The sinking full moon cast its ethereal glow over the earth, silvery tendrils of dreams. Still large and glowing, it lit my way as the overburdened wagon creaked southward towards the north gate of Valencia. The time was nigh; the attack would be at first light.

With the majority of the Imperial troops decimated by the Alfarian ambush, Eldag and I had very little trouble reaching the main southern gate of Valenica. Our entry into the walled, fortress city went more smoothly than I had anticipated. I had Eldag, the annoying minstrel, to thank for that.

I had collected various dark roots and other plants to dye my red hair, picked up a well-worn peasant dress to hide my Sky-steel armor, and was getting ready to disguise myself when Eldag’s annoying laugh stopped me.

“Just what do you find so amusing?”

“There’s no need for a disguise.”

“Yes, there is. Do you forget that I’m the most wanted woman in all the land?”

“Precisely,” his logic seemed counter-intuitive to me. “You may very well know the wilds and fighting, my most buxom lady, but I know cities and people.”

Tittering like a child, he reached under his foppish, outlandishly ornate cape and pulled out several brightly colored ribbons.

“Favors from my many conquests,” he proudly declared, weaving them through the links of my armor. “Now, you are fully disguised.”

“Are you daft or merely insane? This does nothing to hide my identity. It just makes me look like a cheap harlot.”

He nodded. “Precisely,” he paused dramatically waiting for his point to sink in. It did not.

“Look,” he continued, “if you blacken your hair and play dress-down, the guards will spot you from a league away. If you aren’t Kyrie the Red, but Kyrie the Whore, they won’t give you a second glance.”

“What?”

“As you know, imitations of you, my lovely Duel-dancer, are quite popular in the brothels these days. You are now a whore, me your pimp. Trust me, it will work.”

“If you’re wrong, we die.”

“It shall; it shall. Now, we need to do something about your sword.”

“I cannot surrender Splinter.”

“Not surrender, hide.”

With a smirk and a flourish, he reached up to his scrawny bicep and removed a red lace garter. I’d noted the garters on his arms, which I had assumed were to keep his flowery, foppish sleeves from interfering with his lute-playing. With a dramatic gesture, he stretched it out, then plunged his arm through the center, elbow-deep. His hand didn’t show through the other side.

“You may borrow this. It shall secrete your precious sword until you need it. It’s a gift from the lady, Victoria, a most passionate woman and sorceress. Her specialty was magical hiding places. She made this for me before we parted.”

“What is it?”

He handed the lace finery over to me. It was a leg garter made of fine, red silk, elastic and lacy. “I call it Victoria’s Secret Compartment. A secret hiding space.”

I was shocked when my sword disappeared into the stretched-out garter, surprised anew when I could easily reach inside it and pull the sword free. Additionally, it fit my left thigh quite well and matched my hair.

Thus, we made it to the main gates of Valencia, Eldag being his normal, arrogantly conceited self and me done up in ribbons like a cheap doxy.

“Kyrie the Red,” the guards exclaimed as they unsheathed their weapons and approached us menacingly.

Eldag smiled, his arms crossed over his silk-clad chest. “Nonsense, my stout soldiers. ‘Tis but my whore, Valkyr, with henna in her hair. We’re headed for the King’s Mile.”

Their sergeant, a young man with unkempt hair and soft facial scruff, eyed me over. “She’s a whore?”

“Not any whore,” Eldag espoused, “the most delightful, curvy, and cock-hungry tart you’ll ever find.”

“Prove it you lady-clad mule.”

“Play along,” Eldag whispered to me as he brought his lute to bear and strummed a chord.

“My Kyrie the Red is a sexual delight.

Her breasts high and pert,

Her tunnel so tight.

She’ll fuck you and suck you,

On her back and her knees.

Beg you for more, and to do what you please.”

As he sang, he would stop and demonstrate his “lyrics” by exposing the subject of his singing. My breasts were exposed to their hungry, lecherous eyes; my pussy was bared to their leers.

“We’ll see,” the sergeant said, approaching me, pushing me down to my knees. Quickly fumbling with his sword belt, he exposed his cock to me. “If she sucks me like a whore, then she’s a whore alright.”

“Uh-uh-uh,” Edlag wagged his finger. “Toss a coin to your minstrel.”

A ringing coin was hurled towards him, deftly plucked from the air. “Proceed, Valkyr.”

I opened my mouth and grasped his manhood. Looking up to him with my most sensual, sultry look, I assaulted his member with my mouth, forcing the length of it down my throat. He moaned with abandon as my hands fondled his sack.

Plunging up and down with my mouth, my tongue dancing along the circumference of his hard cock, I quickly felt his cock begin to pulse in my mouth, growing larger as it neared orgasm.

“Fuck it with your mouth,” he urged, adding his hands to the back of my head and forcefully taking my mouth.

Whimpering like an imbecile, his hot goo shot into my mouth. Stream after stream coated my tongue and throat as he whinnied like a terrified horse.

“She’s a whore, alright,” he declared. “Look boys, I just face-fucked Kyrie.”

They laughed as I stood and spit his seed.

“What? Not swallowing like a good strumpet?”

I smiled cruelly at him. “That costs extra. Drop by the King’s Mile, and I’ll make you my slave. Only two gold talons.” I looked at a quite handsome guard and flashed him my breasts. “One talon for you, you’re sexy.”

We were allowed to pass.

Our stay was mostly non-eventful. I kept up the wanton wench act whenever necessary, otherwise biding my time, planning. For all of Eldag’s faults, he was beloved as a bawdy entertainer. We roomed at a local tavern; he would entertain the crowds, sometimes with me dancing as a spurious Kyrie, sometimes by himself.

I plotted, planned, and made friends with the night guards at the Northern Gate. The gate was wide, easily allowing three wagons abreast; a portcullis, always up to allow free passage, seemed to be the only barrier. My wanton whore disguise only needed to be shown once or twice at the gate before they were convinced that I was Valkyr the slut and the only Duel-dancing I did was between the sheets.

Every night I’d harness Thunder hoof and Eldag’s mare to a large wagon and go out through the north gate, collecting threshes for the thatchers. Each morning, just as the sun showed its glowing, red face, I’d return through the gate. Over the weeks, the guards grew accustomed to seeing me, merely waving as I passed. As Saerwen had told me, strategy wins wars, not mere might.

The rest of my time was spent eavesdropping, learning what I could, studying the fortress castle, learning where Maelorn, disguised as Cintra, spent most of his time. I had even infiltrated the castle on multiple occasions, disguised as a scullery maid, learning the basic layout. When the time came, I’d have a good idea of where Maelron would be hiding. The fact that he was reputed to be a wizard didn’t concern me. Warriors and wizards all bleed the same.

The wagon creaked along slowly, both horses, displeased with draft duty, struggling under the heavy load. I had spent the night piling large rocks into the wagon, only covered with a thin layer of sticks and threshes. To the casual observer, I was carrying a single roof’s worth of thatch.

As usual, I approached the open gate just as the sun began to crest the horizon. Waving jauntily to the guards, I slowly passed under the large archway of the gate, the horses straining. Hidden from view, clutched in my hand, I held a length of rope that was affixed to a locking pin on the rear wheel. In one of life’s perfect moments, I pulled the pin free from the axle, causing the wagon to rock, lurch, and crash down on its axle, the rigged wheel spinning away. I had rigged the wagon to break.

The wagon, now stuck in the middle of the gateway, prevented the portcullis from being lowered. Acting angry and dismayed, I swore and cursed, pretending to attempt to upright the wagon.

Initially trying to help me, lamenting over the weight of the wagon, so heavy that the axle embedded itself firmly into the hard-packed road, it wasn’t until the guards saw the force of rebels and Alfar charging in, full-seed, that the meaning of what had happened occurred to them.

Screams of alarm were shouted as the guards drew their weapons, shunting me aside. One ran into the guard station, lowering the huge wood and iron lattice portcullis. It slammed down on the wagon, bounced up once, and firmly wedged itself, only half-closed.

“Valkyr, you’re a traitor to the Empress.”

Smiling, I reached down into the garter, drawing Splinter and slicing my thigh in the process, readying myself for combat. The thrill of combat filled my loins, set my heart ablaze, and catapulted my body into incessant, horny need.

“That’s Kyrie, of the Soul Dancers, you mindless oaf.”

I didn’t wait for them to set their stances and charge. Laying into the first one with a lightning-quick horizontal slash, side-stepping a clumsy axe attack, then pirouetting with a stop-thrust to catch the third one in the larynx, the odds were quickly evened. Four or five axe blows were directed towards me, head, body, leg, head, quickly countered with a spinning reverse-thrust that disemboweled my foe.

I turned towards the last guard as he exited the guard station, only to see him blanch and run towards the castle. As I was headed that way, any way, the chase was on. I hadn’t taken two steps before the army of rebels, buttressed by the elite warrior elves, came pouring through open the gateway. My sabotage had worked; the attack had begun.

The lone surviving guard had too much of a lead on me. I’m fleet of foot, but running in fear of one’s own life does add speed to your heels. He had reached the castle gate long before I could catch up to him. Rather than storming the castle, a vanguard of close to fifty men barred the path to the drawbridge as alarm bells began ringing. Behind them, the bridge began to slowly raise, cutting off any entrance to the castle.

There were far too many of them; I prepared to die.

“Well met, Kryie,” a half-familiar voice said from behind me.

Glancing back quickly, I saw the ruggedly handsome, smiling face of Calvin, Cintra’s lover. Arrayed around him were three dozen rebels and Alfar.

“Attack,” he cried. “Watch this,” to me, as the chains hoisting the drawbridge snapped with a metallic clang, the bridge, itself, crashing back down into place.

Together, we fought. In a blur of blades and bodies, we cut a swatch through the soldiers, my blade dazzling with speed, my lust providing frenetic impetus until the cobblestones ran red with the blood of the fallen.

The thirty or so of us left gained the drawbridge and fought through the entrance. When we reached the courtyard, the twenty-five or so of us left met the royal guard. Although greatly outnumbered, momentum was our ally. The eighteen or so of us left attacked the vanguard, just inside the castle proper.

It was then that reinforcements, led by Cintra herself, wearing a blue velvet dress and wielding a lithe, slim sword, came to the aid of the remaining dozen or so of us. Shouts, screams, and the clashing of steel filled the great halls. The tide of battle quickly turned in our favor. Everywhere I glanced, rebels and Alfar were quickly dispatching or capturing large groups of Valenican soldiers.

A few of us broke off from the main battle and mounted the stairs towards the throne room. A line of guards, three deep, stood there, waiting. Outnumbered and being the primary focus of their hostility, I was quickly fighting defensively, losing.

“Go, we have them,” Calvin shouted as he and his men charged into them with a thunderous crashing of bodies, shields, and weapons.

As they harried the guards, Cintra and I kicked open the double doors to the throne room. The scene before me seemed impossible. I had known that Maelorn was ruling the realm, disguised as Cintra. I was not prepared for the sight. Ringed by vicious-looking, scarred soldiers, an identical Cintra stood in the center of the throne room. Dressed in brigandine armor and wearing a malicious scowl, “she” raised her eyes towards us.

“Kill them both,” Cintra’s voice ordered.

At that moment, I shamed the honor of Duel-dancers, forgetting to take note of my surroundings. From either side of us, undetected by me in my shocked state, several soldiers attacked. Turning quickly, I fended off several attacks, taking a few cuts and jabs in the process.

Before the first one had fallen, my Trance state began flowing through my essence. Suppressing a lusty, evil smile as their weapons visibly slowed before me, I danced the Whirlwind-dance, spinning and slicing like a tempest at the foes surrounding me. Slashing torsos, slicing limbs, finally ducking and rolling out of the center, my foes were cut down before me.

As quickly as my attacks had been executed, I was still too slow. Cintra had been overborne by her assailants and was on her knees in front of the armor-clad Cintra doppelgänger. Quickly counting, twenty or more still stood at the ready. My Untamed nature and the dazzling speed of my Trance state were no match. Still, I approached, warily.

“Save the true queen,” I heard cried from behind me.

Spilling into the chamber, the rebel troops and Alfar, led by Calvin, charged past me, engaging the troops. Maelorn, disguised as armored-Cintra, grabbed the real Cintra and pulled her away from the fray, towards an open door. She struggled with all her might, screaming, to no avail.

Skirting the combat, I made my way across the throne room to the doorway, giving chase as fast as I could. As the sounds of combat echoed through the cavernous room, I exited onto a wide landing with stairs leading both up and down. Noting the discarded brigandine armor on the next landing upwards, I ascended, two stairs at a time. I could hear the sounds of struggle above me. Identical female wails and curses bellowed from just past the next landing.

Several flights later, I found myself in a large, round chamber with barren stone walls. A bloodied dagger lay on the floor, two identical Cintras, both of them wearing the same blue dress, struggled together. They were punching, clawing, and grappling each other.

My cries of, “stop,” went unheeded as they rolled and fought. Both were bleeding, whether from the dagger at my feet or from pummeling each other I could not tell. Cautiously approaching, I tried to discern which was the true Cintra and which was her uncle in disguise.

As they fought, one of them grabbed the other only to be kicked away. The assailant had a firm grip on the blue fabric and the defender’s dress ripped away, revealing her bare breasts. I watched, readying my blade for any attack from any quarter. Then I saw it!

The bare-breasted Cintra had a mole on the side of her right breast. I had tasted and suckled those breasts in a night of passion; it had to be her. Without thinking, I hurled my sword, Splinter, in a sweeping overhead volley, towards the other Cintra. Whooshing as it twirled point over pommel, it struck true, embedding itself deeply into her torso. An agonized, manly scream accompanied the redness that immediately gushed forth.

In horror, I watched as the form of the impaled Cintra fluxed back and forth, her outer body growing, then shrinking, then taking on girth and mass. Her face melted off, revealing a sinister-looking man with graying hair and an evil-looking goatee. It was the face I had seen on the obverse of the newly minted coins. The illusion of the blue velvet dress faded along with the outer form, black finery beneath the magic.

Emboldened, I strode across the round chamber to the fallen Maelorn. He was bleeding, panting, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Grabbing my sword, I pulled it free, feeling relief wash over me. I had finally succeeded in achieving clan vengeance.

“The throne is mine,” he snapped.

To my dismay, rather than die, he sprung up as if he were unscathed. His breathing instantly became even and a maniacal, insane, twisted laugh escaped his mouth.

“The master protects me. Kneel before me and be spared.”

“Fuck you and your master.”

Blue tendrils of energy flew from his fingertips, crackling as they hit my body, sending searing jolts of agony through my body. My body seemed on fire; my limbs lost their strength; all I could do was fall back upon the hard stone floor. Out of the corner of my eye, through blackening vision, I saw the true Cintra running towards the door. At least I would die with a view of her magnificent breasts.

Suddenly the electric pain stopped as Maelorn screamed. Still racked with pain, my vision cleared and my strength returned. Grabbing my fallen sword, burning my palm from the heat, noting that my entire body was smoldering, I pushed myself upright on shaky feet. Maelorn had turned, his back to me, screaming at Cintra. The dagger I had seen earlier was firmly embedded in his back.

“The master will kill you for this, slowly, without mercy.”

A horizontal slash, connecting where the neck met the shoulders, with all the pain and agony of him slaughtering my people behind it, beheaded Maelorn. The head came free of his body, spinning to the left, while his body crumpled to the floor, finally lifeless.

I stood there, panting. Agony, adrenaline, and passion washed over me, knees slumping, pain consuming me. Calvin and the rebels chose that moment to burst through the doorway.

The remainder of the battle was easily quelled. Cintra, restored to her place of power, easily commanded the remaining pockets of combat to cease their aggression. Those allied with Maelorn, the usurper, were quickly rounded up and beheaded; this left the city without its general, several advisory positions vacant.

Wounds were bound, recognition was given. I sat, drinking, in an antechamber off the throne room surrounded by Calvin, Eldag, who had come out of hiding, and Saerwen, as well as several others. The Soul Dancers had been avenged. One by one, we were called into the throne room.

“Lady Kyrie,” a royal page beckoned. “Empress Cintra begs an audience with you.”

Draining my too-sweet tankard of weak wine I arose and entered the throne room. Cintra was seated on the throne, still in her ripped and soiled blue velvet dress. She was battered, bruised, and exhausted, but still managed to look somewhat regal.

“Kneel before the Empress,” one of her surviving advisors commanded.

“Not necessary,” Cintra said gently. “she is a Soul Dancer and a savior of the realm. The free-folk do not bend a knee.”

I merely nodded.

“I owe you my life many times over. In gratitude, I have sent an envoy to your lands, under a flag of peace, restoring the gifted lands my father bestowed upon your people. I cannot undo the foul deeds done to your people, but I can atone.”

“I thank you for your generosity.” I turned on my heel, ready to leave.

“Please wait, Kyrie.” she did not decree; she did not command. I stopped and faced her once more.

“That is our debt to your people. What of my debt to you? Do you desire the throne? It’s yours. Anything you desire I shall grant. Name it; it is yours.”

Approaching the throne, noting that my armor was blackened by Maelorn’s magic, I gently took her hands. “You owe me nothing; I need nothing, save your friendship.”

Eldag was given the official title of “Royal Advisor,” Saerwen and her small army were given lands and noble, human titles, finalizing the alliance between the crown and the Alfar. Calvin, the former captain of the royal guard and Cintra’s initial rescuer and lover, became her betrothed. A post-battle feast was declared.

I declined the request to dance for the revelers; something was bothering me, nagging at my mind. Instead of joining the merriment, I sat alone, pleased at the victory but troubled over Maelorn’s words.

“Something vexes thee?” Saerwen’s lilting accent filled my body with heat even before I’d raised my eyes.

“Yes. Maelorn mentioned a master that protected him.”

“Mortals hungry for power are often delusional.”

“He had true, powerful magic. I think he served another. That means my quest is not yet finished.”

“Get the head. Take it to wizard Brandt, in Harkeep. He communes with dead and can help you.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “I thought you wanted to give me oral sex. We humans call it giving head.”

“That, too.”

“What?”

“You are friend, ally, and sexy. Let’s go.”

In a lavish bed-chamber, the four-poster canopy bed topped with soft furs and smooth sheets, the beautiful elfin maiden and I undressed each other, our hands exploring each other’s bodies. Our lips locked together in passion; our tongues writhed in exploration. We laid down, nude, two warriors celebrating life.

Her lithe, deft fingers kneaded my breasts as my hands sought the burning wetness between her legs. Her arousal was the thickness and scent of natural honey and tasted just as sweet. Licking her sweet slit as my hands groped her firm buttocks, my tongue swirled over her hard, throbbing button as she cooed her delight in her beautiful, sing-song tongue.

Locking her creamy thighs around my head as my fingers thrust into her, her body responded to tongue and touch by humping into my eager mouth with all the force and fury of the warrior queen she was. Her voice spoke unknown words, but with an obvious tone, announcing her orgasm.

In answer to her vocalizations, hard gushing streams of her nectar squirted from her, soaking my face, wetting the sheets, and driving my Untamed lust into even greater heights. Twice more I feasted upon her dripping pussy. I was overcome with the desire to please this incredibly beautiful woman.

“Now, I magic Kyrie,” she panted after finally peeling my head from between her legs.

Her almond-shaped eyes drank in the sight of me, covered with her liquid love. She lowered her head to my face and began licking and kissing her lust off of me. Her hands traced the contours of my body, sending shivers of horny delight through my entire being.

Stopping, smiling, eyes sparkling like ice crystals in the sun, she uttered a few brief, beautiful words in Alfarian. Suddenly, I felt what can only be described as a thousand tongues licking me all over. Golden, pointed orbs of magic joyously molested my flesh. Every bit of my body was caressed by soft, warm, magical tongues. My nipples were being sucked by magical specters, my pussy fucked by a phantom cock.

“Yes,” I screamed. “Fuck me, love me.”

The indescribable sensations quickly consumed me, forcing me to erupt in an earth-shattering orgasm, unlike any I’ve ever had. Her magic licked and sucked; her spell fucked and vibrated.

“More?” she asked. My whimpers and nod were her answer.

Straddling my face with her wetness, Saerwen leaned forward, replacing the magical tongues on my breasts with her sylvan one. Orgasm after orgasm ripped through me, destroying my soul, rebuilding it, forged with the fires of passion.

I had once heard that the elves, the Alfar, make the best lovers. In this case, it was true. Saerwen moved me in primal ways; her lusty attentions made me feel things I didn’t even know I could feel. Her magic, put to sexy use, was enough to drive any mortal insane.

Thoroughly exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep, a black pit about ten hours deep. I awoke to sore muscles, a badly bruised body, and aching limbs. Commandeering a hearty breakfast then checking in with Cintra, I was given a black canvas bag containing Maelorn’s head.

“Rumor has it that the sorcerer, Brandt, lives on the eastern coast of Harkeep near the Thunder Cliffs,” Eldag said to me. He was dressed in new finery, looking as pompous as ever.

“Oh, your magical trinket,” I removed the garter. “I thank you for your help.”

“And I, yours. I’m composing a new hit song about how Kyrie the Red saved Valencia single-handed.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

“The truth seldom makes history.” In a very uncharacteristic move, he bowed without flourish and gently kissed my hand.

It was with a heavy heart that I said my goodbyes to my comrades. The Alfar had accepted me; the rebels had fought beside me, sacrificing their blood and lives so that justice may prevail. I felt almost at home, but the unknown master intrigued me.

“And just where do you think you’re riding off to?” the always-smiling Lord Calvin asked as I mounted Thunder Hoof once more.

“North and east, through Harkeep, adventure awaits.”