The All Natural Avenger
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The Hamaro Avenger Ch. 01 free porn video
The door to the young prince’s room burst open, and Goben stood panting in it’s frame. Prince Galome III sat calmly by the window of this, the highest room in the tallest tower of the palace, and his private study. He gazed upon his bustling people in the city below and the birds that flew over them. Goben dropped to a knee and lowered his eyes, sweat dripping from his brow.
‘It went as we feared, my lord. The trial is a mockery…’
The prince raised his small, round head, brushed his long, dark hair aside and smiled, his black eyes were those of a man a thousand times his age. ‘Go on,’ he said softly.
Goben looked up and tears welled in his eyes though his voice was clear and unwavering. ‘They spoke openly against you, my lord- spoke unforgivable things! The trial is still underway and may last another hour, but the outcome is certain. You will be found guilty of Treason against the Empire, for which the judgment will undoubtedly be hanging.’
‘I expected no less,’ the Prince said, sighing heavily and shrugging his small shoulders. ‘Shed no tears, Goben. There are worse ways to die than by the gallows.’
Goben slammed his fist on the door frame. ‘No! Two clans have not been subverted and are loyal to his Lordship: my own, and Lord Takenah’s. I have made arrangements in advent of this situation, and, with your Lords blessing, shall spirit him away to a hidden Monastery in the mountains behind our territories. There, the lord should be safe, for the time being’
‘And then?’ the Prince asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘And then… the Hamaro and Ganmanzu clans are small but powerful. We have the mountains, and together we can mount a formidable defense.’
The prince nodded, stood, and donned a heavy golden robe. He stepped to Goben, mere inches taller then the kneeling man. A strange fire blazed in his dark eyes, like none Goben had seen there before in his many years of service. The Prince placed a hand gently on Gobens cheek.
‘They have wronged me greatly, and you even greater, my friend. I have asked you to perform many difficult tasks, and never did you fail me. Now, though, I shall ask the worst.’
‘It is not only my blood-born duty as a Hamaro, it is my honour to serve you, Lord,’ Goben answered gravely.
‘Then I ask this: be the instrument of my vengeance. Were I a man, powerful and swift as you, I would take back my kingdom, and the rivers would run red with the blood of those who have dishonored us. So, I ask it to be you, Goben. You are a noble man, but in this, show no nobility. I ask for unflinching, merciless vengeance, on my enemies.’
Goben’s face hardened, his green eyes like sharp jade.
‘It shall be as you wish it, my Prince.’
Together, they rushed down the winding stairs of the great tower into the main keep. The entrance hall was massive and lined with cyclopean pillars. It’s vaulted ceiling was covered in mosaics of kings, gods, angels, and devils. The north wall opened to wide stone steps leading down to the courtyard, but as Goben and the prince rushed across the hall, two men, armed and in scale, leapt from behind one of the pillars.
‘Halt! We order you,’ they cried, but their voices were hollow, for they knew they faced Goben Nosai, great hero and leader of the Hamaro clan- possibly greatest swordsman in all Godvale. They raised their heavy, wide, triangular swords known as eisans and blocked the stairs. Goben’s eikans, like the eisans but much shorter, were in his hands with a dangerous ring.
‘You? You order the Prince? You order me?!’, he roared, and dove into them like a tiger.
He moved so fast, the young prince nearly missed it. All he saw was one of the assailants raise his weapon, then both screamed at once as Goben’s blades found precisely the slits in their armour and were sheathed again before the men fell. He rushed back to the prince, who looked at the bleeding men on the floor blankly, no sympathy showing in his eyes. They fled down the stairs and through the main courtyard.
Once out the main gates, twenty men of the Hamaro clan waited with horses, resplendent in purple, for their family, and gold, as the Princes guardians. Each knew what it meant to see their leader half-frenzied and with young prince in tow, and they mounted quickly, weapons flashing in the sunlight as they were drawn. Boro, eldest and craftiest of Goben’s men, rushed forward with a strong stallion for the Prince and helped him mount.
‘It was that bad?’ he asked as he mounted beside Goben.
‘Worse. Lord Takenah has left already to gather the Ganmanzu warriors. We are to meet them at the Haruna Shrine.’
Goben kicked his heels and they sped off through the streets, peasants leaping from their path.
High in the monolithic tower, in the princes study, a cluster of men watched them speed through the city gates. One, a plump, small man dressed in pompous yellow armour, stamped his foot. He carried jewel encrusted swords so large that, if real, it was unlikely the little man could lift them.
‘Intolerable! That bastard Hamaro dares to defy us? Gather the Coursairs, run them down!’ he bellowed.
Another, tall man in sea-green robes, who’s every feature could be described as long, lifted a bony finger, and all fell silent. ‘Let them go,’ he said, his voice deep and rich. ‘The Hamaro clan horses are the swiftest in the kingdom and could never be caught. Besides, the fools condemn themselves by their flight. Goben is as predictable as a loyal dog.’ He smiled, pale pink lips stretching across his narrow face as he saw the last of the horses round the north road to Lum.
**********
Goben reigned in his horse and signaled his coloumn of men, far behind and below on the steep, redwood and bamboo choked mountain trail with the prince, to halt. Boro, his captain, a small but vital man who kept a white beard trimmed to a perfect point, left the other men to come forward on his muscular mare.
‘What troubles you?’
Goben did not reply, or even seem to hear. Directly before them was the ancient mountain Shrine of Haruna. The oldest histories of Godvale said Haruna, a justice-driven god-being, led an army of the righteous from this shrine on a crusade to conquer the Vale. He pushed his enemies back till they fled through the mountains in all directions, and even into the sea, and so the empire was born of blood and justice. The mountain path wound it’s way up to a plateau, from here the way was paved with giant stone blocks and lined with forty-foot, crumbling statues of Haruna himself, his wrath filled eyes watching those who entered, and led directly into the mountain. Within was a temple of many complicated tunnels lined with statues of gods, these led to a huge auditorium and the Deep Bell, which, it was said, had not been rung since Haruna went to war, for to do so was to invite the wrath of the ghosts of those who died at Haruna’s hand.
All along their approach, they had seen none of the other warriors of Lum, and Boro had commented, but Goben had reminded him of their plans with the Ganmanzu, who had preceded them. Takenah and his men would have swept through, gathering Lum’s few warriors. But the shrine should be buzzing like a bee-hive with both Hamaro and Ganmanzu’s best. He voiced his concerns to Boro.
‘Ah, wait,’ his captain replied, pointing, ‘they must have gone inside. They left a watch for us, see?’
And there indeed, a man dressed in purple and gold had stepped out from behind one of the statues, waving his arms over his head.
Goben squinted, trying to make the man out, but he was distracted by the clatter of metal and hollers from behind. Black and green armoured warriors carrying the banners of Hyzador and Xen had burst from the forest on foot and fallen upon his men.
‘Make for the plateau! Get the prince into the shrine,’ roared Boro. They did so fast as the thin, steep mountain trail allowed. The Bibilodo a
nd Hieruru warriors plunged from between the trees like ants, and dragged down and massacred half of the Hamaro horsemen. Goben and Boro were first on the plateau. As the prince raced passed, he stared at Goben with a strange expression that he could not interpret, but that set a rage alive within him. He signaled to Boro, and together they lashed ropes round the foremost statue. As the last of his surviving men ascended, they spurred their horses furiously. The great statue tilted, then toppled with a deafening smash and rolled down the path, crushing some forty or fifty men before lodging between two of the giant redwoods. Still, the assaulting warriors poured over and under and around the fallen Haruna. How had they gotten so many men here so quickly? It was as if it were…
A trap!
Goben cried out wildly, spurred his horse after the prince so hard that it squealed in response. He did not see Boro impaled by a volley of well aimed arrows and fall from his horse on the plateau behind him, as always in loyal pursuit of his liege. Once inside the small entrance cavity, he abandoned his horse with those of the Emperor and the few other men who had made it inside. ‘Galome!’ he screamed again and again as he ran through the twisting, turning gambit of the interior, all protocol forgotten.
He slid into a wide-stanced halt and his ekans materialized in his hands as he entered the auditorium. It was a massive circular hall of lazily descending stone steps, at the center of which hung a huge iron bell, carved with a thousand perfectly real and gruesome scenes of war and battle and death: the Deep Bell of Haruna. A circular stage surrounded it, and the bell was rung with a great log hung vertically from the ceiling that was reinforced on its south end with a thick iron cap.
His warriors had stood ground here, but had been overwhelmed and put to the sword by the dozen mixed Heiruru and Bibilodo warriors who stood there now, as if waiting for him. He recognized some of them: Mahlite the Spider, freakishly long limbed leader of the Heiruru, stood with daggers still dripping with the blood of Hamaro men, Jataromen and Hytaromen, first and second sons of the Bibilodo Clan and Generals of their armies, who were brutal warmongers, muscular and broad and tall, true giants among men, and could this truly be? Between them stood his truest friend, lord of the Hamaro’s greatest allies, Takenah, lord of the Ganmanzu, with his blade to the Emperors throat.
Goben staggered down the steps, his normally smooth, hard features creased and ragged. ‘Tak-enah, my brother, what is this,’ he begged.
Takenah sneered and looked up at him with glassy madness in his eyes. ‘Brother? I spit on you, Hamaro,’ he said simply. ‘You are a trusting fool. Your father destroyed my father, Goben. He was a dog, and Horaki…my father…and my whole clan were cheated of there destiny!’
Goben looked wildly from Takenah to the grinning Mahlite and Bibilodo brothers, then to the warriors who swarmed between him and them..
‘This is treason! If you slay the future Emperor, the soul of Haruna will be lost! The Empire will not survive! Takenah, we…you, and I, have put the wrongs our fathers behind us!’
But his voice was lost on inhuman and pitiless ears. Mahlite leaned close to Takenah, whispered insidious words, and Takenah listened with a look of glee. Goben looked to the young emperor, who stood calmly before Takenah’s blade. He looked so fragile, so weak, so precious and vulnerable, and tears of rage came to Goben’s eyes. The golden eyes of the child emperor glowed like molten fire, searing into Goben’s fracturing mind, and he could not look away. He had failed in his duty.
‘I shall be declared the new emperor,’ raved Takenah, ‘and even now, the last of the treacherous, insolent Hamaro are being rounded up and slaughtered. A thousand priests throughout the empire shall declare me the heaven ordained emperor, and the people will follow.’
How could he not have seen? How could he have been so fooled? The emperors eyes…those eyes that burned away his soul. Goben could not look away, horribly as he wished too.
‘And so, as you stole my destiny…I now steal yours,’ Takenah finished.
He grabbed the emperor by his dark hair and sliced the edge of his blade across the boys thin, pale throat. He held the twitching, gasping child aloft with one hand while thick red blood poured down the front of his golden robes, dripping off it’s edges onto his shoes and the stone floor beneath. For a full minute, no sounds but the gurgling of the dieing emperor could be heard. Finally, Takenah dropped the limp body in a crumpled heap at his feet.
The black and green armoured men coming through the temples maze behind arrived, finally. They circled round Goben, who stood still, staring and motionless, eikans in hands, hanging at his sides. Mahlite and the Brothers grabbed Takenah and led him away through the throngs of warriors who filled the hall. They did not stop to look back as the first cries of their perishing men echoed behind them. The sounds of fighting and dieing and the mindless war cries of Goben followed them past a hundred or more men to the entrance alcove, where they mounted their horses and fled down the mountain path. Takenah, now pale, almost green, looked to the grim faced Bibilodo’s and the expressionless Mahlite. ‘They will kill him, won’t they?’ he asked, quietly, like a child.
They paid him no heed, save to quicken the pace of their steeds. But, many minutes later, just as they passed from sight of the Shrine, a rumble shook the ground beneath them, sent their steeds rearing in fear and stones tumbling down the steep path. Seconds behind it, a low, rising vibration of sound that caused their insides to quiver and all to turn white.
Someone was sounding the Deep Bell.
**********
Down a tree-lined road in the late, chilly autumn came a small group of men and women. There were twenty of them, marching slowly in a small cluster, the red and gold leaves tumbling down around them crunching under their feet. They were wrapped in the black and red funeral attire of the North Prenian peasants: cloth sandals, loose robes cinched at the knees and elbows, heads wrapped in tight turbans. They carried the body of their late Elder on a gurney made of thin, flexible bamboo sticks: it was wrapped head to foot in oiled and scented black cloth, and a peppery odour hung over the procession, overpowering the clear ocean air blowing in from the west. Bringing up the rear, a man with round hand-harp plucked sad, slow melodies, and they would sporadically hum ancient hymns for the dead.
They had left early the day before from their small vineyard community far back in the foothills, in the shadows of the Cloudpeak Mountains, following the tiny hill trail that connected with the Blue Eel Way, which would finally take them to the port town of Hoiprenaria and the nearest burial shrine.They passed few other travelers until reaching the Blue Eel, which was always busy with farmers and fishermen traveling to market. All gave them wide and respectful birth, making quick, silent hand gestures, signaling condolences for both the living and the dead.
Finally, as the red sun was setting, turning the ocean crimson, they came to Hoiprenaria. It was simply a long, muddy road lined with fish markets and warehouses on one side and bustling docks on the other, and at the south end lay the low, simple shrine. Here they slowed their pace, as the busy sailors and fishermen rushed to finish their heckling and labours in the waning light, though many still made signs of respect in grim Prenian fashion.
The clop of many hooves arose and the throngs parted for a group of a half-dozen mounted warriors. They were clad in ornate black half-plate and pleated skirts of leather, riding at a quick trot towards a long, deep Heiruru-made boat that flew the black flag of Clan Bibilodo. Heavy, black-iron swords hung at their sides, and they rod
e with hands on hilts, glaring about aggressively. At the head rode a huge man, both in height and flabby girth, with his long hair wrapped in a series of three intricate top-knots. His face was a cynical mask, and from his hip hung a five-foot spiked mace that scraped the ground, even mounted on his massive, heavy-hoofed brown stallion. This was Jataromen, eldest son of the Bibilodo, recently returned from one of his frequent excursions to foreign lands where his twisted desires could be fulfilled.
He rode insultingly close to the funeral procession as he and his entourage passed, and the mourners caste baleful glances his way, though continued unchecked in their chants. Jataromen grinned, his thick pink lips stretching, and leaned close to breath in deep the spiced death-scent, an insolent and sick insult. His men laughed, and he started to turn his horse back to them as he passed the harpist, when his face suddenly dropped. He spun his horse about, lips trembling. His captain came to his side, a concerned look on his face.
‘M’lord, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost?’
Jataromen turned a milky eyed stare on his captain, mouth hanging open.
‘Those eyes…where before have I seen those eyes, so full of wrath?’ he asked quietly. The captain followed his lords stupefied gaze back to the funeral procession. They had halted, staring back with questioning glances, the death-harpist had stopped playing and stood with slumped posture in the middle of the clearing streets, his instrument dangling from his limp finger-tips. His voice rose on the blowing sea breeze, rich and clear.
‘Jataromen!’
‘Goben!’ was Jataromens reply as he wheeled his horse on the harpist, grappling his mighty mace free of it’s stirrup with a wolfish grin.
Their was a roar from Jataromen, a flash of red sunlight off shining metal and the gush of wind that followed the murderous sweep of the huge black mace as it descended on the harpist, who had sprouted two small eikans from the folds of his death-robes and parried with the wide flats of the blades held together like a shield. Jataromens mace struck them with a deafening clash of black on gleaming metal that shocked the peasants, sent them rushing from the street into alleys and doorways to watch. Gobens hands went numb from the force of the impact and he was knocked back into the mud violently. The funeral procession stood uncertain and paralyzed in the center of the street. They looked to Goben, who waved them away with a groan, crawling to his wobbly feet. Jataromen roared and laughed, turning his horse for another charge.
‘Jataromen, stop!’ Goben cried, spitting blood and mud from his mouth. ‘Why waste more lives?’
‘It would be no waste of a thousand lives to bring your head home on a pike, Goben! But I think it will only cost yours!’
Jataromen, murder-lust in his eyes, brought his foaming mount to bear and brought his mace straight down, Goben slid aside in the mud. The mace whistled past his face and one of it’s terrible spikes nearly pinned his foot to the ground, but it and the horse missed him, and he lashed out with both ekans. Jataromens horse squealed and reared, hurling the bear of a man to the ground as it toppled from deep wounds in one of it’s hind legs. Angry and muddy, Jataromen lifted himself to a knee, still gripping the handle of his mace in his mailed fist.
He heard his captain call out, looked up in time to see Goben advancing on him, his sandaled toes spurning the wet earth as he charged. Jataromen held his thick forearm before him to defend the attack, but Goben hit him hard and fast and his sharp weapons tore through bone and flesh. The thick stump fell to the mud, fingers still flexing, and Jataromen screamed, gazing at the ugly remains of his arm. Goben scowled and rammed an eikan under the thick jowls around Jataromens mouth. The blade-point popped out the top of his head, his body twitched once. His watery eyes rolled back in their sockets. Blood and broken teeth poured from his mouth over Gobens arm, and he removed his blade with a jerk. Jataromens heavy remains slid to the ground.
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