Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Historical,
Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Over 700 years ago, the Black Plague killed over 50% of the populations it touched from China to India and on to Greenland. This is Stefan's tale of his travels through the plague lands of a fictional kingdom.
Stefan let out a great sigh as he and Gregor stared up at the city whose thick walls had survived the siege engines of Norgoth two centuries ago. They had looked forward to food and companionship in the King's garrison of the great eastern city after several weeks on the road. The two soldiers had talked of little else as they drew closer to the city over the past few days, building their anticipation. There had been no travelers or merchants passing them for the past five days, which they had noted as odd but they had kept their dark fears to themselves.
The black flag of Plague whipped in the wind on top of the right guard tower that kept watch over the main gate.
"The pestilence is here, too," Stefan whispered aloud to make sure his ears heard what his eyes saw, "but the Governor's flag still flies, so he lives."
"No womanly charms for us this night," Gregor lamented with great pain.
"Sardaford is struck with the Walking Death, and all you can think of is your prick?" Stefan challenged, with a bit of incredulity in his voice.
"It is easier to digest," Gregor admitted as he turned his horse from the highway to strike out across the cleared fields.
Stefan nodded that he understood far too well. When they were given their orders to seek out the governor of Northeastern Province and deliver their king's decree, the first of the plague pits were being dug outside the walls of the capitol city. The cemeteries were already full and the gravediggers were overwhelmed with too many corpses to dig single plots anymore.
Death stank, but plague death had its own wretched smell that transcended the usual detestable reek of rot and decay. Bodies littered the street, crowded the temples, and overwhelmed the hospitals. Neither prayer nor medicine could overcome the symptoms.
Humans died by the hundreds; rat carcasses huddled in the gutters by the thousands, but even pigs, dogs and cats were not immune from the pestilence. Stefan had watched two pigs fight stubbornly over a stained shirt that a plague victim had torn from his body as the final stages of the disease tore his sanity and his soul from his body. They wrestled and played tug with the shirt for some time. Hours later, Stefan glancing out the window, stared in horror at the two dead pigs with the shredded shirt lying beneath them. He thanked the gods that he was a king's guard instead of an undertaker who might die by merely touching the garments of the plague dead.
It was one of many images Stefan couldn't shake from his memory.
The two rode partway around the city through the countryside, and made a small camp at the edge of a small wood. They chanced a fire, because they couldn't really stomach sitting in the first darkness with only their thoughts to keep them company. A fire might attract unwanted attention of early symptom plague bearers, but they felt their shriveled souls needed the sustenance of purifying flame. They laid out their swords and their bows at their feet, deciding to take their chances.
"The King's Guard" had a glamorous ring to it, as if only the strongest, most adept soldiers of the kingdom served in this elite unit. Little about the King's Guard was elite, unless one counted the number of wealthy young men whose family bought them a slot in this "safe" unit that didn't usually go into the battlefield. They didn't even guard the king; that duty was assigned to the Black Shield who really were powerful and deadly. The King's Guard was a unit of armed lackeys who were sent on boring errands throughout the kingdom.
Gregor came from a rich family, but he had the unfortunate luck to be born the second son of a wealthy landowner. As the second son, he would inherit little, in order to keep the family lands intact. His father had not been so hardhearted as to completely abandon the younger son, and bought him a livelihood in the King's service. Still, Gregor was more than a bit bitter at his circumstance, and greatly missed the sweeter benefits of living in a manor.
Stefan was the oddball in the garrison of The King's Guard, for he came neither from wealth nor minor nobility. He had been sent to the temple schools to be raised for the priesthood, a common practice among the larger families out in the provinces. He had been more than smart enough to pass exams, but had no desire to truly study and excel. However, he was the best on the field and in the training halls. In the trials of deprivation and survival that every initiate had to endure, Stefan thrived. His masters were disappointed in his lack of academic interests, but saw in him characteristics that could serve the temple well in the years to come. They eased him into a slot in the Guard before he took his final vows.
Every so often his masters would remind him whom he ultimately served. The leash was long and light, but Stefan was still chained to the temple wall. He served two masters, with little room to maneuver.
The night passed without incident, and the two men quickly broke camp setting forth to meet up with the road that would take them north and east of the mighty fortress. Sardaford could fight off the most vicious of invaders but was laid low by plague. Was no place safe?
Stefan and Gregor brought their horses to a halt on the upper road and observed the back gate of Sardaford. A wagon emerged loaded with corpses and wended its way past covered pits to reach the new, freshly dug hole. No mourners or professional wailers trailed the wagon as it made its lonely, creaking journey. Gravediggers stood on temporary platforms next the wagon, which was backed up to the pit. With long wooden pitchforks, the men would roll the dead bodies out of the wagon and into the wide, gaping hole. The empty wagon would pull away to make the same journey back to the city wall while the gravediggers traded their pitchforks for shovels. A few shovelfuls of dirt to make a thin level of separation for the next load, and then the men rested and waited for next gruesome but inevitable delivery.
They turned towards their destination. The forest of the Krandal was quiet, as if the beasts were in mourning with the rest of the world. The pounding steps of their horses echoed with no response through the woods. Even the birds in the trees were unusually quiet, preferring to flit away without complaining as they drew past their perches. It was after midday when the two men chanced upon their first sighting of an animal, a marmot frothing at the mouth and wandering drunken-like in the middle of the road. Gregor shot the creature with an arrow before both men eased their horses past the carcass giving it as much berth as they could. The symptoms looked different, but they were of one mind - even the beasts of the field suffered the plague. Both men lapsed into another bout of grim silence.
The next day they came across a tiny village of six houses and two barns. They shouted loudly but no one responded to their calls. After sticking their heads in a few doorways, they found the inhabitants huddled together in death. Even in rigor, the power of their held hands gave testimony to the love that the plague had extinguished. Neither man wanted to believe that they were moved by the sight.
A tiny cry reached their ears from the house on the far edge. They rushed to the hovel and found the mother coiled around the crib, protecting its contents even in death. In the crib was a baby, weak and red faced from crying.
"Don't touch it!" Gregor hissed as Stefan reached out instinctively. "Touch that baby and you die of plague."
"We can't just leave him here," Stefan pleaded.
"Do either of us have breasts in which to suckle a baby? His mother kept him from the plague, but still he is doomed," Gregor hollowly announced. He shook his head as if to deny the certainty of his words, but there was no escape from the truth.
Stefan stared down at the swathed body, "What do we do?"
Gregor walked to the door, refusing to look Stefan in the face, "Either he suffers and dies, or he dies now."
"Will you do it?" Stefan begged, already knowing the answer even as the words tumbled from his lips.
"I can't," Gregor called out in a strained voice, and walked away into the sunlight.
Stefan was left alone in the hut. The sun poked through the holes in the wattle, leaving streaks of light on the dirt floor and walls of the otherwise dim room. A slight breeze made the rushes on the roof rustle their dried fingers against each other. In the distance, Stefan heard the bleat of a goat.
Stefan shuffled out a moment later, mumbling the Prayer of Release on his lips. There were no more cries from the little house. The two soldiers hunted down the goat and then rode on before making camp, trying to make as much distance between them and the village as they could.
The goat meat filled their bellies, but they tasted little of its rich flavor.