on it as well as she could, her lips stretched out like an
adder's swallowing a rat. Yet the King was watching the trough, not
the girl at his feet.

"Fetch the witch out, boy, fetch her out! I'm going to give her a
royal fucking!"

It would have meant death to argue with the monarch at any time. Right
then was certainly not a good time to even think about hesitating.
Even when Hal was getting ready to empty himself over Morgana's
tongue: "Out, witch, out. The King wants you."

The King did indeed. He was already lying on his back and holding his
cock steady for one hand as Chelinde and Caelia licked the shiny red
length like cows at a salt lick. As Morgana stood up he beckoned her
to come forward. She glanced at Hal, he nodded and she obeyed,
trickles of water and foam running down her beautifully proportioned
legs before she stood astride King Argud and squatted down, her arms
behind her back on either side of his legs to take her weight as
Caelia and Chelinde rubbed the head of the King's donkey dick against
her cunt. Then she squealed and dropped down on top of it as if it
might otherwise escape. 

Her hips jerked up and down and she leaned forward on her arms again,
with a girl on each side of her, and each girl holding onto one of
Morgana's large tits, keeping the bags of flesh steady for the King to
bite on. Morgana screeched again but Hal cared nothing for that in his
need to finish what he'd begun with her. He stepped close to the
writhing bodies, grabbed a tuft of Morgana's red hair and thrust his
lance into her mouth again. She sucked on as eagerly as before but Hal
hardly noticed. He was staring wide eyed at the trough as the water in
it splashed over the wooden sides and something moved inside it,
something standing up where the toad had been,

This was no toad though, nor was it a cat. It was something akin to a
child, about as high as a grown man's waist, brown skinned, a bald
head, large ears, green hued eyes which glittered like iced moss in
sunlight, a squashed nose and lips which seemed more horn than flesh.
The small though wide shouldered figure leapt over the side of the
trough, landed as neatly as a cat and sprang forward. 

One thing about the goblin which was definitely a prominent feature
was the cock and balls it displayed, a cock ready for action and much
larger than a normal one, for all the goblin's smaller size. It was
more like a cock with a body attached than a body with a cock
attached. But whatever the arrangement the body moved swiftly, the
cock bobbing up and down as short but incredibly muscled legs carried
it forward to where it wanted to be. Which was behind Morgana, the
glittering eyes staring at her jerking buttocks as the goblin rubbed
some wet soap around his massive prick. He slapped her ass lightly
with both palms as if to let her know she was there, guided his
overlarge shaft between Morgana's quivering crescents and then forced
it deeply between them like a battering ram hammering at a castle
gate. Air spurted around Hal's wet shaft as Morgana screamed out in
passion and King Argud roared in satisfaction. He so busy sucking and
chewing on Morgana's tits that Hal wondered if the Monarch had noticed
that he was sharing his feast with uninvited guests.

Then the boy snorted with his own uncontrollable pleasure as he
spurted into Morgana's mouth, setting her off spluttering and gagging
as droplets of white fluid rolled down her chin. Chelinde put her arm
across the top of Morgana's neck and began licking some of the liquid
up like a kitten cleaning a platter of milk, a licking which ended
with a passionate kiss between the two females. Then Caelia put a hand
up to Hal's shrunken prick and began lapping at it with her tongue as
if to clean it thoroughly. All three of them seemed out of their minds
with lust and as soon as Morgana and Chelinde saw what Caelia was
doing for Hal they joined in enthusiastically.  The boy turned one way
and another to let each of them have fair access to him.

It was, he thought, something which ought to make an entry in the Mead
Brewer's Book of Records. One King, one goblin and one shitbucket
emptier all fucking one witch at the same time, with a couple of hand
maidens keeping things going. Not something you saw very often. The
soldiers certainly didn't want to miss any second of the spectacle. A
group of them were standing within arm's length of Hal, eyes and cocks
bulging at what was going on. Hal grabbed both of the sisters by the
hair, lifted them and pushed them towards Corporal Clint and his
comrades. 

"Go on, boys, help yourselves."

It wasn't really what he wanted to do but he needed a distraction to
keep those crossbows off their aim. And it worked. Bows and swords and
belts fell to the ground as the soldiers grabbed the girls and threw
them on their backs on top of the straw pile, bedding them down in
long term fucking positions. The rest of the guard saw what was
happening and rushed to join the queue. The only thing which
distracted them at all was a sound like a giant owl hooting, a sound
coming from the goblin. Within seconds the sound was mixed with
another yell of triumph from the King and long a drawn out yelp from
Morgana. The trio of bodies collapsed in a tangle, the goblin and the
King to lie undisturbed, but not Morgana. Clint O'The Eastwood grabbed
her arm, lifted her up and then dropped her on the straw pile next to
two hairy backsides jerking up and down on top of Chelinde and Caelia.
Very quickly the Corporal's arse was on public display as well as he
fucked Morgana with all the expertise of a seasoned campaigner and
military trained rapist. The accumulated lust in the air could have
been set off by a candle flame and nobody even noticed Josephine
slithering back into the barn. The men were either fucked, fucking or
anticipating a fuck, and the females -- well, the females were
otherwise occupied. Dragon sweated out of their minds and getting
drilled from all directions 

So nobody saw the dragon enter: nobody who cared, anyway. And
certainly nobody noticed Hal's nod towards the drinking trough, nor
his wink to Josephine. The dragon bowed her head, put her snout into
the water and snorted -- not once, not twice, not three, but four
times. Hal grabbed a discarded sword, reversed it with his hands
holding tightly to the scabbard, then ran around and up to the top of
the straw pile. The corporal was gasping in satisfaction as he pumped
his load into Morgana's cunt. He gasped even more loudly as Hal hit
him behind the ear with the sword handle. Then Hal grabbed at the
witch's hands to pull her out from underneath Clint O'The East Wood's
stunned body.

"Come with me -- now."

"What?"

"Come with me -- I order you."

One of the waiting soldiers stepped forward and raised his fist to
punch Hal's face. There was a kind of thumping sound, water from the
trough flew up and a bank of steam twice Hal's height rolled outwards
as all the dragon spit in the trough mingled with the liquid and
turned into hot vapor. Visibility within the barn became a few paces,
then scarcely one or two. Hal began hauling the witch in the direction
he knew the door was. He knew because he'd noted the draught
beforehand and simply followed it. Or at least he would have if
Morgana didn't seem to be taking so long to get up to speed.

"Move, you bitch!"

"Oh, Master, it's such fun ... "

"You stupid fucking woman, it's the dragon sweat in the water that's
got us so excited. It's magic, we're spell bound, and we'll both be
dead if we don't escape from the King. Run!"

Morgana's normal iron will seemed to emerge again as she began to
understand what had happened to her. Hand in hand they ran out through
the doorway, then stopped, panting. Hal had never known a day like it
for exercise. And before he could make another move he was astonished
to see the goblin come running out the steam filled door as well, the
tip of his slack knob halfway to his knees and pulling Caelia
alongside him by a long strand of her hair. But Hal's surprise at that
was nothing compared to seeing Chelinde also emerging, squealing and
jumping and being forced along by a series of hefty swipes on her
bottom by Morgana's broomstick. Seeing the brush swinging through the
air that way without a hand on it was even stranger than watching it
just floating along. But this was no time for standing around and
being curious.

"Get into the castle, quick," Hal urged Morgana. "Josephine is coming
with us. If we can get the drawbridge raised now we'll be inside and
the King and most of his soldiers will be outside. Then we'll have a
chance to parley."

Morgana shook her head: "Better to tell the dragon to burn down the
barn and have done with them all now."

"No! If they die I'm a Duke no longer. There'd be no witnesses. The
King must sign my letters patent and proclaim them. Seize the castle
and we can negotiate with him."

She nodded, still panting: "That warlock. He's not here. He could stop
you."

Hal knew she was right. And if Gaunt Gregory wasn't here he had a
bloody good idea of where he would be.

"Josephine, go to the castle. Put a fireball through an arrow slit in
the top of the tower, Burn Gaunt Gregory's chamber right out and him
with it."

"No ...No!" Morgana shook her head. "My magical supplies are destroyed
or lost. I need his. I must go now, take him by surprise. My broom
will almost support my weight, even though it's damaged. Let me ride
it and hold onto one of the dragon's claws. She can lift me to the top
of the tower and leave me there to deal with Gregory. Then the dragon
can help you in the courtyard to get the drawbridge lifted up."

"So be it. Josephine, take Morgana up to the chamber's lookout
platform." 

Some of the dragon sweat tainted steam was drifting the dragon's barn:
half a dozen warriors were now visible inside, each with his breeches
around his knees and frantically jerking themselves off. 

"Huh", Morgana snorted as she settled onto the broomstick. "I always
said that the military were a load of wankers."

Then a giant figure came running out of the steam with a raised sword
that glittered along its length in the afternoon sun. The King was as
mad as hell, the dragon was spiraling upwards towing the unclad witch
on her broomstick and a naked boy and two naked girls ran for their
lives towards the castle with an equally naked goblin bounding along
behind them.

Will Spearshaker was still sitting by the moat, stinking, scorched and
sour at life as he watched what was occurring, but not with any great
interest. You couldn't weave a good story out of happenings which
seemed to make no sense at all. Which was about Hal's thinking as
well, because now the moment of decision had passed he had no idea at
all why he'd hit Corporal Clint O'The East Wood and provoked the
King's anger. But he had an idea about somebody who might have cast a
spell on him.

Not all the guards had been left behind in the barn. Two were at the
far side of the drawbridge, gaping up at Josephine and the intriguing
shape of the naked woman holding onto the dragon's claw. The view of
the witch's rump was well worth squinting into the setting sun to see.
The sort of scenery guaranteed to make a man feel that the Gods were
feasting and all was right with the world. The guards were completely
distracted -- not to mention dumbfounded. So Hal had a few precious
seconds to give orders to Caelia and Chelinde before they were
noticed: "Run up close to the one on the left and push him into the
moat, and then both of you run inside the castle."

The girls had to work as a team, only the two of them together had a
chance of sending a fully grown man toppling over the edge of the
drawbridge. But that left Hal to deal with the other sentry, and bare
handed at that -- well, bare everything, really. All he could do was
to pick up a couple of large stones from the side of the road and then
dash onto the drawbridge behind the sisters. Who got about halfway
across before they were noticed. Noticed by one of the two soldiers,
anyway. Hal could see the totally incredulous look on the guard's face
as he lowered his eyes from Morgana's sunlight uplands to find himself
even further into a world gone mad -- not enough to have bare arsed
witches on broken broomsticks being towed around by dragons, now he
was being charged by two naked girls, a boy as lean-ribbed as a
skinned rabbit and ... a goblin. A goblin proudly displaying a prick
so long and loose that it was in danger of picking up splinters from
the drawbridge planks underfoot.

Fortunately the King's Guardsmen had been taught how to deal with this
sort of situation. It was the way they'd been taught to deal with
every situation that came up on sentry duty:  the soldier presented
his spear and shouted: "Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?"

Which, Hal thought briefly, was a fucking silly question: who was
going to yell back 'Foe'? So he shouted "Friends."

It had been the soldier on the right side of the drawbridge who had
challenged: the one on the left was still half lost in dreams of tying
Morgana's stripped body to a stake and then lighting her fire. A
disturbed state of mind stirred up even further by the onrushing
approach of a double pair of well developed young breasts swinging and
swaying towards him with nothing covering them except a scattering of
freckles. The soldier should have prepared himself to fight; he would
have, except that most men want to be friends with every pair of self
supporting tits they meet, especially uncovered ones. And the guard
paid the usual male price for his weakness as Chelinde and Caelia
rammed their opened hands against his chest and dropped him into the
shit.

The teat fancier staggered back completely off balance, swayed on the
edge of the drawbridge, and then fell off it into the shallow edge of
the moat. Shallow or deep, it smelt no better, but at least he was
lucky enough to be able to wade ashore by the castle wall. Not that
anybody cared about him anyway. It was his comrade, the one with the
leveled spear, who was the problem now. He made a lunge at the girls
but they were already past him, so he aimed his next thrust at Hal
instead. 

Hal skipped back and hurled his stone as hard as he could at the
sentry's head. It wasn't a very effective blow as the stone hit the
man's helmet on the side and glanced off without having any apparent
effect on him. In retaliation the soldier jabbed at Hal with the clear
intention of spitting the boy like a suckling pig ready for roasting.
The only thing which saved his young life was that the sisters came
back at the sentry from one side, yelling and squealing and shaking
their tits at the soldier with their hands cupped up underneath the
tempting flesh piles. It was a brave and inspired thing for the girls
to do, and it distracted the man enough for his glittering spearpoint
to graze the side of Hal's hip instead of piecing his belly. Hal
hurled the stone in his left hand, aiming it at the guard's knees and
missing completely. The sentry recovered his balance, went forward on
one foot to lunge again -- and a hawk with outstretched talons came
stooping down out of the sky, apparently intent on tearing the
soldier's eyes out.

The sentry flung up one arm to protect his face, Hal grabbed the
extended spear, pushed at as if he was pinning a sheaf of hay with a
pitchfork, and the man holding the blunt end was forced to take a step
backwards onto empty air. And as he fell down the end of the spear
shot up fast enough to almost break Hal's arms and to slice his nose
off as well. It wasn't so much a case of Hal letting go of the spear
as leaping away from it like a terrified animal.

"Aaaah  . . ." Splash. 

"Look out, Hal, the King!" 

"Huh!" 

"Run, Hal, run!"

It was a never ending nightmare. Both guards disposed of, the entrance
to the castle wide open in front of them and King Argud was already on
the drawbridge, shouting with fury and waving the royal sword over his
head: a sword that few men would have been able to lift off the ground
with both hands. The girls fled into the castle, Hal ran through the
entrance after them, and the goblin . . . well the goblin had
disappeared from sight, unless you counted that timely intervening
hawk, which must be his -- its -- latest transformation. Hal wished he
had the power to turn himself into something with wings: right now
he'd happily settle for becoming blow fly. Because there was nowhere
to hide from the mad monarch -- shit!

Stretched down the right hand side of the gateway against the stone
wall was a rope under tension. The end of the rope was looped around a
wooden becket, thrice knotted to keep it secure, and hanging from a
hook on the wall next to the becket was a small hand axe. Everybody
who lived in the castle had seen the Guardsmen regularly practicing
their emergency procedure with the rope and everybody knew what
happened when it was cut. Hal grabbed the axe and took it from the
hook underneath the warning notice: 'ACCESS DENIAL! AUTHORIZED USERS
ONLY! ARMORERS' GUILD CERTIFIED HACKER PROOF -- CLEAR AREA BEFORE
USING!'

No need to worry about that, there was only one thing moving in the
area, a huge demented figure only a few steps away, glaring at Hal
through blood red eyes. The boy slashed at the rope desperately, the
keen edge of the hand axe sliced through the rope strands and a
clattering noise overhead was so loud that both Hal and the King leapt
backwards as the huge iron portcullis slammed down into the row of
holes it had already worn in the granite flagstones, this new impact
sending fresh chips of stone flying from the pointed tips at the
bottom level of the grating.

Hal was done for, utterly exhausted and utterly uncaring about
whatever might happen now. He set his back against the wall and slid
down until he was sitting just beyond reach of the portcullis. He
didn't even move as King Argud came up, dropped his sword and leaned
with both of his huge hands gripping two of the portcullis bars,
puffing and gasping like a hunted bear. The boy and the man stared at
each other through the iron grid as if unsure which one was the
prisoner. Then their ears were rattled by a thunderclap and Hal looked
to his right to see streaks of red and gold flames shooting out of the
top of Gaunt Gregory's Dark Tower.

"W . . . what's happ . . .ening, . . . boy?"

"Lighten . . . ing. In the . . . tower. 'Tis the witch  . . . and the
warlock . . . fighting."

"Curse . . . all . . . sorcerers."

Chelinde and Caelia seemed to have disappeared somewhere, probably
hiding from all the never get well spells that were being thrown
around the castle, and Morgana's familiar had presumably flown off to
help his mistress in her battle with Gaunt Gregory. The King and Hal
kept sucking in deep breaths until they could talk. The noises from
the tower continued to bounce around the castle's interior like the
clash of giants' hammers. King Argud eyed Hal balefully.

"Boy, why did you hit Clint O' The East Wood and run away?"

Hal answered truthfully: "I don't know. I think I was made to do it by
the witch."

King Argud seemed puzzled: "But she swore to be your slave."

"If she is, she may do what I tell her, but I suppose she can still do
whatever I don't tell her not too."

The King's brows wrinkled in furrows as he thought this through, but
he eventually nodded: "Damn all sorcerers," he said again. "The only
way to deal with those foul scum is with lawyers. Rats fear nothing
but bigger rats."

The castle court yard echoed to a long drawn out howl of anguish which
fell out into a series of heart rending sobs, and then died away
altogether.

"One of them is down and out, for sure," the King said in somber
tones. "If it's the witch, all my plans to become Emperor of Tiberious
are rendered naught. And if it's Gregory, mayhap my life and kingdom
are gone too -- unless you can still control Morgana, my Duke
Merlinus. By Rhiannon, look at these idiots coming along half a day
late!"

The King's guards had finally emerged from the mad lust of the dragon
sweat laced steam they'd inhaled. Now they were arriving in a kind of
bowlegged half rush, some still clutching their sore cods and
gallions, others holding up their torn breeches, looking like nothing
more than a gang of sheep shearers who had just fornicated away a
season's wages in a single bout of debauchery.

The mob of guards stopped moving instantly when the King bellowed at
them to stay at the other end of the drawbridge. The odd thing was the
way all the soldiers seemed to avoid looking at each other, as if they
were all deeply ashamed of themselves.

"Well, boy, if you were bewitched, you were not the only one that the
bitch witch drove mad. Those knaves were sent cuntstruck by her spells
-- when the girls ran away my fighting men were so desperate to tup
they were fucking each other up the arse, turn and turn about, like a
pack of mummers and actors. Who could have believed that any witch
could have cast a spell like that over my own bodyguards?"

Hal blinked and swallowed. Surely the old monster must have realized
that it was the steam that Josephine had brewed up which had sent his
men cock mad? Hadn't any one of these fools realized that he and
Josephine were the ones responsible for all the mad lusting? Had
nobody else ever even heard about the irresistible cock stiffening
elixir which seeped from underneath a dragon's wings? Well, if nobody
had yet realized the truth he had best speak of other matters.

"Your Majesty -- you said you had plans for me. Believe me, I am your
loyal subject. What is it you wish of me?"

The King nodded and himself sat down on the other side of the
portcullis, settling his own back against the gateway wall: "'Tis
simple enough, boy. I would be Emperor, but I rule nothing more than a
small mountain kingdom. To defeat the Imperial legions I need a pack
of dragons like the one you found. But how can I breed dragons when I
have only a female? No one knows if there be any other dragons left in
the world, and if there are, where they might be. But perhaps your
female can find a mate for herself when no one else can. And since she
answers only your commands, I have decided to send both of you out
into the world to seek out a mate for your pet."

"But ... but the witch, Morgana le Faye? What of her?"

"Boy, I can proclaim you a Duke easily enough, but 'tis not so easy to
make a royal ambassador out of a shit smelling whelp without even the
learning to sign his own name. So, the witch was meant to go with you,
as protector and guide, aye, and teacher too. She has been promised
that is she finds me my dragons and makes me the Emperor I will give
her half of the Empire as a reward. And so might all have turned out
had you not played the fool in your dragon's riding net with the
Master-At-Arm's daughters."

It was on the tip of Hal's tongue to reply that had anybody told him
what was being planned then nothing would have gone astray anyway. He
even thought of asking what reward the King intended for Duke Merlinus
should he return to Giant's Pass with a litter of dragonets. But
caution bade him say naught of such things. For if Morgana had been
defeated in the Tower, then Duke Merlinus would probably become Hal
O'The Shitbuckets again right quickly and revert to his privy emptying
chores. 

At the very thought of that tears began stinging his eyes -- and,
strangely -- not only for his own fate but for Morgana's as well.
Cruel, haughty, frightening . . . yes, she was all of those things but
she'd also been a kind of female he'd never imagined possible until
he'd seen her pride and her strength, both of mind and body --
especially body. Whether from Asgard or Hell, the witch had been
something absolutely apart from all normal life: she had given him a
glimpse of a world even vaster and more exciting than anything he'd
ever seen aloft with Josephine. If Gregory had killed or imprisoned
Morgana that world and her womanhood had gone from his ken forever.
All that remained was to be left in the service of this evil King who
had gained his crown by treachery and butchery

"Well, my young Duke, you'd best go and spy out the land. See what's
befallen in Gregory's tower, find out who's vanquished, and who's
victorious."

Hal gaped at the King in shock: for as long as his memory had recall,
no one save Gregory himself had ever gone into the Forbidden Tower. No
one else, not even the King, had ever dared to invade the warlock's
sanctuary. 

"Go into the Forbidden Tower, your Majesty?" he quavered.

Ancient rumors insisted that the Icelanders themselves could provide
no worse punishments than a angry wizard -- and if there was one
certain fact in this world gone mad, it was that by now Gaunt Gregory
was either dead or very, very angry.  Though the stories also said
that magicians were never killed in battle, not even by better
magicians: the worse fate that could befall them was imprisonment in
some kind of sorcerery sealed trap, there to howl out their anguish
until the evil day when some foolish mortal unwittingly loosed them
into the world again.

The King growled angrily: "Of course, into the tower, boy. Mayhap
witch and warlock have both destroyed each other like two spurred
fighting cocks. Go and see what's happened. Then bring some of the
servants out of their hiding holes and raise this portcullis again. Be
of good cheer, young Duke, my anger is past and I will not harm you."

Hal believed the King as much as he would have believed a cuckoo
singing on mid-winter's eve. Yet it mattered little, because if he
went into that tower without leave there would probably be little
enough left him afterwards for the King to do aught with. But if he
didn't do as he was told then it was surely the spike in the market
place for him. A thought to make anybody's arse muscles to tighten as
hard as walnut shells. Mayhap he should never have wished to be
anything else than a jakes emptier: why, in a year or so he could have
been promoted to being the night shift shite porter.

"Yes, your Majesty, I'll go and look."

Hal glanced up at arrow slits in the corner tower and at the wisps of
foul black smoke drifting out of them. Then he hauled himself back on
his weary legs and trudged across the courtyard towards Gregory's
sanctuary. There were glimpses of white faces fearfully peering around
corners and from almost closed doors, but Hal ignored them. He'd
almost forgotten that he was naked, and cared nothing about it. After
the sort of day he'd already endured having to walk through the castle
bailey in his nakedness was a trifle -- and then there was a
comforting rustle of leathery wings from overhead as Josephine dropped
into the courtyard like a falling leaf, raising one wing and then
another as she skidded back and forth between the high walls before
landing with a clatter of claws against cobblestones. It was as neatly
done as a swallow swooping up to a nest underneath the eaves. Hal ran
towards the dragon and put his arms around her neck: first, last and
always, she was his only friend. And the vivid flashes of color which
ran around Josephine's body showed that his affection was returned in
full measure.

Moreover, in his pleasure at being reunited with his pet, Hal suddenly
realized that he didn't have to go into that accursed tower now.
Mayhap the magicians were too injured or weak from fighting each other
to interfere if he and Josephine should make an escape. He tried to
work out his plans as quickly as he could. Perhaps the dragon could
fly again out of this narrow place, perhaps not, and probably not if
hampered with his weight. But that mattered for nothing because both
of them could run up the stairs which led to the battlements. And if
the Josephine's spikes stopped him from riding on her back, he could
at least cling to her neck while she launched herself from the walls,
overflew the moat and landed him on the other side. Then, into the
forest, and he would run as never before with Josephine circling the
treetops above him -- and it would be a brave soldier indeed who
risked her fireballs to come in pursuit 

Yes, it would work, but if it were to be done, it were best to be done
quickly, with the King's entrance still barred by the portcullis and
the sorcerers still locked in mortal combat . . .

"My lady, come, follow -- "

There was a sound like a whip a league long cracking its tip: white
lights swirled in a circle at the base of the Forbidden tower,
spreading outwards. And where they spun the massive foundation stones
turned to dust, trickling down as if spilled from some giant
hourglass. Then the lights vanished in the flicker of an eyelash, the
castle was deathly quiet again and Morgana was stepping out through
the hole which had appeared in the bottom of the Forbidden Tower. 

Morgana, the winner of the duel, that was obvious, triumph in every
line of her bearing and appearance. Her hair was neatly combed, every
speck of dirt had gone from her face, and her body was tightly wrapped
in a white robe which somehow went around her stunning form in several
different directions but still managed to leave Morgana completely
bare from her toes to the tops of her shapely legs. A gasp echoed
around the courtyard from the onlookers: both sexes were shocked, the
women were scandalized, and every watching male knew instantly why
even a shriveled up old man like Gregory had been unable to
concentrate on his spells with a sight like that to distract him.

The only watcher who didn't care less about the alluring display was
Josephine: vivid primary colors flared across her throat pouches,
clear signs of renewed anger to anybody who could read her body
language. Hal had never realized before how long resentment could
linger in a dragon's breast when somebody really provoked it.
Josephine was ready to roast Morgana at the drop of a claw.

"Nay, my lady, nay, no disputation now, I beg. Give me time to think
and all will be for the best, I promise."

The colors faded, though not as quickly as they had appeared. Still,
Josephine seemed willing to be restrained by Hal yet awhile. As for
Morgana, she walked directly towards him. She was holding a piece of
cloth in front of her in both hands, a shimmering piece of black cloth
decorated with stars and suns and all kinds of magical talismans.
Hal's heart leapt in his mouth as he saw that it was Gaunt Gregory's
own gown of sorcery. Something the warlock would have parted with as
willingly as a wild sow would have moved aside to let a fox eat her
litter.

Incredibly, the witch bowed like a courtier before kneeling down on
one knee in front of the boy. Her hands held the gown aloft to him, as
though she was a squire yielding a fallen knight's shield up to a
newly triumphant champion. But not held so high up that it obscured
his view of her magnificent tits fighting each other for breathing
space at the top of the tightly knotted robe.

"Master, I have rendered that miserable warlock as helpless as an
infant. If we but find time to complete the chains on his sorcery as
they should be done, he will be bound for years beyond counting."

"Good . . . ah, yes . . . good." Hal tried to think which of the
questions beyond counting in his own head he should ask first. "But if
Gregory is defeated, why are you still calling me master? Surely that
promise you made no longer matters?"

She lifted her head to look up at him, the flush of exertion still
apparent on her cheeks matching her scarlet hair. "Nay, master, I gave
my word and sealed it by an oath which would rob me of all my powers
for ever if I should break it. The only way I can return to the
freedom I had is if you release me from that bargain. But the Great
Ones must know that you do so through no compulsion of mine, or . . .
or I am thrown forever into the Abyss."

"Oh." Hal felt stunned and picked his words with care: "Then I order
you to never again use your spells again to make me do something I
didn't want to."

"I understand your order, master. But I have never yet made you do
something against your own nature."

Hal scratched the back of his head: "That can't be right. In the barn
. . ."

An angry voice swept through the gate like a mating bull's bellow,
reverberating back and forth from the castle walls: "Come here, boy,
and wind this portcullis up!" The King was clearly impatient with
having to tarry outside his own castle like a wandering tinker.

"Witch -- Morgana," Hal spoke quickly. "I must let the King in.
T'would offend him to see you kneeling for one of his subjects but not
to him. Behave towards me for now as no more than a . . . " He wasn't
sure what he was trying to say.

"You mean, perhaps, as a dutiful and obedient maid servant who only
kneels for her master's son when he feels the need to fill her mouth?"
She looked directly at Hal's nakedness and ran the tip of her tongue
around her pouting lips, eyes alight with mischief. It was sight
enough to make any man's -- or boy's -- toes curl.

Another bellow from the King overrode any answer Hal could have made,
even if he'd had the wit to think of one, which he hadn't. Nor did he
need to, for the effect of her words was already plain to her and
would soon be clear to all the watchers unless he could somehow
prevent his flesh hardening further. He quickly turned to walk towards
the portcullis and away from Morgana's temptations. But her urgently
spoken words found his ears:

"Master, I ask you, pause and consider. Why should you obey that fat
fool? Let him stay out there until his boots turn green."

"But he's the King!"

Morgana sneered: "Only since he killed the last bandit chief who
glorified this pile of stones and a few miserable villages with the
title of a kingdom. And now he's on the outside with his guards and
you're inside his castle -- inside his moat and his castle walls with
a witch and a dragon at your command. Why be a Duke when you can be a
Prince? Or perhaps something even better?"

Hal gaped at her, then around the bailey yard as if the castle was a
vision newly sprung out of the ground: the ancient walls, the decaying
towers, the faces of the servants cautiously peering out of doorways
and through arrow slits, gaping at this bare arsed boy who dared to
keep King Argud waiting.

"A Prince, you say? Or something even better than a Prince?"

Hal wondered how it was possible for him to be asleep long enough to
be dreaming such a long drawn out fantasy. And would he be able to
remember it all when he was awake and emptying the jakes again? He
hoped so, because he'd need all the laughs he could get by then. When
he looked down at Morgana again he was so distraught that this time
the valley between her breasts might as well have been a rat hole for
all the interest he could spare for it.

"Master, I found yonder warlock casting a horoscope. There are
powerful matters afoot here, matters which have roots far beyond the
mortal world. The runes Gregory were casting showed the name the King
gave to you, my Master. I think that the warlock told him to select
the title of Duke Merlinus instead of Merdinus because he foresaw into
the future to divine your fortune and to advise the King as to your
chances of success in finding another dragon. But what should have
been a small ray of candlelight sent out into the darkness has lit
some great beacon which will blaze like a flaming comet in the years
to come. With the wizard imprisoned I threw the stones again, but with
far greater skill than Gregory was ever capable of doing. I have
discarded the dross and kept the gold, or so I perceive. Now I would
test it with this robe."

Hal held his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders: "I understand
nothing of what you say."

Morgana's eyes flashed: "Then let me show you!"

Her hands flew up and so did the robe, spreading itself out and then
hanging in the air above Hal's head as though pegged to an invisible
washing line. 

"Open this portcullis or I'll split . . ."

The roar of outraged royalty died in the King's throat as Gregory's
robe stayed where it was, like a hovering eagle, with its edges
fluttering gently in the breeze. Hal stared up at it, jaw dropped and
eyes popping, listening to Morgana's urgent words.

"Master, that garment is a symbol of powerful magic, handed down from
wizard to wizard as each is proved worthy of the sorcerer's craft. If
any ordinary mortal dared to touch it, let alone wear it, the result
would be an agony worse than boiling lead. But the signs in that
sorcerer's horoscope show that you are one of the chosen, one of those
permitted to learn from the Great Ones. If I have read the truth
aright, raise your arms above your head and we will see if the robe
will settle on your body without causing harm."

Hal stood motionless, struck anew with fear. Not enough to have a King
berserk with anger at him, not enough to be made unwilling master of
the most evil witch between mountains and far distant seas, now he was
being invited to meddle with sorcery, well known as the most dangerous
thing anyone could do. Only the cleverest, most daring and most
cunning of mortals would dare to bring down occult curses on their
heads, and only they would run such risks for great power and wealth.
Hal had no such ambitions: well, he had, but all he really cared about
was not having to empty shitepots anymore and to be free to fly in the
sky with Josephine. No, he wanted no part of any wizardry, and he
especially wanted no part of anything that had belonged to Gaunt
Gregory, not for any temptation.

His gaze flickered from side to side, again seeking escape. A row of
figures had appeared on the ramparts of the Great Tower, the tower
where Argud and his most powerful subjects lived, the high and mighty
nobles who knew and cared no more of Hal than they did of any other
peasant. And with them were their snobbish wives who'd made his life a
misery, and also, of course, the well born sons who'd made a sport of
pushing his head down into the shit pots whenever they'd felt like it.


But what his attention steadied on were the lace capped high bred
girls, the daughters of all those privileged families who'd treated
him as an animal . . . no, even less than an animal, as something
dirtier and stupider than a dog or a hog. Unlike Caelia and Chelinde
those sneering chits up there had never deigned to speak a fair word
to him, had never even looked in his direction except by accident and
then immediately turning their faces away from his filthy rags with
obvious disgust. But now they were looking, by Gwal, and only the
father of the Gods himself could know what they must be thinking as
they tried to understand the incredible scene below. A beautiful and
barely dressed woman with supernatural powers kneeling before a naked
urchin of a shithouse cleaner, offering up to him the very robe of the
greatest wizard within a month's ride. Where, they must be wondering,
was Gaunt Gregory? And how dare this boy and woman leave the King
himself ignored and unheeded at his own castle gates?

Hal suddenly knew the iron truth buried beneath the softness of his
skin: he would fry in that robe before he'd turn coward in the sight
to those fucking nobles and their bastard bred families! His arms went
up and he stared the witch straight in the eyes, something he'd never
before dared to do. 

"Give me the robe."

"You are ready, Master?"

"Aye, ready."

The magicians robe swirled down to engulf him, around his arms, down
over his shoulders, unrolling down the length of his body and beyond:
Hal cursed at his own stupidity, for the robe was piling up around his
ankles because he was so much shorter than Gregory, so all he'd done
was to make a scarecrow of himself in front of all the watchers. And
then he felt the first touch of the forces held within the robe -- a
blue radiance surrounded him, like an instantly rising marsh mist, the
smell of lava pits was in his nostrils and he waited for his flesh to
be seared off his bones. Yet instead of hot coals on his skin he felt
something almost as frightening, a sensation as though every ant in
the forest had suddenly crowded together on his body to cover him in
tiny legs -- and then that sensation also vanished as the blue halo
around him faded like a doused candle. He seemed to be unharmed by
what had happened, unharmed and unchanged. Not so the robe though, for
somehow it had changed its length to fit him perfectly, the hem of the
garment raised to a comfortable level halfway up his thighs. Yet
strangest of all was the touch of it on him, light and warm, as smooth
and pleasant as the strokes of a girl's loving hands.

"By Gwal and Clud!" He raised his stupefied face toward Morgana's.
"You did that?"

Morgana seemed almost as surprised as Hal himself. "No, not I. The
robe it was which yielded and molded itself to your desires. There is
much mystery here and I see now that the Great Ones have bound our
destinies for some purpose. I have no choice but to accept you as an
acolyte in the mystic arts and help you become an Adept, if so the
Great Ones decree your fate."

"An acolyte?"

There was a roar of outrage as the King recovered from the shock of
seeing Hal wearing Gregory's robe. The castle's ruler clenched the
bars of the portcullis as if he could shake the tons of iron grating
loose from the gateway. Morgana raised a hand and flicked it in his
direction as casually as if shaking drops of water from her fingers.
Sparks flew up and along the bars the King was clutching, the bars
glowed red hot and cooled again as quickly as cinders dropped in a
puddle, King Argud screamed like a ravished woman and reeled
backwards, holding up blackened stumps at the ends of his arms.
Morgana didn't even glance in the direction of the ruined monarch's
agony and Hal knew yet again the stomach curdling fear of their first
meeting. This female who could so rouse his youthful blood was more
dangerous than a pack of winter starved wolves. She continued speaking
as if nothing at all had happened.

"An acolyte, a novitiate in the magical arts. It means that you would
become my apprentice in all matters of spells and sorcery. And in all
such matters my duties as teacher of the mysteries would overreach my
promise to obey you. No novice performs magic or casts spells without
permission of the instructing Adept. Do you understand and accept
those conditions?"

The boy felt like screaming as loudly as Argud was doing. All he
wanted to do was to get out of this castle, to fly away with
Josephine, away from rulers and torturers and soldiers and mad
magicians, and especially away from this beautifully beguiling witch
and her bloodlust. But his chance hadn't come and now she wanted him
to bind his cringing soul to the black arts, to be sacrificed to dark
forces no sane soul would ever willingly interfere with. But, as ever,
what choice did he have but to yield to circumstances? Choice! Ever
since Morgana had appeared alongside his riding net on her broomstick
he'd had no more choice in where he was going than a fallen leaf blown
along by a gale.

But even in his fear, a shining thought had suddenly risen in his mind
like a gleaming salmon seen through dark waters. For one thing at
least he knew, and that was that anybody having any association at all
with sorcery was regarded with awesome respect by all non-magicians.
No, whilst Hal was wearing this robe nobody would dare to scorn him as
they had scorned Hal the dung carrier. Certainly nobody who had just
seen what the magic arts had done to King Argud.

"I understand and accept all the conditions for being an your acolyte
and will obey any command you give me as my teacher," he said firmly.

"Then I name you as the novitiate Merlinus . . ." Her voice broke off
as the bird shaped familiar above them screeched and stooped down low
over her head. Then Morgana nodded, as if understanding.

"So, it's no accident that Ymir has shape changed to a hawk's form,
nor that it is a Merlin's. The Great Ones send me a message that I
must do as they command, and that you shall not be called Merlinus but
Merlin. So be it, I name you my apprentice in the deepest mysteries,
to be known to all in the realms of sorcery as the wizard Merlin, the
beholden and nominated of Morgana le Fay."

Merlin! Of all the stupid names! A wizard named after a bird, and not
even a very big one; Morgana might as well have called him sparrow or
starling. She tapped him on both shoulders with her long fingers.
Again he felt the same hidden rush of power as when he seized hold of
the broomstick. Only this time it seemed to be coming out from within
his own body, out and into the witch, and he swayed on his feet, eyes
closed. Already bone tired, he now felt as weary as a ford foundered
horse being pulled into deeper water by an irresistible current.

"Yes, I understand your weariness, Master. There is much to do but
first you must rest."

Morgana beckoned impatiently with her fingers: "You two, come hither."

Hal forced his fluttering eyes open long enough to see the
Master-At-Arm's daughters approaching, faces glancing apprehensively
at Morgana. No, that wasn't right, he reminded himself, they were now
the Master-At-Arm's orphans. If it had been a difficult day for him it
had been a lot worse for others -- the Master-At-Arms for one, and for
Gaunt Gregory, and certainly for the King himself. In fact a very,
very bad day for King Argud the Defiler, now likely to be known as
Ex-King Argud the Defingered. No wonder the tower ramparts were lined
with white faces knights, shocked to the core as their privileged
world seemed ready to collapse around their ears. For if a powerful
King could be deposed and disposed of so easily, what was their fate
to be?

Admittedly, nobody had really enjoyed being a subject in Argud's
realm, not even his nobles, but at least he'd been a ruler who'd never
left no doubt at all about who was giving the orders. Now all was
confusion and doubt, and the inheritor of power seemed to be the red
haired sorceress brazenly showing off her half naked body. She had
driven both ruler and wizard from their throne and tower as easily as
a dairymaid taking a stick to a pair of laggard cows, and yet she
herself was to be seen kneeling in homage before a castle shit house
cleaner, a scrawny little rat daring to wear a wizard's robe as if he
had a right to such a thing.

Oh yes, the world was mad and Loki the ice warriors' trickster god
loose in it, but this was play acting no watcher felt eager to take
any part in, for it was being performed on a perilous stage. Strong
hands were grasping sword hilts in instinct, but not even the vainest
or bravest liege lord felt any urge to step forward and claim power by
right of title and muscle. A single glance downwards at Argud the
handless staggering away with long brown stains down the back of his
breeks was enough to convince even the highest born to stay hidden in
the audience until the world became sane again, and women and boys
were reserved once more for the aristocratic pleasures of fucking and
kicking. What you did to which depended on your choice of pleasure, of
course.

Morgana beckoned her finger at Chelinde and Caelia: "Your master is
tired. Carry him to the royal bedchamber: you know where it is?"

Heads nodded: "Yes, mistress," Caelia said doubtfully. 

She knew very well where the royal bedchamber was, having lived in
nightly dread of being sent there for the King's pleasure ever since
she'd flowered into maidenhood. What made her hesitate now in obeying
Morgana's orders was in wondering what the witch meant by 'carry'. She
and Chelinde could both see how tired Hal seemed, but even as thin as
he was, carrying the boy across the courtyard and up the narrow
spiraling staircase of the inner keep was a task beyond their joint
strength.

"Take hold of him, you wenches. You'll find him no burden."

Chelinde reached out gingerly to take Hal's hand and gave a shriek of
fright as he slid towards her: it was a cry that Hal would have echoed
save for his tiredness, for he was as astounded as the girls. He
seemed to be sliding over the cobblestones as if he was on one of the
ice slides the castle boys fashioned in the depths of winter. And when
he looked down he could see why, for the soles of his feet were no
longer touching the stones but floating a little above them. Only an
inch mayhap, but that inch was enough to make him as helpless in
walking as a newly born foal: he could stay upright only by putting
his arms around the girls' shoulders and letting them walk him towards
the tower as if he was helplessly drunk. And if he wasn't drunk, he
was certainly helpless: a glance over his shoulder showed Morgana
walking behind with a smile on her face -- perhaps a sardonic sneer at
yet another demonstration of her incredible powers was a more accurate
description.

"Have no fears, Master, your feet will touch the ground again. After
you have slept."

"After I've slept? Why only then?"

"Because without the burden of weight on your body you will rest
better than on any feather filled mattress. And the girls will serve
as your maids-in-waiting, for whatever help you may need."

His newly appointed servants of the bedchamber suddenly suffered an
immediate and intimately shared attack of giggles. Hal didn't have the
slightest doubt that both of them were thinking of various experiments
they could carry out on a weightless male body entrusted to their
lustful care. Well, they could forget any such ideas for the time
being, he was too tired for any tupping, not unless he could do it in
his sleep. 

At least that was what he thought then, especially with his mind
distracted by Caelia's and Chelinde's inept attempts to maneuver him
around the corners of the tower's narrow corridors. It wasn't their
fault, it was simply the discovery that even though Hal was suspended
above the floor, he wasn't weightless after all, and if pushed too
quickly in one direction it needed just as much effort to stop his
body as it did to start moving it. Neither could the boy complain
about their female inability to understand cause and effect, for he
did something far more stupid than either of them when he slipped from
their grasp and went sliding towards the wall again. He put up his
arms and fended himself as hard as he could. Which sent him flying
clear of them as if running ahead, but slowly spinning like a top and
heading down the corridor at an angle which meant an even more violent
impact about ten paces further on -- if paces had entered into the
calculation.

The girls gave little screams, Morgana was further back down the
corridor and out of sight in the gloom, leaving Hal with his arms
stretched out and flapping like a fledgling getting ready to leave the
nest as he fought not to lose his balance. He was lucky enough to get
one hand on the wall before he hit it and then fended himself off with
another violent effort, his mind still not able to work out the
obvious result in advance. If he'd been brought up working on boats
he'd have understood the ways of dealing with floating bodies, but he
hadn't been, and didn't. But at least the course he'd sent himself
skimming along put him clear of the corridor and out into the Great
Hall.

The Great Hall, setting sunlight streaming in through arrow slits,
rushes on the flagstoned floor, benches and tables hurriedly drawn
aside to make room for the aristocratic families scurrying into the
Hall to bow and kneel to Morgana and whosoever she favored, even unto
shitpot boys and a pair of chits. 

Grizzled warriors wearing hastily donned best jerkins and polished
chain mail were coming together in groups, still panting wives were
fluttering fingers around the curls of their hair, sullen sons were
scowling darkly at having to play attendance on some accursed witch
and even more darkly frowning daughters warned of the sudden need to
curtsey to a boy who, yesterday, they wouldn't have deigned to pour
the contents of their chamber pots over if he was on fire.

All the arrivals still gathering, still assembling in order of rank,
still babbling to each other about the incredible scenes they'd just
witnessed. And, at the far end of the Great Hall, a sudden yelp of
fear and the sight of a boy dressed in a wizard's robe popping out of
the corridor entrance as if fired from a slingshot, legs motionless,
arms waving madly and skimming over the rush mats towards the crowd
like a wooden ball hurled at a stand of skittles.

Nobody did anything, except stop talking though leaving their mouths
agape. Even the quickest witted were left bemused by such a sight, and
anyway, to avoid the onrushing figure would have needed reactions fast
enough to dodge a lightning strike. Only Hal himself was able to
manage the briefest of thoughts and that was about the identity of the
figure looming up ahead as his inevitable area of collision. Because
the Gods themselves must be laughing at what they were seeing: a spell
bound boy flying as straight as an arrow towards the double target of
the biggest pair of bosoms in Great Pass Castle.

The family group was standing directly ahead of him, as motionless in
their surprise as statutes: on the left, the hulking figure of Baron
Gorlas, known behind his back as 'Gormless' Gorlas: low forehead,
flattened nose, eyes like pissholes in the snow, so stupid that even
his hounds got bored talking to him, built on the same lines as a
mountain bear and looking like one which had just been woken up from a
winter's sleep.

On the right, Orla, Gorlas's wife, the sort of woman that only a bear
could fancy. 

And in the middle, their surprisingly handsome daughter, Mary, aged
sixteen and universally known throughout the kingdom as 'Dairy' Mary.
For there was no other maiden in Giant's Pass who proudly carried so
much before her, nor took greater pains in the arts of displaying her
finest parts. Mary's notion of a disaster would have been to walk past
a man or boy and not receive a second glance. But since she virtually
always did get a second glance, and then several more long and
lingering ones besides, she was usually content, especially when she
could quietly torment the watcher with the sure knowledge that he was
never going to see anymore of her breasts than he had done already. It
was a game she'd even played on Hal a time or two, as far down on the
pecking order as he was. And now those two magnificent mounds of milky
richness were hurtling towards him on a collision course with nothing
to shelter them from the impending impact but a low cut dress with
already straining seams and a frilled top of red and white flounces
over which a deep, deep valley of cleavage peeked.

 From Mary's point of view, of course, it was a case of having a boy
throwing himself at her, which was certainly not a new experience, but
it was the first time one had approached her like a swan crash landing
on a frozen lake. As for the fact that it was a privy cleaner wearing
a magician's robe, she had no time at all to consider that as Hal's
chest thumped up hard against her own, bringing a look to her face
that caused a self satisfied smirk on Hal's own features whenever he
recalled that happy event. 

In his long life he was destined to see many marvelous things, many
awe inspiring sights, but never any vision more breathtaking than the
way he clung to Mary's bare elbows and looked down at her magnificent
udders twitching and trembling with aftershocks like a pair of giant
salmon preparing to leap up a waterfall. Considering the situation
afterwards, it was always a wonder to Hal how he managed to spare
enough attention to realize the danger that was approaching. Or,
rather, the danger that he and Mary were approaching. In fact it was
the sudden heat on his calves which made him take stock of his
situation.

He'd assumed that holding onto this substantial piece of maidenhood
would have been a firm an anchor as a body could need, but apparently
not his body, for it was still gliding along. It took a second or so
for his bemused mind to understand that whatever magic it was in him
that made him float, it was now being shared by Mary, and the pair of
them were drifting because her own feet were also clear of the floor.
True, the thump against her tits had hurt her a lot more than it had
hurt him, and had also slowed his previous mad rush through the air to
a gentle walking pace, which was all good news: the bad news was that
he still couldn't stop moving and the impact with Mary had swung him
around so his back was to the way they were travelling: the really bad
news was that the massive fireplace in the Great Hall had already been
lit against the night's chill, a fireplace as high as a tall man's
head and wide enough to roast three boars at once, nose to tail. And
the really really bad news was that in about two seconds he and Mary
were going to be in the flames themselves.

There was no time to think, only to act, and Hal never really
understood why he did what he did -- if it was a guess, it was an
inspired one, if it was simple lechery in the face of danger, well,
that was to be applauded too. What he did was to let go of Mary's
elbows and immediately her heels thumped down onto the flagstones. She
yelped, and then prolonged the noise on a higher note as Hal jammed
his fingers down the top of her dress and pulled on it as hard as he
could to keep from touching her skin again. She stayed set solid on
the floor, the front panel of her dress came apart on the left and
right side in a popping of stitches, and Hal came to a dead stop. The
bottom of the torn out section of dress was still holding together at
Mary's waist and hanging down in front of him, topped off with nipples
like horse chestnuts, was a exposed pair of tits big enough to bed
down between. 

"Grrrr," Hal groaned in ecstasy and clamped a hand over each of Mary's
huge tips, totally unable to resist the chance of a lifetime. At last
he could die happy. And with Baron Gorlas putting hand to his sword,
dying was surely the next thing on his agenda. But other things were
happening as well.

For one, Morgana le Fay, the deadliest, most evil, most wicked witch
in the world, was having a fit -- of laughter. She was doubled up,
slapping her hands against her thighs as if doing some kind of folk
dance, her eyes almost closed and mouth wide open as she fought for
enough breath to laugh and keep alive as well. And, again, in years to
come, that was a sight which the Wizard Merlin would remember with
affection. Whatever his later troubles with Morgana, he would always
recall that once at least he'd seen her helpless with mirth. Even
though nobody else would ever believe it when he told them, especially
not the that po-faced, pain-in-the-arse, born-again christian, King
Arthur.

Another thing that was happening in the Great Hall was that Chelinde
and Caelia were rushing past the red faced Baron and his whey featured
wife. But neither of the girls was laughing because they could see
Gorlas's grip on his sword and how several finger width's of steel had
already been drawn from the scabbard. The only two things which were
keeping the good Baron from drawing his weapon and splitting Hal
asunder were his wife's restraining hand on his brawny arm -- that and
the black robe the boy was wearing. The Baron didn't want to risk the
sort of magic that had been used on the King, not even to stop his
precious daughter from having her teats handled in public.

Neither did Mary: she lifted up her own hands once to push Hal away,
but the sight of the black cuffs around the boy's wrists deterred her
from touching his tightly clenched hands. And then she was squealing
and helplessly trying to regain a footing on the floor as Hal spun her
around, making sure he kept at least one hand on her bare flesh at all
times to hold her up in the air with him. He was grinning with joy at
this chance to get his revenge on all these upper class bastards who'd
humiliated him so long and so often. And there they all were, all
along the length of the hall, gaping at the sight of Dairy Mary
swaying in front of them, Hal behind her, holding each of her elbows
and the Master-At-Arm's daughters running to serve him.

"Grab her girdle ends, girls," he ordered. "And then tow us away."

Chelinde and Caelia saw what he wanted. Mary had a girdle around her
waist, a gold colored cord with two loose ends, each longer than one
of Hal's arms. The sisters caught hold of the girdle tassels and began
pulling Hal and Mary away, towards the far end of the Great Hall. And
as they moved, Hal chuckled, took one hands away from Mary's elbow and
seized hold of a nipple again, with all of the nobles able to see what
he was doing. Then he did the same thing with his other hand and
gloated at the stricken looks on the watchers' faces, and especially
the ones on the faces of all the young esquires. The privileged
striplings may have used his hair as a shit house cleaning brush
before today, but now he was the one with his hands on Dairy Mary's
luscious measures, and he was the one who was going to make her shake
them around for him in frantic excitement, even if he had to give her
a double dose of dragon sweat to get her in the right mood.

What Hal wasn't expecting was to suddenly begin bouncing up in the
air, Mary with him, as though they were shuttlecocks being hit with
rackets, and then he looked down and saw they'd reached the steps of
the tower stairway: as he almost touched each tread with the back of
his heels, he and Mary were shooting up to the next step, bobbing
along behind the girls towing them up the spiral staircase. 

Before he was pulled out of sight of the Great Hall Hal put his hands
underneath Mary's tits and waved them at Baron Gorlass and his wife.
It took a little careful timing to get his hands on the upswing at the
same time as Mary and he were jerked up another step, but the result
was well worth the effort; by about the fifth step her pair of
abundantly fleshed milk churns were going down halfway to her waist
and then bouncing back up almost up to her chin. Mary screeched like a
barn owl at midnight and her scarlet faced father seemed about ready
to try tearing the chain mail from his chest with his bare hands.

"Good night, my lords and ladies," Hal called out above Mary's yelps:
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I've got to rush off and take a flying
fuck."

TO BE CONTINUED

(More good stories at www.f-e-mail.com, many of them fully
illustrated)



 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+