The Seven Winds of Malascon

Copyright 2013 by Green Eye Guy. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to Nifty Archives, to archive and display this work. All other uses are expressly forbidden unless explicit arrangement has been made with the author. This copyright applies to all chapters and pages of this work. It may not be reproduced, posted, stored electronically, or archived, except for personal, non-public use, without the express written permission of the author.

DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidence and is not intended by the author. This work contains homoerotic and sexual behavior between males and may not be legal for reading or publication depending on local or national laws. Therefore the reader is forewarned to read at their own risk.

The Seven Winds of Malascon Part 1: THE KING IS DEAD By Green Eye Guy, 2013

INTRODUCTION

It is said that with the Great War came the great winds, seven shifting currents that each convey a different message from the corners of the world. The Wind of Salt carries with it the desperate, dry fervor of the western saltlands, soaking up hope and moisture like a sponge placed in a goblet of water. Equally ominous is the Wind of Embers, portending terrible heat that scorches the land and sends even the most stalwart of farmers deep into their clay abodes to pray for relief. It rises from the south with a flaming fury so deep that some religious followers believe it to be a gust from the hells.

Then there is the Wind of the Quarries, a great cool rush that rises from the gem-laden caverns in the eastern reaches of the province. Scented like the earth, it is a comforting breeze that signals the beginning of prosperity and the end of drought. Its sister, the Wind of the Waves, is similarly refreshing but gathers its essence from the great blue waves of the Alonsia Mer to the far east where the sun rises high in the sky each morning and sends glimmers off the choppy waves. But the Wind of the Waves is far from a stable, peaceful gale; she often carries great storms capable of flooding the parched land and restoring moisture to the soil.

From the north blows the Wind of Firn, a chilled gust that grows fiercer and firmer with each passing harvest season, reminding the people of Malascon that winter is creeping into the land. During the hot summer months, it is revered as a respite from the scourges of scorched air, bringing much-needed coolness to the kingdom.

The Wind of War blows from neither direction, instead swirling high above the land before gusting downwards in dreadful bursts. Violent twisting columns with terrible scarlet lightning accompany it, wreaking havoc and sowing fear in the townspeople and lords alike. Fortunately, since the end of the Great War, this particular wind has scarcely been seen in the land. Only six times has it appeared in the past eight centuries, and two of those accounts are widely believed to be falsities of Tyrenius the Bald, an illegitimate king whose rule lasted but six days before he was dispatched by an assassin--his own daughter.

Finally, the seventh wind is one that holds places in mystic's books from times long ago. The name and particulars of this force vary quite significantly, and its direction is entirely uncertain. Some say that it originates among the swaying trees in the King's Grove, and others say it belches forth from the buried crypts of the ancients, a force inhabited by spirits themselves. More often than not, the name given to it by the wise scribe Lo'th Horlan is used: the Wind of Asda. Far back in the history of the realm, Asda was a god revered by the people as a protector of humanity who would step in to save mankind when situations appeared hopelessly dire. As agrarian civilizations settled in and the nomadic life faded, the old deities vanished one by one, eventually living on only through rotting scrolls.

Ironically, the wind named after this powerful benevolent was rumored to have few redeeming qualities itself. It is written in the scrolls that this wind would sweep into a town, castle or battlefield and dissipate all living creatures instantly. All that it left behind were clothes, jewelry, saddles and daily accoutrements, though no trace of their users. The Wind of Asda is feared, most notably in scary stories told by children to induce nightmares in siblings and friends.

In balance, all things are beautiful. The good and the bad dance their eternal waltz, while happiness and sadness swing on a perfect pendulum. War and peace; summer and winter; wet and dry. Such are the Seven Winds, each carrying qualities to bring harmony to the land of Malascon. Too much of one force yields chaos; too little the same. But when they blow together, the land is maintained and civilization marches forward.

THE CASTLE KEEP

The large man's gullet flared and he let out a low, throaty growl. It was not truly a menacing gesture; it was one of frustration and fatigue, a condition not improved by his many years of stressful leadership.

"What do you mean he has failed?" he bellowed in a voice deep like that of a mountain lion cornered against a rocky outcropping. His companion, a thin man with hair blackened artificially by charcoal, shifted his weight uneasily, preparing to nervously answer to his king. The king was an imposing figure, tall and large-boned with short gray hair. His teeth had been broken in many battles, leaving him with jagged fangs that caught the light and scared young children in the court. His sunken eyes were dark and terrifying, and his dark red leather made him look more rotund and demonic than usual.

"My king," the thin man said, clearing his throat, "It simply was not meant to be, but I can assure you that Master Alphenon is hard at work on another..." He could not bring himself to call the vile liquid brewing in the alchemist's cauldron a poison; instead he frantically searched for a suitable alternative. Drink? Potion? Elixir?

"Poison," said the king in a loud, annoyed voice. "Call it what it is, you damned fool."

"Yes, of course, my liege. Another poison. The Master says this next one will be foolproof..." The thin man chewed his lip, biting hard and bringing forth a single drop of red blood. Before the king could see it, his tongue darted forward and lapped it into the recesses of his dry, aching mouth.

"Aye, I've trusted your word before and I'll trust it now, but even still, I won't have you mucking up another perfect plot," returned the king, his pasty white face glowing red with exasperation. It was almost as red as his leather garb, in fact. His gullet continued to throb, sending out visible pulses through his thick neck. The king was just shy of his 39th star rise, but he looked nearly ten years older than his actual age. His short gray hair had been trimmed close to the head, most of it hidden beneath his large bejeweled crown. The townsfolk whispered that he wore the crown to bed, in the bath and even when he made love; the thin man didn't doubt these hushed claims. The king's chest and belly grew rounder as he spent more and more time in his keep and throne room preparing for imminent war with the rangers to the south. The stress had taken a toll on his new marriage, a desperate situation that had not been helped by the recent struggles of primogeniture with which he wrestled today.

"My king, I assure you, you will not be disappointed," the thin man said, nervously wringing his fingers. He imagined he was anywhere but the keep; in this dark, secure room built of cold timberstone, he felt as though he was trapped in a sealed crypt with no company save for a fat, angry demon. A demon that delighted in torment and watching mortals squirm.

The keep was situated within the castle walls, and only the king and his immediately family had free access to it. The single entrance was guarded at all times by no less than four knights dressed in somber black plate mail. It was polished to look like hematite, and in torchlight, the armor itself appeared to be on fire.

Down the hall from the keep's entrance, several strategy rooms held tables with maps drawn on their surfaces for commanding forces. The walls held dozens of tomes and scrolls containing all knowledge of the realm. One door on the right was perpetually locked; the thin man had never seen it opened before, and despite being the master of secrets and spies, he did not know what it contained. The king refused to divulge its contents.

Down another corridor, a door led to the throne room. This great space had vaulted ceilings that stretched toward the heavens. Large paned glass windows overlooked the sea on one side and the city on the other. At the front of the room, on a raised platform, sat two great thrones. The larger was for the king, and it was carved of pure yellow gold and adorned with rich velvets on its seat and arms. The symbol of the king's family, the swallow, was carved into the head. Though a tiny bird with little fight value, swallows were land-based birds who were good omens to ships arriving at port. The king himself was devoted to the symbol, going so far as to have several dozen birds trained to deliver messages around the kingdom. The program was met with limited success; however, where the birds failed, the human messengers would quietly take up the messages themselves and deliver them in the night. The king remained unaware of these setbacks, insisting that the birds were symbolic of a new age of communications for the realm.

The royal family lived in the spires above the keep and throne room, and they dined in the large room adjacent to the throne. The castle was, by all accounts, a suitable place for year-round living and comfortable luxury.

"I imagine I won't be disappointed," said the king, his neck throbbing less, as the thin man snapped back to the situation at hand. "In fact, I suspect I won't have to worry about your performance at all this time." He sneered and smiled, then turned to the guard at the door, nodding knowingly.

The guard reached behind him with a flash of his black plate mail and unlatched the wooden door. The thin man could hear something clanging in the hall; the noise grew steadily louder. He looked behind him to see a chained figure being dragged into the room. A hood covered its head, and it was wearing a long, loose tunic of coarse burlap that disguised any other identifying characteristics. The figure was silent, but the thin man could see that it was quivering in fear.

The thin man watched intently, curious as to who was under the hood without displaying any emotions. "It's one of two people," though the thin man. "No matter which, I need to be strong." When the guard snatched the hood away, a long mess of auburn hair tumbled down in front of the figure's shadowed face. The guard roughly grabbed the red-brown fibers and pulled them back, showing the visage of a frightened woman who stared first at the thin man and then at the king. She was pale, and her eyes were wide, but she managed to open her mouth.

"M-m-my k-k-king," she stuttered, tears forming in the corners of her pale blue eyes. "I-I-I am ashamed..."

"Ashamed? For what?" the king bellowed back, making her quivers stronger. A small pool of urine trickled out from under her long burlap covering.

"F-f-for whatever it is-s that I have d-d-done to disappoint you, my king," she said, salty tears now rolling down her cheeks. She shifted her gaze to the thin man again, whose emotions had not betrayed him. The woman looked sad and tried to use her eyes to elicit some feeling of tenderness or, at least, pity.

"Shackelford, for a man whose wife is chained in front of him, you don't seem to show much emotion," the king continued. "Your closest confidante, likely, and one who has given you three children from the depths of her belly, if I'm not mistaken."

The woman sobbed, buckling slightly. The guard beside her clenched her arm tightly, preventing her from falling entirely. Her pained face looked to the thin man for some comfort.

"My liege, I fear greatly for Lady Genna, and my heart breaks to see her in such a state," Shackelford said, his voice resolute. The woman let out a loud groan in the midst of sobs, knowing that this man did not spare her any pain with his emotionless retort.

"Ah, enough with the games, Shackelford. I've had about enough of your bile and disappointment for one lifetime. Guards," the king commanded, motioning again to the door. Shackelford braced to be taken away, but no one approached. His wife remained; what did the king have planned?

Not a moment later, the sound of clanging chains returned in the hallway.

This time, Shackelford's face showed signs of worry. He looked at the king, biting his lip and bringing forth a second drop of blood. Would he bring in one, two or three of his own children? Perhaps his long-suffering mother? Or...?

As expected, another figure was dragged into the room, dressed identically like Genna. This time, when the hood was ripped off, Shackelford sucked in a gasp of air loudly enough that even Genna turned her stare toward him, her face slowly twisting in confusion and malign. This figure elicited a response; the chaining of his wife, however, did not.

The handsome young man beneath the second hood was barely 20, yet he looked to be somewhat older than his years. His short brown hair, normally slicked back with animal renderings, hung loosely over his forehead. He looked up with bright green eyes, staring at Shackelford without so much as acknowledging the presence of the king or the auburn-haired woman next to him.

Happy to have elicited a reaction from the thin man, the king started up again. This time, his tone was queer; he didn't bellow, but rather, spoke in a slow, drawn voice. "So it was as my spies said... Shackelford, trusted agent of the king and keeper of secrets for the land, is a cock-sucking, man- loving abomination after all. Tsk, tsk, old friend."

Genna began weeping again, her hands bound tightly by the iron shackles. The young man finally turned his intense gaze from the thin man, whose pale face looked exceptionally drawn and upset. He instead looked at his fellow prisoner, feeling her pain and understanding the betrayal he had been complicit in committing. He had known Shackelford for quite some time, and he'd enjoyed his company for the past several years, but he'd known nothing of this autumn-haired beauty to whom his sophisticated paramour was married. It made the young man feel ill, and he clenched his unguarded sphincter tightly thinking of how freely he'd given it to this traitor before him.

"Take 'er away," the king said loudly, motioning through the air with one hand. "I can't stand to see a lady crying. Let her go free. She'll no more bother with the likes of this scum." The woman looked up at the king with a tear-stained face and nodded, unable to speak but visibly grateful for his compassion.

As she was guided from the room by the guard who braced her arm, walking through the puddle of now-cool urine, she shot one final glance at her disgraced husband.

"May the wrath of Asda find you and your friend," she muttered, motioning her head toward the boy as she mentioned him, her voice raspy and weak. "And may the gods keep you from ever finding comfort in one another's arms ever again."

As the first guard escorted her from the room, the second knight closed the chamber door, leaving just the king, Shackelford and the young man in the room with two sentries. The king, obviously pleased with the ruination of his failed lead agent, was not done with his humiliation just yet.

"Remove his tunic," the king said to the guard, looking disdainfully at the young man. Shackelford was breathing heavily, suddenly bearing a red face much like that of the flaring king just moments before. "Show me Shackelford's plaything."

The guard ripped the coarse tunic from the boy's slender frame, letting the hard fibers scrape against his soft skin. It left red marks on his shoulders, tiny scuffs to match the tears the shackles left on his wrists. As the tunic tore, his lean, slightly muscular chest came into view followed by his smooth, toned thighs. Finally, as the last of the rough garment tore away, the man's full body was on display for the small audience in the chamber. His plump cock, perfectly shaped, protruded from his groin, sprouting from a carpet of rich, thick, curly brown fur. Two pear-shaped balls were in a sac below that, resembling a statue in their delightful near symmetry. The king imagined they probably swung when he walked, and he could imagine Shackelford's delight at watching the boy bend over provocatively.

"Ah, I can see why you were so tempted by this fine specimen of manhood, Shackelford," said the king, a tone of dangerous giddiness taking root in his thick, heavy voice. It was uncharacteristic of the usually stern, conservative ruler. The king beckoned the guards to bring the prisoner closer to him, and they dragged him forward. His soft feet slid along the smooth hardwoods of the floor until he rested just an arm's length from the ruler. Shackelford watched with horror, swallowing loudly and blinking repeatedly.

The king rose from his seat and walked around the young man, examining him in his entirety. He let out approving grunts as he examined his cock, his round firm ass and his muscular arms. Next, the king commanded his guard to prod the boy with his sword, firmly enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin. The boy whimpered in pain and embarrassment. The king examined the press marks from each poke closely before walking back to his chair.

"Tsk, tsk," said the king upon sitting again in the keep's chair. "I've had many whores in my time as king, but never a boy."

"Please," begged Shackelford, sensing the steadily growing maniacal tone of the king's voice, "Let the boy go. He had no part in my failure. In fact, the new poison was all his idea. He wanted to fix the error that I caused."

The king motioned to the guard, who approached the chair and bent on one knee. The fat man whispered something in his ear, something Shackelford could not hear. The guard turned, exited the room and returned a moment later bearing a red-hot brand in the image of the swallow. The boy began to cry, and the thin man was breathing very heavily.

"Boy," said the king, beckoning with one finger. "Come here." The boys sobs echoed in the tight keep, and his penis and scrotum retracted in fear. Had it been less dire, Shackelford would have found the response adorably innocent. But as it were, both their lives were on the line and it was not a time for such sentiments.

"Bend over, boy, and show me your tight hole," bellowed the king, his voice raising steadily as he continued. "Show me Shackelford's heaven."

Crying more, the boy bend over, his beautiful toned ass in the air. His fingers reached in between the split of his legs, revealing his clenched anus. The king took the red hot brand from the knight and aimed it at the boy's right cheek.

"This WILL hurt, boy," he said, "But I suspect it will hurt Shackelford even more."

The thin man was now weeping, too, watching his lover brace for pain.

Swiftly, the king pressed the small swallow brand into the boy's flesh, searing it with a loud sizzle. He screamed, but was held in place by the guards. The king pushed harder, forcing the burning metal deeper into the boy's buttocks. Finally, when it seemed like it could go no further, the king stopped and accidentally dropped the holder. The hot metal snapped the brand off, with the poker sliding out of the deep cauterized wound.

"It seems, my boy, that you'll forever have a reminder of this turn of events stuck up your ass," said the king, laughing slightly. The boy was still screaming and crying in pain from the hot iron that refused to leave his disfigured bottom. Making a crude joke, the king added, "At the very least, you'll always have a swallow."

Turning from the pained youth, the king now focused on Shackelford himself.

"Oh, old friend," said the king. "You may have been the master of secrets for my kingdom, but your position has still managed to elude your personal life. And you were none the wiser, and that's simply unacceptable for someone in your...position."

Shackelford's sadness at his lover's predicament melted into confusion, and he turned from the king to the burned boy and back again. "Your pardon, my king?" he said between tearful sniffles.

"You see, your betrayal wasn't at the hands of my whisperers. Oh, no. It was from someplace much...closer," said the king, his voice bellowing with confidence again. The gleeful sadism was gone, for the moment.

Shackelford's sadness was gone and replaced with fiery contempt.

"How could you do this to me, Epton?" Shackelford said to the young man crumpled on the floor in a blubbering heap, his mouth twisted into a grimace of fury. "After all I gave to you, after all I did for you? Our nights of pleasure were unparalleled by all the whores of the realm, and all the prestige I gave you in the court--did it all count for nothing?"

In his mind, Shackelford raced through all their moments of passion. The time he and Epton first made passionate love after the tournament in the grassy knoll beyond the jousting arena, still wearing their tunics... The time they had swam nude in the sea before fucking passionately on the sandy beach, cumming all over the dunes... The time when, using only his tongue pressed around and into his tight anus, Shackelford made the boy shimmer with orgasmic delight, shooting a hot stream of seed several feet into the air... The times they bathed together in moonlight, the younger massaging his older friend's feet and biting playfully at his wet, hard nipples...

In his anger and reminiscing, Shackelford didn't hear the keep's door slowly swing open behind him, and he didn't see the shadowy figure enter the room. It was dressed in a dark cloak made by one the realm's top tailors, a finery reserved for royalty and the wealthiest of patrons. In an instant, the figure was behind Shackelford with a sharp, shining dagger drawn.

"No, dear husband, it wasn't your boy who betrayed you. It was your dear, sweet, loving wife," said Genna, her tunic replaced by a set of chain mail below the expensive cloak. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, neat ponytail, and her tears were gone. This new woman's face was full of resentment and anger, not sadness or regret.

Without waiting for his response, she plunged the dagger into her husband's back, twisting it as it sliced through the flesh and pierced his spinal column. It became stuck for a moment on the vertebrae, but Genna's force ensured that it did not linger at the bone. She felt it lodge for a brief second, then it sliced through sinews that she assumed were his nerves. The thin man's face conveyed shock as he crumpled to the ground. The young, nude Epton yelled, still favoring his unwounded cheek as he spun around to watch his lover fade. This time, the hot tears were his. He lowered himself as much as he could, his heavy sac resting on the cool hardwood floor while his mouth hung open.

Within seconds, Shackelford was dead. Genna made sure of this by kicking him with her steel-tipped boot, a final disgrace for her unfaithful husband.

"My king," said Epton, his voice cracking. "I loved that man, but I owe you my life. You always have had, and always will have, my loyalty"

"Yes, and my swallow brand stuck up your tight ass. But you owe me more than what your life is worth, you foul deviant," said the king, his bearded lips twisting into a snarled position. "And you're going to pay the debt in full."

Genna took her place beside the king, wiping the dagger with a strip of Shackelford's own shirt that she unceremoniously ripped off after he fell. She looked at the king with a wry smile, anticipating his next cruel move.

"You have a new duty, young, vile Epton, and lest you wish to join your lover in death, I'd suggest that you perform it well," the king said to him. The boy nodded quickly, his cock bouncing as he did.

"Anything, my king, anything at all," he replied verbally, fervently clasping and shaking his hands emphatically. As he shook his arms, his soft, thick cock jiggled again. Genna smirked, silently wondering how her dead husband had managed to ply such a tasty morsel for himself.

"If I were younger," she thought, "I'd bed him. Whether he liked it or not..."

"I thought so," the king said, bringing Genna out of her lurid fantasy with the nude boy. "Now, tell me, how well do you know my son, Crown Prince Calib?"

"Not well, I fear, my king," Epton said, glancing at the crumpled body of his lover. "I've seen him at the tournaments riding his golden steed, and once, I caught glimpse of him touring the town square during the closing of harvest last year."

"Ah, yes, the harvest ride. THAT harvest ride," the king said, shaking his head. "It figures you'd remember his antics that day. But that'll do, as long as you're familiar with his face. It's all that matters," The boy nodded quickly and furiously, trying to best convince the king that he could carry out any task to which he was assigned. Blood pooled around Shackelford's corpse, running along the floorboards toward the keep's solid wood door. Where Genna stood in her shackles a few minutes prior, the blood mixed unceremoniously with her urine to form a grotesque pink liquid.

"Very well. You'll get one chance, and one only. You must kill Calib and make sure that no evidence is left behind."

Epton's eyes grew large, and he swallowed heavily. The pain momentarily disappeared from his backside. "...K-k-kill the prince, your heir? Are you certain, my king?"

The king's eyes suddenly widened with rage, and he bellowed back, "How dare you question the orders of your king, you filth! Would you like to suffer the same fate as this dead man at my boots?"

Epton shook his head. "No, no, my king. I shall kill Calib, and none in the kingdom will be the wiser."

Genna looked at the king, her half-smile still stretched across her face. She knew the king had greatness in store for the realm, and removing Calib from the line of succession was the first pin that needed to be extracted from the fray. These deviants all needed to be...extinguished. One at a time, slowly but completely.

"Go now, boy, and do your duty before the week is done," the king said, waving him off impatiently. "And if you fail, well, I shall not grant you so merciful a fate as your friend here," he added, giving Shackelford another kick to the gut. The corpse did not react, save for a bit more blood exiting his mortal wound.

The young man rose and limped away in his shackles. Escorted by a guard who pulled him at a fast clip, the king and Genna watched as he was taken from the room before the door was closed by the sentry behind him.

Genna turned to face the king again, and he returned her gaze.

"What will you do if he fails?" asked Genna, her dagger back in its sheath at her hip. She was a completely different woman from the bitch who had been dragged in wearing chains, but then again, her performance had been pitch perfect. The woman could act, and she could act well. The king didn't let this fact slip his mind.

He thought a moment before responding.

"I'll pluck his pears, and maybe chop down his thick little tree, and then I'll feed them to my hounds," said the king. Genna returned the vile revelation with a wider, more sadistic smile. "Better yet, I'll slice 'em off and make him feed 'em to the dogs himself."

THE KING'S GROVE

"THREE!" shouted the blond boy, watching eagerly as the two equally young men in front of him grinned sheepishly and dropped their leather breeches to the grass beneath their bare feet. They were now fully nude, and with their hands at their sides, there was no hiding their ample genitals. The taller boy had a longer cock, but shorter boy with darker hair had a thick member and much larger, rounder balls. Both sets were beautiful in their own regard.

The blond boy laughed mirthfully, jumping to his own feet to get a better glimpse at the boys displayed in front of him. He'd witnessed his 17th star rise 11 moons earlier, and his 18th was fast upon him. But the blond boy looked much younger than his years with soft, smooth skin tanned ever so slightly by the sun. His dark blond hair was streaked with highlights, and his features were perfectly proportioned and accentuated to fit his chiseled face. He was a living statue, carved of the finest marble with deep-set silver eyes and delicious muscles. The silver eyes were his proudest feature, a symbol of the royal blood that had flowed through the veins of kings for millennia. His father had them, and his grandfather had had them before that. His youngest brother also had the silver eyes, but the middle son was cursed with one silver iris and one blue. They called him Ice because of the frigid look imparted by the heterochromia, a nickname not helped by his light blond hair and fair complexion. His real name was Lextyr, and the youngest prince was simply named Jey.

Calib was, though, the handsomest of the lot without any question or doubt. He was also the heir to the throne, and it was only his eyes that mattered in the history books. Ice would never be king; Calib was strong, fit and well- liked by many, the perfect choice to assume the throne. With one exception: he was openly gay and recklessly flamboyant.

It was an odd position for an heir to such a large kingdom. Those not born of noble blood could be executed for merely being suspected of homosexuality in the realm, but Calib turned away at those executions and spared himself the pain of his father's people. "Deviants," the king called them, full aware of his own son's proclivities. But the family of the king was untouchable, and even though social climates were always dictated by the one who wore the crown, he was in no position to touch his own son. Calib, with his striking good looks and playful personality, saw no reason to hide what most suspected from an early age and instead took to flaunting it.

He was in his 13th year when he discovered the joys of the flesh during a bath with one of the other noble boys, a cousin of his, aged 16 years. As the boys splashed in the warm waters while the house master left to pursue more leichen bark soap, his cousin leapt from the large marble bath and bolted the bath's door shut. He turned with a large erection, then proceeded to fondle and suck the young prince's cock, bringing him to a dry orgasm in minutes. Surrounded by warm water and the tender touch of a handsome boy, he knew he'd found his desire. The prince and his cousin would have many more encounters over the years, both in the baths and around the castle, with Calib soon returning the favor of a warm, moist mouth around his cousin's throbbing manhood. "You taste like toasted almonds wrapped in fresh, fragrant honeysuckle," said Calib, much to the older boy's happiness.

But last year, it all changed. The cousin rode off with a group of horse riders to oversee expansion of the realm into the northwest forests. The group was met with resistance from a roving pack of wild rangers, and as Calib learned, his cousin's head was removed and sent back to the castle in an iron chest along with various other body parts and viscera from the slaughtered men. His cousin's mother wept uncontrollably for days, and when Calib looked inside the chest at the decaying gray face with frosted eyes and a jagged neckline, hacked off by some crude wooden axe it seemed, he didn't see the tender good looks of his former lover; he saw only despair and pain. Calib turned away, left the room and vomited violently in the hall.

For weeks, Calib remained quiet and celibate, an echo of his former jubilance. He comforted himself with long walks through the castle's halls and the King's Grove, a dark forested garden located just off the southern portcullis. There the roses bloomed fragrant and lovely, and it took his mind off the loss of his dear cousin and bedmate.

One day, while he walked among the thorny flowering bushes, he was joined by his mother, the queen. Unlike her gruff husband, the queen was a beautiful and kind figure in the court. Her smile brought warmth to the cold castle walls, and Calib loved her dearly. Her long hair was braided into an exquisite style, and her tender skin was just beginning to show the signs of a woman of her age. Still, she exuded elegance and fairness.

"Calib," she said, walking arm-in-arm with her son. "Why do you walk so listlessly these past several weeks? Surely you cannot still be mourning the loss of dear Raynen? I know you were close, but this cannot be good for any prince, let alone heir to the crown."

He bit his lip, wondering how to respond. He searched for a response that would be diplomatic yet honest. "Mother, there's no easy way to say this..."

"You loved him, Calib. Loved him more dearly, more deeply, than any cousin. I know," she said, smiling calmly. "I knew from the first time you locked Master Venna out of the bath and let that boy indulge your pleasures. You may have been locked in at the time, but the door was far from soundproof."

"But... Venna told you?" he asked, puzzled.

"No," she said. "A mother just knows these things, and in his case, it was what Master Venna didn't say that confirmed what I already knew in my heart. Didn't you find it a bit strange that you were still bathing with lesser nobles in your 13th year and not complaining?"

"I suppose," Calib said, realizing that his secret was no secret at all. If that shrew Shackelford, a good friend of Master Venna, knew, he would spread those words like wildfire until everyone in the court knew--including his father, the king.

"Still, my little raptor, it does not change how much I love you. You must embrace yourself no matter what the consequences may be, and never let anyone sway you."

"Does father know?" Calib asked.

"Does it matter?" retorted the queen, leaning in to hug her son. They sat at a bench and quietly watched the bees flit around the roses for several minutes before heading inside together for supper.

But that was before the queen left on a short trip across Alonsia Mer to select new fabrics for the royal bedchambers. The best silk vendors took up residence in the port cities across the sea. Two days into the three day voyage, the royal barge's helm cracked while gliding over the waves with his mother in her quarters. She had been with child, though only the royal family and closest confidantes knew at the time; the priestess predicted it would be a girl, the first princess of the realm in nearly 60 star rises. A fisherman later told the court that despite paddling toward the sinking ship as quickly as his crew could muster, the sea had been intent on swallowing up the beautiful queen and her unborn baby. Calib often imagined his mother peacefully cradling her belly as the cabin filled with water, her golden braids floating on the water even as her head was forced under the waves... Yes, he imagined, she would have been as graceful in accepting death as she'd been in living life.

The king had the fisherman and his crew hanged in the courtyard the afternoon of their testimony. The charges were brutal and harsh: treason against the crown for all for not having saved the swallow's sparkling eye, the great queen. As their bodies swung in the prevailing Wind of the Salt, Calib looked at his father's wrinkled face. For the first time that he could remember, a single tear glinted at the corner of his left eye. He turned to face the sea before it ran down his cheek.

Now, six months later, the king's heart grew colder as Calib's spirit became wilder and more rambunctious. No longer constrained by the love and respect he had for his fair mother, his impish antics grew more and more plentiful-- and more embarrassing for the king.

During the harvest festival, while on the back of a decorated royal litter walking through the streets, the young prince slipped out of his silk vestments and waved to the crowds with no coverings on his lithe body. The warm air felt good on his skin, and the guards were powerless to touch him. Women, men and everyone in between hooted and hollered, and some said it was the loudest crowd ever to assemble in the city of Pronna. The king only heard of the insolence back at the castle some time later, and he spent a good many hours hollering at his heir for making such a foolish mockery of the crown.

"As if I didn't have enough to worry about in this kingdom, what with your mother dead and gone, I also have to deal with your deviance!" shouted the king, lashing at the boy with his silk breeches. Calib still stood nude by choice before his father, unashamed of his nakedness.

When the king was blue in the face and could scream no more, Calib asked, "If that's all, my king, I'll return to my chambers. I hope that escapade was as hard for you as it was for me." He then turned, showing the king the silhouette of his large erection as he marched back up the tower to his room. He didn't bother to bring his silk clothes with him, letting the growling king throw them into the fireplace to burn.

On another occasion, Calib invited six noble boys up to his bed chambers for a festive early winter orgy. They drank wine and sucked one another's cocks, and Calib laughed a good many days after that as they watched snowflakes fall past the arched windows of his chamber. It wasn't until the following week, when his penis was met with a burning sensation as he urinated, that he became concerned about his choice of playmates. The castle's potion master, Master Alphenon, examined the prince's genitals up close and delivered the news: he'd contracted a known venereal disorder from one of his friends, and he would need to slather his manhood in a medicinal paste that smelled strongly of anise for one moon.

He thought the paste disgusting until one day when Master Venna, instructing him in the science of astronomy, took a deep whiff of the air near the young pupil and declared his craving for a licorice sweet from the kitchens. He couldn't figure out why. Calib burst out laughing, knowing that the master had unwittingly desired for the aroma of the thick black medicine slathered on his cock, not a nibble of sweet candy.

As the prince's debauchery continued, the king grew more and more frustrated with his heir. It was one thing to quietly savor the forbidden pleasures of fornication in locked bed chambers as the moon glided overhead; it was another entirely to embarrass the royal family's name and honor.

"He's not fit to glint the silver in his eyes," the king told Shackelford over a private lunch in the keep one day. He sipped on the liquid in his robust stew, chewing bits of mutton and root vegetables as they appeared on his spoon. "And as I grow older and the kingdom grows restless, this is the scourge to which my people feel obligated."

"I'm certain Prince Calib will outgrow most of this silliness, my king," said Shackelford, himself a frequent visitor of the same young men that the prince enjoyed. "Besides, even if he does not... There are other ways of dealing with such things."

Back in the King's Grove, surrounded by his two young companions, the prince smiled, fell backward and stretched his tight, thin body amongst the rays and blades of tall grass. He wriggled his bare toes in the dirt and foliage, loving the way the blades tickled the soft soles of his dainty feet. "You know," he said quite slyly, "There's only one thing I like more than rolling around in the spring sun like this."

"And what would that be, my prince?" said the shorter boy, his two large balls rolling about their sac with sexual anticipation. He was starting to perk up, though he was not yet entirely hard.

"Rolling around with both my holes filled," said the prince with a grin, peeling away his leather breeches and tossing them to the side. The taller boy lifted off his shirt, and the three began a passionate embrace. Their moans carried up along the heavy tree trunks into the canopy where they dissipated into the skies.

After the short boy came in the prince's ass, and the taller boy released down his throat, the prince himself was pleasured by both youth working on his own hard cock. While one kissed its base and his balls, the other deep throated the shaft. Then, they would kiss each other and switch off in an erotic game of tag. It wasn't long before the young prince released his own royal seed, leaving a trail along the face of the taller boy. The boy smiled and darted his tongue toward the creamy cum, licking it up.

The three lay in the sun for several hours, napping and stroking one another's chests. It was peaceful, and it was exciting. But mostly, it was a much- needed diversion from the prince's woes of the past year. After all, as Calib told himself, it was better to get fucked than to simply feel fucked.

THE BROTHEL

Just outside the castle gates, the city of Pronna spread out as far as the eye could see. It was the center of Malascon's government and culture, and it was by far the most significant location in all the kingdom. From markets to vendors and craftsman, if a trade had a place anywhere in Malascon, it had representation in the city of Pronna.

Several blocks away from the castle, an old stone building not unlike its neighbors advertised its services as a place for weary travelers to rest their heads at night. The front half of the building was an ordinary tavern; however, behind the bar and through a tiny dark corridor beyond that, the business' true moneymaking operations could be found shrouded in semi-secrecy. An elaborate brothel tailoring to all tastes was tucked away in the second, third and fourth stories of the building, giving locals and informed travelers more than just sleep at night--if they had the coin to spare.

Though most of the workers there were perky young women, there were four men employed as pleasure workers. Three catered to the aristocratic women with their rippling muscles, toned physiques and hairy masculine bodies. Stripped from the waist up at all times, their noblewomen were regular clients at the establishment and paid their whore men well. To keep women from impregnating themselves, the three had been forced to undergo sterilization prior to joining the brothel. A hot knife was slipped swiftly behind the balls of each boy, severing the necessary piping to plant a seed between a woman's legs. The pain had been intense but faded after several days with the application of ice blocks from the northlands, and the enormous amounts of coin the three men collected erased any regrets they'd had about the operation.

The fourth male pleasure worker, however, was a curious one. Reserved for noblemen, he serviced only illicit male clients. Because of his sexuality, he didn't have to go under the knife before working in the brothel. That fact made his fellow workers jealous, though they were glad they didn't have to cater to the whims of deviants like him and the grotesque services he had to dole out each day.

The gay whore boy's skin was like fresh cream, poreless and soft. Every morning and every night, he spent an hour in the baths scrubbing and exfoliating, making him a continuously fresh delight. With the help of one of the older woman workers in the brothel, he carefully plucked all of this body hairs save a few around his cock--"Just in case one of the noblemen prefers his bird in the bush," he said--even clearing out the hairs around his tight, clean anus.

The boy regularly rubbed spices and oils into his body and short raven hair, giving him a luscious aroma that drove his customers frantic with passion. The spices lingered for days on his soft, supple skin, and one particularly greasy client of his compared him to the spice shop across Alonsia Mer in the city of Cullutia, a port town with a shady reputation.

"I've never been," replied the boy as the nobleman buried his oily face between his ass cheeks, supping on his boyish hole.

Coming up for a breath of air, the nobleman replied, "I'll take you there, perhaps. Gods know I'll have plenty to eat on the ship across." His tongue and nose returned to the whore's man hole, greedily ravaging it for many more minutes.

Unlike the other male workers, the milky white boy never wore any clothes around the brothel. He often went weeks without putting on a single silk. However, he did always wear his two nipple piercings as well as the solid gold guiche behind his sac. That piercing had been particularly painful, but it was well worth it once it healed. He could still feel the piercer's needle ripping through his taint, and his cries and tears lasted for days as the wound oozed blood. When it finally healed, it opened a whole new world of pleasure for him. Each time a man fucked his ass or nibbled on his delicate anus, they would brush the sensitive piercing, sending him into a wave of pleasure. A perk for a priss, thought the boy.

Other than his three piercings, the boy also wore two other pieces of gold jewelry. The first was a solid gold anklet which draped over the top part of his slender right foot. The other was a matching gold ring, which he slipped on his second toe on the same right foot. He thought about wearing the ring on his pinky finger, but with the number of handjobs and fingerings he performed, it seemed safer to keep it out of business' way. He couldn't stand to think of his precious ring swimming up some old man's anus for the rest of his year's before being buried in the cold, hard ground.

The boy's earnings were deposited directly into an account at the brothel, and he made a tidy sum each month. At his rate, he would be able to buy his way out of indentured sex work and begin turning a profit before the summer was upon the land. Men came from around the kingdoms' lordships to spend a night with him, and he was frequently reserved months in advance. A piece of honey cake.

Truth be told, the boy was, quite frankly, a fantastic lover. He knew how to work all of his parts, and his versatility in the bedroom satiated all wants and desires. He could gyrate his hips and bring a man to orgasm in minutes, clenching his muscles and releasing as he took the man's full cock for a nice, slow ride. On top of his pleasant ass, the boy was also exceptionally flexible and could contort into a number of positions. Some men came just watching him suck himself off, an enviable trait and easy money for the boy. Others longed for his long, soft tongue to explore their own bodies. Once, the boy even took two cocks in his own ass at one time, a logistical feat made possible only by his extreme flexibility. Though the cocks were lean, it still hurt (though not as much as the guiche piercing); however, he made an impressive sum for a few minutes of pain, and despite bleeding after the fact for several hours, he vowed to never turn down such an opportunity again no matter how painful it promised to be. He was a businessman first, and a flesh teaser second.

This particular spring afternoon, the boy had only one appointment: a middle- aged lord from the edge of the salt plains who was traveling to the king's castle to report on conditions out west. The lord was handsome, and the boy rather liked his salt and pepper hair. It suited him and gave him a dignified appearance though he'd only just seen his 34th star rise. Though, having walked through his sexual proclivities with him, the boy knew there wasn't much else dignified about him in the bedroom.

"Well, well, sweet Wylem of Pronna," the well-dressed visitor said at the doorway, catching the boy off guard. He dropped his anklet on the floor and quickly picked it up, turning sensually as he did. He would have recognized the lord's voice anywhere.

"If it isn't Lord Mynnrhor in the flesh! How you started this poor little working boy," said Wylem with a twinkle. He stood to face the lord and give him a full view of his boyish good looks.

"I swear, you haven't gained a single day since I saw you last, but you look a bit buffer. Have you been working out?"

"Not out, but working, yes." Wylem approached the lord and put his hands around his neck, leaning in with his lips for a long, savory kiss. Before long, the lord was as nude as his boy whore and they were fucking all over the bedroom. Hours later, the man slipped away leaving his usual fare on the table. Wylem bid him farewell and a safe return soon.

After his guest had left, Wylem intended to rest for a while before making the evening rounds, helping out the women of the brothel and taking care of housekeeping chores that they shared equally. As he closed his chamber's door, it was forced back open immediately, knocking him back onto his messy bed.

Standing before him were his three working male colleagues. Brun was a tall boy with a shaved head, popular with many of the older noblewomen for his strong cheekbones and his stronger cock. Ollivan was a bit shorter and had brown hair with perfect eyebrows and amber eyes, and his rippled abdominal muscles were the envy of all the young men in the city. Finally, Zaphryn was an exotic young man from across the seas with skin the color of oak bark and a silky, sweet voice that could charm any woman to a climax without so much as a finger. Wylem had secretly lusted over him for some time but never had an opportunity to act on his feelings; he doubted Zaphryn would have given him more than a swift blow to the temple.

"We heard you and Lord Minnow going at it again," said Brun, while Ollivan and Zaphryn sniggered at the fishy nickname for Wylem's client. "It sounded to us like you were a good boy, taking it up the ass and moaning to make him feel adequate?"

"Fuck off," said Wylem, turning from the three. They were rough with him, but they'd never hurt him. There was a certain brotherhood to the brothel, and some lines were never crossed. Or so Wylem thought.

"You know what, priss, we think it's about time that we start taking on some of the noblemen, too. You're getting awfully wealthy off 'em, aren't you?" Brun continued as Zaphryn shut the door. The boys began closing in on him, making him feel suddenly nervous about what would come next. "So tonight, you're going to teach us what it is that you do so well in here."

Wylem was scared. He'd never been confronted by three muscular men at once, and he knew they could easily hurt him in many ways. In a brothel, a broken bone was the loss of six weeks of work, and torn holes or diseases benched whores for longer than that. On top of his trepidation about violence, he didn't want to share his clients with these three; he was so close to paying his way out of poverty and making a life for himself that he couldn't bear the thought of losing it all this far in the game.

"Nah, I think you're better suited to pussies and tits," said Wylem, trying to brush past them to get into the hall. He knew his escape wouldn't work, but he was too flustered to come up with a better plan. Naturally, the three boys blocked his path, and it was Ollivan who grabbed him from behind. Roughly.

"Fuck you, you little man cunt," Ollivan said, giving Wylem the chills. This was dangerous; he was nervous about what might come next. Ollivan's hands when from his shoulders down to his tight ass, and his fingers snaked around his cock and balls, squeezing tight.

Wylem he had every right to be nervous, and the pain seeping into his genitals was only getting worse.

While Brun and Zaphryn held him down, Ollivan had his way with Wylem's tight, still lubricated ass from the lord's fuck session. The pounding was nothing he wasn't already used to, but then he felt Brun press his own cock against the hole. Wylem started to panic. Zaphryn held him tight against the bed, keeping his squirming at bay. With both cocks stretching his hole, Wylem felt more than a bit uncomfortable. Then, the unthinkable happened: angling his body to a completely different plane, Zaphryn himself shoved his large cock toward the already stuffed hole. Forcing Wylem's legs into a split, the three boys took him at once. It was crude, it was not pretty, but somehow, the men all used him at the exact same time.

After they came inside him, one by one, the three left the room. Brun was the last to leave; he threw a copper coin at Wylem, a bitter token of what he'd endured. Wylem cried a while, but realizing it would not solve anything, he composed himself. He had trouble walking that night, and so, he resolved to stay in and formulate a plan to leave the brothel early the following morning to escape his harsh comrades and competitors. It would be simple: a few nights earlier, during one of his routine sessions with a local lord, he heard whispers of the crown prince favoring the company of gentlemen over ladies. If Wylem could see the prince just once, he would convince him to buy his remaining time and keep him at the castle to satisfy his every sexual whim, day or night. Wylem was irresistible, and it wouldn't take much to convince the prince.

The night passed strangely fast, and Wylem didn't wake even once. The chores could wait.

The next morning, he put on his finest silks and waddled downstairs, the pain still excruciating between his legs. His sheets had been stained with some blood, but the wounds were already healing. Before leaving the brothel for the streets, he found the flagon that Ollivan, Brun and Zaphryn used to drink their morning beer. Pulling his cock out from the silks, he relieved himself into the vessel, swirled the hot piss around the beer jug and placed it back on the shelf. Whoever awoke first would be in for a very terrible breakfast surprise, and if he was lucky, all three would drink at once. It made him smile a bit.

And so Wylem, the boy whore from the hidden brothel in Pronna, began the short walk to the castle to figure out a way to meet his charming prince. Breaking in would be tricky, but his female whore friends often talked about the secret corridors they used to enter the castle to entertain lords and their guests. It was breached through a false wall located just around the corner from the eastern portcullis, and it led directly into the crypt below the Great Hall. Once Wylem found the entrance, he looked in both directions before slipping into the darkness of the castle.

"Someday soon," he whispered to himself as he held his breath in the dank crypt, "My prince will cum."

SALTLANDS WATCH

At the top of the 80-foot tall tower, Brylan Weathersall shuddered as he looked out over the interminable salt wasteland spread out before him. Nothing stirred among the grains of white crystal, save the occasional swirl of light wind that carried a small amount of sparkling dust through the air, dropping it several feet away in intricate, organic patterns. The blue skies overhead were peppered with white clouds, and the scene would have been idyllic--had the temperature not been so blasted warm.

He stepped back from the window to avoid salt blindness, a condition that affected at least one man at the watch per week. It would start with a headache brought on by gazing at the reflective white salt flats for too long, and it would progress to a throbbing ache deep in the sinuses. Moments later, his vision would fade to white, eventually blinding him for several hours. The pain was terrible, and the frustration was even worse.

"Thank the gods that I'm almost free of this place," thought Brylan, who had been counting down his remaining days of watch duty ever since he arrived at the western edge of the kingdom. A member of the military, he was looking forward to returning to the infantry and becoming just another face in the crowd charged with protecting the realm.

Every two years, each infantryman spent two weeks of duty at the Saltlands Watch. The post was a desolate, hot place that no one enjoyed patrolling. Because of the arid environment, there was no way to monitor across the flats save for watching from the tower. Once, nearly two centuries ago, a foolish general attempted to cross the flats on horseback to survey the lands beyond. Of the sixty men who departed Malascon that day, only one returned. He told horrific tales of horses who quickly dehydrated, the moisture sucked from their flesh and the marrow of their bones through the salty ground and surrounding air. As the horses fell in skeletal heaps, the men too began drying out. The one survivor was nearly dead himself; another hour or two in the expanse would have brought him eternal sleep. The infantrymen often share tales about those 59 men and their horses, dried mummified corpses who wander the saltlands eternally searching for water.

Shuddering from the thought of being trapped out there forever, Brylan turned to the others. In groups of four, they watched over the expanse with sighs and frustration. If five dozen men on horseback perished out there, what good came from them staring out over the impassable desert?

"What in the blazes are we watching for?" asked Croin, an ugly stalwart lad whose one saving grace was his ability to swing a battle axe like no other. Croin's long green beard fascinated Brylan, who himself was having trouble sprouting facial hair. It was not surprising; Croin's family had dwerrow flesh deep in the bloodlines, and despite being primarily human, the family's features were still overwhelmed by the stronger blood some century and a half later.

It made Brylan think back to the warning his mother had given him when he first reached manhood after he accidentally soiled the bed with his seed one summer's night. She was less concerned with his unsolicited cum and more nervous about the heritage of his future sexual partners. "Never, ever marry anyone with dwerrow blood, no matter how deep in the lines it goes," she scolded him and his sister as she dunked the bed quilt into scalding water. "Your children will grow slowly and will become fat, and they will have short stubby toes and long tangled beards. Even the women!" He chuckled the first time he met Croin, realizing that his dear mother may have been onto something not terribly far from the truth. He hadn't yet asked Croin if his mother had facial hair, but he planned on it when they visited a tavern on the way back to camp, leaving the watch zone behind for two more splendid years.

"There've been rumors that the rangers have struck a deal with King Uz'hal in the Westlands. They could march on Malascon any day now," chimed in Dorium, another short fellow from the infantry. Though he swore he didn't have any dwerrow blood, Brylan suspected otherwise judging by his stout posture and short digits.

"Hasn't this rumor been swirling for the past decade?" asked Brylan, knowing full well the response he'd receive from his weary comrades.

"Aye," said Croin and Dorium in unison, sounding like a chorus of jolly tavern folk retelling a story from back in the old ages.

Their fourth comrade was assigned to night duty that evening, and he slept in the comfortable bed of straw above the watch station. His name was Muwin, and he was a tall swordsman. He surely had no dwerrow blood in his veins, but he did have a queer look to him all the same. Muwin's eyes were a deep gray, and his skin had a slightly silver luster. During cadet training, Brylan swung his wooden sword with such force that it sliced a small cut on his friend's forearm. The blood that ran was a dark red-violet, much bluer than any blood he'd seen before. Brylan pushed the question about his friend's ancestry, but Muwin was quick to change the subject and wipe away the bluish blood. Perhaps he was descended from one of the last drow, a shadow people whose homes in the quarries were destroyed hundreds of years earlier? Brylan didn't know for certain.

Backgrounds varied though they were, the four got along famously, and they were as close as friends could be. Kings and lords be damned; their loyalty was to the realm and each other, no one else. In eight years, they would retire from the military and return home to their native city of Pronna, free to raise families, pursue trades and live out their days knowing they had served the kingdom well in their primes. It frightened Brylan that the rest of his life was essentially planned out for him like a game of thruse, a strategic board game he used to play back home as a boy; but all the same, he took comfort in knowing that the surprises ahead would likely be minimal.

"I hear that Lord Mynnrhor has taken leave for the castle at Pronna," said Croin, running a flint stone over the edge of his battleaxe. It gleamed in the bright salt-reflected daylight of the tower room.

"Aye," replied Brylan. "The Duke of Ivy Meadow is entrusted with Stone Point until he returns." Brylan disliked the duke; he was a short, fat man with a penchant for excess. His robes were made of mountain lion skins, and his silks were drawn from the hairs of forest maiden virgins. He slept with no less than four women in his bedchamber each night, and rumor had it, he never fucked the same girl twice. Topping it off, his ugliness did no favors for his proud, foolish countenance.

"Should make for a quieter than usual round for us," Croin retorted. "Too few lords to make us lads jump about for our suppers."

The three laughed, comrades in a vast political battleground greater than their own minds could begin to grasp. Little did they know just how wrong Croin was; something was brewing in the great salty expanse, and the tranquility they thought they could savor was about to be carried off on the wind.

Suddenly, Brylan stopped laughing as the tower faded away like he had been plucked upwards by a giant hand and pulled out of reality. It was as though he was stricken, and he watched unmoving as a scene swirl into his mind from the darkness. First, four stone walls appeared, then a desk. A fireplace rose from the wooden floorboards, and a candle flared up. Books adorned the shelves that melted out of the walls, and quills and papers piled up on the desk out of thin air. Next, a man swirled into view, seated at the desk holding a paper. It was all so real and yet, he knew deep down that it was little more than a vision based on the swirls and fades.

The man was reading a scroll in the dark room. Perhaps it was a study? Or a cloister? The scroll seemed important judging by the stern look on the man's face, but he couldn't make out the seal on the white wax seal, nor could he discern the reader's identity by his face. Was he a priest? An ancient scribe, like Lo'th Horlan? Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared behind him with a dark blue scabbard drawn, one that appeared to have been forged with sapphire from the quarries. It glimmered in the candlelight, sending blue glimmers dancing on the wall behind him, and before the reading man even noticed the figure, it was upon him. In three fast, fierce strokes, his throat was slashed open, his belly cut, spilling out his steaming pink guts, and the blade was plunged into his upper left chest, forcing dark black blood to run out of the pierced heart. As quickly as the vision came on, it faded to black and consciousness returned to Brylan.

"...nothing like those great big tits on the southern girls at the brothel, eh, Bry?" said Croin, while Dorium guffawed in agreement. Brylan tried to shake the violent vision without alerting the others, and he smiled painfully at Croin. The two were not particularly emphatic, and they didn't sense the unease in their friend's face.

"It must be all this salt air," he thought to himself. "It makes men's heads see crazy things."

THE GREAT HALL

With her slender hands, Lady Genna flattened out a crease in the hip of her dark green velvet gown. Gone was the mail and weaponry she had been growing accustomed to wearing; tonight was a night for celebrating in finery. Lord Mynnrhor of Stone Point was visiting the castle to report on conditions from the edge of the saltlands, a troubling area that the king had been monitoring for quite some time from his keep. Tonight the king was throwing a feast in the good lord's honor.

Since her appointment to the position of master of secrets, she had enjoyed nearly unfettered access to the king and the innermost thoughts of his mind. She would silently pace the halls of the dark timberstone fortress and, from a distance, watch him move tiny figurines on the tabletop maps by candlelight, diligently strategizing every move of the great armies should the enemies rise up. If the rangers attacked, the realm would be ready to defend itself.

But it wasn't just the keep where Genna took her watch. She glided around the court and the castle, the town and the towers, listening and manipulating the good people of the kingdom to wring out any secrets that they held. Her loyalty was to the king and his new wife, a young woman with pretty blonde hair and freckles who some say looked eerily similar to his former queen, the princes' mother. Any plots, disturbances or other interesting tidbits were immediately shared with her liege and dealt with accordingly. This was no time for the king to worry about domestic affairs; she took on the burden for him.

As she walked into the Great Hall, Genna spied the handsome young boy leaning against a pillar in the shadows. Smiling slightly, she approached him.

"Dear, sweet, handsome Epton," she said. Her voice was cloyingly insincere. "It's been five moonrises since we last met. How have your efforts been progressing?"

The servants milling around the room were busy setting tables, raising candlelit chandeliers and preparing the hall for an elaborate feast. They paid no mind to the noblewoman or her younger companion, a well-dressed young man whose face seemed distantly pained despite the gaieties at hand.

"It is no easy task, Genna," he said, an air of disdain in his voice. He did not like this woman or her false presence, and any pain he momentarily felt for her as she witnessed her husband's matrimonial betrayal were gone.

"You will address me as Lady Genna, boy, lest you think that we are equals. We are not. I am a lady, a master of secrets for the king. You are but a humble deviant playing the role of an assassin for a few days. Personally, I doubt that you'll succeed and I look forward to watching the consequences play out. But you do know why you were selected for this task, I assume?"

"It's because I conceived the idea of the second potion," the boy responded confidently, adding, "Since your husband failed, Lady Genna." In his mind, he took the insult one step further, thinking, "In more ways than one, if my stretched asshole is to be believed."

"Oh, silly boy. You're more foolish than you look--which, actually, is the only reason the king picked you for your task. That adorable dark hair," she said, running her fingers through his shaped locks, "and that striking physique," she added, dragging her hand over his clothed chest, "and, of course, that nice thick piece of meat that jiggles between your thighs when you sob," she finished her point by cupping his groin, gently yet with a sure firmness. The boy flinched, but did not pull away from her molesting grasp.

"The prince is as much a deviant as you are. Actually, with his position in the court, he's even more flamboyant and grotesque than you could ever hope to be. He'd enjoy a plaything like you, I'm certain of that much." Leaning in, Genna whispered into Epton's ear, "Just as long as you do your duty licking the asshole of a royal mess for a few hours. That's the type of shit I would never deal with."

Epton writhed, pushing aside Genna.

"I still have two days, Lady," he said, still favoring his unburned rear cheek as he leaned back against the column. "And when I succeed..."

Genna cut him off with a quiet laugh, placing a soft hand on the side of his face. "Oh, dear boy, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

She walked away, and Epton slunk back into the shadows to await the feast. He hated that woman, and yet, she was untouchable.

Before becoming caught up in this affair, Epton had been an advisor the king's comptroller as the boy who helped collect taxes from various lords in the land. One of his duties was maintaining the comptroller's stables, giving him his fine-tuned lithe body and an appreciation for strong steeds. Despite his lowly position, he was still a member of the court and, as such, had been invited to attend the feast.

Over the next several hours, the tables were set and the kitchen fires burned hot, emanating through the stone walls to heat the hall. Barrels of wine were emptied into flagons and flasks in preparation for the visitors while cool water was siphoned from the castle's personal well. Fresh fruits plucked from the vines just outside the city were piled high on plates, tempting attendees to sample the sweetness of the realm's spring crops. Next came the hard griddle buns, hearty rolls with crisp crusts but buttery soft crumb inside. It was said that the king's baker had perfected the recipe and that only two others in the realm knew exactly how to make them so perfect.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the guests started to arrive. One by one, the young ushers escorted well-dressed ladies and garishly adorned lords to their spots at the tables. The Great Room sat over 300; it was to be filled to capacity on this particular evening.

Finally, nearly an hour into the night, the king and his close family entered and took their seats at the head table. His new wife sat to one side of his large gold chair; Lord Mynnrhor sat at his other hand. Further down the table, the three princes sat next to one another looking bored. Lextyr and Jey were dressed in their house's maroon and black colors, while Calib favored a bolder scarlet and silver robe. With his silver eyes and dark blond hair, he was exceedingly handsome, much more so than his brothers. By candlelight, he looked like an earthly god. Epton was surprised he hadn't noticed this in his two previous encounters with the boy.

Epton took his seat at the back of the hall, staring at his gorgeous target. It still wasn't comfortable to sit with the iron brand in his flesh, but the wound was healing slowly. In his right boot, he felt a cold sharpness press against the skin of his ankle. The small dagger, sharpened to a neat point, was at the ready for him to slit Calib's throat if the moment presented itself. Epton swallowed hard, loathing the terrible duty to which he was bound. "I'd much rather slit the throat of the middle prince with the silver and blue irises," he thought to himself. "That two-faced icy abomination will make for a horrible ruler."

The feast went on without a hitch. Course after course was brought before the guests, and the kitchen staff did not disappoint. Grease ran down every eater's chin, and laughter echoed in the room all night long. At one point, Epton, whose spirits were raised by several glasses of soothing turbinberry wine, caught the eyes of the king glaring at him. Beady and inquisitive, they burned into his face like the brand in his ass. Epton turned away respectfully, knowing that his time to kill the prince was running out. He felt a strange ache in his groin, but he brushed it off to trepidation.

As the final sweets trickled out to the tables during the dessert course, the guests themselves began to dissipate from the large room and the din became softer. Epton left after the first 50 or so people exited the hall, watching Calib from a distance as he turned. The prince had been laughing with the small group of handmaidens that surrounded him, and it was obvious that his brothers took no delight in his feminine nature.

But Epton was taken, and his heart began to twist and contort in his chest. Still, if he wanted it to stay in his chest, he'd have to do the terrible deed.

"It's a shame," he thought, sighing. "I'll bet he'd make a great king, and an even better lover."

THE CRYPT

Wylem listened carefully from the cold, damp tunnel. Not having yet bathed that day, he felt vile and disgusting after several hours in the company of the royal dead--though in reality, he was fresher than the vast majority of noble people dining in the Great Hall above him. He could hear their chatter, laughter and clanging dinner ware rattling away, and for a moment, he wished he was there rubbing elbows with the top brass of the city. He was certain a few faces in the crowd would have recognized him and blushed a deep red.

But the Great Hall was not where he needed to be this evening. He needed to be with the Crown Prince Calib, seducing him in his room and convincing him to keep him as his own personal whore. If his plan worked, his freedom would be all the faster.

As he quietly slipped along the crypt, his fingers fumbled along the cold stone walls, feeling for the door that his friend insisted was there. Creeping along ever so slowly, he was beginning to have doubts; it was chilly and damp in the crypt, and without a torch, the darkness made the space nearly black. The only light shone in from the main staircase at the far end of the hall; but this would be guarded, and it was no place for a pleasure worker to sneak up into the turrets and towers. That's what the veiled passage was for. It kept secrets quiet within the bustling castle walls.

Suddenly, his index finger caught on a strange stone that didn't feel like the rest. Groping blindly, he felt a loose stone, and he twisted it. The stone wall creaked open, heavy with the weight of a thousand pounds of rock clinging to it. If the door had fallen, Wylem would have been crushed beneath its weight instantly; but fortunately, the hinges did not give out.

Up the spiral staircase he climbed, not knowing what to expect above. Higher and higher he went, his steps making faint scratching echoes as he went. Every few dozen stairs was a small window; he peered out each and watched the town below growing smaller and smaller.

Finally, when he felt he could go no further, the staircase ended and another stone door loomed. He opened it the same as the other and poked his boyish head through, looking for signs of guards. None were to be found this high in the royal chambers on the feast night; they were all stationed downstairs by the king and his family.

Creeping out into the warm hall, Wylem looked at the sigils hanging from each door. The king and queen's chamber had a large swallow etched in intricate gold, red and black on the double doors. Each prince had a chamber as well, with one sparrow larger than the other two. "That must be Calib's room," thought Wylem. "The Crown Prince is the heir, and his sigil would be larger than those of his pretender brothers."

Wylem turned the knob on the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He slipped in and closed the door behind him, quietly slipping into the shadows near the flowing window drapes.

THE GREAT HALL

With most of the guests dispersed, the king rose from his seat. A belly full of food and a head full of wine, he was tired and ready to sleep the night's follies away. Motioning for his wife to join him upstairs, he bid the visiting lord and the distinguished guests goodnight. They thanked him for his kindness and the excellent feast, and he nodded to acknowledge their gratitude.

As the couple ascended the staircase, a guard in light mail rushed to meet them. "My king," said the guard, "An urgent message has arrived from Saltlands Watch. It is waiting for you in your keep."

"Can't it wait until morning?" grumbled the tired king, his eyelids heavy with drink and age. The queen looked at him with a concerned expression, hoping this business could hold off until the morrow.

"My apologies, my king, but the rider was an infantryman who said it was of utmost importance. It appears the rumors about King Uz'hal and the rangers are, unfortunately, true."

At the mention of Uz'hal, the king's face grew pale and drawn. He turned to his young second wife and kissed her forehead. She knew it meant he would be up late into the night.

"Go on, my dear," he said. "I will join you as soon as I've dealt with these matters."

"My king," she responded. "You are a good man, and a great ruler. I will keep your side of the bed warm until you arrive."

With that, she continued up the stairs to their chamber to begin preparing for yet another night alone. The king turned and followed the guard back down the steps, past the empty Great Hall and into the cool, dark keep. His usual sentries were all still stationed at the keep doors, and he enjoyed being surrounded during such a sensitive moment. Even if the realm was under siege, he and his family would be protected by valiant knights.

When he entered his office, he saw a tightly rolled parchment scroll sitting on his desk. Turning to the two chamber guards, he motioned them to take leave. This was a private matter of state, and he needed no peering eyes to spill its secrets just yet.

The parchment's seal of white wax bore an ornate diamond shape, and it had not been broken. The king turned it over twice in his hands, pulled up his chair, lit the candle with a wick aflame from the glowing fireplace and tore the wax to read the paper's contents. As he did, his eyes grew wider and his breathing grew faster.

"No," he said softly to himself, scanning the contents of the parchment a second time. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen..."

In the corner of the keep, something else stirred silently.

THE CROWN PRINCE'S CHAMBERS

The night's festivities done and over, Calib slogged upstairs to get some rest. He was quite drunk, and he looked forward to sleeping for hours on end until the sun was high in the sky.

Past the guards and down the hall, he lazily leaned into his door, letting it swing open. As it closed behind him, he stripped off his robes and stepped out of his boots. The prince always slept naked, and tonight was no exception. As he walked toward the bed, arms stretched high in the air reaching for the ceiling, he heard someone in heavy boots step behind him. The prince swung around, nervous, and saw the beautiful young man before him.

"It's a grave crime to break into a royal's room," said the prince, his voice rising slightly. He looked to his bedside table where a hidden compartment held a small dagger. He'd never used it before, but tonight seemed as good a night as any to lose his martial virginity.

"My prince," said the man, his green eyes gleaming. "I-I-I..." He could not complete his thought, and he knew he could not finish his task.

"Tell me your name, handsome burglar," asked the prince, no longer afraid of his visitor. Despite his nudity, he was perfectly comfortable addressing a beautiful stranger.

"Ep-p-ton, sir," he said, his voice quivering. "I-I'm so sorry to bother you... I should leave..."

"I should think not," said the prince, his voice growing louder, strikingly similar to his father. He was annoyed at the intrusion, but the liquor and his sexual desires tempered the frustration that he felt. "As I said, it's a grave crime breaking and entering into a royal chamber. You'll pay for this, and you'll pay here and now."

"Surely, my prince, I'll take all I deserve," Epton said, tears forming in his eyes.

Before the prince could respond, another shadow moved behind the drapes.

"Gods be good," said the prince, again spying the compartment in his table from the corner of his eye. "It is a good night for burglars and fools to interrupt the crown prince! Show yourself in the moonlight."

The second figure stepped out, showing off his fine silks and creamy skin as he did. He was a porcelain god with dark hair, a gorgeous specimen fit for a tawdry bard's lustful ballad.

"My, my," said the prince. "Should I presume you two know one another? Or is this one strange dream brought on by the feast's ample wine?"

"No," said the second figure. "I am Wylem, a pleasure worker from the brothel. I've come to serve my prince and to see to his every need. This boy, well, I've never seen him before. He must have slipped in while I was hiding myself."

"Ah," said the prince. He turned to Epton. "And what's your story?"

"My prince," said Epton, planning to skew the truth. "I saw you during the feast tonight and I could not resist meeting you in person. I was captivated by your beauty, your charm and your grace, and I needed to meet you in private to introduce myself. I knew the guards would deny me, so I, too, slipped into your chambers unnoticed."

"Well, what a conundrum," said the sly prince, putting his hands at his hips. He crossed his right leg over his left, balancing his toes on the cool wooden floorboards. "The crime must fit the punishment, or so my dull father says, and if the crime was wanting to be with me... Then we'll have to put that to work."

The prince uncrossed his legs and sat on the bed, propped against the headboard, and put his hands behind his head.

"You there, whore boy, come stand by this courtier in the light." Wylem obliged, his fine silks blowing in the cool Wind of the Quarries stirring in the night air. The open window was a blessing on nights like this, cooling the room and keeping the royal family comfortable as they slumbered.

"That's better. Whore, begin by taking off this boy's boots."

Wylem nodded, kneeling in front of Epton. His face was at the level of his crotch, and he couldn't help but to lick his lips spying the full leather- wrapped package before his eyes. He slowly lifted both hands to Epton's thigh, cusping it gently and working their way down past his knee, along his calf and to his right heel. Wylem placed one hand on the toe of the boot and kept the other on the heel, gently tugging the boot off. Epton placed his bare foot on the planks, lifting his other boot for Wylem to remove. He obliged a second time.

"Good," said the prince. "Now, remove his cloak and shirt. Show me his chest."

Wylem rose, slipping out of his own silk top robe. The prince made a "tsk" noise of disapproval. "Did I tell you to remove that, whore? Put it back on." Wylem listened, then got back to work removing Epton's cloak. Next, off came his tied linen shirt, showing his gentle, delicious physique. His hard dark nipples were like faded lily pads on a creamy alabaster pond.

"Excellent," said the prince, his cock stirring. Epton watched the sizeable member fill with blood, gorging itself in sexual excitement. The cock head swelled to a bulbous, purple form; the shaft throbbed, and his large testicles swam eagerly in the smooth skin of the taut scrotum. Epton wanted to suck on the prince's scepter until it brought forth the sweet seed milk into his eager mouth.

"Now," said the prince, devilishly, "Take off his breeches. Peel them off slowly."

Wylem obeyed, unbuckling the clasp and untying the zipper. The whore enjoyed the experience; he managed to cop a few feels of his fellow commoner in the process, and his fingers liked what they touched. He ran his soft index fingers along the seam of the pants, loosening them against Epton's skin. Next, he gently began working the pants down over his hips, slowly revealing his delightful brown pubic hairs. It was full, but not gangly or unkempt; just the way the prince liked his men.

As Wylem continued pulling, more and more of the young man became visible. He worked his hands around to the boy's buttocks, pausing when he felt something odd on his one cheek. He walked around him and continued dropping his drawers from behind, catching a glimpse of the brand wound. Wylem felt sorry for the pain this boy had suffered recently, a pain much like the three cocks he had endured the previous day. The burned flesh was clearly an iron brand, but he couldn't make out the muddled shape by torchlight. Still, Wylem's hands continued slowly revealing the boy to the prince, and he ran his fingers through the coarse hairs of Epton's crotch.

At this point, the prince was touching himself unabashedly. The sound of beating emanated from the bed, and his eyes fluttered between opened and closed.

An instant later, Epton's cock base was visible, and shortly after, his large, pronounced head bounced forth into view. It was glorious, and the prince was exceptionally excited at his good fortune to be burgled by such a delicious looking man. As the breeches peeled down his toned thighs, they started to fall faster past his knees. Epton stepped out of them, and stood nude, aroused, in front of the hard prince.

"Very, very nice, boy," said the prince, fervently masturbating. "Now, undress the whore. Do it fast, I can't wait much longer."

Wylem was a bit unnerved, seeing that the prince clearly favored the common boy in front of him over his perfectly groomed body. Still, he would sway him with his gyrations and clenched sphincter when the time was right. He could woo any man with the rhythm of the jewels between his legs.

Epton was less graceful in stripping Wylem, even though his task was considerably easier. He slipped the silk garment off his shoulders, and pulled the belt off the silk breeches. They fell away, exposing the pleasure boy and his piercings in just under a minute.

"A boy with pierced nipples, that's quite exotic," said the prince, continuing to jerk himself off.

"That's not all, my prince," said Wylem with a raspy, husky voice, lifting his cock to the side and pulling his balls with it. The golden guiche was exposed, delighting the prince.

"Delicious, whore! I will delight in fucking that tight ass of yours while tugging on your ring!" Wylem giggled excitedly, his dick also swelling.

"Come, boys, and join me in bed," said Calib as he stared at his two common prizes. They obliged, each approaching the soft, large bed from a different side. They sat on the fine silks, rolled over and faced the prince, not quite in unison.

Within minutes, the three began rolling around in a sensual threeway. Tongues darted into mouths, lips were chewed playfully and hands groped flesh greedily. Commoner met royalty, and no one particularly cared about good graces and manners. When the prince fell on his back, kissing Epton passionately, Wylem took the opportunity to sink down and suck on his dick. The prince moaned, grabbing Wylems hair with a balled fist and forcing him down deeper on the shaft. "That's a good whore," he thought.

After a few minutes of intense pleasure and gurgling slurps, Wylem and Epton switched positions seamlessly. The moans continued. "True," thought the prince, "The whore is better at blowing. But it's not who best dances in the wind that wins the prince. It's who better commands the breeze and fills the sails that steers the man."

Wylem soon pushed away from the prince's mouth and joined Epton in playing with Calib's member. The boy was in intense pleasure; he had one beautiful boy sucking his pole and another nibbling gently on his sac, plus a tongue reaching around and cusping behind his royal jewels. It was exquisite.

That same tongue continued its exploration, flicking along the prince's clean perineum. It felt marvelous, and the prince's prostrate throbbed inside him. He was leaking precum like a snapped river levy, and yet, the young courtier boy was drinking up every drop as though it was sweet nectar from the lavender shrubs at the edge of the King's Grove.

Soon, the exploring tongue made it to the prince's anus, circling the tight hole and probing it gently. This put Calib over the edge, and he flung his arms onto the pillows and curled his long, thin toes in ecstasy, howling in happiness. The tongue probed further, scooping his royal hole and making his heart flutter with delight.

The boys continued, swapping positions and enjoying one another's mouths, cocks and asses. Before long, the prince let out a longer, lower moan and came into Wylem's mouth. Wylem felt the cock let out three violent pulses before a moist saltiness swirled in his mouth before draining down his open throat. He sucked harder, forcing every last drop out of the royal cock.

The taste of the cum was intoxicating, like the salty waters of the Alonsia Mer in the summertime. It was delicious, and it sent Wylem into a fit of pleasure. All Epton had to do was brush against Wylem's cock, and he shot his seed all over the three boys. The prince laughed, as did Wylem. Wylem then scooted down lower onto Epton's throbbing member, placing it between his plump lips and sucking intensely. Before long, he was taking a second load of cum on the back of his tongue. Epton's seed was less salty than the prince's, but it had a delightful earthy quality to it. The fragrance was nearly herbal, in fact. Before he could swallow, the prince pulled Wylem up to meet him, kissing him with an open mouth and scooping out some of Epton's seed with his own tongue. Their lips sizzled with the taste of semen, and Epton joined the kiss so as not to miss out.

Satisfied, they drifted off to bed together. The prince was in the middle with Epton spooned against his back and Wylem in front of him. Calib's soft cock nestled between Wylem's cheeks, and the whore boy wiggled in closer to keep it covered and warm. Their legs intertwined, and their feet brushed against one another. They felt content, and they smelled the sweet aroma of pheromones mixed with notes of masculinity and Wylem's sweetly spiced skin, the most delicious fragrance in all of Malascon.

Minutes or hours later, with no way to tell, there was a commotion in the tower hall, and the sleeping prince sat up between his two lovers. "Everyone wants in here tonight, it seems," he said groggily, yawning. The door to his chamber was suddenly flung open, flooding the room with torchlight as Genna stood at the door. The sight of three nude men curled up in the crown prince's bed did not seem to faze her. Not even the sight of the boy who had seduced her own husband just a week earlier shook her in her current state.

"My prince," she said, her voice warbling as she kneeled. "Something terrible has happened."

"What is it, Lady Genna? You've never knelt like that before me, not even on my star rises, not even to your dear husband Shackelford. Why the formality now? What has happened?" asked the prince, sitting up. His two bedmates began to stir as well.

"It's your father," said Genna, choking back tears. "He's... He's..."

"He's what? Ill? Drunk? Stupid? Speak!"

"Dead, my prince, he's dead." Genna bowed her head solemnly. She looked up, blue eyes bright and scared. "Calib, you are now the king of Malascon."

END OF PART 1.

Long live King Calib! The adventures in Malascon are just beginning: don't miss the next exciting chapter in this gay epic fantasy series, coming to you on the Nifty Archives throughout summer and autumn 2013. And don't forget to send your ideas, suggestions and thoughts to GreenEyeGuySmut@yahoo.com--you, too, can shape happenings in the realm!