Captain Horatio Horn and the Slutty Space Pirates
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A Daemon-Horn BladeChapter 18 free porn video
"You've darned near had your darned fool skull split wide open! So remain still and rest your eyes. You'll probably be seeing stars for awhile yet and you'll be dizzy for a few days." Ashburn gently advised her, when she had awoken in pain and darkness later. The healer's voice was trying to sound stern, but Gwenda could hear the smile in his voice even though her eyes were still shut lying in bed. Her head still hurt with a near constant throbbing, even now apparently several days after the battle. "Everyone warned you that you weren't healthy enough for battle yet, but still you had to go charging off after him ... and without even a helmet to cover your thick head!"
"Well, as I've shown you, my skull is nearly quite thick enough to do without one, but I did just barely duck in time to only get a glancing blow from that warclub."
Ashburn laughed. "By glancing, you just mean that it nailed you nearly dead solid on the side of your skull and knocked silly! If I hadn't been right behind you all ready to grab your feet and yank you back into the lines, his second club blow would have pulped your head like a ripe melon. You realize that your lover can well handle himself, he had a circle of flame around him at least thirty feet wide and not a single boarman so much as scratched him. Your antics, on the other hand, caused two of my assistants to get killed. A young lad and lass that had no business being so close to the battle-line, except that they were terrified that you would be hurt! They went haring after you, and I went chasing after them, to get them into our lines. They willing gave their lives to try and save yours, so there is a blood-debt, but as their master, of sorts, I'll exact a promise from you to never again set one foot ahead of the rest of the battle-line! I'd order you to remain behind it, in the reserves, but knowing you, you'd break that oath within the first five minutes of the next battle. Remember, courage and loyalty are good things, but if your overly brave it just gets young soldiers, and healers, injured or killed trying to match your example. Remember this, if your dented skull can!"
"I shall!" She vowed. "Thank you for your efforts ... I shall promise that they shouldn't ever be needed again." This was the second time that she'd gotten herself badly hurt while disobeying orders, and she had little doubt of what her lover's anger would be if she allowed herself to get carried away by the emotions of the battle yet again a third time. It had been foolish, and she knew it. Mentally, she added the names of the young slain couple to her growing list of names to honor, for naming her future children.
"Save the thanks for later, you'll still be doped up on poppy-juice for the next few days. Oddtus thinks you've still got some minor brain swelling and he very nearly decided to poke a few holes into your skull to relieve the pressure. The only thing that I think stopped him was that Rowan was already a basket-case worrying about you, and he's been in a near nonstop row with nearly everyone since the battle ... especially with the Duke of Everdun, who arrived early yesterday."
"What is Rowan angry about, exactly? His battle plan went off exactly according to plan, from what little I've heard; the Boar-Men were routed with nearly no survivors, and we took astonishingly few casualties, fewer dead than even than at Kenniford, but we do have a lot of wounded."
"Well he's angry about everything and at everyone, which means he's really mostly angry at himself. He did get a little carried away himself during the battle and he went into far more danger than he ought to have had."
"It was that stupid goblin prophecy!" Gwenda exclaimed. "It had us both convinced that either one or both of us would die during this battle!"
Ashburn laughed. "Even as just an apprentice Histrio, I can decipher the proper meaning, and it did not require the loss of either of your lives! 'Blood and sacrifice' the prophecy said, but did not your army give both during the battle? Certainly your own wounds bear this well enough. But in fact, the true sacrifice was made when Rowan boldly told the Duke of Everdun to quite frankly 'go fuck yourself' and to pack up his 'sorry ass army and take it back home, that it was unwanted and unneeded'."
"Rowan told a Duke to go fuck himself? Are we at war now? Why didn't the Foole get off of his duff and straighten things out? He has been less than his formerly helpful self as of late."
"My master is bothered by a great many things, nearly all of which are too weighty to be discussed with his new apprentice. In this particular instance, Oddtus was quite beside himself with laughter, and he too could see the plain writing of the prophecy in Rowan's actions. The Duke was horrified to find that men had made peace-oath with the púcel, and he had demanded that Rowan break his word-bond with the tribes, and drive them forth away from the camp and the town. Quite rightly, Rowan refused ... and plainly said so in clear unmistakable terms."
"Indeed, it was quite well and aptly done!" The Foole agreed, as he entered into her healing room. "Sometimes, ever so rarely in life, there are second chances! Once long ago, men faced a similar decision ... and chose poorly. Yesterday, Rowan held firm to his honor and said that he'd sooner fight the entire remaining Eorfleode army all alone, and without a single ally, than to once more break an oath between the races, to again and forever doom us to be Fex'oegh, and without honor."
"So, the Duke of Everdun has left, and has taken his army back with him?" She enquired.
"Actually, the good Duke is still with us, along with his army, and he, Rowan and Boyle have been drinking together, and rather heavily, since last night. The Duke, grudgingly, admires Rowan's courage and honor, and before everyone got entirely too drunk to speak reason, the Duke even made his own peace with the púcel. He's certain that he's going to be murdered for doing this, once he returns back home, but even his officers are finally getting used to the idea of peace between the races. The Count of Orshold has even formally granted several of the tribes lands of their very own in the hills near the town, including your ever-burning tree, which they're already turning into a shrine and holy spot. They do make adequate miners and have some slight skill at the forge, and in short time they will add much to the future prosperity of the town. They even have their own war-banner now, a flaming orange sword upon a green tree and a black sky, and every single rescued tribe will now staunchly march with the army now with every step further that we take. Although, it is now time that our group takes a temporary leave away from the brigade for awhile."
"Leave? To go where?" Gwenda asked, already much puzzled with the recent events.
"Why to Corælyn, of course. It is still very necessary that we go there, and I'm sure the Empire would be unhappy at our bringing an entire army along with us. The Duke of Everdun brought a full brigade of heavy cavalry with him as well, and if the slurred cries of loyalty that I heard earlier are entirely to be believed, then the Duke will escort our army west, to meet with Broadmore's at either the coastal towns of Penryn or Lydham, or at the city of Broadmore itself. Duke Kelvin is certain to be near one of those three places, fending off the Drakland landing forces."
"He's taking over our army?"
"Well, at least for now, marching it for us anyway. It's going to take them a couple of weeks to get there and there will be nearly nothing to fight along the way, so we won't miss anything interesting. All of the Eorfleode here in the east have now been settled for; the land here and in the Lloan Valley is safe. We'll be missing none of the glory, to be sure lass! Duke Kinsay O'Naold I'm sure can march our forces straight and true. We're going to travel with him, together down the road on the march south, until we both get to Samhold. Once there, he'll embark the army on rafts and boats going down the Penryn River to the coast. He's already sent riders back to Everdun to scrape up every soldier that can be spared, to have them come here and take the Emerald River west, to head straight for Crystal Lake and put themselves directly into your Duke's command, assuming that they arrive in time! Other riders have been sent to Oswein, to request their help as well. It is good and right that all of the Southern Duchies should now join together, and I'm certain that they will come. Their navy, built to ward off Caestor, is large enough to embark all of their forces, and it is hoped that their fleet will arrive in Broadmore in time to gather all of the waiting armies there. Then it will just be a matter of convincing Drakland to quit their private war and attend us ... but that is a problem for another day."
"So, just our original party will then keep going south from Samhold? To Lydleford and then Dragontooth? That will indeed take us most of the way there. But why is it so important that the original quest be continued, and right now?"
"At least one important event still needs to occur, if Tellismere is to be saved. And it is of very great importance still. Not to mention, that some relaxation away from the worries and cares of tending to an army will do both you and Rowan good! Boyle could much do with a rest as well, he's been so busy as of late that he's completely forgotten to talk and act like the village idiot! So, our paths need to diverge from our army's for a short while, certainly no longer than a month, but fear not! It will still be yours to command upon our all too hasty return!"
"Good. I could really do with a bit more rest. How soon do we start to travel?"
"Another day or three, until your head stops throbbing enough so that you can ride and the other wounded are a bit more recovered as well. Longer, if the lads don't eventually break up their drinking party!"
"Damn that drinking party!" Rowan exclaimed, as he came to sit down next to Gwenda a few hours later and he took her hand. "That damned fool of a Duke thinks that he's a Dweorg lord, and he throws down ale like fish drink water! I'm scared to go to bed because I'll just pass out and wake up tomorrow still probably drunk, or hung-over enough to want start drinking all over again! My love ... exactly what part of, 'You're still wounded, so stay just behind the battle-line!' didn't you quite understand?"
"My love, I might well ask you as well what part of my warning 'not to go too deeply into the Boar-Men lines' did you not quite recall during the heat of battle? Not content with just leading your army to victory, you apparently felt that you also had to kill far more than your own fair share of the enemy! This embarrasses your other officers, who feel that you are depriving your own foot soldiers of their minimal tasks, and preventing them from obtaining but a little honor of their very own. For shame!" Gwenda giggled.
"Alright ... I admit that I got a little carried away. That was wrong, but I did want to make sure that the wedge of their attack came directly to me ... although somehow I did end up in the very middle of their army. That wasn't quite what I had intended. I do realize I frightened everyone."
"And badly! Just promise me, before witnesses, that you'll not do that ever again ... or at least not until I'm well enough to guard your back properly."
"So sworn! I promise to be good. Boyle is still with Duke Kinsay, matching him mug for mug, although both of their eyes were quite drooping and I'm sure they'll be snoring soon. I'll not want to have either of their heads, when they awaken later! When I left them they were singing ... someone needs to remind Boyle that he hasn't the voice for it, especially when he can't remember all of the right words to the songs!"
Snoring himself soon, in a large comfortable chair perched next to Gwenda's bed, Rowan first updated her with the rest of the relevant news. The brigade had taken startlingly light casualties, with less than a hundred dead. Miraculous, for a force that was still nearly outnumbered by about three-to-one. The V wedge battle line shield wall had restrained the vast majority of the Eorfleode army, pinning it helplessly to be ground away at the center. The cavalry and the goblins carved away mercilessly at the flanks, and Rowan himself had been a cyclone of fire eating away at their very heart. He had killed thousands, alone in the great center of flame, and not even the longest spear could get close enough to touch him.
Now, the brigade was enjoying the hospitality of the town, and likely as not heavily drinking as well, and for free. The Eorfleode camps had been well pillaged by the happy soldiers and púca, and enough coin and loot had been gathered, and fair equitably distributed, to keep the army wined and dined in town for a month or more, not that they would get the chance.
The Everdun army, mostly heavy cavalry, arrived a full day too late to enjoy even the last little bit of the mopping up, and they had cheers of joy for the victors, and the two brigades had already now merged seamlessly into a single great army. The townsmen and women of Orshold had opened their gates once the envelopment of their enemy had been complete, and a small but fervent strike force had come out to help surround the enemy army, and they accounted themselves well. It would never be said that they hid behind their walls and demanded to be rescued, unlike the disloyal barons of Kenniford.
Oddly, it was the goblins who received the loudest cries of praise and cheers, when the army paraded through the relieved town afterwards. It was they who had had shed the most blood, fought the hardest and with the worst odds with inadequate weapons and little or no armor; out of honor, and for their hopes for the future. Already the púcel were starting to build their own huts for a permanent village and dig yet more tunnels under the hills of Orshold, and indeed their future now look bright. The hated words nihtgenga, or night-goer, were already seldom heard now, and with a little more time there was every indication that a long very unhappy past between the two races could be soothed into peaceful coexistence, and even cooperation.
The journey south to Samhold, down the great stone trade road that ran from Everdun to Dragontooth, took the combined army a little over a week to travel. At ninety-six leagues, it was just a little longer than the Kenniford to Orshold road, and there was fortunately no need for any long forced marches. Once per day, at midday, the combined army would try to practice a field problem or two, usually with satisfactory results. Except for a couple of small isolated war-bands, which the patrolling light cavalry handled easily alone, the region was now free from threat, and slowly everyone began to relax a little.
Her head still wrapped in a bandage, Gwenda kept her duties to a bare minimum and she let her two battalion commands work directly with their Everdun counterparts as much as possible. She still had a near constant headache, and was often too dizzy to ride her horse, but everyone assured her that this ailment would improve over time. It certainly convinced her that wearing a helmet was a prudent idea. For most of the trip, she shared the Lady Ayleth's carriage, and slowly and very gradually the two women began to talk out their differences and a tentative peace was established between the two strong-willed women.
Traveling with Duke Kinsay, the two lads found themselves liking the older man quite a bit better than their first awkward meeting might have portended. Kinsay O'Naold, Duke of Everdun, was a short, stout and excitable man of middle years, who was fast to anger but ever faster to laugh and swear friendship afterwards. A bit bandy-legged, the short warrior had spent much of his life in the saddle, riding with his soldiers. The mountains and hills of Everdun seemed to be magnets for bandits and lawless men, and a good many other monsters other than just Boar-Men.
Nominally the richest duchy of the south, its lord had to spend freely to make sure that food stocks flowed into the land and its precious ores flowing out, without disruptions. His was the largest and best trained force in the entire region. His fast heavy cavalry, with long sharp tipped lances and his slower, but more agile, mountain archer squadrons mounted upon smaller mountain ponies rode along now at his side. True to his word, he had sent several messengers back to order to Crystal Lake as many of his six regiments of heavy foot infantry as could be spared. Some few minor war-bands of Eorfleode were still currently raiding into Everdun, but he was certain that even the local guard companies left in the cities and towns could handle these stragglers with ease. If indeed even half of all of his infantry could make it down the Emerald River to Crystal Lake in time, his would be the single strongest force in all of the Southern Duchies, and potentially with enough soldiers to turn defeat into a glorious victory.
Politically, things within the Duchy were secure enough that he had few concerns about being away from his home for potentially several months. His wife, the Duchess, was more than a capable hand for any eventuality at the court, and she normally handled the vast majority of the routine functions of government as well. She had more than enough steel in her littlest finger to keep even the most opportunistic Earl kept well in place, so even with the vast majority of the army gone, all would be kept in order.
Upon reaching Samhold, there were already a good many boats waiting for the Duke, and no shortages of trees on either bank of the Penryn River, where already the local woodsmen were starting to gather great loads of logs for building rafts. Like Orshold, Samhold was very near the foothills that were the border with Everdun, but here where the river come out of the mountains and into the forests of eastern Broadmore, the political boundary was a bit clearer.
Rowan, with his charter from Duke Kelvin, had no trouble with any of the local barons here, and in fact, they were eager to prove their usefulness ... and loyalty. The examples that had been made of the treasonous barons of Lloan Valley had well caught their attention. Their local companies of troops had been gathered into readiness, and with Rowan's thanks, on behalf of their Duke, he added them into the army, which was already starting to be called the Army of the Southern Duchies. The call to arms in all directions continued to be made, and Rowan and Duke Kinsay were assured that many more hosts of men were already being gathered from the south, to be sent onwards down the coast into Broadmore to join the other ducal armies there.
As a parting gesture, Duke Kinsay demanded to be allowed to knight both Rowan and Boyle. It was only fitting that such brave lads who had assembled and commanded such a brave host be fittingly awarded with at least minor titles to the nobility. Boyle accepted, but after some careful thought, Rowan declined. The politics, he apologized, were just too strange. A lad from one duchy, the champion to its heir, who also held a charter to command in the name of another Duke, to then be knighted by yet a third. He was honored by the thought, but in order to better serve the two Dukes he currently held duty and honor to, he sadly had to decline. Duke Kinsay then laughed and muttered that he'd go knock some sense into both other Dukes right away, and he'd see that the lad become at least an Earl by time they next met, and before another ale keg ran dry! They laughed and parted the stoutest of friends and allies, with plans to meet again soon at the camp of the Duke of Broadmore, somewhere south along the coast. Then, truly would the Army of the Southern Duchies be complete!
Emely
- 10.07.2021
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