Chapter 1 - The City of the Dead

A shapely figure moved, with the grace of a gazelle, across the grassy windswept Western moor, her long red hair, woven into a braided ponytail,  swished, twisting about her slender frame like a living flame. For three days Branwen hunted Ragnvor the Red and his band of thieves, murderers and rapists and she was close. They were a small band of nobodies that until recently stuck to raiding villages, that is, until they found the means to steal into the tower of Or-Lok, the court sorcerer to High King Turold, and stole from him. Now, a bounty, high enough to put every bounty hunter and man-hunter in the kingdom hot on their trail, has been placed on their heads
 
          Kneeling down in the brush Branwen examined the ground, the footprints of a group, that what to be five or maybe six men, veered off heading north by northwest to a swampy bog. These prints were fresh, not even a day old. She was close, could not be more than a half day away. Turning her head, dark storm clouds gathered at the horizon, she would to move fast before the storm washed away their tracks. Traveling fleet of foot, giving chase and taking little rest, she caught up with them with the setting of the sun outside the gates of a long since forgotten necropolis. The storm clouds had rolled in, blanketing the sky, blotting out the moon and stars.  There were six of them, one stood head and shoulders taller than the rest with a head of red hair. That had to be Ragnvor. Branwen crept in closer and staying outside hidden in a thicket of reeds she eavesdropped on them talking, straining to hear over the rumbling rolls of thunder.
 
          “This is the place, right?”
 
          “Aye, ‘e had said to meet ‘im inside.”
 
          “Then let’s get this over and done with, already. This place is giving me the creeps.”
 
          The band of thieves entered the cemetery and Branwen followed close after. Thoughts nagged at the back of her mind. Who could they be meeting? Did he set them up to steal from Or-Lok? What manner of place is this? It stinks of Black magic. Putting her concerns aside she followed Ragnvor weaving their way through the tombstones coming up to a large mausoleum. It had started to rain, soaking the ground turning it to mud. Lightning flashed and a hooded man in a black cloak stepped out of the shadows.
 
          “I am glad you could make, do you have the item?” His voice chilled her blood, it sounded as if there was something wrong with him, something foul. The hood obscured her sight, she could see nothing but a few wiry grey hairs of a beard but she could imagine a horrible monstrous visage lurking underneath that hood.
 
          “Aye, we got it,” Ragnvor said, taking a bundle wrapped in cloth out from his pack. “We did as ye instructed, none of us touched it.” The stranger snatched it out from his hands and long skeletal thin fingers unwrapped the bundle. It was a book, leather bound, bearing the image of a skull on its front cover.
 
          “Excellent,” the stranger laughed a cold laugh, excitedly running his hands over it.
 
          “Now, what about settling up?” Concern edged Ragnvor’s voice. Something about this had rubbed him the wrong way. His hand dipped down grabbing hold of the sword at his hip. The others inched for their weapons but the stranger dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
 
          “Fear not, I have not forgotten.” Reaching into his cloak he produced a hefty pouch swollen with coin and handed it to Ragnvor, who looked at it, mouth watering. “It’s all there, every last coin.”
 
          “Damn well better be,” Ragnvor grumbled tugging out the pouch’s strings. His eyes gleamed at all the glittering gold. Branwen was awestruck, that was more gold than she had seen in her entire lifetime. She eyed the stranger suspiciously. Who could he possibly be an envoy of another kingdom, or some pawn of a powerful sorcerer? Forgetting about the stranger the others gathered around Ragnvor, but Branwen did not forget, she saw him open the book and she heard him whisper foul things not of this world and recite twisted evil incantations and then he began to laugh, high and shrill, all turned to him, the fear clear as day on their faces.
 
          “Fools, fools, poor stupid fools.” The stranger rose up his hand. Sprouting from the wet ground came the dead brought back to life by foul necromancy. There was countless of them swarming the band of thieves, Branwen watched as one bit onto Ragnvor’s arm and another jumped onto his back, biting and tearing at his face. He screamed as he was pulled the ground and Branwen watched in growing horror as he was torn apart, limb from limb. The others met a similar fate as they too were killed and then rose up, swelling the ranks of the dead. The stranger laughed. “O great Khas, you honor your lowly servant with such great power I could bring the world groveling to your feet.” Branwen turned to flee but she felt the stranger’s icy gaze fall on her back. “What excellence, another interloper. Go and seize her and bring her to me before she escapes.”
 
          The daunting horde of the undead bore down on her, surrounding her on all sides. The thing that in life had been Ragnvor, lumbered towards her in a slow awkward gait, its mangled arm dangling uselessly from its sleeve. Springing to her feet she drew her sword and swallowed her fear and flew at them, pouncing like a wild cat lopping off the head of the creature that had been Ragnvor. Wheeling around she caught another, bashing its head in with the pommel of her sword. Moving with the grace of a dancer she weaved through the horde, cutting down many but for each one she returned to the grave, two took its place. Defeat was inevitable, she knew it to be true in her heart of hearts but she would go out like a true warrior and be welcomed into the Halls of Magu Dandue. An icy cold hand grabbed her ankle tripping her. She fell, hitting the ground hard. The dead swarmed her, grabbing her. This is it, she thought, resigned to her fate.
 
          “Bring her forth to me,” the stranger commanded and she was dragged and forced to kneel before the necromancer. Looking up at him she saw an ordinary looking old man with wizened features. “Such a pretty puppet,” he cooed, his mouth twisting up into a smile and though he smiled a cruelness lingered in his eyes that chilled her blood. He grabbed a handful of her crimson hair. “Don’t see many from the Ember Isles out this far.” Cold hands as if chiseled from blocks of ice grabbed her chin and examined her. “And certainly not one as well bred as thou.” She gasped feeling those cold hands fondle her ample tits. She snarled, snapping at his fingers. “Feisty, full of fight and spirit, how I would love to see you sing and dance to my tune but I must hurry but you will serve well as a plaything for my minions.” Rough hands grabbed and bore her off into the horde and the undead creatures fell upon her, grabbing and tearing at her clothes and armor stripping her bare naked for all to see.  A cold realization dawned on her as she saw to her rising horror, they all had erections. A sliver of fear as cold as ice shot through her. What will they do to me? She wondered. Cold hands gripped, squeezing and fondling her large plush breasts.
 
          “No, no,” she screamed, struggling, trying to wrest herself free but their grips were like steel. Hands grabbed her knees and through she tried to resist they were wrenched open exposing her nethers and then something hard pressed up against her pussy lips as undead, who in life had been a brown-haired youth, wedged his way between her legs. Branwen shivered with revulsion feeling cold wet tongues twist and twine around her soft skin. She tried to move but her body kept still as if transfixed by some spell. Damn sorcerer, he’ll pay, by all the fires in Hel, he will pay. Lifeless lips pressed against hers as the undead kissed her. Opening her mouth to him his tongue pushed inside and wrapped around hers. His hands caressed and fondled at her plump pillowy breasts, eliciting sensual mewls from her. What manner of spell is this that forces my own body to betray me thusly? What creature is this, the thing is dead and yet he covets my body as he would in life. What weird forces act in his rotting brain? The zombie sank his bone and Branwen squealed feeling him burying his cock up to the hilt in the folds of her pussy sending ripples of pleasure convulsing through her body. Slowly, he began to buck his hips, thrusting in a slow steady rhythm as two more of the undead knelt down and wrapped their cold lips around her nipples giving suck like greedy hungry babes.  She squealed, panted and moaned as a tingling sensation arose down in her loins. One of the undead got top of her and straddling her waist he jammed his cock between her plump breasts and grabbing them roughly, he squeezed squishing them together and began to pump his gray member between her tits, oozing out from his tip a clear viscous fluid lathering her tits and chest. Another closed in holding his swollen member to her lips, she tried to refuse but her body betrayed her again and let his cock slip in past her luscious lips. She bobbed her head long the shaft down to the base pressing her nose into a bush of coarse pubic hair. The zombie began to thrust and each thrust his heavy ball sack swatted her across the face. His cock tasted most foul like that of the grave dirt and yet she craved it, desperately wanting more. She was a prisoner in her own body, unable to escape this torment.
 
          The one fucking her tits was the first to come, flooding the valley of her cleavage with yellowish gooey seed. Finished, he rolled off of her and collapsed on the ground and laid there as if dead. Maybe then there was still hope for her, if she could outlast these things, she could escape, but scanning around her, there countless others all waiting for a piece of her, could she hold out long enough to outlast all of them? Steeling herself, she had to, she had to escape and take her vengeance on the necromancer.
 
          The zombie fucking her cunt was close, he bucked now wildly, rutting her like some feral beast and though she was gagged, she moaned and panted as the feeling between her legs intensified. White hot shame burned across her face. How could something as base and vile as these creatures possibly turn her on?  The creature gave her little time to think as it sank its cock in deep, prodding the entrance to her womb. She trembled and quivered feeling it stiffen inside her and blow its load, shooting its jism straight her cunt flooding her womb sending her over the edge, breaking the dam wide open. A tidal wave crashed down upon her wiping her mind blank, Convulsion writhed through her body. She mewled and moaned on the cock stuffed into her mouth as it came shooting waves of bitter seed into her mouth filling her mouth to the brim, she swallowed mouthful after mouthful but more kept coming, more than she could swallow. Globs oozed out from the corners of her mouth dripping down her face overwhelming her sense of smell. The zombies slipped out from her and collapsed on the ground. Wet seed spilled out flowing down the insides of her legs. Dazed and tired, she lay there panting, coasting on orgasmic bliss but the undead gave her little rest, flipping her over on her stomach and the hard member of another zombie brushed up against her backside sliding between the plush globes of her ass, sending jolts down her spine, curling her toes. It pushed in the wrong hole, spasms wreaked from her ass as he speared her on his stomach.
 
          “Oh, goddess. Oh, ah, Ah,” she moaned feeling him fill her, stretching her out. She trembled slightly as a pair of cold clammy hands gripped her hips and began to thrust. She could hold back no more, she moaned, gasped and panted, craving more. More of the creatures crowded around her. She took one in her mouth, sucking at it greedily, bobbing her head vigorously along its prick. Two others she stroked off with her hands and many more stood behind waiting, cocks hard and throbbing.
 
The thick musk of sex clogged the air coupled with wet flesh slapping against wet flesh and groans and moans flooding Branwen’s senses, it was all that occupied her thoughts. She wanted and desired and she craved more, writhing on a throbbing girthy cock as thick foul tasting cum shot down her throat. Another load splashed all over her back as more splattered her face soaking into her hair. Wrapped up in this ecstasy she fought against the feeling, struggling to hold onto her sanity as wave after wave of this powerful pleasure crashed down upon her.
 
          The last zombie held her firmly with his hands hugging her hips as he bucked thrusting himself deep within the folds of her pussy and she pushed back against, howling. He was close, damn close. Stiffening inside her, he buried his cock deep in her cunt and spewed filling her with cum jettisoning her off into her last orgasm. It came fast rippling through her, she lay on the ground, dissolving off into pleasure. The thing crashed down her back and his cock slipped out and a flow of the thick goopy fluid gushed down her pouring down the insides of her thighs. She lay there, spent with her eyelids drooping closed and forgetting the necromancer and slept a dreamlessly sleep.
 
But when she awoke in the early morning her rage returned anew and strong.  Struggling to her feet, her body ached all over. She gathered her sword and scavenged enough garments to clothe herself from the dead. The necromancer was nowhere to be seen, he was long gone but a set of tracks led off going north. Starting after the necromancer her heart burned with a fury hotter than the flames of Hel.