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  “It’s all right,” Malem said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  The two women exchanged a glance, and their expressions grew suddenly mischievous. They continued to undress, perhaps a little more fervently now.

  He wondered if they were up to something, so he searched their minds. As far as he could tell, they were driven only by the desire to cement their places higher above the other women in his eyes. That, and the promise of the incredible pleasure that having sex with him while their minds were linked could bring.

  But for some reason, that desire only angered him, and he struck out with his will, tightening it like a vise around the two of them. They would derive no pleasure from this.

  Why should they relish in pleasure, after the pain I gave Gwenfrieda?

  He got up and threw them both on the bed. He took Ziatrice from behind, and whipped her back with the scabbard of his sword while he thrust repeatedly inside her. Her moans were a mixture of pleasure and pain. The latter, mostly.

  Mauritania squirmed and panted beside her, feeling the pleasure he shared with Ziatrice, but not the pain. The link he held with the four women allowed the pleasure to travel back and forth between them in turn, becoming amplified more and more each pass, so that the sex was quite literally mind blowing. It was like he was thrusting inside all four of them at the same time, and experiencing the act from their points of view at the same time.

  When he filled Ziatrice with his seed, Mauritania moaned beside him, climaxing in unison. He was helpless in the throes of passion, and he collapsed, spent, on top of Ziatrice. She flinched—no doubt the fresh welts on her back were sensitive to the touch.

  He thought of all that stuff he’d spurted inside her. He doubted he would get her pregnant, considering she was only half human. It was like a horse trying to get a mule pregnant. Wouldn’t happen. Same with the other women. Xaxia was the only one he had ever worried about, because she was fully human, but the bandit was long gone. She ran away when Vorgon set him free.

  He pushed himself off Ziatrice, and felt pain flare from her energy bundle once more. Her back was definitely sensitive. Oh well, he’d get Weyanna to heal it tomorrow.

  He drained Ziatrice of stamina, and she gasped, shooting him an angry look. He merely smirked, and drained her more, until she was close to passing out.

  “Don’t black out yet,” Malem said. “I need you awake.”

  Now that he was revived, he took Mauritania from behind in turn, doggy-style. He grabbed her hair and yanked back hard, pulling her head back like a mare’s. Those big breasts jiggled violently underneath her with each thrust, turning him on all the more.

  He reached for his scabbard, wanting to beat Mauritania as well, but he’d set it down beside Ziatrice, and it was too far. He’d have to interrupt his session to reach it.

  No chance in hell of that.

  “I’m going to smack your dirty little ass,” Malem said.

  “Smack it!” Mauritania begged.

  And smack it he did. Liberally. He left big red handprints on her pale behind.

  Before he knew what was happening, pleasure exploded from him, and Mauritania moaned. Her shuddering body became suddenly weak so that she collapsed beneath him. Ziatrice also moaned, her eyes closed tight as if she were trying to imagine he was inside her, and that she wasn’t experiencing the act by proxy.

  He lay on top of Mauritania, spent. He didn’t have to worry about crushing her with his weight, she was too big and thickset.

  He paused for a moment to consider what had just happened. There he was, with the former queens of the night elves and Eldritch respectively, lying broken and tamed in his bed. How far he had come.

  All thanks to Vorgon.

  As he gazed at the pale skin underneath him, and the blue, welted back of Ziatrice beside him, he felt suddenly angry with himself for succumbing to his lesser, more beastly nature. He was above this. He was Vorgon’s top lieutenant now. Not some rutting animal.

  He rolled off of Mauritania, landing between the women. He lay there impatiently for a moment, then turned toward Ziatrice. He couldn’t help himself from licking the sweat from her ribs, sliding his tongue across her breast toward the areola. He reached between her legs as well, and felt himself becoming aroused anew. The shame he’d felt a mere moment ago was forgotten.

  He drained stamina from Abigail to give strength to Ziatrice. The half dragon wasn’t in his bed, after all, while the night elf was. He felt resignation from Abigail’s energy bundle. And sadness.

  He shrugged. He could have taken it from Vorgon instead, but the master didn’t like it when he stole stamina for his personal use, especially outside of battle. Besides, he’d make it up to Abigail tomorrow, when he took her and Weyanna to his bed instead. She’d get to experience the pleasure remotely in a few moments anyway.

  Beside him, Ziatrice perked up enough to glance at him, giving him a wicked, welcoming grin.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  But then he heard the whisper-silk sound of a blade leaving a sheath. He pushed his torso upright, and around, to find Mauritania holding a small dagger.

  He wrapped his will around her so that she couldn’t move.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he said, hauling himself off the bed.

  Ziatrice remained lying where she was, though she pushed her upper body up in exhausted confusion to look between the two of them. Large red welts marked where his scabbard had whipped her back.

  Mauritania’s lips remained frozen, so her response came in his head.

  I would give you my blood to drink, she replied innocently.

  “Lying bitch,” he muttered.

  The blunted horns on Mauritania’s head grew into a full set, and her eyes flared a bright green.

  Fool, Mauritania said. If I wanted to kill you, do you really think I’d rely upon a dagger?

  Green magic swirled in front of her.

  Malem tightened his will, and she fought him. The green magic formed a terrible maelstrom in front of her.

  He squeezed tighter, and finally got her anger under control. The magic dissipated, and she slumped against his will, surrendering completely.

  He approached her so that his naked body stood in front of hers. “Why give me your blood now?”

  He released her lips.

  “In case the Eldritch Black Sword sends assassins,” she hissed.

  He pursed his lips. Drinking her blood would allow him to see any invisible Eldritch that might penetrate the outer defenses of the tent.

  He freed her body entirely, and her arms dropped. She raised the dagger again, moving quickly so that at first he thought she was going to lunge at him, but instead she cut her hand open. The blood that flowed forth was a dark green against her pale skin. She beckoned for him to approach.

  His eyes darted to the dagger she held, and she rolled her eyes, sheathing it underneath her dress.

  Then he went to her.

  She squeezed her fist above his mouth and he drank the green blood that dropped onto his lips. It tasted coppery like ordinary blood, despite its color.

  “Like freshly squeezed orange juice…” Ziatrice commented.

  “They don’t call it a blood orange for nothing,” Mauritania said when Malem stepped back and wiped his lips.

  “Too bad it’s the wrong color,” Ziatrice said.

  A moment later Malem spotted a previously hidden assassin crouched in the corner behind Mauritania, outlined in green. An Eldritch wielding a sword.

  The horned, cloven-hooved creature leaped forward.

  Malem realized in alarm that Mauritania was the target, not himself.

  He shoved Mauritania aside—it was like trying to move a small tree—and the assassin came at him instead. Malem sidestepped, and ducked as the sword swung. He reached out with his mind, but the creature was strong-willed, and he was unable to crush its mind.

  But then chains of dark mist wrapped around its body, holding the Eldritch in place. He glanced at Zia
trice, who had launched those chains, and she nodded. He was suddenly very glad he’d given her that stamina boost when he did.

  “You,” Mauritania told the creature. “I recognize you as one of those who serve me.”

  The Eldritch smirked. “Not anymore.”

  A blast of green magic launched from Mauritania, and the Eldritch exploded in a green mist.

  Malem wiped the blood from his face. He gave her an annoyed look. “Thanks for that. You couldn’t use disintegration, huh?”

  Mauritania shrugged.

  Ziatrice was covered in blood, too, as was half the bed. Ziatrice lapped up the fluid that had splattered her bare arms. When she noticed Malem and Mauritania looking at her, she said: “What? I want to be prepared when the next one comes.”

  Malem summoned three oraks to clean up the mess and to bring a tub of hot water and sheets. When the water arrived, he took turns bathing with the women, and then dressed. About an hour later, he was lying back on the bed, partially clothed, with Ziatrice on one side, and Mauritania the other.

  But now he couldn’t sleep worth shit.

  “I thought you could see other Eldritch when they were invisible?” Malem asked her.

  “He must have entered the tent while I was distracted,” Mauritania replied. She shook her head in the dim light, and sighed. “They still hold a grudge against me. Blame me for allowing Vorgon to subdue them. And they’re not far wrong. When I finally broke free of him, thanks to you, I followed you right back into the hornet’s nest. I should have turned back.”

  “But of course you couldn’t,” Malem said. “You were bound to me.”

  “And so I was,” she agreed.

  “Tell me again why you can’t turn invisible yourself?” Ziatrice asked Mauritania. Her voice was a relaxed murmur.

  “Because I’m only half Eldritch,” Mauritania replied.

  He heard a moan from across the room, and realized the half gobling was shifting in her sleep. He sensed fear coming from her energy bundle in his head. Having a bad dream, apparently.

  “Tomorrow morning, when we rise, I will remove Gwenfrieda’s bandages,” Malem told Mauritania. “After Vorgon has set eyes upon her, you will have one of your healers tend her.”

  “Vorgon won’t even look at her,” Ziatrice interjected.

  He glanced at the blue-skinned woman. “Even so, Mauritania will wait until Vorgon sees her before healing her. If the Balor hasn’t laid eyes on her by noon, only then may she proceed. And once it’s done, the half gobling is to remain out of Vorgon’s sight until we reach our destination. If Vorgon sees that she has been healed, he’ll have me punish her again.”

  “It almost sounds like you actually care about her,” Mauritania said.

  Malem glanced at her coldly. “I care about the slots she grants me, nothing more. I want the vessel that grants me those slots to remain healthy.”

  “Is that all we are to you?” Mauritania asked. “Mere vessels… receptacles for your power?”

  “Essentially,” Malem said. “That, and my seed.” He couldn’t help the slight grin.

  He meant it as a joke, but Mauritania scowled and turned away.

  He sensed dark thoughts emanating from her. She wanted to kill him in that moment. But she couldn’t, of course. The tight vise he kept around her mind prevented it. Even in sleep, his will remained in place. And yet, he was beginning to doubt the efficacy of that will, considering Gwenfrieda had managed to defy him.

  He ran through the events that had led up to her escape. Gwenfrieda had told him she was going hunting as the armies made camp, and he let her go with a small troop of oraks on horseback. According to his beast sense, she had been about five kilometers away before he went to sleep. His connection to her had begun to weaken by that point, and so he’d told her not to wander too far.

  When she had, and the oraks informed him that she was attempting to desert, he had realized she was a full twenty kilometers away, judging from the tenuous feel of their link. That she had been able to defy his wishes had to be because of the distance. That, combined with her strong will, was the only explanation.

  That meant if Malem could get far enough away from Vorgon, there was a chance he could defy his master. Then again, Ziatrice and Mauritania had been half a continent away when Malem had first encountered them, and they had still been firmly within the Balor’s clutches. Perhaps even if Malem journeyed to the far side of the world he wouldn’t break free.

  I’m already free, he reminded himself. I live only to serve Vorgon now. He freed me from Banvil.

  Those were the words that always popped into his head when thoughts of freedom came. They had been repeated so often in his mind that he almost believed them.

  Wait, I do believe them.

  “Are you looking forward to the battle?” Ziatrice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Malem said honestly.

  “I am,” Ziatrice said. “I want you to secure your place as Vorgon’s top general.”

  “You would,” Mauritania told her, back still turned to him.

  Ziatrice shrugged. “I’m only looking out for the rest of us.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Mauritania paused. “Well, Abigail and Weyanna won’t be very happy, that’s for certain.”

  Malem shot her a grim smile that she did not see. “We exist only for Vorgon’s happiness.”

  Mauritania shuddered beside him, but said nothing more.

  When he looked at Ziatrice, he saw obvious fear in her eyes, but she quickly masked it, and pretended to smile back, allowing her pointed teeth to glint in the dim candlelight.

  He eventually sank into a restless sleep, haunted by images of Gwenfrieda—in his nightmares, she was strapped to a whipping post while Vorgon lashed her with cattails, the metal fragments ripping up her back. Malem felt every hit, and he screamed right along with the half gobling.

  3

  Malem sat in the specially crafted saddle atop the back of Nemertes, oldest dragon in the world. He was positioned upon the neck, about midway between the base and the head, with his legs hanging down on either side. The dragon’s mouth had been fitted with a harness and bit, somewhat similar to what a horse wore, so that Malem could control the direction of the great beast on a two-dimensional plane. To rise and fall in the third dimension, he adjusted the pressure of his boots on the sides of the neck. Or he just issued a mental command to Nemertes if that failed.

  Behind him, the air was filled with dragons. Blues and Blacks draped the sky in clusters, like dark splotches, with the more distant appearing similar to plagues of locusts. Many of them carried riders as well, though their saddles were positioned closer to the base of the necks, where the smaller girths better fit the passenger leg widths—these other dragons weren’t nearly as big as his.

  Nemertes. He shook his head, still somewhat amazed that he commanded such a beast. His life sometimes seemed surreal to him, and this was definitely one of those moments. How far he had come, from his humble days as an animal tamer, to a great leader of armies.

  He gazed down at the creature he rode. Vorgon had personally Broken the dragon after her previous near-death encounter with the Balor and had healed Nemertes before dispatching her on her mission to the Khroma mountains to the northwest. Nemertes had returned only yesterday, having successfully retrieved a thousand of her brethren. Vorgon had transferred her bond to Malem shortly thereafter, because as Vorgon’s dark lieutenant, Malem was to personally lead the magnificent creatures into battle through Nemertes. Also, Vorgon had a twisted sense of irony, and he thought it somehow appropriate that Malem should lead this particular attack from the air.

  The plains below were black with the hosts of Vorgon: spiders, dire wolves, oraks, night elves, dwarves, and Eldritch. Men were among them as well, conscripted from the ranks of the fallen cities. There was also troglodons, ghrips, basilisks, and other monsters mixed into the ranks, creatures captured and enslaved when Vorgon’s armies had passed near the Midweald forest. However,
the ground-based hosts were in place merely for misdirection. Once they reached the base of the target mountain, they would attempt to bombard the city walls with their siege engines—a difficult task, given how high up the mountain the city was located. The more agile ground troops would attempt to scale the steep peak, and then the walls themselves when they reached them, but the real assault would take place from the air.

  Mages from all the dark races allied with Vorgon rode the different dragons, and waited to close with the enemy, ready to add their powers to the innate magic of their flying mounts.

  He felt a jab in his lower back. That would be Ziatrice, who rode behind him in the same saddle. She wore a skirt of black blades, and no doubt it was one of those swords that dug into him at that very moment.

  Given the raging winds that assailed him at this height, winds partially produced by the dragon’s motion, it was far easier to communicate via telepathy than voice. And so he began sending Ziatrice a mental message. Can you—

  But she shifted before he could finish, moving the blade down to a more comfortable position.

  She wasn’t wielding Wither today—there was no room for the big halberd on the back of the dragon.

  Abigail and Weyanna flew immediately beside Nemertes. The dragons were about half the size of Nemertes, and as such their smaller saddles could carry only one person each. Mauritania rode Weyanna, while Gwenfrieda sat atop Abigail. The half gobling’s back was healed, thanks to the handiwork of Mauritania’s healers. They hadn’t been able to remove the scars that crisscrossed her back, however. Weyanna told him that she had the power to heal those scars, but Malem wouldn’t let her.

  “Let her remember the price of desertion,” Malem had told her.

  Gwenfrieda had kept her head bowed the whole time.

  She must have sensed his gaze upon her then, because Gwenfrieda glanced his way. Her eyes were filled with such sadness, and were so full of accusation, that it almost hurt to look at them, and he couldn’t hold her gaze long. Her expression was at odds with her energy bundle: he felt no sadness from it whatsoever, only determination.