The Duchess of Lust Ch. 02

***

Thank you for all the feedback on the last story! Due to the positive feedback I've decided to continue this as a series. This one does continue after the first story, but you can probably enjoy the erotic scene without the context of the first chapter.

This chapter includes a scene with an otherworldly being, as opposed to the more vanilla erotic scenes of the last chapter.

To recap: Duchess Sarya is the ruler of Fellhaven, which has been besieged by a barbarian horde. Sarya decided to undertake an erotic ritual with the barbarian rulers, to buy her city a truce. With the success of the ritual, Sarya must now undertake other drastic steps to safeguard her city...

***

It had been a week since Sarya had embarked on that wicked 'negotiation' with the barbarians, and the duchess' body was still sore and tingling from the rough, brutal attentions of the savage king and his champions.

But that night of intense lust had purchased a reprieve for her besieged city: King Ulrik and his chiefs had agreed to postpone any assaults for five weeks. That pause in the siege would give her people time to prepare more defenses. Moreover, the delay might finally encourage the other dukes and duchesses of the Empire to march to her aid.

The duchess stood within her council chamber, staring down at the map of the city, surrounded by a dozen squabbling, grumbling advisers. Little markers adorned the map, showing the positions of her small garrison and the sprawling camps of the savage horde.

"I still do not understand," Sir Viktor hissed. The tall, bulky older knight glared down at the map, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "More than a week since they have arrived, and they have done nothing but dig their trenches and build yet more ladders and rams. Surely they have enough equipment for an assault by now, and I never figured such savages to be cautious."

The redheaded duchess flinched a bit at that. She had kept her 'offering' to the barbarians a closely-guarded secret. Only a handful of men knew the truth behind the truce.

One of those knowledgeable men spoke up.

"They are waiting for the right time to strike, sir," Brunloc said softly. The tall, lean sorcerer was clad in fine but drab clothes, and his thin, pale fingers flicked a few dark curls from his cheek. "Certain phases of the moon are holy to them, and to their strange, dark gods. No doubt some upcoming phase of the moon is holy to a war god of theirs, so they are waiting for a sacred moment to launch their assault."

"Foolish," grunted one of the other knights on the council. "If I were commanding this siege, I'd have struck already."

"Well, thank the gods that you are not, sir," Sarya sighed. "This delay may be unexplained, but I shall not complain." She swallowed a bit, nearly flushing at the memories of that wild, savage ritual of passion and sex that had purchased the truce.

She felt her sex moistening at the thought, and dug her fingers into her palm. The brief flash of pain served as a momentary distraction.

"And still no news from our lookouts on the walls?" a fat old merchant asked.

"No," Sir Viktor said with a sigh. "No sign of any scouts or outriders from any of the other duchies. Still, it has only been a bit over a week. It will take some time for the other dukes and duchesses to rally."

"If they will at all," said Marek, another of her advisers: a young nobleman with a lustrous blonde beard, and clad in resplendent plate armor.

Marek had, in fact, been on the short list of potential husbands, before he'd been betrothed to a baroness from another province. At the time, she'd been a touch disappointed, but after her encounter with those brutal, skilled barbarians, the handsome blonde had barely come to mind at all. Such soft, fancy men held little appeal after she'd been so thoroughly used by King Ulrik and his champions.

And yet in the week since that ritual, she'd felt her lusts flickering again, and it wouldn't be prudent to sneak back into the camp of the Iron Blades for another wild evening. So perhaps Marek might serve as a distraction, if he was willing to forget his own betrothal...

Viktor's derisive snort snapped her out of such thoughts.

"They had damned well better come," he grumbled. "If not, well..." He laughed ruefully. "I don't know what I'll do. Maybe if we win this war all by ourselves, I'll march to the other dukes and slap some sense into them, or challenge them all to duels."

"An old knight like you fighting a dozen duels against younger, stronger rulers?" Brunloc asked, his pale features splitting into a devious smirk. "Even more unlikely than our garrison fending off that horde all by ourselves."

The comment earned glares from Viktor and most of the other advisers. Despite Brunloc's legendary skill as a sorcerer, his japes and smirks had won him few friends on the council. Sarya, for her part, held a great deal more respect for him than the others. His knowledge and his discretion had arranged for the truce with the Iron Blades, after all.

"Please, gentlemen," Sarya said with a sigh. She raised a hand at Viktor before he could growl back a rebuke. "We have enough to worry about, with the savage Iron Blades beyond our walls. Let us not descend into petty bickering. Let us focus instead on our supplies, on keeping the walls manned, and seeing if we can devise a way to get more messengers beyond the enemy camps."

"Is there no sorcery you can work, mage?" Marek asked Brunloc, with a hint of venom in his tone.

"To get a message out, you mean? Oh, yes, my dear knight. All I require is the heart of a virgin and the blood of a dozen babies."

Marek's eyes widened, and the sorcerer snickered.

"Do not be foolish, sir," Brunloc went on. "The heart of virgins is quite useless when it comes to rituals." He ignored the glares and took a sip of his tea, then cleared his throat. "I however do know of rituals that involve sending messages via animals or even dreams, but alas, the range of such messages only extends for a few dozen miles. Not nearly enough to reach the nearest duchy. But enough to reach their armies, if they march to the relief of the city."

"A few dozen miles?" Viktor snorted. "Barely of any use at all, then."

"Would that you had a sorcerer in your employ like the mages of yore, my lady," Marek said drolly. "Such sorcerers could turn into monsters and fly fast as the wind. Had we a proper spellcaster at our disposal-"

"I may not be 'proper,'" Brunloc cut the knight off. "But I far from useless."

"So the legends of sorcerers being able to turn into dragons are unfounded?" Sarya asked, only half-joking.

"Not entirely unfounded, no." His smirk turned a touch more devious. "But such skills are beyond me, and beyond most sorcerers living today. A few centuries ago, perhaps, when sorcery was more potent..."

"Please, let us not divert into ridiculous tales about the history of mages," Viktor said with a roll of his eyes. Before he could berate the mage any further, the door to the council chamber burst open.

Sarya whirled, her heart filling with fear at the sight of the young guardsman she recognized as Jacobi, one of Brunloc's many agents within the palace. The young soldier had been stationed on the walls, and only dire news would have caused him to interrupt a council meeting.

"A rider," he said, panting a bit. "A rider has broken away from the camp of the Iron Blades, and is riding towards the gates. Waving a white flag, of all things."

"An emissary?" Viktor asked, frowning. "Maybe coming to demand our surrender."

"Don't think so, sir," Jacobi said. "He's wounded, and he was pursued for a short time upon leaving their camp. Seems more like an escaped prisoner."

"Could be a trick," Marek warned. "They might be trying to get us to open the gates to this deserter."

"Then don't open the gates," Sarya said briskly. She looked to Jacobi. "Have ropes lowered down over the walls, and help the man climb up. Clamp him in irons, and have him brought to the palace dungeons, as a precaution."

Viktor and a few of the other advisers nodded with approval; Jacobi bowed and raced off.

"If this man is a deserter, why desert towards the city?" Marek asked, his brow furrowing. "Why not turn and flee into the countryside?"

"I shall find out soon enough," Sarya said.

"Surely you do not intend to interrogate the prisoner personally, my lady," Marek said.

"I am the duchess, I can intend whatever I wish," she said a bit curtly. The knight winced just a bit, then bowed his head.

Besides, she was worried that this deserter could have known about the 'negotiations' with the barbarian king. If Marek or Viktor were the ones to question him, he might spill the truth about why the Iron Blades had delayed their assaults.

Sarya nearly winced, wondering what the man might know, and if he would have spread such news to the soldiers who dragged him to the dungeons. She certainly did not regret her night with the barbarians: it had ensured a reprieve for the city of Fellhaven, and it had been quite the enjoyable evening as well. But if the truth got out, the council might openly revolt or try to undermine her rule.

As the council murmured amongst themselves, she took a deep breath, and turned and headed out of the chamber, to head down to the dungeons to meet the prisoner when he arrived.

***

Jacobi and another of the ducal guards trudged down the damp, dark hallway of the dungeon, dragging a fur-clad man between them, whose face was covered with a cloth bag.

She recognized the other soldier as another of Brunloc's trusted agents. Sarya smirked a bit and gave Jacobi a grateful nod, sure that the clever young man had only employed another trusted soldier for the task, given the delicate nature of it. He smiled and nodded in return, and she turned her gaze back towards the prisoner.

The man was well-built: far taller and more muscular than his escorts. Such size and strength seemed to be a common trait among the barbarians. Sarya had no doubt that he could have resisted or even broken free had he wished. Chains dangled around his wrists and ankles, and she noted that his forearms were covered in beautiful tattoos of snarling serpents.

Jacobi and the other guard unlocked a damp cell and guided the man inside, shoved him to his knees, and chained the shackles to a large iron post in the center of the cell. Jacobi raised an eyebrow.

"Keep the door unlocked, and stand out in the hall," she said softly. "I shall speak to him alone."

The two guards bowed and complied, leaving her alone with the tattooed prisoner. She inspected the tattoos briefly, realizing that she did not recognize the patterns from any of the wild warriors who had used her body during the ritual.

Sarya felt a brief, wicked thrill, and she realized she'd been half-hoping for a reunion with one of her lovers from that wild night.

She stepped forward, her hand trembling a bit, and she yanked the cloth bag away. Doing so revealed a bruised and bloody face, that was nonetheless quite handsome. He had piercing green eyes, a thin black beard, and a head of shaggy dark hair. His beard and hair were both streaked with bits of silver, though his face had the look of a man only in his thirties. But perhaps the wild life of an Iron Blade had aged the man prematurely. His left cheek was tattooed with an axe, and another serpent tattoo was coiled around his neck.

The prisoner certainly had the savage, rugged beauty of many of the other Iron Blades. She reached out, using the cloth bag to wipe away some of the blood from his lip.

"I am sorry if my men mistreated you," she said softly. "But given the circumstances..."

He grinned and shook his head.

"The bruises and blood aren't from your soldiers," he grunted. "They're from my own people. Had a bit of a...disagreement."

"Indeed." She stepped back and let the bag fall to the floor. "So explain."

"As you wish. But first...introductions." He bowed his head. "I am Ketrik, a shaman of the Red Omen. And you, I presume, are Sarya, the duchess of Fellhaven."

Sarya nodded, then cocked her head.

"You seem quite well-spoken for a savage Iron Blade, Ketrik of the Red Omen."

"I am a shaman and a scholar of my tribe, duchess. It is my job to be well-spoken, knowledgeable and educated."

"But is it 'your job' to desert your people and be beaten bloody by them?"

The prisoner smiled a bit.

"No, but it is also my duty to look after my people. And raising my concerns led to said beating and desertion."

Her eyes flickered to the chains, but figured he could remain shackled until she learned a bit more. As her advisers had warned, this still could be an elaborate trap...

"Go on," she said curtly.

"You know of the reason for our war, yes?" Ketrik asked.

"Your dark gods of war and slaughter demanded it, or so I have heard. This is a holy raid, one to test your prowess against the stone and steel of the Empire."

"Well, that is what King Ulrik and his champions will say, yes. But the truth of the matter is that the gods' command was not quite as...clear. There was some disagreement on how to interpret the omens and signs. Some, including myself, thought that the gods wished us to march south to offer our services as mercenaries, or to test ourselves in tournaments and ritual duels, not in great bloody raids and the sacking of cities."

Sarya raised an eyebrow at that. She had not sensed any dissent in the enemy ranks during her time in their camp. The only arguments she'd witnessed among the Iron Blades had been on how best to fuck her during the ritual...

Her face flushed for a moment, but she quickly collected herself.

"So how does this difference of interpretation lead you to my dungeons, Ketrik?"

"Last night was a sacred night for a lesser god of war. I asked the other shamans and witches to help me with a ritual, so we could try to commune with this god for clarification, to see the truth of our gods' demands. They disagreed, harsh words were exchanged, blood was spilled, and I was captured and tied to a post at the edge of camp. They intended to butcher me as part of another ritual, a few days from now."

Sarya shuddered at that, quite glad that the ritual she'd undertaken had not involved such a grisly sacrifice.

"Thanks to my not insignificant wiles," Ketrik said with a proud smirk. "I managed to escape. I could have rushed for the countryside, but since my horse was wounded and slow, they likely could have hunted me down within minutes. Riding to the wall was my only chance of survival."

"A slim chance. Had you not had that white cloth handy, my archers would have cut you down."

"Snatched from the laundry tent as I rode on past," he chuckled, his smirk widening.

"So is this what you plan for the rest of your life? To smirk and languish in my dungeons?"

"Well, when I was squirming out of my bonds out in the camp, my only thought was for survival. Was not really thinking that far ahead. But once your men had lowered the rope and began to lift me up, my mind began to race. We share a common enemy, you and I."

She snorted.

"Perhaps. But you are but one man. One man who was already defeated and captured by King Ulrik and his champions."

"One person can make a difference, duchess. You, after all, are but one woman, and yet you managed to purchase a reprieve of five weeks for your city."

Her face paled at that. So that smirking shaman knew...had he just heard it from one of the other champions, or had he actually been a witness to the ritualistic orgy? Gods...the night had been so wild, and she had been so dazed, that there was a slim possibility that he could have been among those who had used her body. There had been dozens of champions present, after all, and she had not even seen all of their faces...

He cocked his head.

"Is something the matter?" he asked.

"The ritual..." she murmured, her eyes flickering to the door behind her, even though she knew that only trusted men stood watch. "Is not something I'd wish to be revealed to my followers."

"What? Why? You were seen as worthy by-" Realization dawned in his green eyes, then he laughed. "Oh, right. You soft nobles and all your silly rules about sex. Fair enough. Your secret is safe with me, then."

She wasn't quite sure about that. What if Ketrik threatened to blackmail her, or revealed the secret to another guard or servant that she couldn't quite trust? Sarya made a mental note to only assign Brunloc's trusted agents to the dungeons, for the time being.

Ketrik cleared his throat and continued.

"As I said, I am a shaman and a scholar. I know a great many secrets, both magical and mundane. More importantly, I know of other Iron Blades and other northern tribes who disagreed with the decision to march south."

Her embarrassment quickly faded, for she was now suddenly intrigued at the thought of forging some new alliance with another barbarian. If Sarya could find a way to rally the other duchies as well as some rival tribes, Fellhaven could be saved.

"How many?" she asked.

"Thousands chose not to follow, but not all of them can be counted on to help. Others marched south, intending to sell their skills as mercenaries. Last I heard, several hundred had signed on to assist with some war or rebellion in the duchy of Ravenmark."

Sarya frowned at that, but she wasn't surprised. That particular duchy was always wracked by rebellions, unrest or bloody squabbles between the kin of the ruling duke. She could barely keep track of who was in charge, and she hadn't been counting on Ravenmark to send her city any aid whatsoever.

And yet her mind began to race. If she could find a way to negotiate an end to the unrest in Ravenmark, she could enlist the barbarian mercenaries to her own cause, and win the aid of the duke of Ravenmark as well.

"These renegades," she said curtly. "Tell me of them."

"They are led by my cousin, a warrior named Rathgar. A fierce swordsman, second in skill only to King Ulrik. Some even whispered that Rathgar would challenge Ulrik for the throne, but never did. Instead, he abandoned the march with his chosen warriors and took up the life of a mercenary."

Ketrik sighed.

"Still, I suppose none of this is all that helpful, considering you have no way of reaching Rathgar or Ravenmark. In the old days, perhaps, but not now."

She frowned and cocked her head.

"In the old days? What do you mean?"

"During the golden age of the Iron Blades and our ancestors, the shamans and witches could tap into darker magic, that would create pathways to another world, an echo of our own. Such rituals could create cracks in reality itself, to allow small bands and sometimes even armies to travel great distances."

Sarya raised an eyebrow, her interest burning brighter.

"Quite useful. With such power, we could evacuate the city, get messages out, or even strike Ulrik's force from the flanks."

"Yes, but such knowledge has mostly been lost. Fouler, hungrier gods took over those pathways, and thus such roads are now lost to us."

Such roads were lost to Ketrik and his people, perhaps, but she had a feeling Brunloc might have a bit more input.

"Jacobi," she called over her shoulder. "Send for Brunloc."

Without a word, the young soldier nodded and scampered away.

"Brunloc?" Ketrik asked, his eyes widening. "I have heard this name before...whispered in rumors and legends."

"I am not surprised. He has served this city for decades, and his power is well-regarded throughout the Empire."

And it was certainly possible that he had undertaken other adventures in distant lands. She had never been able to determine exactly how old the sorcerer was, and he had evaded any and all questions about his past.