Bloodthorne
Copyright© 2019 by Wrath's Child
Chapter 3: Awoken Through Fire
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 3: Awoken Through Fire - High Fantasy from the Mind of Wrath's Child. Redemptive story of heroic deeds and tragic sacrifice.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual High Fantasy Interracial Revenge Slow Violence
Sayne stood in the deep shadows of the alleyway across the plaza from The Citadel where all of the high priority prisoners of Verseric were housed awaiting trial. His trained eye finding and keeping count of guards and all of their patrol routes. And even then he could not escape the sensation of her eyes upon him. He knew if he were to turn he would again see Syrai gazing at him with that enigmatic look on her face.
Sayne recalled again the feel of her arms around his neck as she sobbed, thanking him for saving her from the likes of the Witch Hunters. It was a sensation he had never experienced before. And as he again watched the patrolling guards on the walls of The Citadel, he found himself wondering how something as simple as that contact could have affected him so strongly.
“Ya know thes is like’n to suicide right?” The gruff voice of Halfdane cut through Sayne’s musings as he counted out the guards as well.
“Perhaps.” Sayne replied, in his harsh ruin of a voice. “If it kills me it kills me. The only one who would mourn me is inside those walls anyway.” He looked at the perplexed Dwarf and gave a grim smile. “I would think a Valkyrian would understand that better than most.” Sayne finished as he melted back into the shadows of the alleyway, leaving the stunned Dwarf to stare into the deepening gloom. A mixture of fear and uncertainty crossed his tattooed face, as he wondered just how it was that Sayne could know about his deepest fear and shame. It was certainly going to be an interesting evening.
Some few hours later, the group stood in the deep shadows of the alleyway across the plaza from The Citadel. They watched with a growing sense of anxiety as Sayne knelt over the grate covering the sewers of Verseric. His powerful shoulders bunched as he pit his not inconsiderable strength against the unyielding iron of the massive grate. Sayne growled through clenched teeth, but try as he might, the grate would not budge.
With a sigh, Brennan waved him aside. And muttering a single unintelligible word under his breath, his eyes flashed a brilliant white for a single instant. And with a creaking groan, the massive grate tipped upon its edge, and fell with a muffled crash onto the large pile of refuse gathered in the gutter near it.
“There.” He said in finality, “The next time you feel you may not be able to do something, remember, you can ask for help.” His smile was almost mirthless as he looked into the hard, pale gold eyes of the assassin before him. And with a terse nod, Sayne stepped forward and dropped into the inky blackness of the sewers beneath them.
The catacombs beneath The Citadel, were dark, and quiet. Broken at irregular intervals with a single pin prick of light, cast from the occasional lantern. And the despairing cry of the criminals tossed into the darkness, seemingly to be forgotten. And even more infrequently, the passing of guards. The tunnels, buried beneath The Citadel so deeply, were damp, and cold. It seemed as though the warmth had been actively removed from the stones of which they were built. And in the deepest, most forbidding tunnels, the antediluvian air seemed almost designed to steal the very life from those unfortunate enough to find themselves locked within.
And it was within these deepest corridors of The Citadel, that the unfortunate guard; Private Liam Mirrisson found himself on lone patrol. He had no idea why they would bother with patrolling the catacombs. He was certain they were so deep below the surface, that nobody even remembered they were there. And it was because of his grumbling to himself, as he disinterestedly stumped along the eerily quiet hall, that he missed that the small iron grate near the corner of the tunnel had been moved until the last possible moment. It was sadly, for Private Liam, his last conscious thought for quite some time.
With a terrifyingly quick move, Sayne exploded from the darkness to his left. A savage kick to the back of his knee drove Liam to the ground with a pained grunt. Followed almost immediately by Sayne’s knee driving up under his chin. With a sickening crunch, and low groan, Private Liam slid numbly to the damp floor of the catacombs. His new compatriots looked on from the darkness with a sense of stunned awe, as without a word Sayne dragged the unconscious body into an empty cell.
“What in the name of The Old Gods did we agree to?” Brennan whispered, his voice hoarse in the oppressive silence of the tunnels, as he watched Sayne begin to silently stalk from door to door. His trepidation at the idea of now traveling with someone who could so casually erupt into violence, especially on the scale that Sayne seemed capable of, causing his voice to waver.
“We’re trying to save the only man who ever showed him any form of kindness, Brennan.” Nathan replied with a sad catch to his whispered voice. “I would have imagined you would understand how powerful that could be. More so than most of us.” The rebuke was gentle, but the others could see how powerfully it affected Brennan.
Sayne prowled the through the darkness of the catacombs, with a determined single mindedness, born from the desperation of knowing his only friend needed him. His razor keen senses, heightened to extreme levels by his Dark Elven heritage, allowing him to move swiftly from door to door. Rapidly bypassing any door not showing signs of recent activity, it took little time for him to find what he was looking for. An iron door showing clear signs of recent use. And there, in a shadowed corner, lay Brother Simon.
Sayne’s breath caught in his throat at what he saw as he gazed through the small grate in the heavy iron door. Simon’s face had been ravaged. His nose had obviously been broken, his eyes swollen. The mouth, that Sayne remembered warmly smiling in those moments of private conversation, now sporting a split lip and tightly pressed together in pain. He lay on a pallet of moldering straw, curled into the fetal position in obvious pain. The sight of the only person to ever truly care about him brought so low, ignited an instant of white hot rage within Sayne. And it was only the lifetime of training in controlling emotions allowed him to swiftly stamp those emotions down.
“Brother Simon!” Sayne whispered harshly. His ruined voice sounding unnaturally loud in the deep silence of the catacombs. His pale golden eyes seeming to gleam with the pain of seeing his friend in such a state.
“Sayne?” Brother Simon whispered harshly, his voice cracked from thirst. He slowly rose, and painfully made his way to the iron door “What in the name of The Risen God are you doing here?” he demanded sullenly. “You need to get as far away from here as fast as you can!”
“I came for you,” Sayne replied quietly. The pain and disbelief of Simon refusing to accept his help, finally breaking through in his voice. “You’ve been my only friend. Let me help you.” He begged “I brought help, we can get you out!” The desperation sounding clearly in his plea.