Chapter 0 - The Citadel of Hate

The Citadel of Hate
Aranthir III
 
              When at last the sandstorm settled, they were well and truly lost. Aranthir looked around at the few companions still left to him and saw that they were few in number. To every side of him, the Dry Wastes stretched off toward the horizon, featureless and utterly barren. 
              “Well damn it all,” Lutharis roared, rising from where he had sheltered against his horse and disturbing a layer of sand and dust as he did. “Where has the army gone?”
              Shading his eyes, the black-haired man studied the horizon as he brushed sand from his beard. Aranthir cleaned himself off more calmly and checked his horse. Behind him, the rest of their little company was stirring from their shelter. 
              “They kept riding through the storm,” Rora sneered as she shook sand from her boots. “They will be scattered to the four winds by now. Easy prey for the raiders.”
              “Should we turn back?” asked Aigon, the group’s youngest member. He was peering at the horizon through his spyglass, though with no more luck than the others.
              “Which way even is back?” Lutharis grumbled. 
              “The storm was enough to obliterate the tracks of the army,” Aranthir mused, studying the ground all around them. “We will have to follow the setting sun until we reach the green lands again.”
              “Hold on,” said Pairas, sliding off his horse to plant his armored feet in the sand. “Deserting the army means we forfeit our pay. The paymaster owes me three weeks’ pay already and I won’t let him discharge his debt to me so easily.”
              “You’re welcome to take up his debt with him as soon as you find him.” Aranthir waved a hand at the empty desert that surrounded them. “Until then, we should return to the town where we mustered and wait for word of the army.”
              “If it still exists,” Rora groused. “The Sardmen won’t give them much time to regroup. That’s why they wouldn’t give battle, they knew it was only a matter of time before a storm destroyed the army for them.”
              Pairas scowled and kicked the dirt. His other riders looked around uncertainly. At last, Pairas ground his teeth and spat. “Very well. We will return to the town.” He looked around him. “Which way is it?”
              Aranthir pointed his finger skyward. “Follow the setting sun. With luck, we will soon enough reach the settled lands where someone can give us instructions.”
              None of them presented a better idea, so soon enough they fell in behind Aranthir. The day was long and hot, but the desert was devoid of shade and so they struggled on. As they crawled west, the desert began to change. It grew rockier and they began to see the occasional bit of brush. Twice they spotted rabbits darting from rock to rock. But everywhere they looked, it was flat, dusty, and barren. 
              As the sun dropped ever lower, they began to lose pace. The cooling night air was a welcome change from the murderous heat, but they were tired, hungry, and thirsty. Rora called a halt.
              “We should rest here,” she said, panting with exhaustion. “We can make some attempt at erecting shelter and wait out the day, then continue tomorrow night.”
              “We’re running low on water,” Aranthir objected. “We won’t last another day and night.”
              “We won’t last much longer anyway,” Rora replied.
              “Where are we going to find water?” Cuthas, one of her sharpshooters, demanded. “This whole damned place is drier than a blacksmith’s forge.”
              Aranthir scanned the horizon and smiled. 
              “There,” he pointed to a distant spot on the horizon, dimly visible in the waning light of the sun. “An oasis,” he declared.
              “It’s a mirage,” complain Pairas. “Just another cruel trick of the desert.”
              Aranthir merely smiled and spurred his horse in the direction of the oasis. “Come on, it’s not too much further.” The others stared after him in a combination of confusion and exhausted frustration. Lutharis simply nodded and followed Aranthir without question. 
              “He’s never led us wrong before,” Aigon said as he followed Lutharis. “If we had listened to him, we would be in Cimbra instead of lost in the desert.”
              Grudgingly, Rora and Pairas led their respective contingents forward. The ground grew rockier and harder, leading up a slight incline. They wound their way over harder ground as the night wore on. Pairas’ grumbling grew louder and louder until at last Aranthir stopped. Pairas angrily made his way up to where the half-elf stood and harrumphed loudly behind him. Aranthir casually picked up a stone from the ground.
              “And how much further are you going to lead us tonight, elf?” Pairas demanded.
              “Just a stone’s throw,” Aranthir replied and flung the stone from his hand. Before Pairas could reply, they all heard the splash. 
              Quarrels forgotten, they rushed forward. Falling their knees at the edge of the oasis, they drank its cold, clear water from their hands. 
              “Erchasos be praised!” Rora cried as she thrust her head into the water in relief. The party drank their fill and refilled their waterskins. Date palms growing over the water provided them much needed succor, and Lutharis even conspired to catch a pair of nesting birds taken unaware. 
              They tiredly assembled a makeshift camp in the shadow of a tall rock and soon enough were fast asleep.
 
              Aranthir awoke in the mid-morning and made a circuit of the oasis. The pool of water was narrow and crooked, winding its way through the tall, red rocks for perhaps four hundred paces. All along its edge grew palms, berry bushes, and strange flowers with small, bitter seeds that could easily be plucked and eaten. No fish made their home in the pool, but Aranthir glimpsed frogs hopping along the edge and birds nesting in the rocks above. 
              Climbing the rocks, he looked around. To the south, the barren and featureless desert stretched far away toward the horizon, while the rocky plains continued in the other directions. In the distant northern sky, he thought he could make out rain clouds. That would be where the green settled lands lay, he knew. He sat for a time, trying to spy a clear path through the maze of boulders, until he grew thirsty again. 
              He clambered down the rocks to the pool’s edge again and dipped his waterskin into the pool. The water near the edge had been disturbed by so many feet and was thick with sand and silt. Aranthir dumped out the fouled water and, mounting a boulder that jutted out into the water, dipped his waterskin again. 
              As he retracted it, something caught his eye. Something stirred in the pool’s depths, which ran far deeper than he would have ever expected from an oasis. Far below the surface, he spied a powerful eddy in the dark waters. Rising to his feet, Aranthir regarded it cautiously, one hand on his belted blade. The water flickered with strange, eldritch motion and he took a cautious step back.
              But it was a voice from above that startled him.
              “Riders from the north!” Pairas stood atop the oasis’s rocky walls, arquebus in hand, pointing along the pool’s edge. Following his outstretched hand, Aranthir spotted five men on horseback making their way down the rocky incline to the water’s edge. Aranthir retreated from the water’s edge and made for the camp. There he found Rora’s sharpshooters asleep in the hot morning sun. Lutharis was cleaning his boots of sand, while Aigon was nowhere to be seen.
              “Get up,” Aranthir commanded, “we have company.”
              “More of the king’s army?” Lutharis asked as he lit the matchcord on his musket. 
              “No. They look like Sardmen.”
              Pairas came scrambling down the rock wall behind the camp.
              “There’s so many of them,” he gasped as he reached the camp. “Hundreds, if not more.”
              “Damn,” Rora said as she rose. “Where is Aigon?”
              “He went hunting,” Lutharis said. Pairas’ men were scrambling to their weapons. 
              “The Sardmen are hunting us down. They must have already destroyed the army,” Pairas rambled. “They’ve spotted us for sure, and we can’t outrun them.”
              “There’s nowhere to hide in the desert anyway,” Cuthas whined. 
              “We can’t fight them,” Rora said even as she loaded her musket. “What is the life of a Sardic slave like?”
              “Not good,” Aranthir said, “but likely preferable to death. Perhaps we can negotiate, or even defect.”
              “The quartermaster was never timely with our pay anyway,” one of Pairas’ men growled. Aranthir could now see the riders approaching along the edge of the oasis. There were more of them now, the original five had been joined by ten more. All rode nimble desert horses and carried bows of horn and Sardic cavalry sabers. Most wore only desert robes, but the leader of the group was armored in fine lamellar and mail, with a spiked cap wrapped in green silk. A mailed veil covered his face. A man at his side carried an unfamiliar banner, a black tower on red.
              Behind him, a band of knights approached. They all wore black armor that completely encased their bodies, leaving no sight of their mortal parts anywhere. The horses they rode were monstrous black stallions, standing two hands taller than any other destrier Aranthir had seen before. At their head was a figure whose eyes burned like coals beneath his towering helm. The knights rode ahead of the first band of riders and closed in on Aranthir and his companions. 
              The rider pulled up his horse in front of them. Fixing his burning eyes on them, he raised a black gauntleted hand.
              “Surrender or die,” he boomed, his powerful voice sounding as if it rattled up to them from the depths of his armor. Behind him, the other knights looked on impassively, while the Sardmen watched with arrows nocked to their bows and lances resting on their shoulders.
              Aranthir turned to his companions. 
              “I see no way out. Do as he says and we will find a way out later.” With that, he dropped his beloved jeweled longsword into the dirt. Lutharis and Aigon followed immediately. Rora hesitated, exchanging looks with Pairas and her men. Pairas sullenly cast his weapons down and his men followed suit. Rora and her sharpshooters were the last to surrender, and the Sardmen came forward. Their things were taken from them while the riders bound their hands and then tied them into their saddles. The packhorses were taken away to join their captors’ baggage train and soon enough the whole column departed the oasis. 
              They rode south at a hard pace, so hard that Aranthir feared his companions would erase all gains from their rest from the night before. They forged across the trackless, featureless desert in a straight line, the strange minds at the head of the column leading them with utter certainty. The strange knights and their mortal followers rode on throughout the blazing heat of the day and then through the biting cold of the night without stopping. Aranthir was parched, hungry, and exhausted. His legs burned from so many hours in the saddle and the rough bindings rubbed his wrists raw. All attempts to speak with his captors failed. The strange men in armor rode in absolute silence, while the Sardmen spoke only among themselves, ignoring Aranthir and his companions’ questions.
When dawn came again, Aranthir could see mountains on the southern horizon. As the sun rose and further seared the earth with its face, the mountains grew nearer. The column of riders did not break its pace, the horses driven on past their breaking point by some malign presence at their backs. Some time after midday, Aranthir could see a tower ahead of them. 
              A narrow spire of black rock, not unlike in color to the strange knights’ armor, rose from a series of bastions, curtain walls, and low towers near the foot of the mountains. As the column neared, the walls loomed higher over them and Aranthir spied more knights looking down from the parapets. Tall gates of strange, white wood bound with black iron swung open and the column of horses passed beneath. Looking up, Aranthir saw inhuman eyes staring down at him from the murder holes as stone gargoyles leered at him from the wall.
              After the long ride, the column at last ground to a halt in a wide, dusty bailey beneath the central spire. The Sardmen dismounted and dispersed which their armored companions sat still atop their steeds. A contingent of soldiers emerged from the blockhouses along the outer wall. Their dress was that of the desert nomads, but their features were clearly those of the settled men of the river valleys. They bore muskets and ranseurs on their shoulders, while the man at the fore of the ground carried a bullhide whip.
              Aranthir and his companions were unbound and ushered down from the saddle and assembled before the men. A few of the Sardmen had returned to watch.
              “You are now slaves of the Black Lord,” the whipbearer rumbled to his captives. “You will toil in the mines until you can work no longer. Disobedience and sloth will not be tolerated. I am now the master of your fates. Do not waste your breath on prayers, the gods cannot hear you here.”
              He cracked the whip, a sharp snap in the dry air of the bailey. “To the barracks!” he shouted, and his guards began shoving and pushing the prisoners toward a low bunkhouse of mudbrick and stone.
              All the while, the strange knights in their black armor stood still and silent.
 
              They were rousted the following morning in the pre-dawn hours, fed a meager meal of gruel and old cheese, then marched down into the mines. One of Pairas’ men fell in the steep tunnel and, after a vicious bout of whipping failed to persuade him to rise, the overseer stabbed him to death and continued on. The mine’s tunnels were narrow, low, and dimly lit by weak torches. Twice, Aranthir passed the bones of an unfortunate miner lying in the corners. The air was foul, sometimes suffocating, while stones and clods of dirt often came tumbling down from above. Driven by the overseers’ lash, they plunged further into the mine’s depths until at last they came to undelved tunnels and set about with their picks.
              Soon enough, they were joined by more slaves. They were a wretched lot, having endured their abuse for weeks longer than Aranthir and his companions. They wore rags, if anything at all, and bore the scars of both the lash and the mines on their backs and arms. The whips of the overseers kept their heads down and their tongues stilled, so Aranthir bided his time.
              After many hours of toil, at what he assumed must be midday, the overseers retreated a bit up the tunnels to eat. Aranthir stole his way over to the slave who looked least about to die. The man was hale enough despite his condition and sported a thinning salt-and-pepper beard. 
              “Hail, friend,” Aranthir said quietly to him as they each swung their picks into the hard earth. “How long have you been below?”
              The man made no immediate response, his eyes fixed dully ahead. Aranthir tried again in a different tongue.
              “When did they capture you?”
              “The overseers don’t like us talking,” the man replied quietly, his eyes ahead. 
              “They are distracted with their meal now. How long have you been down here?”
              The man blinked, as if waking from a sleep. “I’m not sure. Three weeks? Maybe more. The days all start to blend together. Sometimes they send us down before dawn and bring us up after sunset. Might be we spend more than a day down there. I can’t tell.”
              “I’m looking to get out of here. What do you know about that?”
              “I know you don’t get out of here except when they dump your corpse. They’ve got old mineshafts where they pile up the dead. You’d stay away from them if you’re smart. All the carrion attracts ghouls.”
              “Where do the ghouls come from?”
              “Only the Black Lord knows. He’s a necromancer of some sort, a sorcerer who traffics with fel powers and has mastery over the dead. There is no escape.”
              “There’s always an escape. Sorcerer or not, he’s just a man like any other. I’ve killed plenty of men like him.”
              The man simply shook his head and returned to his work. Aranthir moved away down the line. He studied the overseers as well as he could without attracting suspicion, studying their movements, their arms and armor, the relationships between them. He wanted to know which ones were outcasts, which ones were leaders, which ones were attentive or lazy. 
              Lutharis sidled up to him as they dug.
              “I know you’re already working on an escape plan,” he whispered. “We’re going to have to move quickly, I can feel the others losing hope already.”
              “These other slaves have already fallen to despair. I fear we will have to leave them behind. Have you heard of our captor before?”
              “Only rumors,” Lutharis admitted, “peasants talk of a dark lord who raised a citadel in the desert. They say he was once a lord of Lenadar who quarreled with the old king and fled to the desert to avoid his wrath.”
              “Have you any idea where we are? How far is it back to the green lands?”
              “At least a hundred miles. We look to be close to the western spur of the mountains, but to the west is nothing but two hundred miles of empty desert before the coast. If we escape, we should head north.”
              “Before we escape, we will need supplies and weapons.”
              “And horses. I fear that ride killed ours.”
              “If this Black Lord is a sorcerer, he will have spice. If I can find some fuel for sorcery, I can mask our tracks as we escape.”
              “The stables are near to the blockhouse where they keep us. I could smell the horses at night. But we will need to break into their armory to get powder and shot.”
              “And my sword,” Aranthir added. His pick struck something in the dirt, and further digging revealed a small vein of ore. Aranthir had seen iron ore before, but while this was unmistakably iron, it was not any iron he was familiar with. The ore itself was a deep, glossy black in color, very clearly the same material as the metal that made up the great tower. But his pick of mundane iron broke off the ore easily enough, allowing them to fill up wicker baskets with their prizes.
The sound of picks striking iron echoed up the dirt tunnels and soon, the other slaves began to crowd around them, tearing into the earth with eager aplomb. They began uncovering the rest of the vein as they broke off chunks to fill their baskets. Alerted by the sounds, a gaggle of overseers descended into the tunnel. With shouts and whips, they urged on their slaves.
              “Get that ore in there! Harder, or you’re on half rations tonight! Put your backs into it!”
              Aranthir’s shoulders were stung by three strikes of the whip, but he never stopped filling the baskets. The vein began to diminish now, and the baskets were nearly full. One of the overseers, a big Zahiri man with a gold nose ring, pointed his whip at Aranthir.
              “You, haul these back up to the surface and give them to the crushers. Now!”
              Aranthir roped the baskets together and threw the ropes over his shoulder. Straining against the weight, he made his way slowly up the sloped tunnels toward the surface. It was a hard climb and only after much toil did he reach the surface. The midday sun shone down on him in all its terrible glory. The dusty ground was hot, burning his feet as he walked.
              Three men waiting in the shadow of a forge stood up from their dice game as he appeared. 
              “Hand them over,” one man barked, shading his eyes from the sun. He seized the ropes from Aranthir and handed them to his companions. Without sparing the half-elf any further notice, they set off in the direction of the crushing ground.
              Instead of turning back to the mines right away, Aranthir stole a moment from his work detail to rest in the forge’s shadow and look up at the tower of black iron. In its highest chambers, a dull red light shone from the windows. From time to time, a figure stood hazily silhouetted in the window; a malevolent shadow looking out from the fortress. He felt the figure’s eyes on him clearly, as if he could see the shadow’s face. Shielding his eyes from the blazing sun, he turned and went down into the mines again.
              Free of his heavy burden, Aranthir descended into the earth carefully. The torches were burning low and while his elfsight allowed him to see better than most, the exposure to the harsh desert sun left him dazzled. He twice turned down the wrong tunnel until eventually he found his way to the overseers’ camp. Four of the overseers crouched around a candle atop a barrel, playing cards. The big Zahiri man was among them and when he spotted Aranthir, he threw a waterskin at him.
              “You are too slow! Take some water and get back to work!” Aranthir picked up the waterskin and continued down the tunnel without comment, though he wanted little more than to rid himself of the man. Unstoppering the waterskin, he realized that it was his own, which he had last held at the oasis, just before the knights arrived. His labors in the mine had left him parched like he had never been before, so he raised the waterskin to his lips and drank deeply until it was all gone.
              The oasis’s water was strange to his tongue, infused with something extra he could not place in his mind. He swayed on his feet as he felt an unfamiliar presence in his head. The air before him swirled and began to take shape. A small blue-white cloud floated in the dry, dusty tunnel.
              “What are you?” Aranthir asked in a whisper.
              “I am a djinn,” a high woman’s voice answer. “A daughter of the oasis. Do not be afraid, mortal.”
              “I have more to be afraid of here than you.”
              “The Sorcerer?” the voice asked. The cloud trembled and Aranthir heard a woman’s laughter. “I suppose he would be frightful to one such as you. But I am a spirit of the desert. He has no power over me.”
              “I have heard of many mortals who know how to bind the djinns to their will. Do you not fear such a life of servitude?”
              The cloud laughed again. “It would be a welcome release from my imprisonment.”
              “Imprisonment?” Aranthir asked.
              “In the oasis. It was my home for a thousand years, but now I have tired of it. I wish to see the world. Perhaps to reach the sea. Have you been there, mortal?”
              “I have. And my name is Aranthir.”
              “Aranthir,” the djinn repeated, “A lovely name. I have many names among the djinni, but the last mortal I knew called me by the name of Tamia.”
              “Well, Tamia, I would gladly take you to the sea if it means a release from my imprisonment here. Can you help me?”
              “Oh, indeed I can!” the cloud shook with excitement. “It has been so long since I have had a patron, but with my power you could surely be free of here, sorcerer or no.”
              “Can we leave tonight?”
              “Tonight?” the djinn replied, “Why wait?”
              “The desert is too hot during the day, and at night we will be hidden from pursuers.”
              “Very well. I will wait until tonight. But I so wish to see the sea!”
              “I have many companions who I will take with me. They will be tired and hungry. Can you do anything for them?”
              “I can provide them with nourishment for a time, but they will die if they cannot feed themselves soon enough. I can guide you to the nearest river, though it is many leagues away. But with my magic, you will move as if you have the desert winds at your back.”
              “Very well. When the overseers take us back to the surface and feed us, I will rally my companions and break out.”
              “Oh, would that I could speed the sun’s descent,” the djinn complained. “But very well. I have spent so many long years in solitude, I can be patient now at the end of it all.”
              The cloud dispersed itself and Aranthir continued down the tunnel toward the sound of picks. The overseers were leaning against the wall in conversation, ignoring the miners’ activity. They paid Aranthir little mind as he rejoined the others. Finding a place between Rora and Aigon, he looked over one shoulder to ensure the overseers were still distracted.
              “I have a plan to escape,” he said. “Tonight.”
              “I’ve already tired of this place,” Rora said, her brow beaded with sweat. “Tell me already.”
              “I have encountered a djinn,” Aranthir began, “at the oasis. It is a stroke of true luck, and she promises to help us escape.”
              “A djinn? How can we trust it? What does she want?”
              “The Sardmen I’ve talked to always say to trust a djinn at your own peril,” Aigon complained. 
              “She wants us to bring her to the sea,” Aranthir replied. “She might play us false, but how many other choices do we have?”
              Aigon shook his head while Rora simply shrugged. 
              “I suppose you’re right. So, what next?”
              “Once the overseers take us up, we’ll break out. First, we storm the armory, then the stables, and finally the gatehouse. We’ll ride northeast, towards the Lyarus, and follow it into the green lands.”
              “What of the pursuit?” Rora asked.
              “At the end of the day we’ll be too tired to escape,” Aigon complained.
              “We will get our evening meal first, and with the djinn’s magic, I can provide us with sustenance long enough to get to other food. I can also mask our trail long enough to escape. It will be a hard ride, but with luck we can make it to the river in two days.”
              “Alright, let’s go,” Aigon said after a pause. Rora nodded in agreement.
              “Good. Tell the others, quietly.”
              “All of them?” Aigon asked.
              “Just us,” Aranthir replied. “The others have given up. Look at them.”
              “They have no hope, but we could offer them hope,” Aigon protested.
              “They are just as likely to tell our plan to the guards. We cannot afford the risk.”
              Aigon opened his mouth to protest but Rora put a hand on his shoulder.
              “Aranthir is right,” she said. “We can’t save everyone, and we can’t save ourselves if they give us up. Look out for yourself first.”
              Aigon moved away down the tunnel wall and spoke in hushed whispers to the others in their group. Rora looked to Aranthir is disappointment.
              “You’re right,” Aranthir said, “we can’t save everyone.”
              “You used to be more like him,” she said.
              “We all did,” he replied sadly.
 
              The day wore on slowly, prolonged by their eager anticipation of the escape as much as by the utter monotony of their work. At last the overseers cracked their whips and barked that it was time to go. The slaves fell in line and were ushered back up the tunnel to their bunkhouse. When they reached the surface, the sky was reddening in the west as the sun fell below the horizon. Its waning rays stretched out across the flat plain and the dry hills around the citadel, creating shadowed valleys where it could not reach. Aranthir smiled to himself. Once out the gates, they would be invisible. 
              In the bunkhouse, the guards thrust upon them another meal of porridge and cheese, though this time they added a few strips of salted meat. Aranthir could not tell what animal the meat had come from, and simply hoped it wasn’t human. For drink, they were given a small cup of beer each. Once the meal had been served, the guards eagerly exited the bunkhouse and made for their own barracks. Aranthir could see them shuffling their cards even as they walked. 
              Their meal eaten, the slaves dispersed and Aranthir gathered his own party to him on the ground floor. They assembled in a circle, all looking to him for their next move.
              “It’s time,” he said, and the others nodded. They were ready to begin, but Aranthir had something else to do first. “Tamia,” he called, “now is the time for your magic.”
              At first, there was no sign of her. Then they all heard a soft woman’s laugh, and a cloud began to form between them. The cloud was larger and more definite than it had been before, taking a shape vaguely reminiscent of a woman’s form. Aigon looked on in wonderment, while the others had expressions that ranged from unease to impatience. All except Lutharis, who merely watched with amusement.
              “You are all no doubt tired,” the djinn said, her cloud form turning around itself as if she was using it to look over them. “But I need you alert and ready. So take of my power and feed yourselves on it.”
              From the cloud flowed a wave of vapor, as if it was exhaling on a cold night. The misty vapor reached Aranthir’s nostrils and he breathed in deeply. He felt a rush of sensation, the cool refreshing sensation of cold spring water in his throat, a hearty meal in his stomach, and a good night’s sleep behind him. He gasped with the feeling and heard others do the same. Looking around at them, he saw them leave behind their day in the mines. All the back-breaking work and the lashes of the whips washed away like dust under a waterfall. He smiled as he looked over them and they returned it threefold.
              “Now it’s time to go,” she said, and the cloud began to fade away. Aranthir stepped into the circle again.
              “Alright, the plan is armory first, then stables, then the gatehouse. We will ride northeast towards the Lyarus all night, and rest once the day gets too hot to continue. Take any food and water we can find in the stables and armory, but we must be out of the citadel before they notice we’re gone. Any questions?”
              They all shook their heads.
              “Well then, no sense wasting anymore time.”
              With Aranthir at the head, they crept from the bunkhouse into the bailey. They kept to the shadows as the wound their way along the outer edge to the armory. The building was a low block of bridge and mortar with narrow windows reinforced by bars. The door was a simple door made from the wood of whatever hardy trees grew in the wastes, but strong enough to be a significant barrier. Aranthir called on the djinn again.
              The cloud slowly coalesced before him, this time a mere puff of white in the night air.
              “What can I do for you now?” she asked with amusement.
              “We’ve no way to open the door. I could smash it open with my shoulder, but it will give whoever is inside time to arm himself, and we’ve no weapons to fight him.”
              “Very well, I will come to your rescue once again,” the djinn replied. The cloud swept forward as a white streak, disappearing into the door’s keyhole until there was a loud click. Aranthir seized the handle and yanked the door open, admitting his company into the armory. 
              Inside, the room was crowded with racks of weapons and armor. Two overseers jumped up from a table in the back which they had covered in cups and a keg of beer. They shouted a warning to no one in particular and rushed to arm themselves from the racks. 
              Aranthir did the same, seizing a dagger of black iron from the nearest rack and rushing to attack his foes. Behind him, the others flooded through the door and seized whatever weapons came into their reach. 
              The first guard attacked Aranthir with a scimitar in the narrow aisle between the racks. Aranthir ducked the blade as it cut the air in front of him and then retorted with his dagger. But the man was wearing armor and the dagger’s point caught in the rings of his mail, nearly wrenching the blade from his hand. The guard leapt back, his scimitar poised for another strike. 
              On the other side of the racks, the other guard was hurled bodily to the floor by Lutharis and Pairas, where they stabbed him as he tried to crawl away. The man opposed to Aranthir realized he was alone and hesitated in fear. Aranthir rushed at him, seizing the opening. He caught the guard’s wrist as he tried to bring his scimitar to bear, and they fell to the floor. The scimitar became entangled in other weapons in their racks and tore itself from the grasp of its wielder, leaving him defenseless under Aranthir.
              Instead, the man clutched at the half-elf’s face, trying to work his fingers into Aranthir’s eyes. Aranthir fought down the grasping hands and plunged the dagger into the guard’s neck. Far from being a mortal blow, the wound instead induced a dying panic in the man, who flailed about and screamed in his death throes. A spear knocked loose from the rack fell onto them, its shaft striking Aranthir in the back of the head. Aranthir stabbed the guard again, tearing the blade across his throat to complete the deed faster. 
              At last the man expired, though in his passing he had bled all over the floor and Aranthir’s own clothes. Aranthir wiped the dagger clean as best his could, but there was nothing to be done for his clothes.
              Rising from a bloody floor, Aranthir looked around the room. Despite its humble mudbrick and plaster appearance on the outside, the interior of the armory was fit for a king. Intricately carved wooden molding crowned the walls while the floors were polished hardwood. The walls were covered with a mural that wrapped around from the entrance, showing scenes of a dark figure and the knights in strange armor riding over foes in deserts, then the fields and finally storming the walls of a city until at last the figure sat seated on a throne with a headless man in king’s robes at his feet. 
              Aranthir recovered his enchanted longsword and pistols in short order. Next to follow was his armor, which the Black Lord’s men had even cleaned for him. Lutharis retrieved the closest saber and muskets he could find, with no concern for what had been his. He also purloined a pair of double-barreled pistols for himself and a second pair for Aranthir. 
              Rora appeared at the exit, having rearmed herself and her sharpshooters. “We have to move quickly. We will take the stables while you move on the gatehouse. Once we have the horses, we’ll meet you there.”
              Aranthir nodded and Rora set off at a run with her sharpshooters in tow. Pairas and his men armed themselves with muskets and donned cuirasses and helms of black iron. Aigon distributed stolen bandoliers of ammunition among the group. When they at last were armed and armored, Aranthir cracked open the door and peered around the bailey. There was no sign they had been spotted so he carefully and quietly led his companions outside.
              From the armory, they crept along the outer wall toward the gatehouse. A narrow stair climbed the wall to the gatehouse entrance, overwatched by machicolations hanging above the door. With Lutharis at his back and a double-barreled pistol in each hand, Aranthir crept up the stair to the door. It was locked, but Lutharis had taken a decorated steel tabar from the armory, which he now drew from his belt.
              “This will only take a moment,” he promised, and he and Aranthir exchanged places. Aranthir turned his pistols upward, ready to fire all four barrels into anyone who looked down from the machicolations. With a deep breath, Lutharis raised the tabar above his head and swung at the door handle.
              The heavy axe bit deep into the wood and Lutharis twisted it in his hands, splintering the wood where it had struck. Another blow cracked the wood around the handle and Aranthir kicked it with a heavy boot. The door handle broke off and Lutharis tore the portal open. 
              Inside was a lone knight in that strange black armor and four Sardic mercenaries with bows strung. Despite the warning afforded by Lutharis’ assault on the door, the men looked unready for a fight. Aiming over Lutharis’ shoulder as the big man rushed inside, Aranthir fired both barrels in both pistols into the knight’s chest. The shots struck true but ricocheted away with no effect on him, though one bounced off the stone wall of the chamber and found its way into the neck of another sentry, who went down without a word. 
              Aranthir discarded the expended pistols without care and drew his jeweled longsword. Aigon, Pairas, and the others rushed into the gatehouse door to join the assault. The knight lumbered forward, drawing a broad-bladed longsword engraved with ancient runes in the fuller. Runes in the fuller of Aranthir’s own longsword flashed gold and then blood red in response. The massive knight’s eldritch eyes flamed underneath the black iron helm, swirling hypnotic patterns in their red depths. Aranthir averted his eyes from their entrancing movements and lunged to attack. 
              The knight parried his strike and Aranthir felt the force of the parry ring through his arm and shoulder. His foe towered over and uttered an arcane word of command. The runed longsword in his hand sheathed itself in flame. Aranthir could feel the heat of the fires as the blade struck at him again and silently thanked the gods that he was able to dodge aside in time.
              Beside him, Lutharis buried his tabar in the throat of a sentry, spraying blood across the wooden floor. Aigon fired a pistol into the chest of a third sentry and the fourth cast aside his bow and side to run for the door. He made it four steps before Pairas wrenched the man from his feet and stabbed him under the arm with a long dagger. The man thrashed and screamed, but could not break Pairas’ grip and he succumbed to four more thrusts of the blade. 
              Now only the knight stood against them, surrounded in the center of the room but still standing tall with a burning blade in his hand. Aranthir and the others paced around him, looking for an opening to descend on the knight like wolves. 
              “Aigon, open the gate,” Aranthir commanded, and Aigon obeyed after a slight pause. The young man grabbed hold of the heavy winch and began to turn. Beneath them, they could both hear and feel the rattling of thick iron chains as the gates slowly inched open. The knight cocked his head at them and Aranthir could hear a low hiss emanating from the knight’s helm. 
              Pairas’s man Okoba stepped forward, aiming a pistol at the knight’s head. Before he could fire, it rounded on him and slashed his sword, aiming to sever his arm at the elbow. Always quick on his toes, Okoba darted away in time to save his arm, though the blade set his sleeve aflame. Now that the knight’s back was turned, Aranthir darted forward and, holding his sword in a half-sword grip, plunged the point into a seam between the cuirass and pauldron. 
              But the knight rounded on him before he could strike home, and batted Aranthir’s sword point away. Lutharis and Pairas closed in as well, aiming to strike their own blows. Pairas’ sword clanged off the knight’s armor while Lutharis’ tabar strike was caught at the wrist. The knight heaved Lutharis backwards, hurling him into Aigon as he turned the winch. The two of them collapsed to the floor with a pained cry, while Pairas flailed his burning arm about as she tried to put it out.
              Aranthir reversed the grip on his longsword, swinging the hilt as a club. The blow struck the knight in the shoulder, denting the armor where it struck, but the knight came on undeterred. He thrust his burning blade at Aranthir, only for the agile half-elf to dart aside, but then a great gauntleted first slammed into Aranthir’s chest and knocked him to the floor. 
              Aranthir was saved from a follow-up thrust by one of Pairas’ men, who stabbed at the knight’s chest with his sword. The swordpoint did no harm, apart from the horrid screeching as it scraped across the black iron plating, but the attack distracted the knight long enough for Aranthir to gather himself.
              His longsword lay just out of his reach, so instead Aranthir drew the black iron dagger and stabbed into a chink in the knight’s leg armor. The narrow point found a gap in the armor and Aranthir drove it in until he heard it strike iron on the other side. The knight did not cry out but turned its terrible gaze back to him.
              When it did, Okoba fired his pistol into its helm. The knight jerked its head forward in shock at the iron rang around it. Lutharis came charging in, tabar raised. He smashed the axehead into the knight’s helm and caved in a large dent. Disoriented by the blows, knight dropped its burning sword and staggered forward a step, but the dagger in its leg tripped it up and, with a great crash, the iron giant fell to the floor.
              Aranthir was on it before it could recover. He tore the dagger from its leg and stabbed through the terrible creature’s eyeslits. It hissed at him like an animal and a massive black gauntlet seized him about the neck. He feared it would crush the life from him, but Lutharis appeared behind him and brought his tabar down on the dying knight’s armored wrist. The armor cracked under the blow, and the grip loosened. Aranthir pulled out his dagger, trailing a trail of thick black blood, and he stabbed into the other eye. The hiss turned into a guttural scream and the knight kicked furiously, battering its armored feet against the floor. 
              Okoba stepped over, leveling a pair of pistols at the dying knight. Aranthir held the knight’s helm in place while Okoba touched his pistols to the helm and fired. There was a was roar of smoke and fire, and the knight at last lay still. 
              Thankfully, the burning sword had winked out as soon as it fell, so there was no danger of it setting the wooden floor ablaze. Stepping over the knight’s body, Aranthir ran to the gatehouse winch. With all of them together, they opened the gates in short order. 
              From the bailey, Rora and the others appeared on horseback, leading a small herd of other horses for him. Aranthir ran down the gatehouse’s steps to mount a horse and the others followed. Behind them, the citadel was stirring. A horn sounded somewhere in the bailey, followed by shouts and the baying of hounds. As soon as Aranthir and his companions were all mounted, they bolted out the gate and into the desert.
              The sky was still a dull red, providing them with light as their steeds galloped along the edge where the hills met the desert plain. Aranthir called on his sorcerous powers and, using Tamia’s presence as a source, he cloaked their company in a sorcerous shroud that he hoped would mask their tracks and shield them from sight. Following Tamia’s guidance, they rode northeast along the hills, making for the Lyarus River, which would eventually reach Meatham in the Kingdom of Lenadar where they had mustered to the king’s army.
              With the djinn’s winds at their backs, their little company rode through the night. They quickly put the strange citadel behind them and there were no signs of pursuit. Still, they rode hard without stopping until the rising sun made the day too hot to continue. Around midday, they retreated into the rocky foothills and sheltered in the shade of several large boulders. They made camp at the top of a tall slope to rest and water their horses. Aranthir crawled on top of the boulder to stand sentry. 
              He lay there for much of the day until the sun swung low in the west and he saw a company of riders approaching along the plain. 
              “Riders below,” he called down. “Light your matchcords and make ready.”
              “Have they spotted us?” Rora called back.
              “Not yet, but they’re searching. Make ready.”
              Lutharis took off his helmet and went to one of the boulders along the slope. Using the helmet as a makeshift shovel, he began to dig out the dirt underneath the rock. 
              “Everyone start digging. We’ll ready these rocks and push them down on them if they come close. Stick to the high and rocky ground, it will slow their horses.”
              The others did as ordered, while Rora and her sharpshooters prepared themselves for the fight to come. In wetter climes, Aranthir would have ordered sharpened stakes prepared to foul the horses’ attack, but there were no trees in sight. In flat ground, he would have ordered postholes, but here the rough slopes would do just as well. 
              “Look,” Aigon called. “Another party of riders to the north.”
              “They don’t know where we’ve gone, so they’ve split up to cover more ground,” Aranthir observed. “We must be sure to eliminate this group in its entirety, so that it cannot summon more reinforcements to the hunt.”
              “Keep digging,” Lutharis called. 
              “With luck they’ll pass us by,” Pairas said to himself as they dug. Aranthir agreed. While their position was strong enough and the company of riders not so large, he had no desire to once again come to blows with those large knights in their strange armor. Slaying one had been a great feat, could they fight any more of them?
              “Tamia,” he whispered, “what do you know of those men?”
              The djinn coalesced into sight just in front of him. 
              “They are the Cursed, men suspended in a state between life and death.”
              “They are the Black Lord’s men?”
              “They must be, for it would take a sorcerer of some power to create such a creature.”
              “Can you counter their magic? Stop their swords from burning?”
              “I will do what I can,” she replied, “though I think you will be fine without me. It’s been too long since I’ve experienced such excitement! Win or lose, you have relieved the monotony of my existence.”
              “I am pleased to have been of service,” Aranthir remarked acidly.
              “They’re coming this way,” Aigon hissed. Looking down the slope, Aranthir saw that the young man was right. The riders were ascending the slope toward their position in a loose column. 
              “Everyone make ready,” Aranthir called out. He prepared himself, lighting the matchcord of a musket and checking that all four of his pistols were loaded. He studied the slop before their campsite, checking the approaches that the riders could take. Just in front of their position was a flat patch of ground lying in the path of the boulders.
              “Lutharis,” he called, “we will need bait.” 
              Lutharis followed Aranthir’s gaze to the low ground and grimaced. He shook the dirt from his helmet and put it on again before following Aranthir down with their horses. Resting against a large rock, they made a facsimile of a new camp for just the two of them. 
              “We could still let them pass,” Lutharis said quietly, stroking his beard. 
              “Better to eliminate them,” Aranthir replied with a shake of his head. “We will need to continue on and it will be difficult with them always just over the hill. We’re set well here, we can lure them in and destroy them. Then we ride for the river.”
              Looking up the slope, he saw three of Rora’s sharpshooters moving along the slope to flank their position. If any riders fled the ambush to report, the shooters would take them down. 
              “Now to set the trap,” Aranthir said, and he took off his helmet. Holding it up to the sun, he turned it until it reflected the sun’s rays toward the near group of riders. Watching from the shadow of a rock, he saw them briefly halt to confer before continuing on. They reoriented themselves to approach in two loose lines of six riders each. 
              He and Lutharis laid out their pistols before them and steeled themselves for the attack. The riders approached at their usual hard pace and Aranthir could begin to make out their features. The first line of riders was of four knights in the center with two Sardmen on each flank. The knights carried long lances of bone white wood while the riders on the flanks carried bows. The second line was of four Sardmen armed with bows and two more with lances. They spotted Aranthir and Lutharis and spurred their horses to attack. 
              Aranthir stood his ground as they closed, trusting in Rora to execute the boulder attack at the right moment. The riders increased their pace as they picked out Aranthir and Lutharis, galloping up the hill as fast as they could. The riders with bows nocked their arrows as they closed the range and were about to let loose when a blast of gunfire knocked three of them from their horses. Aranthir raised his double-barreled pistols and fired into the knights’ steeds, sending two of them tumbling from the saddle. 
              Behind him he heard the boulders come crashing down the slope and dodged to the side. Four rocks taller than a man went tumbling past him, plowing into the loosely arrayed ranks of riders. One of the downed knights was struck head on by a rock he could not escape and did not rise. The boulders smashed into the other riders, breaking horses’ legs and sending men flying from the saddle. 
              Aranthir drew another set of pistols from those arrayed before him and fired again, this time at one of the riders, who had circled his horse to stare in dismay at the carnage. One shot took the man in the shoulder while the other killed his horse, sending him tumbling to the dirt. 
              In the rear, three of the riders turned to flee, only to be gunned down by Rora’s sharpshooters. Aranthir took up his last set of pistols and surveyed the scene.
              Two knights remained in the saddle, while another was raising himself up from the ground. Both of the Sardic lancers were dead or dying, along with four of the other Sardmen. One was dismounted while the last bolted as soon as he recovered his wits from the ambush. Rora’s sharpshooters were all reloading, so the man darted away between the rocks. 
              But Aranthir had no time to chase him, for he and Lutharis found themselves facing three of the Cursed knights. From their steeds, two of them charged in to attack Lutharis. The third drew himself up to his feet and bellowed a mighty roar that shook Aranthir’s bones inside him. Lutharis seized up in the face of both the inhuman roar and the approach of two towering knights on coal-black stallions. Aranthir raised his pistols, aiming at the horses’ heads. He had only moments before his friend would be cut down.
              He fired both pistols at once and heard a horse cry out. Through the billowing gunsmoke, he could see the nearer of the two horses flail about in pain, a bright spot of red blossoming on its shoulder. Aranthir discarded the pistols and ran forward as he drew his longsword. Passing through the smoke, he saw the other knight as he was thrown from his dead horse to crash against the large rock behind Lutharis. He was slow to rise and Lutharis buried his stolen tabar between the knight’s eyes. 
              “Well done,” Aranthir called. The other two knights were on their feet with swords drawn. Lutharis wrenched the axe free and turned back to Aranthir. 
              “Let’s finish this.” Together they advanced on the other two knights. Behind them, Rora’s sharpshooters were reloading but Aigon, Pairas, and the rest drew their swords and charged down the slope to join the battle. The knights rushed Aranthir and Lutharis before their companions could arrive, using their great height and reach to push them back. They carried their long, burning blades before them, using the weapons to ward their foes back as they advanced. Aranthir found himself pressed against the rock wall as they came on.
              With no further room to retreat, he lunged forward, ducking underneath two strikes aimed at decapitating him and appearing on the other side, in between the knights. He struck at the knees of the knight to his left and the longsword’s blade rang out against the knight’ greaves. The knight was undeterred and turned to face Aranthir as the half-elf danced backwards into more open ground. The black iron monster cleaved the air before him as Aranthir dodged, then launched his riposte.
              The sword’s point found a gap in the armor below the shoulder and Aranthir drove the blade a hand’s length into his foe. The knight continued its advance, only momentarily slowed by the wound. 
Lutharis darted in and chopped at the knight’s unguarded back, inflicting another wound. The knight slowed again, in time for Cuthas to stab at its flank. This one it was prepared for, and knocked the blade aside, but Aranthir capitalized on the moment and swung his sword’s hilt overhead to cave in the knight’s helm. The helm rang under the blow like a great bell and the knight stopped all efforts to defend itself. It sank to its knees and teetered for a moment until it fell to the side with a great crash, sending up a plume of dust from the hard, dry earth.
              Only one remained, but now Rora’s shooters had reloaded and at a command, they all emptied their muskets into its back. Black ichor leaked from a handful of wounds and the knight stood stunned while Lutharis clove its head in twain with a two-handed swing of his tabar. At last, the final knight fell to the ground.
              “That’s all of them,” Lutharis breathed with a sigh of relief.
              “Not quite,” Aranthir answered, running to his horse. “There’s one running to alert the others, and I mean to catch him.”
              The last survivor had a long lead on him, having reached the plain before Aranthir had even mounted his horse. Aranthir spurred his horse down the slope but he could tell he would have to run the animal into the ground to catch his quarry before he reached the other riders, if he could catch him at all. The thought of battling another group of the knights was unappealing, and the second group looked larger than the first. 
              He clutched at the horse’s neck to keep low as they galloped over the hard, dry earth. The small figures of the fleeing horse and rider before him were mostly obscured by the dust cloud. How long until the other riders spied their trail?
              “Tamia,” he called as he bounced in the saddle, “djinn, I need you again.”
              “A chase!” the djinn appeared in cloud form beside him, a blue-white shape of a woman’s body in the air. She looking as if she were swimming through the dust cloud around him. “The battle was so much fun to watch! What excitement! And now a chase? You have made this a most wonderful day for me, mortal!”
              “I need your aid here,” Aranthir called. “I need to catch that man before he reaches his companions.”
              “Do you want to go faster, or him slower?”
              “Either one, but I need to catch him soon. And maybe do something about this dust?”
              A sudden wind whipped up over the plain, blowing a great wall of dust before it. The wind whipped at Aranthir’s exposed face, but the clouds from the horses were hidden beneath. Through it all, he could barely make out the form of the fleeing rider, whose horse suddenly reared and threw him to the ground. The man curled up on the ground in pain as the horse kicked in anger before calming itself and wandering off. 
              Aranthir bore down on the man quickly, sword in hand. The wind and dust masked his approach such that his target had only just staggered to his feet when he spotted Aranthir. His face a mask of panic, he clutched uselessly at his scabbard, emptied by the fall. He spied his sword lying in the dust. Looking from the blade to the charging Aranthir, he hesitated and moment. He ran for the lost sword and reached it just as Aranthir reached him.
              One quick thrust of the longsword ended the chase and the men fell dead to the earth. 
              Aranthir pulled his horse up as hard as he could, hooves skidding across the hot ground. He trotted back to the man to make sure he was dead. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, so Aranthir left it alone. He approached the rogue horse and soothed it enough to grab hold of its reins. With Tamia’s wind still whipping at his face, he rode back to camp with his prize.
 
              The more distant company of riders passed by none the wiser. Aranthir and the others watched from their camp as the dust cloud marking the second company continued north until it disappeared over the horizon. They watched the horizon for any reappearance until the sun went down and they set off toward the Lyarus again. 
              Three days after setting out from the citadel, they at last reached the Lyarus’s banks. The river wound its way across the desert, a deep blue ribbon cutting through the golden sands. As their company neared the river, they broke from column in jubilation. Spurring their horses the last few hundred paces, they splashed into the reeds and shallows along the bank. Aranthir reveled in the feel of the cold water on his hot skin, a welcome relief from the sun that still beat down on them in the mid-morning. He dismounted, plunging up to his waist in the river’s welcoming waters.
              “We made it,” he said to himself as much as anyone. Lutharis shed his firearms and powder by the riverbank, dismounted, and dove headfirst into the water. He surfaced again, shaking his hairy head like a dog and laughing uproariously. Aigon paused at the bank to remove his boots before wading in up to his ankles.
              Pairas and Rora stopped at the river’s edge, casting suspicious looks back the way they had come. No dust clouds on the horizon heralded the approach of the Black Lord’s knights. The desert was as empty and still as it had always been.
              “Tamia,” Aranthir called as he lay himself down in the water, floating on his back in the river’s lazy current. “You have delivered us.”
              The familiar white cloud formed on the bank nearby. It hovered for a moment, a soft cloud on a clear day. Then, it began drift forward and plunged into the river. The water churned and from beneath its surface a woman propelled herself to the surface. She was dusky skinned and dark-haired; her wiry hair wreathed her head in loosely wound coils. The water washed away from her face, and she turned to regard Aranthir.
              She was pretty. And naked. She smiled.
              “It is a wonderful sensation to feel someone else’s water for the first time in ages.”
              “Tamia?” Aranthir asked, as she could be anyone else.
              “In the flesh!” she beamed, standing up tall on the riverbed. Her shapely breasts rose from the river, dripping cool droplets of water from her dark and erect nipples. Aranthir felt himself hardening even in the cold water. He planted his feet on the muddy bed and brushed his wet hair from his eyes.
              “I should thank you,” he said. “We would not have made it without you.”
              “I should thank you,” the djinn replied, “you and your companions have made this all most exciting. An escape, a battle, a horse chase! What more could I ask for?” She slid closer to him in the water.
              “What indeed,” Aranthir replied, unfastening his armor. He threw it to the riverbank where it landed with a soft clang. Looking upriver towards the others, he saw that they were distracted. Rora and Pairas, along with their men, had given up the watch and plunged into the river to join in the celebration. Aigon splashed Lutharis, who retaliated by dunking the younger man underwater for a laugh. 
              His companions distracted, Aranthir pulled Tamia closer. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch despite the cold water flowing around them. The djinn smiled at him, her soft brown eyes searching up and down his bared body. Aranthir undid his sword belt and cast it to the riverbank as well. Tamia went to her knees in the water and pulled down his trousers to free his cock. Hard and wet, it flopped out into her hands and she laughed in delight.
              Tamia swallowed his cock, her soft lips caressing the base of his shaft as Aranthir wound his fingers through her wiry hair. Furtively, he looked upriver again, but they were still unnoticed. Tamia moaned as his cock slid down her throat and Aranthir settled back onto a flat rock in the shallows, putting a thick stand of reeds between the two of them and their companions playing upstream. The sunbaked rock was hot against the bare skin of his ass, but Tamia’s mouth on his cock was enough of a distraction for him to forget the pain.
              She looked up at him, her pretty brown face framing his cock. He stared back into her eyes, their whiteness all the more so when set against her dark coloration. Lust overcame him and he pulled her to her feet. She still held his cock in one hand, caressing his chest with the other. Aranthir pulled her close and kissed her dark lips. She pushed her naked body against him, his cock pressed between them as they kissed. Aranthir pulled away and, putting his hands on her shoulders, bent her over the rock.
              Tamia giggled as her bare nipples touched the hot surface of the rock, but proffered her smooth brown ass to him without complaint. Aranthir stood behind her, stroking his cock, as he regarded the djinn’s nude form. He had not had a woman since leaving the army camp at Meatham three weeks ago, and the djinn was far more comely than any camp follower he had fucked.
              Taking her by the hips with one hand, he slowly guided his cock into her with his other. She murmured in delight as he went in.
              “I love the feel of mortal cock inside me,” she moaned, “fuck me, mortal. Fuck me like I’ve been alone and unfulfilled for a thousand years!”
              Aranthir gripped her hips tightly between his hands and did as he was told. He thrust his hips against her smooth buttocks, the water between their legs surging with each movement. Cold and clear droplets were thrown up by his pounding, landing on her bare back where they made her skin break out in gooseflesh. Aranthir felt her sex embrace his cock as he fucked, while her hands clutched at the hot rock beneath her with long, delicate fingers. The djinn moaned again, her breath catching as he fucked her.
              Aranthir adjusted his footing, grabbing Tamia at the elbows and pulling her up off the rock. He pulled her arms back so that she was now held suspended above the rock, giving him greater control. The djinn giggled in delight at this new development and turned her head to look back at him. Her lips pursed as she crooned with pleasure, his hips working faster as he pounded away. He pulled one hand from her elbow to grab at her delightfully round breasts, pinching her dark nipples between two fingers. Tamia bit her lip and slid her free hand between her legs to play with herself.
              The pleasure building in his cock, Aranthir suddenly stopped, released Tamia and pulled out his cock. Suddenly freed from his grasp, the djinn half fell into the river again, her bare legs splashing into the water until she came to rest, sitting up to her hips in the water.
              “Nystra’s tits,” Aranthir swore, “I’ve gotta stop before I cum.”
              “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Tamia asked. She stood up; her naked thighs slathered in the soft brown mud of the riverbed. 
              “Eventually, yes,” Aranthir replied, taking a seat on the rock and panting heavily. “Here, get on top of me, girl.”
              “Girl? I am older than the rocks we fuck on,” Tamia replied, but straddled his cock all the same.
              “Figure of speech,” Aranthir said apologetically. He settled her onto his cock and grabbed two handfuls of her delicious ass. Tamia lay her arounds around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.
              “I’ve waited a thousand years for this,” she whispered, bouncing her hips on his cock. Aranthir clutched her close and kissed her mouth. Tamia moaned through his lips, her own fingers digging lines into his back. Aranthir kept her rhythm, thrusting into her in time with the rising and falling of her hips. He grabbed at her breasts, pushing her away from him so that he could watch them bounce on her chest. 
              She looked into his eyes, seeing the lust in him.
              “You’re going to cum,” she said. “Cum on my face. Shower me in it.”
              Aranthir kept fucking until he could contain himself no longer. He shoved her off his cock, she went splashing into the river again and rose to her knees. Pinching his cock closed until she was set, he clenched his muscles to hold on. As soon as Tamia knelt in the river, he let loose over her pretty face. Thick white ropes of cum fell across her face, dripping into the contours and her open mouth. 
              Tamia grabbed his cock when he had finished and pulled it close. With a deft, pink tongue, she licked his cockhead clean.
              “That was worth the wait,” she whispered, looking up at him with her brown and white eyes. “You let me know when you’re ready to go again.”
              Aranthir just laughed.
              “Well, well, well,” a voice from behind them said. Aranthir turned to see Lutharis standing over them, with Aigon behind him. “Where in the names of the gods did you find a woman like that?” the big man inquired.
              “This is Tamia, our djinn savior,” Aranthir answered. 
              “Tamia you say,” Lutharis said, “The one you promised to take to the sea?”
              “That one, yes.”
              “Well then, djinn. We had better get moving if you want to make it to sea. It’s a long way.”