Saga 2: Heathens

Human ranger Anton Burger's pleading eyes scanned the other Knights of the Merkin at the large, round table in the Eveready Inn. His secondincommand, the dwarven fighter, Gryphon Lehrer, was concentrating on sharpening his dagger, which he'd named Pimpsticker in commemoration of where he'd found it.

The Knights of the Merkin includes two elves who think they are secondincommand instead of Gryphon. The blonde elvish thief, Mistress Jeanette, had her red leather boots on the table and was balancing her chair on its two back legs as she alternately tapped the generous amount of exposed, creamy flesh of her large, firm bosomic affectations with the tip of her red leather wand, The Angel of Pain. Each tap caused an electric spark that made the succulent orbs dance within the red leather cups that covered less than a quarter of their smooth, pale surface. The other elf, thief/mage Mistress Darra Ravenclaw, was similarly seated and combing the slender gloved fingers of one hand through hair that matched the midnight blue/black of her secondskin leather catsuit. Her violet eyes carefully studied the imprint on one of the local coins held in the other hand. Her Angel of Suffering dangled from a leather thong about her wrist.

I, Parquierre, Mage Extraordinaire of Erotic Magic and historian of the Knights of the Merkin, continued to polish my Phallus of Eternal Release, which was the name given to my magic staff by a highranking magician. A highranking but naive magician who had foolishly left it where Mistress Darra could borrow it while he diddled a young elf maiden a few decades ago.

And Father Lardas, our Cleric of the Church of the Reformed Baptist, and the one who had caused this situation, poured himself yet another goblet of wine, eased his bulk back into a slouch, and feigned deafness at Anton's question.

How had he caused this situation?

It began on a rainy day in late spring, when we determined we had healed from our injuries and departed the halfling town of Graybeard in the Forest of Trees in the eastern part of the western region known as the Land of the Forgotten Helms.

The Land of the Forgotten Helms attracts a significant number of adventurers from the entire continent of Stormrune as well as from other parts of the world of Aber-Cadaver. But you can spend months in the wilds of the area and never see another adventurer because of its size: from the frozen latitudes of the Icecold Bier in the north to the temperate reaches of the Meditative Empire of Om to the semitropical lands of Tethyrball and Calumny in the south, and from the coastal waters of the Billy Ocean in the west to the desert of the Baron's Waistland and the western shores of the Inorouter Sea in the east.

Like ninety percent of the adventurers in the area, our quest was to find the Forgotten Helms, a task made difficult by the fact that nobody remembered anything about them except that they had once existed. Description, size, composition, use, exact locationnobody remembered any of that, nor could any records be located anywhere by anyone. But everybody knew that they had once existed somewhere in the area. Since nobody knew where to look, anyplace was as likely a choice as anyplace else. So naturally, the Knights of the Merkin being who we were, we had sat in the Graybeard Inn and argued over what was the best "anyplace."

Gryphon Lehrer and Mistress Darra had wanted to travel northwest to the vast Nattily Wood.

Father Lardass and Mistress Jeanette had wanted to travel south to Bene Hill.

Anton and I, each over six feet tall, had just wanted to go anywhere that we didn't have to worry about accidentally stepping on the local populace and squashing them into pink jam.

"Look," Lardas had argued, "we were headed to Bene Hill when the, the, the difficulties arose."

"What arose was what caused the 'difficulties, '" Mistress Jeanette replied in a quiet, icy voice while making cat's cradles with her garrotte. She made a cup and saucer. "If you hadn't tied up that silly twat while committing the even stupider mistake of leaving the damned door unlocked..."

Er, perhaps I should explain.

The Knights of the Merkin had left the coastal city of Watereddrinks and traveled southeast down the Goenmei Way to Dragonsbreath Castle. From there we had continued southeast using the local roads along the edge of the Uppity Moor to Middenheap on the north bank of the Krimea River. We had planned to hire a boat to take us upriver to a point northeast of the Dryad's Forest and then travel cross-country to Bene Hill.

I knew we would have problems the moment we walked into the inn, because the first thing I heard before my eyes adjusted to the diminished light was Lardas saying, "Wouldn't the tits on that redhead look great framed in white cotton rope?" In hindsight, it was stupid of Anton to suggest staying there a day or two after that statement, and it was even stupider of the rest of us to agree. But we had grown lazy while researching the Forgotten Helms in the vast libraries of Watereddrinks and were out of shape. By the time we reached Middenheap, we were little more than the zombies we had slain halfway from the castle to Middenheap.

Lardas had charmed the wenchat least, I think he used a charm; I'm not that good at detecting some clerical magicback to the room when we thought he was headed for the pissoir. A few minutes later the Innkeep approached us with an offer to hire us to resolve a local problem that was factionalizing the community's populace. The payment was to be a map of the ruins on Bene Hill. Gryphon wisely suggested we discuss the matter in our room instead of in the taproom where anyone could listen in.

We had another round of wine with the Innkeep while waiting for Lardas to return. When he was still missing afterward, Mistress Darra mused, "This could take a while. I think he had his book with him." The Innkeep naturally assumed she meant his prayer book, while we knew she meant his illustrated book of bondage stories, The Betty Pages. The Innkeep left instructions with his wife, and we adjourned to our room, where Anton opened the door and waved the Innkeep in first.

The elves had imbibed too much wine, and their ears were tired from the raucous merriment in the taproom. They didn't realize what they were hearing until the door was open, and then it was too late. I thought the redhead's large, firm mammic hemispheres did look exceptionally splendid framed in white cotton rope, particularly when accented with gold nipple clamps, but her father the Innkeep apparently disagreed.

Or maybe he did agree, but he wasn't pleased with the sight of her naked body wrapped in an array of lines and knots. She was suspended by her wrists from a ceiling beam with more white rope, and her ankles were wrapped with still more and tied apart to the bedposts. She tried to scream in orgasm through her gag while Lardas rapidly worked the juiceslicked handle of Mistress Jeanette's quirt in and out of the red-thatched love chamber with one hand and pounded his merkin-stuffer with the other.

Or maybe the Innkeep just didn't understand what he saw, though I sincerely doubt it.

We will never know because Mistress Darra caught him in the back of the head with a swift blow of her blackjack, rendering him unconscious long enough for us to gather our belongings and flee. All of our belongings, that is, except for Father Lardas' white cotton rope that was in use. He bitched about that for a week.

The next thing we knew, a mob of armed villagers was in crazed pursuit. We had inadvertently solved the Innkeep's problem by uniting the village against a common enemy: us. We fled northeast into the southern reaches of the Uppity Moor. When it became apparent that they weren't going to give up, we turned north, into the heart of the moor. Seven days later we lost them, but found the first band of the Moor Gnolls. They drove us eastward, despite the numbers we killed, out of the moor, across a plain, and into the Snapping Turtle Swamp of Gamera. The Swamp Gnolls took time to eliminate their rivals in some kind of internal power struggle and then came at us with a vengeance excelling that of the Moor Gnolls. The only thing gnolls like better than killing members of rival factions is killing humans, elves, and dwarves. We slaughtered over two hundred before we lost them, left the swamp battered and bloody, and stumbled into Graybeard

Thus it is understandable that Mistress Jeanette was livid with Father Lardas: he had used her quirt without her permission. It's easy to tell when Mistress Jeanette is livid: she becomes absolutely emotionless and quiet, as if she's storing up energy for the explosion to follow.

Her fingers had moved and the cord formed a hangman's noose. "I would rather travel east through the Mickey Fen and continue across Baron's Waistland without water than go south along the edge of that swamp again."

Lardas chose that moment to appeal to Anton for a decision. Anton's eyes had assumed that glazed look that characterizes the people of Luzania when they are attempting to think. "Ya know," Anton mused, "I never heard of anybody searching in the Mickey Fen for the Forgotten Helms. Maybe Jeanette has the right idea."

That had scared the unscareable elf so much that she forgot to remind him, "Mistress Jeanette."

Lardas had realized we were in serious trouble, which is the usual result when Anton cogitates a thought, and immediately offered a solution: "Why don't we let chance decide? I'll flip a coin," he said, withdrawing a silver piece from his purse. "Heads we go south to Bene Hill, tails we go northwest to Nattily Wood."

We were three days south of Graybeard before Gryphon realized that Lardas had stashed his twoheaded silver piece in his purse instead of its usual pocket behind his belt.

At the Narrows, which is the closest approach of the dank gray of the Snapping Turtle Swamp of Gamera on the west and the redgreen of Carter's Little Liver Hills on the east, the gnolls found us. We had walked into their ambush and were surrounded by twenty of them. Another twenty took to a small rise to the west and began plying us with arrows. A third score quickly swarmed over that hill and rushed at us. Anton, Gryphon, Jeanette, and Lardas formed a box around Darra and me while we prepared our spell. Anton's bastard sword, Suppository, danced an intricate silver pattern in the sunlight, a silver pattern that reddened as gnoll blood coated the blade.

To Anton's right, Jeanette used her brown triangular shield to block incoming arrows while her red leather Angel of Pain whipped about in its own pattern, barely slowing when it touched an enemy and imparted uncontrollable arousal. As always, the enemy touched by the Angel immediately dropped his metal weapon and grabbed his fleshy one, screaming with the agony of release that would not cum. Whether they stood there flogging their rampant erections or tried to mount each other, they were easy prey for the insertion of Anton's Suppository.

To Anton's left, Lardas was effectively plying his mace, Pepperspray, with the speed and grace of a man two hundred pounds lighter. His blackandgray beard was steadily growing redder with the splashed blood of the gnolls. With each kill he chanted in his liturgical language, "Forgive me, oh child of the Gods, as you go to rot in Hell." Fortunately for him, it was only four short words.

To Anton's rear, across from us, Gryphon Lehrer had decided against using his axe, Lucille, and stood holding the handle of his long sword, Hymenbuster, in both hands as if it were a two-handed sword. Actually, for the dwarf, it was a twohanded sword. The tip wove a lazy "8" pattern above the dwarvish master swordsman's head until he was ready. It was a blur as it either thrust or slashed, and then it returned to it's upright, weaving position, trailing blood down its length.

And then we were ready. Mistress Darra and I had prepared three Na'Palm spells. I cast the first on the archers as an arrow evaded Mistress Jeanette's shield and caught Mistress Darra in her upper left arm. The air shook with a loud rushing screech and then sticky fire wiped across the archers' hilltop from right to left. With a louder screech of fury, Darra pulled her bow from her back and strung it, ignoring the arrow sticking from her arm. I cast the second Na'Palm spell on a knot of gnolls in front of Father Lardas, who was getting the greatest pressure from the incoming gnolls. Again the air shook with the loud rushing screech and again sticky fire rushed across gnolls. Three escaped the flames and fled toward the swamp as the last of the gnolls facing the other three died.

Darra held two fire arrows in the her left hand along with the body of the bow. She chanted as she strung the third arrow and drew the string back. The gnolls suddenly shrieked in terror and turned about, fleeing back toward us as if we weren't there. Whatever illusion she had cast, she had also made them believe the space we occupied was empty. With the efficiency of a master carpenter driving home three nails she shot the three fire arrows into the hearts of the returning gnolls. Fire enveloped them as they fell.

And the only sound heard was crackling flames, gasping breaths, and Father Lardass bitching because his bushy, unkempt beard had been singed. Some people can be so ungrateful when you save their lives.

Mistress Jeanette turned and saw the arrow sticking forth from Darra's arm. Her blue eyes took on their familiar glassy look at the sight. She released the Angel of Pain, allowing it to dangle from the red leather thong attached to her red wrist cuffs, and stepped forward to gaze at the stream of blood staining Darra's blue-black leather suit. Darra's violet eyes also went glassy. Her left arm dropped, holding the bow parallel to the ground, while her right hand struck like a blacksnake, grasping the back of the taller elf's head and pulling her face downward. While their tongues writhed and wrestled, Jeanette took the shaft of the arrow in her right hand and jerked it out. She dropped the arrow and seized Darra about the waist, holding her up while the smaller elf's body convulsed with a massive orgasm.

Jeanette eased Darra to the ground and looked up at Lardas. "When you're through showing your ingratitude you can heal her."

While the obese cleric plied his healing spells, with Jeanette and her Angel of Pain standing over him to watch where he placed his hands, Anton, Gryphon, and I searched the bodies looking for any unburned, useful information. And any valuables in need of liberation.

By the next afternoon we could see the Eveready Hills, named for the town set in a depression in the western side of the cluster of small mountains, where the flat plain swept inward like a bay in the ocean of grass. The opening of that bay was protected by a string of fortifications containing arbalests and mangonels and ballistae as well as mounted and foot soldiers. The hills themselves were cursed with powerful spells, and no intruder survived trying to cross them to attack the town.

As we topped a gentle rise, following a trail that was barely worth dignifying with the term, we heard the unmistakable sounds of battle erupt to our front. Anton drew Suppository, waved it overhead, yelled, "Chaaaaaarge!" and took off on a dead run toward the sounds of the fracas.

The rest of us were carrying the spoils of our adventure and were quickly falling behind. "Drop it!" Gryphon ordered, and we cast down our burdens. We caught up with Anton at the top of a rise overlooking the action below. The fighting was over. A party of clerical missionaries and their security guards had been attacked on the Abbey Road by seven man-sized and vaguely human-looking creatures, human looking if you ignore the extra pair of arms, covered in armorlike blueblack chitin the color of Mistress Jeanette's leather catsuit and hair. Three of the creatures were dead, which qualified for certification as a miracle by every major religion on the continent. The other four had the surviving missionaries, two men and a woman, bent over the back of their cart. Three were furiously humping the survivors' bare posteriors while the fourth beat out a cadence on the helm of one of the dead guards. Twin pairs of antennae, sprouting from mop-like hair above the smooth, shiny faces of the rapists, bounced around like reeds in a storm. They all screeched their lust in complex fourpart harmonics.

Buggerers.

Sixty gnolls were child's play by comparison. We withdrew to plan our strategy.

"We prepared three Na'Palm spells," I said. "I still have one available if we can separate them from their victims."

Mistress Jeanette snorted in derision. I knew what she was going to say next. "Magic is for pussies."

Anton tried to intervene. "Let's remember that our enemy is the Buggerers, not each other."

"I haven't forgotten," she said in a voice as frigid as a professional virgin. "That's why Darra is going to cast the spell I have in mind, and maybe we can avoid any fighting at all. Unless you want to fight them. If so, go ahead. Better take some butt grease with you. We'll come down and bury what's left of you after they're through."

Illusion spells are fired by silver. Mistress Darra normally carries a number of silver pellets and a few small silver coins for larger spells in the belt of her catsuit, in hidden pockets in the top of her boots, and even in the lining of the palms of her gloves. Which is why, when she finished outlining the spell to Darra, Mistress Jeanette asked, "How much?"

Darra could tabulate silver faster than the Watereddrinks whores on Fish Market Street. Not that I would know from personal experience, of course. I had to rely on the knowledge and vast experience of someone else, who I will not name out of regard for avoiding personal embarrassment to one of our party.

I didn't have time to blink before Darra answered. "Thirty silver coins."

"Damn!" muttered Lardas. "That sure would rent a lot of whores."

The Buggerers paid scant attention to our approach, continuing to pound their victims in time with the 4/4 back-beat being pounded by the fourth moptopped creature. Why should they worry about us? Six weaponsbristled adventurers such as ourselves could be invited to the party after they disarmed us. Or the survivors could, if some of us wanted to be snooty about whom we partied with. We descended the hill with Darra and me behind the line of the other four, where we might work our magicks more or less unnoticed.

The fourth Buggerer waited until we were twenty feet away and didn't miss a beat as he shouted, "Hey, Jude! Get back!"

"I am Anton Burger of the Knights of the Merkin. Might I have your name, good sir?" Anton could almost pass as a gentleman when the situation required it. No doubt Mistress Jeanette had made him a promise that required it.

The woman suddenly realized that there were other humans present and began shrieking for help. The two men remained silent. We ignored the victims for the moment, not out of lack of compassion but out of necessity.

"Rn'ngo," the Buggerer replied. He nodded to the Buggerer pumping the woman's ass. "Ch'on," he said and then, in time with his beat, nodded toward those humping the two men. "P'ol. Ch'orch."

"Do you have any idea who that woman is?" Anton asked as I began coughing to hide the sound of Mistress Darra's conjuring.

Rn'ngo shrugged his upper shoulders as his lower arms continued to pound the beat. "Lady Madonna?"

"Eleanor Rigby?" asked Ch'orch.

"Michelle?" asked P'ol

"My Bonnie!" said Ch'on as he held her hips with his lower arms, groped a breast with one upper hand, and used the other to smooth down her hair He lowered his blackmopped head alongside hers. "Please please me," he said to her in what was probably, for a Buggerer, a gentle, pleading voice.

In response she shrieked even louder and loosed a most unmissionarylike stream of invective at the creature invading her anal cavity. Ch'on glanced back over his right shoulders, his mandibles forming what must be the equivalent of a grin. "Ain't she sweet?"

Anton seemed a little flustered by the unexpected reaction of the Buggerers. Nevertheless he managed to keep most of his assorted brain cells functioning. "That," he announced, pointing to the woman, "is High Priestess Ponderosa Cartwright of the Order of the Merkin."

"What the fuck are you talking about, you idiot?" the woman shrieked. "I'm Saint Kyrole of the Frisbeetarians! Do something to help me!"

Mistress Jeanette gave Anton a look that clearly said, "Let's not waste silver on this fool and get out of here."

Anton didn't notice, as he was momentarily flustered. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't recognize you from this angle. That must be the High Priestess over there." He nodded to one of the corpses.

"We're all Frisbeetarians, you fool!" Saint Kyrole shrieked. "Get this asshole out of my asshole!"

P'ol and Ch'orch began to twist and shout in orgasm while Anton's brain searched for a thought.

"You have to stop that now," shouted Gryphon in his best command voice, sounding like a teacher silencing a room of twelveyearolds. P'ol and Ch'orch stopped as their orgasms ended.

Ch'on didn't stop. "Tell me why?"

I stopped coughing and cleared my throat.

"Because," said Anton, cutting off the dwarf's response, "I am Anton Burger and Commander of the Knights of the Merkin. We order you to stop or else."

Ch'on laughed, a frightening sound when made by a Buggerer. "I've got a ticket to ride."

Thirty pieces of silver vanished from Darra's fists. A company of mounted knights who wore polished armor that sparkled in the sunlight, and who carried brown triangular shields and their weapons at the ready, crested the hills on three sides.

Rn'ngo stopped pounding the helm. "Help!"

Ch'on's hips stopped thrusting as he surveyed the numbers arrayed against his four. "Let it be!" he cried. "We can work it out!"

The Buggerer stepped back and to one side. We were treated, if you insist on using that word, to the sight of a "brown-eye" slowly closing back to normal between two large, flabby buttocks set atop stocky, lumpy thighs above calves to match, while the slick, black, chitinous phallus of the beast shrank and withdrew under a flap in the creature's carapace.

None of the others in our party noticed that our cleric was gaping in openmouthed wonder at the woman.

As she yanked her skirts down and turned around, Anton said to the other two, "Release those men unharmed."

P'ol and Ch'orch gave us those eerie mandible grins below those smooth faces. "Do you want to know a secret?" Ch'orch asked.

"What?"

The two creatures turned, their hands holding each man about the shoulders and hips. As one they released their victims, who folded forward and then slid off the long, black, bloody phalluses and lay still on the ground as blood pooled beneath them. "They're already on that long and winding road," said Ch'orch.

"On that magical mystery tour," P'ol added, "to strawberry fields forever."

By this time Saint Kyrole had determined which face looked the friendliest, if not the handsomest, and rushed to the side of Father Lardas.

Ch'on nodded at the cleric. "She loves you."

P'ol nodded. "Yeah!"

Ch'orch nodded. "Yeah!"