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DESCRIPTIONNaked slave girls suffering under lash and chain are as rampant as violence and backstabbing in the Northern Kingdom. Sir Cromwell, fanatical Templar, discovers a conspiracy against King Drakken. He heads out for adventure with dragon bait—slave girl Lily. Kingdom of Pain will thrill fans of fantasy and erotica with bdsm, bloody sword fights, black magic, dragon battles, and lots of sex.EXCERPTBruno marched up to the slave and glared intently at her. She shivered despite the heat, and seemed to shrink into herself. He put his hand against her sweaty, dirt streaked flank and kneaded her flesh.“Not bad, Hector,” he muttered to himself. “Has some meat on her bones. So many of the pale skinned women are just too skinny.”The girl choked on her own spittle when he shoved a finger up her pussy. Bruno grinned, then used his knife to cut the wooden peg out of her mouth.“What is your name, girl?” he said.“Sharon DeMott, my lord,” she mumbled, not daring to meet Bruno's eyes.“DeMott?” Bruno chuckled. “I had heard that your house had fallen on hard times, my lady, but to be reduced to slavery?”Sharon licked her parched lips and shifted under his gaze.“My father...sold me to a slaver,” she said miserably “to pay our debts.”“I see,” said Bruno, taking her roughly by the chin. “Look at me.”Shyly, she raised her deep blue eyes to meet his dark orbs. She trembled with fear as he lightly stroked her cheek.“So beautiful,” he said softly “tell me, have you ever known the touch of man?”Sharon closed her eyes, shook like a leaf, and nodded slightly.“So you were impure and dishonored your father?”“NO!” Sharon gasped and lowered her head. “I mean, no master, I did not. The...slaver my father sold me to...he took my maidenhood.”“Just as well,” said Bruno “all that bleeding and crying gets old. Women do enough of that as it is at least once a month. I assume your masters trained you how to please a man?Sharon shook her head.“What?” Bruno glared at the hut's door. “My foolish squire. I don't have time to properly train you.”The village Elder sat on a stool and lit his pipe as Bruno dragged the girl off her feet. Forcing her to kneel before him, the ebon Templar fumbled with his codpiece until his erect member sprang free. Sharon gasped, for his manhood was over a foot long and almost half that thick.“This is a cock,” he said as if he were explaining it to a child. Jabbing his finger at the dark head, he continued. “This is the tip, this is the shaft, and this is my coin purse. First I want you to take the tip in your mouth—but just the tip.”“Master?” Sharon looked revolted. “Do you not... piss with that?”“Among other things,” laughed Bruno. “Must I get a whip! I can see that my squire has already had to discipline you. It would not trouble me to add a few more scars to your backside.”
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Published by Lot’s Cave
Kingdom of Pain No.1
Feudal Struggles, © 2015, by Kristine Lichtlider
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Moira Nelligar
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
The bright sun stung his eyes, more so than the beads of salty sweat that rolled into them, causing the young man to squint furiously. Shifting the heavy bag of oats on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, he continued to trudge down the dirt road, a line of dust trailing behind him in the dry air.
He was a young lad, not more than nineteen summers, with a bushy head of dark hair that seemed ludicrous on his stick thin body. He was dressed in what may once have been a respectable, if simple, garment. A dark blue doublet, quilted to provide some meager protection, covered his torso, terminating just above his knees. A pair of worn black trousers were underneath, the legs draped over sturdy boots. His garments had been stained and worn with travel, and though they were well maintained the myriad patches and stitching made him look somewhat wretched.
Tied to the lad's belt was a stout hemp rope, which trailed behind him a few inches above the dust until it swooped upward to encircle the neck of a comely young lass. Neither hat nor garment protected her from the punishing sun, and her generous bosom bounced painfully as she plodded behind him in the dirt. The girl could do nothing but sweep her head about and try to get the blonde locks out of her eyes, for her hands were securely tied behind her back. Perhaps she might have complained about her poor treatment, but she had a wooden stick thrust crosswise between her teeth, secured with twine behind her head.
The slave girl staggered, four bags of oats arranged across her shoulders and tied there with rope. The lad had no sympathy for her, glancing back in annoyance when she failed to keep up.
“Must I whip you again?” he said with a sigh. Wiping sweat from his brow, he trudged back to where she whimpered in the dirt. “What's wrong? Answer me!”
The girl gurgled something unintelligible, hampered by the stick in her mouth. The lad pinched both of her nipples, quite hard. Unable to stop him, she stamped her bare feet in the dirt and wailed behind the gag.
“Are you going to be docile and obedient?” The young man grabbed a handful of her hair and brought their faces close together. She nodded, tears leaking out of her eyes.
“Very good then.” The young man continued on his path down the wide dirt road, flanked on either side by tall trees. The sun was at its zenith, the long shadows they cast insufficient to provide the young man with much shade. He mopped his brow with the back of a dirt-streaked hand, face scrunched up in annoyance. The girl kept up as best she could, stumbling along beneath her burden. Her hands jerked at the knots holding them captive, but the lad was skilled with rope.
The road grew wider as it approached a small village. Though it was a collection of less than a dozen structures, none of them too terribly opulent, the boy was challenged at a crude but effective wooden gate that blocked egress into the settlement. He squinted up past the roughly hewn logs, each as stout as a man's leg, which were bound with hemp to create the barrier. A bearded, grinning face appeared over the sharpened points of the logs, gloved hands gripping the top of the fence at either side.
“Hail, stranger,” said the man, who had perhaps seen thirty summers. “State your business or you'll be sprouting more quills than a hedgehog!”
The young man sighed, straightened up a bit, and stated in a clear voice;
“Hector Brandywine, squire to Sir Bruno Cromwell, just returned from an errand for the same,” he said, adding under his breath “of course, you know this, as I just passed through these gates not two hours earlier.”
“And what do you bear on your back,” said the man “Hector Brandywine, squire of Sir Bruno Cromwell?”
“Oats,” said Hector, patting the rough sack on his back. “For my master's fine steed.”
The challenger's face scowled a bit, though his tone was still light and cheerful.
“Perhaps someone should have told your master,” he said “that in our humble village we do have a suitable repast for his nag. Could have saved you a long walk in the hot sun.”
Hector's freckled, dirt streaked face broke into a grin.
“No doubt,” he said “I, in fact, told Sir Cromwell the same thing. Alas, he also pointed out that his comfort woman at your fine village lacks wit and teeth. I was ordered to purchase this slave for his use.”
The face disappeared as the man dropped to the ground unseen behind the stout fence. Hector heard the sounds as the man fumbled with the crudely carved latch, then the fence split down the middle and opened just enough for him to squeeze through sideways.
“Thank you, kind sir,” said Hector, though as a squire from a noble family he technically outranked the common foot soldier. He bowed his head respectfully as he passed by the man. The slave girl shuffled miserably behind.
“You are most welcome,” said the man with a grin. He wore a boiled leather breastplate, a faded insignia of some sort on its front. A short bladed sword with a well-worn handle hung at his side, the scabbard slapping against his hairy legs as he stepped out of Hector's way. The man reached out and smacked the slave girl on the ass so hard it danced for nearly three seconds.
“A moment, my good lad,” said the soldier. Hector stopped, turned about halfway and tried to keep a patient, bored expression on his face.
“Yes, my good sir?” he said.
“What is it like?” said the man. “Serving one of them. Is it true that they regularly consort with demons, and that is why their skin is blackened? From the hellfire of their infernal concubines?”
Hector laughed, seeming to be on familiar ground.
“Sir Cromwell?” he said “you must be joking! For surely, one will not find a more devout, pious devotee of the Allfather in all of the North! And as far as serving one of 'them,' well, from what I have gleaned from my rare converse with other squires, the work is about the same; Tedious, thankless, and none too clean.”
The soldier threw back his head and laughed, giving Hector a pat on the shoulder.
“Carry on, lad,” he said “but know that you have my pity!”
“And you mine, as well,” said Hector under his breath as he gratefully went on his way. The tiny village was abuzz with activity, no less than thirty of the King's soldiers going about in their purple and gold tunics. Hector watched absent-mindedly as a group of six, with assistance from the peasantry, attempted to raise another wooden wall at a large gap in the tree line. Another group was splashing about in the wide, shallow creek that ran through the village, attempting to sink heavy flat stones below the merrily bubbling water to create a path across. The villagers either assisted the soldiers or milled nervously about, glaring at the joviality and cavalier attitude of the men at arms.
Hector arrived at his destination; A large hut with clay walls and a thatched roof, the largest in the tiny hamlet. He divested the grateful slave of her burden and laid it on the ground. Untying the cord around his belt, he led the beautiful young slave behind him. Hector clapped before the door, setting the bag of oats on the dirt first. When there was no response, he clapped again. Sighing, he opened the door, its crude leather hinges creaking noisily.
Inside he witnessed the village elder, a painfully thin septuagenarian whose hair and teeth had long since fled, leaning over a three legged wooden table. Across its battered and splintered surface was another man, far younger and more virile, his muscled hands straining to hold down the edges of a parchment.
Hector turned his focus to the younger man. He was tall and robust, muscle packed onto a hefty frame that looked more than capable. Unlike the soldiers, villagers, and Hector himself, the man had dark brown skin, shiny with sweat. His hair was tight, black and curly, shorn close to his scalp. He wore a fine silk blue jerkin over a pair of padded leather pantaloons, a stylized symbol of an open eye near his chest. Hector scowled at the jerkin, for he had a clear memory of spending many nights scrubbing it to remove blood stains and dirt from its fine surface.
“What is it, squire?” said the man, turning his handsome face towards Hector. His nose was wider than any of the other men's, his nostril's flaring with impatience at the interruption. Muscles working in his strong jaw, the man clenched his teeth and glared from narrow eyes when no response was immediately forthcoming.
“I have just returned, sir,” he said, hefting the bag of oats.
“And?” said the man in exasperation.
“I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir,” said Hector, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.
“My horse is still hungry, squire...” said the man harshly.
“Of course, Sir Cromwell,” said Hector, hastily bowing out of the one room structure.
The dark skinned man and the village elder watched as Hector scurried out of sight. The older man shook his head, a modicum of reproach in his voice when he spoke.
“You are hard on the boy, are you not Sir Bruno?” he said, voice shaking with age.
“Bah,” said Bruno, showing rows of straight, white teeth as he smiled. “I was assigned to Sir Reddings the Cold Hearted when I was a squire. He once beat me so badly, I thought he was trying to smite the black from my hide.”
“Yes, yes,” said the elder “the age old lament; Young people today have no idea how easy their lot is.”
Bruno marched up to the slave and glared intently at her. She shivered despite the heat, and seemed to shrink into herself. He put his hand against her sweaty, dirt streaked flank and kneaded her flesh.
“Not bad, Hector,” he muttered to himself. “Has some meat on her bones. So many of the pale skinned women are just too skinny.”
The girl choked on her own spittle when he shoved a finger up her pussy. Bruno grinned, then used his knife to cut the wooden peg out of her mouth.
“What is your name, girl?” he said.
“Sharon DeMott, my lord,” she mumbled, not daring to meet Bruno's eyes.
“DeMott?” Bruno chuckled. “I had heard that your house had fallen on hard times, my lady, but to be reduced to slavery?”
Sharon licked her parched lips and shifted under his gaze.
“My father...sold me to a slaver,” she said miserably “to pay our debts.”
“I see,” said Bruno, taking her roughly by the chin. “Look at me.”
Shyly, she raised her deep blue eyes to meet his dark orbs. She trembled with fear as he lightly stroked her cheek.
“So beautiful,” he said softly “tell me, have you ever known the touch of man?”
Sharon closed her eyes, shook like a leaf, and nodded slightly.
“So you were impure and dishonored your father?”
“NO!” Sharon gasped and lowered her head. “I mean, no master, I did not. The...slaver my father sold me to...he took my maidenhood.”
“Just as well,” said Bruno “all that bleeding and crying gets old. Women do enough of that as it is at least once a month. I assume your masters trained you how to please a man?
Sharon shook her head.
“What?” Bruno glared at the hut's door. “My foolish squire. I don't have time to properly train you.”
The village Elder sat on a stool and lit his pipe as Bruno dragged the girl off her feet. Forcing her to kneel before him, the ebon Templar fumbled with his codpiece until his erect member sprang free. Sharon gasped, for his manhood was over a foot long and almost half that thick.
“This is a cock,” he said as if he were explaining it to a child. Jabbing his finger at the dark head, he continued. “This is the tip, this is the shaft, and this is my coin purse. First I want you to take the tip in your mouth—but just the tip.”
“Master?” Sharon looked revolted. “Do you not... piss with that?”
“Among other things,” laughed Bruno. “Must I get a whip! I can see that my squire has already had to discipline you. It would not trouble me to add a few more scars to your backside.”
Fearfully, Sharon opened her mouth, stretching her lips wide until she hovered near the tip of his cock. She glanced up at him, her eyes pleading.
“Put it in your mouth.” Bruno's eyes flashed in the darkened hut. “NOW.”
Sharon clapped her lips around his dick. Bruno had been sweating all day, and her face scrunched up in horror at the flavor. Bruno clamped his hand on the back of her head and would not allow her to pull off of him.
“Now lick the bottom,” he said “and don't so much as scrape me with your teeth!”
The girl obeyed. Bruno stopped crushing the back of her head but he still maintained a grip on her blonde tresses.
“Good,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Very good. You are a born slut, Lady DeMott.”
Sharon's eyes flashed open in anger, though she didn't dare stop her task.
“That's right,” said Bruno, leering down at her. “You're a slut! A worthless slave slut who only needs to open her mouth for cock. Now I'm going to teach you a new trick. I want you to put your lips right here.”
Bruno tapped a spot halfway back on his massive cock. Sharon took her mouth off of him and went to kiss the indicated area, but Bruno backhanded her fiercely.
“Bitch, did I tell you to come off my cock? Get back on it!”
Fearfully, Sharon complied. He clapped a hand across the back of her head and forced her down on him. “Deeper... deeper... don't even think about biting me, bitch.”
Sharon gagged, choked, as her air was cut off. Then she gurgled and struggled fiercely when Bruno released his seed down her gullet. He held on, not allowing her to pull away until he had drained completely. Then he shoved her back to sputter on the floor, face and breasts stained with his issue.
“She learns quickly, and you are a fine instructor,” said the elder.
Bruno shrugged, returning his attention to the leather parchment both men strove to keep flat on the uneven table. Markings on its aged surface depicted what may have been the village and its creek. The surrounding forest had been illustrated, and there were several dark x's marked at seemingly random spots in the wood. Bruno's finger tapped hard on one of them, which appeared upstream from the village.
“I believe your bandits are holed up here,” he said. “There is good access to fresh water and I know of an old redoubt remaining from past wars. Though it would be largely a ruin by now it would provide some shelter to desperate men.”
The elder nodded, tracing a line from the village to the x with his finger.
“They have grown bold,” he said “taking my granddaughter in broad daylight...”
Bruno reached across the table and clapped the man on the shoulder.
“Take heart, good Stephan,” he said with a warm expression “these reprobates will soon learn the folly of trifling with King Drakken's loyal subjects.”
“I was surprised,” said Stephan “that his majesty took such an interest in the welfare of an admittedly unimportant village such as our own.”
Bruno straightened up, a smile fraught with pride spreading over his dark features.
“His majesty is a just and noble man,” he said confidently. “He cares for even the lowliest peasant as much as he would for the highest noble in his court.”
“Of course,” said Stephan hastily “I did not mean to insinuate anything to the contrary...”
Bruno laughed, his strong voice filling the hut and rolling over Stephan.
“Relax, old one,” he said “I am no inquisitor. His majesty sent me to help, and that is all. No one believes any of you follow the heathen religions of the South, or that any person in your village is secretly one of the Fey Folk.”
Stephan made a warding sign against evil, a look of shock crossing his wizened face.
“Please,” he said “do not speak of the Hidden Ones so! They will creep into our children's cribs at night and steal their very breath!”
“Bah,” said Bruno, dismissively waving his arm. “The Faerie bleed and die just as any other foe. They are deceptive, their foul magic insidious, but they are not known for such wanton cruelty. “
“Have you faced them in combat before?” said Stephan, still worried but curious as well.
“Yes,” said Bruno, his eyes narrowing “their penchant for changing shapes can create problems. One moment you are staring down your sword at a pathetic, wrinkled old wretch, and the next that form is gone, replaced by a snarling black bear. But one truth remains; Despite all of their cunning and trickery, they are not blessed with the Allfather's divine grace. Therefore, they are defeated before they even begin.”
Stephan nodded sagely.
“And your own Templar magic is more than capable of—”
“Magic?” said Bruno, scowling. “We Templars have made no pacts with demons, we have no magic.”
“Forgive me,” said Stephan “for I meant no offense.”
“None has been taken, good man,” said Bruno.
“However,” said Stephan “once in my youth I spied a Templar beset by brigands near Helmsley's Shire. His strength was uncanny, and seemed unnatural to my young eyes. I assume it was merely some knowledge or training that allowed him to shatter their weapons as if they were glass, with but a touch from his magnificent sword...”
“Bah!” said Bruno “surely you exaggerate, old man! It is true, we Templars are infused with Heartfire, but it is our faith in the Allfather that gives us true strength.”
“Heartfire, my lord?” said Stephan, curiosity overcoming his reluctance to antagonize the knight.
Bruno grinned, rolling up his silken sleeve to display his toned and muscular ebony arm. Organic, curving designs had been tattooed on his skin, wrapping about his forearm and terminating just below his wrist. Stephan's eyes went wide as a subtle spark of color ran through the line, zipping about the narrow path on his skin.
“First, they heat silver until it boils,” he said “then it is infused with secret reagents and blessed by priests. They use a long, thick wooden needle to infuse it into your skin, all while a dozen holy men chant the Conqueror's Prayer.”
“That sounds,” said Stephan, clearing his throat “rather painful.”
Bruno looked up at him, a fierce smile on his face.
“Excruciating.” he said.
Both men's eyes shot towards the door as someone began to frantically ring the heavy iron bell which served as the village's alarm. Stephan looked pale, as if he might faint, but a gleam of pleasure tainted Bruno's eager expression.
“They are bold,” he said to the elder. Raising his voice, he thundered “SQUIRE!”
Outside, they heard alarmed shouts and running feet. The soldier's military barking mingled with the villager's plaintive cries of terror. Bruno turned about and picked up a scabbarded long sword from where it was leaning against the clay wall. The scabbard had been opulently decorated with Bruno's personal seal, a lion reared up on its hind legs. He gripped the brass wire hilt, fist an inch from the cross guard, and unsheathed about six inches of it. His reflection stared back at him from the gleaming surface, and he was surprised by the look of joy in his eyes. Those eyes darkened a moment later as he turned towards the door and bellowed.
“SQUIRE!” he shouted once more. The door to the hut burst open and Hector stumbled inside, burdened by heavy steel armor. A gauntlet dropped out of the mix and clanged across the hard packed dirt floor, drawing more ire from the knight.
“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, hastily moving to help Bruno don the metal clothing. His hands shook with nervousness, hampering his efforts.
“Calm yourself, squire,” said Bruno, arms held out the sides as Hector struggled with the straps to his breastplate. “Fear is good, it keeps your mind sharp, but only if you don't let it rule you.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, trying without much success to keep his hands from shaking.
“I have not lost a squire yet,” said Bruno with a wry grin “I don't intend to start now.”
“Of course not, sir,” said Hector, moving lower to attach Bruno's silver leg greaves. The lad had spent many long hours polishing the smooth surface, and he was secretly proud of how the armor gleamed even in the dim light of the elder's hut.
The tumult outside had reached a new high, as booted feet marched past the hut, heading for the gate. Bruno's brown eyes followed the sound, alarm crossing his features.
“Hurry, boy,” said Bruno.
“Almost... done!” said Hector, standing up straight and checking his handiwork. Bruno was now clad from neck to foot in gleaming full plate armor. Highly customized and articulated, Bruno seemed to move easily as he checked the fit. Satisfied, he bowed his head slightly so Hector could place a helm over it. The helm had a y shaped opening on the face, framing his eyes, nose and mouth in steel. A bright blue plume stuck from the pointed top, a symbol of Bruno's station. Fierce eyes glared from out of the helm at Hector.
“What is wrong, my lord?” he said shakily.
Bruno suddenly reached back and slapped the lad across the face, none too gently. Metal disks had been welded onto the knuckles on his gauntlet, which drew a bit of blood at Hector's mouth.
“My shield!” said Bruno.
“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, running out of the hut. Bruno followed a moment later, making a beeline for the crude wooden fortifications at the north end of the village. The soldiers had taken up position behind the barricade, five rows of six men abreast. They waited with military discipline for Bruno to clank in front of them. Several arrows came sailing over the fence to bury their heads into the soft dirt. Neither the knight nor his troop so much as flinched at the errantly aimed missiles.
“Men,” he said “we are outnumbered, hot, and thirsty on this fine summer day. But water will not quench our thirst, will it?”
“NO!” came the lusty reply, which brought a smile to his face. He continued to speak as Hector dashed towards him, bearing an ornate steel shield on his arm.
“What is the one thing that will slake our parched lips?” he said.
“BLOOD!” they shouted as one. Bruno smiled and shook his head as Hector strapped the shield to his forearm.
“I truly pity our enemies this day,” he said. Turning towards the half dozen peasants tasked with swinging open the heavy gate, he nodded grimly. The wooden gate scraped over the dirt, kicking up dust. Bruno unsheathed his gleaming blade, thrust it forward as if he would skewer their still distant enemy.
“Charge!” he said in a howl, and his soldiers surged forth. Out on the dirt road, their adversaries raised their own voices in kind. A mass of humanity, prickly with crude metal tipped wooden spears and clad in roughly tanned furs, awaited them. The dense foliage on either side of the dirt road funneled the two groups towards each other to clash with the sound of metal on metal. Bruno, who remained near the gates, strained to see through the cloud of dust kicked up by their melee. It appeared that his men were more than holding their own as bodies and weapons were hewn with savagery from their path. Blood soon stained the dirt, not much of it from the King's men.
Hector stood near his lord, wearing quilted armor that made him sweat anew. He peered up at Bruno, amazed at how the man could stand in the hot sun while clad in steel and seem perfectly at ease.
“The bandits fall quickly before their skill,” he said, a note of pride in his young voice.
“I am not certain that these are bandits,” said Bruno.
“But the elder said...” began Hector.
“There are too many of them,” said Bruno, shaking his head “not well armed... and why attack in broad daylight? Why do they continue to march into their deaths, instead of fleeing as criminals are wont to do?”
“They are fools,” said Hector, shrugging.
“Are they?” said Bruno, his eyes narrowing.
The king's men continued their assault, easily pressing the badly organized mob backwards. Hector was about to point out that nearly half their number had fallen when he heard a sinister tumult from the woods near the road. Bruno heard it as well, taking a step forward and bellowing a warning.
“ARCHERS!” he shouted. “Take cover!”
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