Date: Sun, 18 Jun 2000 21:36:26 EDT From: William Watts Subject: The Sword of Kings - Prologue Legal Notice: The following story contains descriptions of graphic sexual acts. The story is a work of fiction and has no basis in reality. Don't read this story if: **You're not 18 or over, **If it is illegal to read this type of material where you live, **Or if you don't want to read about gay/bi people in love or having sex. The author retains copyright to this story. Placing this story on a website or reproducing this story for distribution without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright. Legal action will be taken against violators. I wish to extend my thank you to Ed for his editorial assistance with this chapter. If you have enjoyed reading this story, you will find other stories by me at http://www.teenboyauthors.org/thewolf, in the 'Other Stories' section. E-mail responses to the stories, story suggestions, or other 'constructive' comments or advice may be sent to: bwstories44@hotmail.com. * * * * * * * * The Sword of Kings - by BW (Fantasy/Sci. Fi.). Copyright 2000 by bwstories44 Prologue - The Prophecy's Demise. June 2000 ***************************************************************************** * AUTHOR'S NOTE - PLEASE READ! * * * * The prologue has quite a bit of violence in it. It does not have to be * * read to enjoy the story, but the events discussed in the prologue are * * referred to in later chapters, though not in detail. I have used this to * * show the malevolent nature of the villain, so the reader can understand * * why it is so important that he is defeated. The remainder of the story * * has some violence, but not nearly to the same degree as the prologue. I * * just thought you should be advised. * * * ***************************************************************************** King Orthilue labored in the midst of the battle, swinging his great broad sword at one onrushing foe after another. His powerful physique was straining beneath his hauberk of chain mail, and his silvery hair flowed gracefully behind him with each powerful stroke. The scars on his body, souvenirs from past battles that he had fought along Tarolia's borders, shone in relief on his bronzed skin. They stood as silent witness to his experiences as a warrior. Dark red blotches of blood appeared on his skin and clothing, some from freshly made wounds upon his own body and some from the splattering of his opponents' life juices. These crimson stains accentuated the fierceness of the battle. With a mighty downward blow from his broadsword, Orthilue dispatched one of his attackers by rending both his opponent's helmet and skull with the fearsome stroke. As the King regained his balance, he noticed a tall dark skinned warrior charging him with the ferociousness of an outraged bull. His Majesty braced himself for the force of the assault. Orthilue parried the first energetic stroke, using the agressor's own force against him, sending the off balanced assailant stumbling awkwardly by. As the warrior wheeled to resume the attack, the king swung his sword in a giant arc and carved a lengthy gash across his enemy's abdomen. The foeman stood momentarily, as his entrails spewed forth, his body exploding through the widening gash. No sooner had this most recent victim's body hit the ground than the king found himself once more occupied with a new attacker. Orthilue exchanged several vigorous blows with this new assailant, each combatant taking his turn delivering a potentially fatal thrust, when the King spied an opening in his opponent's defense. Propelling his mighty sword forward, Orthilue impaled his foe on the weapon, the point extending outward between the attacker's shoulder blades. The King now found his sword trapped by the weight of the lifeless form, and he struggled to free it for further use. He pushed his latest victim to the ground so the dead warrior was sprawled out on his back, then Orthilue placed a foot on the soldier's chest and he gave a mighty heave to pull the blade free of its vise-like death grip. The monarch was becoming weary from the physical exertion and he took this momentary pause to catch his breath and think back upon the evening. Less than an hour before, he had been feasting in the Great Hall of the castle, merrily conversing with his guests and enjoying the evening's entertainment. It was an elaborate social gathering that was attended by many of the most prominent and influential of Tarolia's nobility. This banquet was being held as a minor repayment for their dedication and hard work on behalf of the kingdom. In the middle of the festivities, guardsmen had burst into the hall in utter agitation, explaining that the Castle of Leander was under attack. At first the guests did not comprehend the gravity of the situation, for never before had this mighty fortress been engulfed in battle or bloodshed. Not from the days of the omnipotent King Ethelbert, the builder of this edifice, or for several generations since. Leander had always been considered an unbreachable tower of strength; both friend and foe agreed upon that point. It was now almost incomprehensible that such a bold and unprecedented assault could be taking place. The castle had been purposefully designed with many additional features to protect it from falling. Its outer walls were constructed ten feet thick and all of its entrances were guarded by great oaken gates, covered with a heavy iron plating. There was also a massive iron portcullis that hung behind the gate, to further block admittance to unwanted visitors. It could be lowered in seconds and it would serve as a second line of defense should the outer gates be breached. Both the gate and the portcullis were operated by a series of gears that were locked in the gatehouse and keep under constant guard. These gears could be activated instantly, at the first sign of trouble, to seal off the gaping opening into the fortress. The battlements were equipped with openings through which archers and spearmen could release their weapons and yet remain protected themselves. There were ports high up on the castle's outer walls through which boiling water or oil could be poured over attacking troops, siege engines, and other large weapons of war. All of this helped to make Leander one of the most renowned structures in the entire world. How was it then that this force had found a way to get by these great protective barriers and the guards who defended it? How was it possible that they were now conducting this bloody spectacle in the vast expanse of the Outer Courtyard? There was no simple answer to this question, but surely deceit had played a role in this debacle. So had the lack of vigilance on the part of the Royal Guard, an apathy brought on by the long peaceful years through which they had lived. The strategy had been brilliant, well executed, and drawn out. It had allowed these hostile forces to gain admittance to Leander and placed its future in jeopardy. The assault had actually begun when several small units had earlier gained entrance to the castle, one group at a time. There were Merropites, who had masqueraded as merchants from their distant cousins' city of Akikta, and gnome smiths, who had disguised themselves as dwarfs from the Amber Mountains. Secretively, they had entered the city over the span of several weeks prior to this attack. Once these advance parties of warriors and spies were entrenched in the castle's daily life, they merely had to wait for nature to give them the deep nighttime shadows they needed to execute their plan. They had been in Leander for days before the appropriate conditions presented themselves. Not only was there a new moon, but there was also a heavy cloud cover that blocked out the light from any of the stars that appeared in the evening sky. The well-timed execution of a daring scheme, which had been performed the previous day, was the clinching stroke. It had incapacitated the mechanism that controlled the gate and ominous portcullis. That afternoon a small party of conspirators had slipped into the gatehouse before the evening guards had been stationed. They managed to jam the gears with heavy iron bars, making them inoperative. It had been a gamble to sabotage the controlling devices without knowing exactly when the invasion would begin, but the indifference with which the guards performed their duties had ensured that the deed would go undiscovered. Now that the conditions were right, their comrades were being unloaded onto the immense log rafts on which they would travel down the Shadow River. Using the blackness of night to mask their trek past Cassander, a smaller city upstream, they rode the current until they reached the capital city. The troops disembarked from their vessels just west of the barbican, which partially obscured and protected the Great Gate. Almost noiselessly, they made their way to an area between the river and the massive bulwark of the fortress. Once assembled, the forces crept stealthily along the outer wall until they reached the entrance to the castle. Their archers quickly and quietly dispatched the two outer guards, and the contingent slid forward, nearer to their objective. As the foremost attacking soldiers reached the opening of the gate, one of the inner guards perceived their movement. He alerted his companions with a scream before he, too, was felled by a feathery shaft. The gatehouse guard spun and raced into the small room containing the controls and latched the door behind him. He tried to release the gears and close both barriers to the attackers, but nothing happened. It was then that he discovered the damage that had been previously perpetrated upon the machinery. Keeping his wits about him, the soldier grabbed the battle horn that hung on the wall. He blew a warning blast to arouse the sleeping men-at-arms. The shrill note aroused the officers and foot soldiers alike, and they began bursting through their barrack's doors. Most were still trying to gird themselves as they stormed out of the quarters, as they sought to learn the cause for this alarm. Although their efforts were swift and orderly, they could not react quickly enough to stem the tide of intruders entering through the disabled gate. The battle had now begun in earnest. One of the pages managed to slip away and race to the Great Hall to give his warning. Upon receiving the initial news of this attack, King Orthilue commanded his servants to mount the walkways connecting the battlements and light the torches overhanging the inner walls and courtyard. This simple act would allow his troops to more easily see and recognize their opponents, thus reducing the possibility of their felling their own troops in error. Hurriedly, the King departed from the rear of the Great Hall and raced to his bedchamber to don his chain mail and retrieve his battle-worn sword. Now the King stood knee deep in bodies, some lifeless and others writhing in pain from recently received wounds. He battled desperately to defend his home from this unprecedented and unprovoked assault. This raw carnage continued, with Orthilue adding more than his share of souls to their eternal rest. Apprehensively, the ruler searched the area before him, seeking out his next opponent. After engaging this new adversary, the monarch lifted his sword to deliver yet another fatal blow, when everything went black. * * * * Slowly King Orthilue slipped back into consciousness and he found himself staring into a pale blue sky. The sun was approaching its zenith and his majesty concluded that it must be midday. His head throbbed and his eyes burned as the memory of the battle gradually filtered back into his brain. The King thought the pain in his head must be from the blow he had received during the battle and he tried to gain control over it. As his mind began to clear, the mighty leader began to wonder about the battle. What had happened? Who had been victorious? How long had he been unconscious? Orthilue tried to sit up, but he found his movements restricted. He forced his eyes down over his struggling torso and he spied the ropes that kept him securely in place. Seeking to find an answer to this dilemma, he slowly turned his head to the right to see if he could find and identify his captors or determine the extent of his predicament. As his head rolled imperceptibly to the side, he discovered the familiar features of his wife's lovely face. Even though her head was smeared with dirt and her eyes were puffy from weeping, he still found her extraordinarily beautiful. He watched her intently, as she sat unaware of her lover's observations. The queen was propped up against a wall, her feet and hands bound together, awaiting her abductor's next move. Gabina and Orthilue had been married for more than twenty years but the sight of her still awakened something deep inside of him. Even in her present unkempt state, the monarch still felt that warm glow within his soul whenever he beheld her. This often caused him to feel and, sometimes, behave like a love- struck teenager who was having his first encounter with the goddess of love. Slowly the King released the vision of his soul mate and he let his gaze move gradually along the wall until he came to the next captive form. Bastien looked much older than the eighteen years that had passed since his birth. He was the royal couple's elder son, heir to the throne, and the future King of Tarolia. His strong, fair features and his lean, hard, muscular body accentuated his handsomeness and athleticism. His head full of ebony hair contrasted nicely with his fair complexion and emitted a special aura about him, letting even the casual observer know that this was a young man to be reckoned with. Oh, how Orthilue loved this young man and His Majesty had often disclosed the extent of his pride to his dearest confidants. Bastien had an excellent mind and he had picked up the business of state very easily. He was quickly maturing into his role as a future leader and ruler of his people. The King had good reason to be so proud of this fruit of his loins. Next to Bastien sat Orthilina, his sister. Although she was two years his senior, Orthilina had always allowed her brother to be the unquestioned leader among the royal children. She realized that it was Bastien who would be King after her father and she held no resentment or jealousy toward him because of that fact. She loved her brother and had always doted on him when he was younger, always putting him first. For that, her brother loved her much in return. Orthilina and Bastien could have passed for twins. She had much the same appearance as her brother but her features were much softer. She was beautiful in her own right and she found herself much sought after by other noblemen's sons. She possessed a firm, well-endowed body that had long and graceful limbs. Even if she were not the King's daughter, she still would have attracted the attention of many suitors. Besides this outward beauty, the princess was also graced with a gifted mind. She could rival many of the King's advisors in raw intelligence and she often challenged them verbally, to their grave consternation. Although rebuking her publicly for these actions, privately the monarch admired her spunk and prowess. Orthilue had often pondered how he, and later Bastien, could best utilize her particular talents without upsetting the patriarchal society of which they were a prominent part. Try as he might, the King never fully resolved this predicament. After the sovereign looked once more upon his eldest child, he noticed that his firstborn was busily trying to calm the two girls sitting next to her. Orthilina was attempting to console her sister Latona, who was sobbing heavily. The younger girl's maturing body was vibrating spasmodically against her cousin Adina's, as she visibly vented her fear. The older princess offered words of comfort to her younger sibling and she selected her words carefully in an attempt to bring her sister emotionally back under control. Adina was also weeping, though not as violently or as animatedly as her cousin. She overcame her emotions first and she tried to assist the older girl in trying to calm Latona. Although both of the girls were fourteen, Adina was much more mature and sophisticated than Latona. That was the reason the King had invited his niece to visit and spend time with his family. Orthilue had requested that Adina be allowed to come visit and spend time with Latona, while the King's youngest daughter, Tayce, went to spend time with Adina's younger sister. The sovereign had hoped that Adina's influence would help Latona come to grips with her immature behavior, as she acted more like a baby than Tayce, who was three years younger. Adina had only been at Leander for two days, so no significant change had occurred. The final figure that he could see was that of Fabrien, his younger son. Fabrien had flaxen hair, like his mother and his sister Latona, and he was by far the fairest of all of the King's children. He had always been a polite, mild mannered child and the one with whom all of his siblings got along with best. His birth had come almost exactly between Bastien's and Latona's, making him the third oldest child and the second in line to the throne. Even if he never became king, Fabrien would be a diplomat of great importance to Tarolia. Focusing on his second son, the king could see that the boy showed signs of having been beaten. Knowing the boys as he did, the King assumed that Fabrien had put up a struggle against his captors, despite their size and their numbers. Now, the lad had acquiesced and he sat quietly and motionless against the wall. Trying to avoid the agonizing pain that he felt for his family, as they lay trussed, battered, and emotionally drained, with great care Orthilue rolled his head cautiously to the other side to find what discoveries awaited him there. The physical pain was staggering from this simple act and it seemed as though it took him hours before he could see the area on the other side of his body. In fact, it had only taken him about ten minutes to complete this simple task. As his eyes came into focus, he gazed upon a tall, powerfully built, swarthy skinned soldier. He was striding directly toward the place where the King lay. The figure bent forward, hovering over the King and letting his own foul breath filter into the leader's nostrils. "Ho, the dog has awakened," grunted the captor. "Maybe now we can begin our entertainment." "Who are you and what do you want?" questioned the king, trying to keep his voice steady and forceful. "Speak, vermin!" "I see there is still some spirit in this bound cur," retorted the soldier, "but we shall soon take the sting from his tongue. Be careful of what you say, you motherless mongrel, or you shall force me to dispense with you sooner than I desire." The King merely glared into his opponent's face. "My name is Moustapha, Commander of the Armies of the Lord Madumda, the greatest of all who dwell in this land. I have been sent here to dispense with your mock rule of this country and to secure the Sword of Kings for my Lord and Master. When I accomplish that, it will remove the final obstacle that has prevented my liege from openly declaring himself Ruler of Tarolia. "Scoundrel! Do you think that you shall find that which has passed through my family for so long? It has been handed down from generation to generation, and we will not relinquish it that easily. Do you think that I would be so remiss as to leave this powerful weapon lying about, where one so low and debased as yourself might chance upon it? Never shall that jackal that you call your Master set one finger upon its hilt." "The Lord Madumda had foreseen that this might be your reply, so we have made preparations that will loosen your tongue." The king spat in Moustapha's face. "You may torture or kill me as you like, but with my dying breath I will still protect this land from the evil which is even more incomprehensible than the universe itself. Madumda shall never rest secure as long as the Sword of Kings is freely held in the hands of another." "Well spoken, you braying jackass, but you shall soon change your tune. Nay, we shall not torture you, as you suspected, but you shall be forced to watch as we bring unbearable pain upon each member of your family. As you watch them squirm and you listen to their screams of agony, then shall you give me that which I seek! Bring forth the elder male." Two guards strode over to where Bastien was seated. Gruffly, they yanked at the young man's arms and hurtled him to his feet. From there, he was led across the courtyard, not knowing what fate to expect. He was just a helpless pawn in this struggle for power. The prince was positioned between two poles that had been driven into the ground about six feet apart, and he was tied, spread-eagle, between them. "I will give you one more opportunity to tell me the whereabouts of the Sword," the commander snarled, looking the King squarely in the eyes. "Tell me now or you will soon learn what games we have planned for the remainder of your family." "You may wait until hell freezes over before I would allow you to have the symbol of all that is good in this world. I will never surrender the only device that can keep your evil master in check." "We shall get it sooner or later, but have your own way. I am afraid, however, that you shall soon regret your stubborn boast." Moustapha then nodded to a thick-necked, pale skinned soldier who had moved into position near the restrained youth. The warrior strode over to where Bastien was held fast and he ripped the youth's shirt from his body, exposing his bare chest. He then took a knife from his tunic and cut the strings fastening the lad's trousers, and they fell harmlessly to the ground, exposing all his glory. The soldier then moved behind the young man, whipped out his own massive, erect cock, and he rammed it up the poor boy's unprepared rectum. Bastien screamed in pain as the massive tool tore his ass open, and the agony only grew worse as the burning pain from the dry fuck shot through his body. While the first soldier molested his victim, a second trooper moved in front of the lad and pulled a dagger from his belt. He sadistically touched the cold steel blade against the youth's chest and he made his first incision. Slowly and mechanically the blade was used to flay long strips of skin from the boy's breast, causing him to writhe and cry out in unbearable anguish. Orthilue tried to close his eyes and block out this unholy vision. The King had already resigned himself to the fact that the safety of the Sword was far more valuable than the life of any individual, even those of his family. As King of Tarolia, it was his duty to protect all of the people of the land, not merely his own family. No matter what the cost, Madumda must never have the Sword. If that villain ever gained control of the Sword of Kings, then there would never again be peace or freedom in Tarolia or any of the adjoining nations. Though trying to block this heartless scene from his view, the King found that he was still staring at the grisly spectacle before him. He watched as the blood ran down Bastien's stomach and dripped to the ground and his clothing below. The prince had come to the same realization as his father and he knew that they would all die, regardless of what they did. He tried to stifle his involuntary cries of pain and accept his fate in true Spartan fashion. Despite his good intentions, he was having little success in doing as he desired. Orthilue tried again to block out the action before him and once again he found his eyes glued to this debacle. His mind raced over the reasons why he could not ignore what was happening, until he finally concluded that his eyelids had been removed, most likely while he had lain unconscious. One of these foul, unfeeling creatures had severed the skin that overlapped his eyes, making it impossible for him to blot out the events unfolding before him. Orthilue was suddenly jerked back to the present by Gabina's squeals of anguish. His wife was pleading with Moustapha on her son's behalf. "Please, leave my son be! Please, don't hurt him any more. I will tell you whatever you want to know, but please don't him any longer. I beg you to spare my son." "Will you tell me the location of the Sword?" mused Moustapha. "Anything! Anything at all! Just spare my children," came her reply. "Gabina, no!" wailed Orthilue. "You will doom all of Tarolia to a living hell. Be strong, woman, and don't give in." "No, I cannot sit back and watch my children suffer and die. I will do what I must to protect them." "Then, madam, tell me where to find the Sword," snapped Moustapha. "Will you spare my children?" "If you aid us, then I will grant you a boon," quipped the commander. "But you must tell me where to find the Sword now." "Go to the throne at the head of the Great Hall," she began, only to be cut off by her husband's shout of protest. "Gabina! Gabina, don't do this! Do not tell him about the Sword. I beg you on behalf of all of those Tarolians whose lives lie in your hands. Do not deal with this devil. He will only destroy us all." "Be silent, my husband," Gabina began. "I cannot watch my children endure such pain. I will give him the Sword, but it will not benefit him. The people of this great land will rise up against him and drive him out." She turned again to Moustapha. "On the throne in the Great Hall, near the king's head, are two lions. Turn the lions' heads toward the king's seat and a panel will drop in the rear of the throne. Within that secret compartment rests the Sword of Kings." Moustapha dispatched a guard to verify her account. Upon finding that the Queen had indeed given him the information he needed, he turned toward her and spoke. "It was very wise of you to cooperate with me, madam. For your help, I will grant you this boon. You shall not suffer any longer, for you shall have a swift, painless death." Before the Queen could open her mouth to object, Moustapha drove a long dagger through her heart. Her lifeless body fell forward against the blade and trapped it in the commander's hand. The general lifted his boot against the dead queen's shoulder and pushed her body backward as he withdrew the metal blade from her motionless carcass. Mechanically and without any sign of emotion, Moustapha wiped the blade on the grass and returned it to its scabbard. Moustapha's attention was now focused on the Sword of Kings and he gawked, openly, at the shimmering metal as it glistened in the sunlight. The blade had been made from a most remarkable ore, which had been mined by the dwarfs from near the world's very core. Then, the ore was painstakingly processed into the hardest metal known to man. This sword had no peer. It was a weapon finer than any possessed by even the greatest of kings. The dwarfish craftsmen had surely outdone themselves in creating this weapon, especially with the intricate designs that had been carved into the Sword's handle. This fabulous sword, which had been made with an abundance of love and pride, had been designed for only one purpose in mind - to destroy Madumda! Moustapha stood fondling the hilt of the Sword when he reeled to face the King. "Your foolishness, sir, shall cost you dearly. You shall witness the death of each of your children before you, yourself, are brought slowly and painfully to your end." Having given a barely noticeable signal to his troops, the general watched as his soldiers started scurrying back and forth across the courtyard. As the activity continued, Moustapha began to shout additional orders. Motivated by one of these commands, a guard ran up to the still form of Bastien, which now hung limply between the two poles, and he cut him free. The soldier then dragged the semiconscious prince to an area in front of the stakes on which he had been secured. Now, the young man lay motionless on the ground. Two other guards approached the still form and they fastened the young man's wrists and ankles with long lengths of a heavy-duty rope. Next, they secured the opposite ends of each rope to the saddle of a riderless horse. After this process had been completed, the soldiers waited patiently as the young prince was revived. They watched with amusement as the first guard doused the nearly comatose lad with cold water, and he coughed and wheezed back to life. When the prince had sufficiently recovered, the villains began their bloodthirsty deed. Each of the four horses was whipped severely at the same instant, on Moustapha's command. This sent the hurt, frightened steeds bolting in four different directions. This sudden jolt wrenched the youth's limbs from their proper place on his body and left the ground covered with the prince's life giving juices. Screams and cries from the young girls now echoed across the courtyard and the King suspected that they, too, had just witnessed this unconscionable act. Othilue turned toward their screams, hoping to offer what solace he could, only to find something even more disturbing. Several soldiers were holding the pubescent maidens down, as their comrades took turns sexually assaulting their writhing bodies. This carnal assault continued for what seemed like an eternity to the King. When the last of the warriors had finished satisfying his physical lust, the girls were expendable. One by one, they were taken to meet their fate. Orthilina was dragged across the courtyard to a place where a pit had been dug in the soil. She looked into the hole and her face paled with what she saw. The pit was filled with the thick, writhing bodies of a multitude of vipers. Orthilina stiffened as the rabble pushed her forward, toward the brink of the excavation. Fighting to keep from being pushed in with those horrible reptiles, the stricken girl grasped one of her captors as she was flung forward. Struggling furiously to maintain her balance and prevent herself from falling among those deadly snakes, she clung furiously to her unprepared benefactor. The trooper was caught completely off guard by the princesse's frantic act, and he lost his footing. His arms were flailing violently about as he and the girl fell into the midst of the squirming forms. The deadly creatures lashed out and struck each victim numerous times, injecting them with enough venom to kill twenty times their number. Trying desperately to control his emotions, the King scanned the compound, searching for the other girls. Just as he located his niece, Adina, one of the guards grabbed her hair from behind, snapped her head backwards, and he drew his blade across her throat. Then he let her body fall, as she struggled to breathe and she felt the life ooze from her body. Orthiklue felt a sickening wave of nausea building from deep within his center. 'What cruel being could so nonchalantly massacre these innocent children?' he thought. 'What type of men could do such dastardly deeds?' He had little time to pursue these thoughts further, and he knew that he must push these questions from his mind. He must use this time to make an effort to plan his escape and revenge. As the King searched the area for a clue to what he might do to free himself and save the remainder of his family, he spied his next-to-youngest daughter, Latona. A soldier had just placed a noose around the young girl's neck and several of his mates were lifting her skyward. As the noose tightened around her throat, she had time to think about what was happening as her lungs burned and craved the oxygen they needed to survive. Her body squirmed violently as she tried unsuccessfully to shake loose from the hangman's knot, her face giving way to darker colors as her lungs were deprived of air. Finally, with her last dying throes ending, her body dangled limply above the ground on which she had stood only minutes before. The nauseated king lay back, staring blankly at the heavens. What more could possibly await him? What other foul things could the warped minds of Moustapha and Madumda still have planned? What other deeds were yet to be executed upon this bloody field? Orthilue did not have long to wonder as he heard the voice of Fabrien, his younger son and middle child. The young man, who had shown such promise as a diplomat for the kingdom, had been stripped and was being sexually assaulted. One soldier had rammed his thick cock up the young boy's ass, literally tearing him a new one. As he opened his mouth to scream, a second warrior shoved his ample dick down the young boy's throat and started to fuck his face. The two troopers continued to rape the lad, as roughly as they knew how, until they had filled him with their loads. Just as soon as these two had finished satisfying themselves, two more took their place. This continued until each man who wanted a turn had been satisfied. Fabrien collapsed onto the ground, exhausted from this grueling and degrading episode, when another soldier strode over and sliced off the boy's penis. The boy screamed and grabbed his crotch, but to no avail, until a huge warrior lifted the young man above his head and began walking. He made his way to a five-foot high stake that had been embedded into the earth. The end of the pole had been hewn to an extremely sharp point, which was soon bloodied as Fabrien's body was impaled upon it. The King began to swoon as this last ghoulish deed had been performed. He lay on the ground like a drugged man, not noticing that he was being lifted and moved. He was taken through the Great Gate to an open area east of the gaping mouth of the castle. There Moustapha's men drove four short stakes into the ground, in preparation of their next act. Now, the King's hands and feet were lashed firmly into place, each limb anchored to one of those pegs. Orthilue had already been stripped of his hauberk of chain mail and laid bare to the waist. Moustapha slid over to the King, his dagger clenched in his hand, and he bent over the bound form. Without the slightest hint of empathy, the general cut deep gashes into his victim's bare skin. Having inflicted several gaping wounds, the general stood erect and addressed the monarch. "Your destiny shall soon be fulfilled, oh mighty king, and the last of your family destroyed. It will not be much longer until the prophecy of the Sword of Kings will not pose a threat to my Lord and Master." This final statement triggered the King's recollection of a morsel of Tarolian history. Slowly, Orthilue remembered the prophecy that had been foretold with Madumda's initial rise to power during the days of his grandsire, Ethelbert. Too late, the King had finally pieced together the evil wizard's diabolical plan. This nearly forgotten prophecy had proclaimed that one of the descendants of Ethelbert would one day lift up the Sword of Kings and purge Tarolia of the evil that overshadowed it. It now appeared, however, that Madumda was trying to make sure that none of Ethelbert's descendants survived to fulfill this claim. As his final words died from memory, Moustapha whirled and led his men back thru the castle's gate. Orthilue wondered what they had in store for him. Surely there was to be more. The King looked about and surveyed the castle's walls, just as the general and his troops appeared along the battlements. Orthilue could not quite make out what he was doing, but he thought he saw Moustapha lift something toward his mouth. Eventually, the captive heard the long, shrill note that emanated from the slender whistle that the commander blew. As the note wafted over the King's securely lashed form, Orthilue realized that Moustapha was signaling someone or something, but the captive still could not fathom what. Slowly, Orthilue began to become aware of a beating sound filtering through the air. At first the King thought that it was a distant drum responding to the madman's call. But no, it could not be that, for the sound was becoming increasingly louder and more distinct as the time passed. Considering it again, there was a possibility that it was a drum, but the instrument and its drummer would have to be on the move. Was it beating out the cadence for a battalion of the Dark Lord's mercenaries, as they marched closer to the monarch's ancestral home? Orthilue listened carefully to see if this theory might prove to be correct, but he surmised that the volume of this beating tempo was increasing far too rapidly to be the marching cadence for any military troops. The captive struggled to lift his head and he peered in the direction from which the sound came. He hoped to see what was producing this rhythmic beat and unlock the mystery of its origin. Orthilue thought he caught a glimpse of some movement in the distance, but he found it difficult to believe what his senses were telling him. Although he wasn't fully capable of interpreting what it was that he saw, but he knew that it was extremely large. This anomaly was apparently traveling through the air and it was headed straight toward him. The King strained to look in that direction, trying to discern what type of creature this could possibly be. He continued to focus on the object until there was no doubt about what it was. Above him and off to his left soared a great bird whose wings seemed to dwarf even the King's noble stature. Each wing was longer than Orthilue was tall, and that was nearly 6' 6" tall! The bird was now close enough for the King to recognize its species. It appeared to be a giant condor. This was hard for him to believe, for it was far larger than any of that species that had ever been known to exist in the world. Its feathers were as black as the darkest night and its claws were like giant, pinkish meat hooks. A scavenger that feeds on the dead and dying, the condor discovered the bloodied King and it made its first dive. This was an exploratory swoop, to see if the victim would defend himself. As it passed over the still form of the sovereign for the second time, its claws dug into Orthilue's flesh and tore great chunks from his chest and thigh. The King's pain was excruciating, as he realized that the most devastating end had been reserved for him. The giant bird landed in the distance, taking its time to devour the first scraps of meat it had torn from its helpless prey. Having finished its first taste of this royal snack, the monster leaped into the air, rose high above the ground and circled the prostrate liege once more. Without warning, the vulture plummeted toward its victim, but it decided to land at the last moment. The feathered aggressor stood a short distance from the feet of his restrained target, and it cautiously examined the situation. Eventually, the great adversary began to waddle and hop forward, as the ruler attempted to make his final peace with his God and atone for whatever sins he might have committed. The condor realized its meal would offer no opposition and it hopped clumsily nearer its victim before it made its fatal lunge. The bird's beak and claws began rending flesh and splattering blood, as it greedily consumed the delicacy. The vulture continued this feeding frenzy until nothing remained but the bared, scattered bones of the monarch. * * * * * * * * If you have enjoyed reading this story, you will find other stories by me at http://www.teenboyauthors.org/thewolf, in the 'Other Stories' section. E-mails may be sent to: bwstories44@hotmail.com.