Date: Wed, 10 Jul 2013 15:59:34 -0700 (PDT)
From: greeneyeguysmut@yahoo.com
Subject: The Seven Winds of Malascon - Part I, The King is Dead

Copyright 2013 by Green Eye Guy. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to
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non-public use, without the express written permission of the author.

DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or
dead is purely coincidence and is not intended by the author. This work
contains homoerotic and sexual behavior between males and may not be legal for
reading or publication depending on local or national laws. Therefore the
reader is forewarned to read at their own risk.


The Seven Winds of Malascon
Part 1: THE KING IS DEAD
By Green Eye Guy, 2013


INTRODUCTION


It is said that with the Great War came the great winds, seven shifting
currents that each convey a different message from the corners of the world.
The Wind of Salt carries with it the desperate, dry fervor of the western
saltlands, soaking up hope and moisture like a sponge placed in a goblet of
water.  Equally ominous is the Wind of Embers, portending terrible heat that
scorches the land and sends even the most stalwart of farmers deep into their
clay abodes to pray for relief. It rises from the south with a flaming fury so
deep that some religious followers believe it to be a gust from the hells.

Then there is the Wind of the Quarries, a great cool rush that rises from the
gem-laden caverns in the eastern reaches of the province. Scented like the
earth, it is a comforting breeze that signals the beginning of prosperity and
the end of drought.  Its sister, the Wind of the Waves, is similarly
refreshing but gathers its essence from the great blue waves of the Alonsia
Mer to the far east where the sun rises high in the sky each morning and sends
glimmers off the choppy waves. But the Wind of the Waves is far from a stable,
peaceful gale; she often carries great storms capable of flooding the parched
land and restoring moisture to the soil.

From the north blows the Wind of Firn, a chilled gust that grows fiercer and
firmer with each passing harvest season, reminding the people of Malascon that
winter is creeping into the land.  During the hot summer months, it is revered
as a respite from the scourges of scorched air, bringing much-needed coolness
to the kingdom.

The Wind of War blows from neither direction, instead swirling high above the
land before gusting downwards in dreadful bursts.  Violent twisting columns
with terrible scarlet lightning accompany it, wreaking havoc and sowing fear
in the townspeople and lords alike.  Fortunately, since the end of the Great
War, this particular wind has scarcely been seen in the land.  Only six times
has it appeared in the past eight centuries, and two of those accounts are
widely believed to be falsities of Tyrenius the Bald, an illegitimate king
whose rule lasted but six days before he was dispatched by an assassin--his
own daughter.

Finally, the seventh wind is one that holds places in mystic's books from
times long ago.  The name and particulars of this force vary quite
significantly, and its direction is entirely uncertain.  Some say that it
originates among the swaying trees in the King's Grove, and others say it
belches forth from the buried crypts of the ancients, a force inhabited by
spirits themselves.  More often than not, the name given to it by the wise
scribe Lo'th Horlan is used: the Wind of Asda.  Far back in the history of the
realm, Asda was a god revered by the people as a protector of humanity who
would step in to save mankind when situations appeared hopelessly dire.  As
agrarian civilizations settled in and the nomadic life faded, the old deities
vanished one by one, eventually living on only through rotting scrolls.

Ironically, the wind named after this powerful benevolent was rumored to have
few redeeming qualities itself. It is written in the scrolls that this wind
would sweep into a town, castle or battlefield and dissipate all living
creatures instantly.  All that it left behind were clothes, jewelry, saddles
and daily accoutrements, though no trace of their users.  The Wind of Asda is
feared, most notably in scary stories told by children to induce nightmares in
siblings and friends.

In balance, all things are beautiful.  The good and the bad dance their
eternal waltz, while happiness and sadness swing on a perfect pendulum.  War
and peace; summer and winter; wet and dry.  Such are the Seven Winds, each
carrying qualities to bring harmony to the land of Malascon.  Too much of one
force yields chaos; too little the same.  But when they blow together, the
land is maintained and civilization marches forward.


THE CASTLE KEEP


The large man's gullet flared and he let out a low, throaty growl.  It was not
truly a menacing gesture; it was one of frustration and fatigue, a condition
not improved by his many years of stressful leadership.

"What do you mean he has failed?" he bellowed in a voice deep like that of a
mountain lion cornered against a rocky outcropping.  His companion, a thin man
with hair blackened artificially by charcoal, shifted his weight uneasily,
preparing to nervously answer to his king.  The king was an imposing figure,
tall and large-boned with short gray hair.  His teeth had been broken in many
battles, leaving him with jagged fangs that caught the light and scared young
children in the court.  His sunken eyes were dark and terrifying, and his dark
red leather made him look more rotund and demonic than usual.

"My king," the thin man said, clearing his throat, "It simply was not meant to
be, but I can assure you that Master Alphenon is hard at work on another..."
He could not bring himself to call the vile liquid brewing in the alchemist's
cauldron a poison; instead he frantically searched for a suitable alternative.
Drink?  Potion?  Elixir?

"Poison," said the king in a loud, annoyed voice. "Call it what it is, you
damned fool."

"Yes, of course, my liege.  Another poison.  The Master says this next one
will be foolproof..."  The thin man chewed his lip, biting hard and bringing
forth a single drop of red blood.  Before the king could see it, his tongue
darted forward and lapped it into the recesses of his dry, aching mouth.

"Aye, I've trusted your word before and I'll trust it now, but even still, I
won't have you mucking up another perfect plot," returned the king, his pasty
white face glowing red with exasperation.  It was almost as red as his leather
garb, in fact.  His gullet continued to throb, sending out visible pulses
through his thick neck.  The king was just shy of his 39th star rise, but he
looked nearly ten years older than his actual age.  His short gray hair had
been trimmed close to the head, most of it hidden beneath his large bejeweled
crown.  The townsfolk whispered that he wore the crown to bed, in the bath and
even when he made love; the thin man didn't doubt these hushed claims.  The
king's chest and belly grew rounder as he spent more and more time in his keep
and throne room preparing for imminent war with the rangers to the south.  The
stress had taken a toll on his new marriage, a desperate situation that had
not been helped by the recent struggles of primogeniture with which he
wrestled today.

"My king, I assure you, you will not be disappointed," the thin man said,
nervously wringing his fingers.  He imagined he was anywhere but the keep; in
this dark, secure room built of cold timberstone, he felt as though he was
trapped in a sealed crypt with no company save for a fat, angry demon.  A
demon that delighted in torment and watching mortals squirm.

The keep was situated within the castle walls, and only the king and his
immediately family had free access to it.  The single entrance was guarded at
all times by no less than four knights dressed in somber black plate mail.  It
was polished to look like hematite, and in torchlight, the armor itself
appeared to be on fire.

Down the hall from the keep's entrance, several strategy rooms held tables
with maps drawn on their surfaces for commanding forces.  The walls held
dozens of tomes and scrolls containing all knowledge of the realm.  One door
on the right was perpetually locked; the thin man had never seen it opened
before, and despite being the master of secrets and spies, he did not know
what it contained.  The king refused to divulge its contents.

Down another corridor, a door led to the throne room.  This great space had
vaulted ceilings that stretched toward the heavens.  Large paned glass windows
overlooked the sea on one side and the city on the other.  At the front of the
room, on a raised platform, sat two great thrones.  The larger was for the
king, and it was carved of pure yellow gold and adorned with rich velvets on
its seat and arms.  The symbol of the king's family, the swallow, was carved
into the head.  Though a tiny bird with little fight value, swallows were
land-based birds who were good omens to ships arriving at port.  The king
himself was devoted to the symbol, going so far as to have several dozen birds
trained to deliver messages around the kingdom.  The program was met with
limited success; however, where the birds failed, the human messengers would
quietly take up the messages themselves and deliver them in the night.  The
king remained unaware of these setbacks, insisting that the birds were
symbolic of a new age of communications for the realm.

The royal family lived in the spires above the keep and throne room, and they
dined in the large room adjacent to the throne.  The castle was, by all
accounts, a suitable place for year-round living and comfortable luxury.

"I imagine I won't be disappointed," said the king, his neck throbbing less,
as the thin man snapped back to the situation at hand.  "In fact, I suspect I
won't have to worry about your performance at all this time."  He sneered and
smiled, then turned to the guard at the door, nodding knowingly.

The guard reached behind him with a flash of his black plate mail and
unlatched the wooden door.  The thin man could hear something clanging in the
hall; the noise grew steadily louder.  He looked behind him to see a chained
figure being dragged into the room.  A hood covered its head, and it was
wearing a long, loose tunic of coarse burlap that disguised any other
identifying characteristics.  The figure was silent, but the thin man could
see that it was quivering in fear.

The thin man watched intently, curious as to who was under the hood without
displaying any emotions.  "It's one of two people," though the thin man. "No
matter which, I need to be strong."  When the guard snatched the hood away, a
long mess of auburn hair tumbled down in front of the figure's shadowed face.
The guard roughly grabbed the red-brown fibers and pulled them back, showing
the visage of a frightened woman who stared first at the thin man and then at
the king.  She was pale, and her eyes were wide, but she managed to open her
mouth.

"M-m-my k-k-king," she stuttered, tears forming in the corners of her pale
blue eyes.  "I-I-I am ashamed..."

"Ashamed?  For what?" the king bellowed back, making her quivers stronger.  A
small pool of urine trickled out from under her long burlap covering.

"F-f-for whatever it is-s that I have d-d-done to disappoint you, my king,"
she said, salty tears now rolling down her cheeks.  She shifted her gaze to
the thin man again, whose emotions had not betrayed him.  The woman looked sad
and tried to use her eyes to elicit some feeling of tenderness or, at least,
pity.

"Shackelford, for a man whose wife is chained in front of him, you don't seem
to show much emotion," the king continued.  "Your closest confidante, likely,
and one who has given you three children from the depths of her belly, if I'm
not mistaken."

The woman sobbed, buckling slightly.  The guard beside her clenched her arm
tightly, preventing her from falling entirely.  Her pained face looked to the
thin man for some comfort.

"My liege, I fear greatly for Lady Genna, and my heart breaks to see her in
such a state," Shackelford said, his voice resolute.  The woman let out a loud
groan in the midst of sobs, knowing that this man did not spare her any pain
with his emotionless retort.

"Ah, enough with the games, Shackelford.  I've had about enough of your bile
and disappointment for one lifetime.  Guards," the king commanded, motioning
again to the door.  Shackelford braced to be taken away, but no one
approached.  His wife remained; what did the king have planned?

Not a moment later, the sound of clanging chains returned in the hallway.

This time, Shackelford's face showed signs of worry.  He looked at the king,
biting his lip and bringing forth a second drop of blood.  Would he bring in
one, two or three of his own children?  Perhaps his long-suffering mother?
Or...?

As expected, another figure was dragged into the room, dressed identically
like Genna.  This time, when the hood was ripped off, Shackelford sucked in a
gasp of air loudly enough that even Genna turned her stare toward him, her
face slowly twisting in confusion and malign.  This figure elicited a
response; the chaining of his wife, however, did not.

The handsome young man beneath the second hood was barely 20, yet he looked to
be somewhat older than his years.  His short brown hair, normally slicked back
with animal renderings, hung loosely over his forehead.  He looked up with
bright green eyes, staring at Shackelford without so much as acknowledging the
presence of the king or the auburn-haired woman next to him.

Happy to have elicited a reaction from the thin man, the king started up
again.  This time, his tone was queer; he didn't bellow, but rather, spoke in
a slow, drawn voice.  "So it was as my spies said...  Shackelford, trusted
agent of the king and keeper of secrets for the land, is a cock-sucking, man-
loving abomination after all.  Tsk, tsk, old friend."

Genna began weeping again, her hands bound tightly by the iron shackles.  The
young man finally turned his intense gaze from the thin man, whose pale face
looked exceptionally drawn and upset.  He instead looked at his fellow
prisoner, feeling her pain and understanding the betrayal he had been
complicit in committing.  He had known Shackelford for quite some time, and
he'd enjoyed his company for the past several years, but he'd known nothing of
this autumn-haired beauty to whom his sophisticated paramour was married.  It
made the young man feel ill, and he clenched his unguarded sphincter tightly
thinking of how freely he'd given it to this traitor before him.

"Take 'er away," the king said loudly, motioning through the air with one
hand. "I can't stand to see a lady crying.  Let her go free.  She'll no more
bother with the likes of this scum."  The woman looked up at the king with a
tear-stained face and nodded, unable to speak but visibly grateful for his
compassion.

As she was guided from the room by the guard who braced her arm, walking
through the puddle of now-cool urine, she shot one final glance at her
disgraced husband.

"May the wrath of Asda find you and your friend," she muttered, motioning her
head toward the boy as she mentioned him, her voice raspy and weak. "And may
the gods keep you from ever finding comfort in one another's arms ever again."

As the first guard escorted her from the room, the second knight closed the
chamber door, leaving just the king, Shackelford and the young man in the room
with two sentries.  The king, obviously pleased with the ruination of his
failed lead agent, was not done with his humiliation just yet.

"Remove his tunic," the king said to the guard, looking disdainfully at the
young man.  Shackelford was breathing heavily, suddenly bearing a red face
much like that of the flaring king just moments before. "Show me Shackelford's
plaything."

The guard ripped the coarse tunic from the boy's slender frame, letting the
hard fibers scrape against his soft skin.  It left red marks on his shoulders,
tiny scuffs to match the tears the shackles left on his wrists.  As the tunic
tore, his lean, slightly muscular chest came into view followed by his smooth,
toned thighs.  Finally, as the last of the rough garment tore away, the man's
full body was on display for the small audience in the chamber.  His plump
cock, perfectly shaped, protruded from his groin, sprouting from a carpet of
rich, thick, curly brown fur.  Two pear-shaped balls were in a sac below that,
resembling a statue in their delightful near symmetry.  The king imagined they
probably swung when he walked, and he could imagine Shackelford's delight at
watching the boy bend over provocatively.

"Ah, I can see why you were so tempted by this fine specimen of manhood,
Shackelford," said the king, a tone of dangerous giddiness taking root in his
thick, heavy voice.  It was uncharacteristic of the usually stern,
conservative ruler.  The king beckoned the guards to bring the prisoner closer
to him, and they dragged him forward.  His soft feet slid along the smooth
hardwoods of the floor until he rested just an arm's length from the ruler.
Shackelford watched with horror, swallowing loudly and blinking repeatedly.

The king rose from his seat and walked around the young man, examining him in
his entirety.  He let out approving grunts as he examined his cock, his round
firm ass and his muscular arms. Next, the king commanded his guard to prod the
boy with his sword, firmly enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin.
The boy whimpered in pain and embarrassment.  The king examined the press
marks from each poke closely before walking back to his chair.

"Tsk, tsk," said the king upon sitting again in the keep's chair. "I've had
many whores in my time as king, but never a boy."

"Please," begged Shackelford, sensing the steadily growing maniacal tone of
the king's voice, "Let the boy go.  He had no part in my failure.  In fact,
the new poison was all his idea.  He wanted to fix the error that I caused."

The king motioned to the guard, who approached the chair and bent on one knee.
The fat man whispered something in his ear, something Shackelford could not
hear.  The guard turned, exited the room and returned a moment later bearing a
red-hot brand in the image of the swallow.  The boy began to cry, and the thin
man was breathing very heavily.

"Boy," said the king, beckoning with one finger.  "Come here."  The boys sobs
echoed in the tight keep, and his penis and scrotum retracted in fear.  Had it
been less dire, Shackelford would have found the response adorably innocent.
But as it were, both their lives were on the line and it was not a time for
such sentiments.

"Bend over, boy, and show me your tight hole," bellowed the king, his voice
raising steadily as he continued. "Show me Shackelford's heaven."

Crying more, the boy bend over, his beautiful toned ass in the air.  His
fingers reached in between the split of his legs, revealing his clenched anus.
The king took the red hot brand from the knight and aimed it at the boy's
right cheek.

"This WILL hurt, boy," he said, "But I suspect it will hurt Shackelford even
more."

The thin man was now weeping, too, watching his lover brace for pain.

Swiftly, the king pressed the small swallow brand into the boy's flesh,
searing it with a loud sizzle.  He screamed, but was held in place by the
guards.  The king pushed harder, forcing the burning metal deeper into the
boy's buttocks.  Finally, when it seemed like it could go no further, the king
stopped and accidentally dropped the holder.  The hot metal snapped the brand
off, with the poker sliding out of the deep cauterized wound.

"It seems, my boy, that you'll forever have a reminder of this turn of events
stuck up your ass," said the king, laughing slightly.  The boy was still
screaming and crying in pain from the hot iron that refused to leave his
disfigured bottom. Making a crude joke, the king added, "At the very least,
you'll always have a swallow."

Turning from the pained youth, the king now focused on Shackelford himself.

"Oh, old friend," said the king.  "You may have been the master of secrets for
my kingdom, but your position has still managed to elude your personal life.
And you were none the wiser, and that's simply unacceptable for someone in
your...position."

Shackelford's sadness at his lover's predicament melted into confusion, and he
turned from the king to the burned boy and back again.  "Your pardon, my
king?" he said between tearful sniffles.

"You see, your betrayal wasn't at the hands of my whisperers.  Oh, no.  It was
from someplace much...closer," said the king, his voice bellowing with
confidence again.  The gleeful sadism was gone, for the moment.

Shackelford's sadness was gone and replaced with fiery contempt.

"How could you do this to me, Epton?" Shackelford said to the young man
crumpled on the floor in a blubbering heap, his mouth twisted into a grimace
of fury. "After all I gave to you, after all I did for you?  Our nights of
pleasure were unparalleled by all the whores of the realm, and all the
prestige I gave you in the court--did it all count for nothing?"

In his mind, Shackelford raced through all their moments of passion.  The time
he and Epton first made passionate love after the tournament in the grassy
knoll beyond the jousting arena, still wearing their tunics...  The time they
had swam nude in the sea before fucking passionately on the sandy beach,
cumming all over the dunes...  The time when, using only his tongue pressed
around and into his tight anus, Shackelford made the boy shimmer with orgasmic
delight, shooting a hot stream of seed several feet into the air...  The times
they bathed together in moonlight, the younger massaging his older friend's
feet and biting playfully at his wet, hard nipples...

In his anger and reminiscing, Shackelford didn't hear the keep's door slowly
swing open behind him, and he didn't see the shadowy figure enter the room.
It was dressed in a dark cloak made by one the realm's top tailors, a finery
reserved for royalty and the wealthiest of patrons.  In an instant, the figure
was behind Shackelford with a sharp, shining dagger drawn.

"No, dear husband, it wasn't your boy who betrayed you.  It was your dear,
sweet, loving wife," said Genna, her tunic replaced by a set of chain mail
below the expensive cloak.  Her hair was pulled back in a tight, neat
ponytail, and her tears were gone.  This new woman's face was full of
resentment and anger, not sadness or regret.

Without waiting for his response, she plunged the dagger into her husband's
back, twisting it as it sliced through the flesh and pierced his spinal
column.  It became stuck for a moment on the vertebrae, but Genna's force
ensured that it did not linger at the bone.  She felt it lodge for a brief
second, then it sliced through sinews that she assumed were his nerves.  The
thin man's face conveyed shock as he crumpled to the ground.  The young, nude
Epton yelled, still favoring his unwounded cheek as he spun around to watch
his lover fade.  This time, the hot tears were his.  He lowered himself as
much as he could, his heavy sac resting on the cool hardwood floor while his
mouth hung open.

Within seconds, Shackelford was dead.  Genna made sure of this by kicking him
with her steel-tipped boot, a final disgrace for her unfaithful husband.

"My king," said Epton, his voice cracking.  "I loved that man, but I owe you
my life.  You always have had, and always will have, my loyalty"

"Yes, and my swallow brand stuck up your tight ass.  But you owe me more than
what your life is worth, you foul deviant," said the king, his bearded lips
twisting into a snarled position. "And you're going to pay the debt in full."

Genna took her place beside the king, wiping the dagger with a strip of
Shackelford's own shirt that she unceremoniously ripped off after he fell.
She looked at the king with a wry smile, anticipating his next cruel move.

"You have a new duty, young, vile Epton, and lest you wish to join your lover
in death, I'd suggest that you perform it well," the king said to him.  The
boy nodded quickly, his cock bouncing as he did.

"Anything, my king, anything at all," he replied verbally, fervently clasping
and shaking his hands emphatically.  As he shook his arms, his soft, thick
cock jiggled again.  Genna smirked, silently wondering how her dead husband
had managed to ply such a tasty morsel for himself.

"If I were younger," she thought, "I'd bed him.  Whether he liked it or
not..."

"I thought so," the king said, bringing Genna out of her lurid fantasy with
the nude boy. "Now, tell me, how well do you know my son, Crown Prince Calib?"

"Not well, I fear, my king," Epton said, glancing at the crumpled body of his
lover. "I've seen him at the tournaments riding his golden steed, and once, I
caught glimpse of him touring the town square during the closing of harvest
last year."

"Ah, yes, the harvest ride.  THAT harvest ride," the king said, shaking his
head. "It figures you'd remember his antics that day.  But that'll do, as long
as you're familiar with his face.  It's all that matters,"  The boy nodded
quickly and furiously, trying to best convince the king that he could carry
out any task to which he was assigned.  Blood pooled around Shackelford's
corpse, running along the floorboards toward the keep's solid wood door.
Where Genna stood in her shackles a few minutes prior, the blood mixed
unceremoniously with her urine to form a grotesque pink liquid.

"Very well.  You'll get one chance, and one only.  You must kill Calib and
make sure that no evidence is left behind."

Epton's eyes grew large, and he swallowed heavily. The pain momentarily
disappeared from his backside.  "...K-k-kill the prince, your heir?  Are you
certain, my king?"

The king's eyes suddenly widened with rage, and he bellowed back, "How dare
you question the orders of your king, you filth!  Would you like to suffer the
same fate as this dead man at my boots?"

Epton shook his head.  "No, no, my king.  I shall kill Calib, and none in the
kingdom will be the wiser."

Genna looked at the king, her half-smile still stretched across her face.  She
knew the king had greatness in store for the realm, and removing Calib from
the line of succession was the first pin that needed to be extracted from the
fray.  These deviants all needed to be...extinguished.  One at a time, slowly
but completely.

"Go now, boy, and do your duty before the week is done," the king said, waving
him off impatiently. "And if you fail, well, I shall not grant you so merciful
a fate as your friend here," he added, giving Shackelford another kick to the
gut.  The corpse did not react, save for a bit more blood exiting his mortal
wound.

The young man rose and limped away in his shackles.  Escorted by a guard who
pulled him at a fast clip, the king and Genna watched as he was taken from the
room before the door was closed by the sentry behind him.

Genna turned to face the king again, and he returned her gaze.

"What will you do if he fails?" asked Genna, her dagger back in its sheath at
her hip.  She was a completely different woman from the bitch who had been
dragged in wearing chains, but then again, her performance had been pitch
perfect.  The woman could act, and she could act well.  The king didn't let
this fact slip his mind.

He thought a moment before responding.

"I'll pluck his pears, and maybe chop down his thick little tree, and then
I'll feed them to my hounds," said the king.  Genna returned the vile
revelation with a wider, more sadistic smile. "Better yet, I'll slice 'em off
and make him feed 'em to the dogs himself."


THE KING'S GROVE


"THREE!" shouted the blond boy, watching eagerly as the two equally young men
in front of him grinned sheepishly and dropped their leather breeches to the
grass beneath their bare feet.  They were now fully nude, and with their hands
at their sides, there was no hiding their ample genitals.  The taller boy had
a longer cock, but shorter boy with darker hair had a thick member and much
larger, rounder balls.  Both sets were beautiful in their own regard.

The blond boy laughed mirthfully, jumping to his own feet to get a better
glimpse at the boys displayed in front of him.  He'd witnessed his 17th star
rise 11 moons earlier, and his 18th was fast upon him.  But the blond boy
looked much younger than his years with soft, smooth skin tanned ever so
slightly by the sun.  His dark blond hair was streaked with highlights, and
his features were perfectly proportioned and accentuated to fit his chiseled
face.  He was a living statue, carved of the finest marble with deep-set
silver eyes and delicious muscles.  The silver eyes were his proudest feature,
a symbol of the royal blood that had flowed through the veins of kings for
millennia.  His father had them, and his grandfather had had them before that.
His youngest brother also had the silver eyes, but the middle son was cursed
with one silver iris and one blue.  They called him Ice because of the frigid
look imparted by the heterochromia, a nickname not helped by his light blond
hair and fair complexion.  His real name was Lextyr, and the youngest prince
was simply named Jey.

Calib was, though, the handsomest of the lot without any question or doubt.
He was also the heir to the throne, and it was only his eyes that mattered in
the history books.  Ice would never be king; Calib was strong, fit and well-
liked by many, the perfect choice to assume the throne.  With one exception:
he was openly gay and recklessly flamboyant.

It was an odd position for an heir to such a large kingdom.  Those not born of
noble blood could be executed for merely being suspected of homosexuality in
the realm, but Calib turned away at those executions and spared himself the
pain of his father's people.  "Deviants," the king called them, full aware of
his own son's proclivities.  But the family of the king was untouchable, and
even though social climates were always dictated by the one who wore the
crown, he was in no position to touch his own son.  Calib, with his striking
good looks and playful personality, saw no reason to hide what most suspected
from an early age and instead took to flaunting it.

He was in his 13th year when he discovered the joys of the flesh during a bath
with one of the other noble boys, a cousin of his, aged 16 years.  As the boys
splashed in the warm waters while the house master left to pursue more leichen
bark soap, his cousin leapt from the large marble bath and bolted the bath's
door shut.  He turned with a large erection, then proceeded to fondle and suck
the young prince's cock, bringing him to a dry orgasm in minutes.  Surrounded
by warm water and the tender touch of a handsome boy, he knew he'd found his
desire.  The prince and his cousin would have many more encounters over the
years, both in the baths and around the castle, with Calib soon returning the
favor of a warm, moist mouth around his cousin's throbbing manhood. "You taste
like toasted almonds wrapped in fresh, fragrant honeysuckle," said Calib, much
to the older boy's happiness.

But last year, it all changed.  The cousin rode off with a group of horse
riders to oversee expansion of the realm into the northwest forests.  The
group was met with resistance from a roving pack of wild rangers, and as Calib
learned, his cousin's head was removed and sent back to the castle in an iron
chest along with various other body parts and viscera from the slaughtered
men.  His cousin's mother wept uncontrollably for days, and when Calib looked
inside the chest at the decaying gray face with frosted eyes and a jagged
neckline, hacked off by some crude wooden axe it seemed, he didn't see the
tender good looks of his former lover; he saw only despair and pain.  Calib
turned away, left the room and vomited violently in the hall.

For weeks, Calib remained quiet and celibate, an echo of his former jubilance.
He comforted himself with long walks through the castle's halls and the King's
Grove, a dark forested garden located just off the southern portcullis.  There
the roses bloomed fragrant and lovely, and it took his mind off the loss of
his dear cousin and bedmate.

One day, while he walked among the thorny flowering bushes, he was joined by
his mother, the queen.  Unlike her gruff husband, the queen was a beautiful
and kind figure in the court.  Her smile brought warmth to the cold castle
walls, and Calib loved her dearly.  Her long hair was braided into an
exquisite style, and her tender skin was just beginning to show the signs of a
woman of her age.  Still, she exuded elegance and fairness.

"Calib," she said, walking arm-in-arm with her son. "Why do you walk so
listlessly these past several weeks?  Surely you cannot still be mourning the
loss of dear Raynen?  I know you were close, but this cannot be good for any
prince, let alone heir to the crown."

He bit his lip, wondering how to respond.  He searched for a response that
would be diplomatic yet honest. "Mother, there's no easy way to say this..."

"You loved him, Calib.  Loved him more dearly, more deeply, than any cousin.
I know," she said, smiling calmly. "I knew from the first time you locked
Master Venna out of the bath and let that boy indulge your pleasures.  You may
have been locked in at the time, but the door was far from soundproof."

"But...  Venna told you?" he asked, puzzled.

"No," she said. "A mother just knows these things, and in his case, it was
what Master Venna didn't say that confirmed what I already knew in my heart.
Didn't you find it a bit strange that you were still bathing with lesser
nobles in your 13th year and not complaining?"

"I suppose," Calib said, realizing that his secret was no secret at all.  If
that shrew Shackelford, a good friend of Master Venna, knew, he would spread
those words like wildfire until everyone in the court knew--including his
father, the king.

"Still, my little raptor, it does not change how much I love you.  You must
embrace yourself no matter what the consequences may be, and never let anyone
sway you."

"Does father know?" Calib asked.

"Does it matter?" retorted the queen, leaning in to hug her son.  They sat at
a bench and quietly watched the bees flit around the roses for several minutes
before heading inside together for supper.

But that was before the queen left on a short trip across Alonsia Mer to
select new fabrics for the royal bedchambers.  The best silk vendors took up
residence in the port cities across the sea.  Two days into the three day
voyage, the royal barge's helm cracked while gliding over the waves with his
mother in her quarters.  She had been with child, though only the royal family
and closest confidantes knew at the time; the priestess predicted it would be
a girl, the first princess of the realm in nearly 60 star rises.  A fisherman
later told the court that despite paddling toward the sinking ship as quickly
as his crew could muster, the sea had been intent on swallowing up the
beautiful queen and her unborn baby.  Calib often imagined his mother
peacefully cradling her belly as the cabin filled with water, her golden
braids floating on the water even as her head was forced under the waves...
Yes, he imagined, she would have been as graceful in accepting death as she'd
been in living life.

The king had the fisherman and his crew hanged in the courtyard the afternoon
of their testimony.  The charges were brutal and harsh: treason against the
crown for all for not having saved the swallow's sparkling eye, the great
queen.  As their bodies swung in the prevailing Wind of the Salt, Calib looked
at his father's wrinkled face.  For the first time that he could remember, a
single tear glinted at the corner of his left eye.  He turned to face the sea
before it ran down his cheek.

Now, six months later, the king's heart grew colder as Calib's spirit became
wilder and more rambunctious.  No longer constrained by the love and respect
he had for his fair mother, his impish antics grew more and more plentiful--
and more embarrassing for the king.

During the harvest festival, while on the back of a decorated royal litter
walking through the streets, the young prince slipped out of his silk
vestments and waved to the crowds with no coverings on his lithe body.  The
warm air felt good on his skin, and the guards were powerless to touch him.
Women, men and everyone in between hooted and hollered, and some said it was
the loudest crowd ever to assemble in the city of Pronna.  The king only heard
of the insolence back at the castle some time later, and he spent a good many
hours hollering at his heir for making such a foolish mockery of the crown.

"As if I didn't have enough to worry about in this kingdom, what with your
mother dead and gone, I also have to deal with your deviance!" shouted the
king, lashing at the boy with his silk breeches.  Calib still stood nude by
choice before his father, unashamed of his nakedness.

When the king was blue in the face and could scream no more, Calib asked, "If
that's all, my king, I'll return to my chambers.  I hope that escapade was as
hard for you as it was for me."  He then turned, showing the king the
silhouette of his large erection as he marched back up the tower to his room.
He didn't bother to bring his silk clothes with him, letting the growling king
throw them into the fireplace to burn.

On another occasion, Calib invited six noble boys up to his bed chambers for a
festive early winter orgy.  They drank wine and sucked one another's cocks,
and Calib laughed a good many days after that as they watched snowflakes fall
past the arched windows of his chamber.  It wasn't until the following week,
when his penis was met with a burning sensation as he urinated, that he became
concerned about his choice of playmates.  The castle's potion master, Master
Alphenon, examined the prince's genitals up close and delivered the news: he'd
contracted a known venereal disorder from one of his friends, and he would
need to slather his manhood in a medicinal paste that smelled strongly of
anise for one moon.

He thought the paste disgusting until one day when Master Venna, instructing
him in the science of astronomy, took a deep whiff of the air near the young
pupil and declared his craving for a licorice sweet from the kitchens.  He
couldn't figure out why.  Calib burst out laughing, knowing that the master
had unwittingly desired for the aroma of the thick black medicine slathered on
his cock, not a nibble of sweet candy.

As the prince's debauchery continued, the king grew more and more frustrated
with his heir.  It was one thing to quietly savor the forbidden pleasures of
fornication in locked bed chambers as the moon glided overhead; it was another
entirely to embarrass the royal family's name and honor.

"He's not fit to glint the silver in his eyes," the king told Shackelford over
a private lunch in the keep one day. He sipped on the liquid in his robust
stew, chewing bits of mutton and root vegetables as they appeared on his
spoon.  "And as I grow older and the kingdom grows restless, this is the
scourge to which my people feel obligated."

"I'm certain Prince Calib will outgrow most of this silliness, my king," said
Shackelford, himself a frequent visitor of the same young men that the prince
enjoyed. "Besides, even if he does not...  There are other ways of dealing
with such things."

Back in the King's Grove, surrounded by his two young companions, the prince
smiled, fell backward and stretched his tight, thin body amongst the rays and
blades of tall grass.  He wriggled his bare toes in the dirt and foliage,
loving the way the blades tickled the soft soles of his dainty feet. "You
know," he said quite slyly, "There's only one thing I like more than rolling
around in the spring sun like this."

"And what would that be, my prince?" said the shorter boy, his two large balls
rolling about their sac with sexual anticipation.  He was starting to perk up,
though he was not yet entirely hard.

"Rolling around with both my holes filled," said the prince with a grin,
peeling away his leather breeches and tossing them to the side.  The taller
boy lifted off his shirt, and the three began a passionate embrace.  Their
moans carried up along the heavy tree trunks into the canopy where they
dissipated into the skies.

After the short boy came in the prince's ass, and the taller boy released down
his throat, the prince himself was pleasured by both youth working on his own
hard cock.  While one kissed its base and his balls, the other deep throated
the shaft.  Then, they would kiss each other and switch off in an erotic game
of tag.  It wasn't long before the young prince released his own royal seed,
leaving a trail along the face of the taller boy.  The boy smiled and darted
his tongue toward the creamy cum, licking it up.

The three lay in the sun for several hours, napping and stroking one another's
chests.  It was peaceful, and it was exciting.  But mostly, it was a much-
needed diversion from the prince's woes of the past year.  After all, as Calib
told himself, it was better to get fucked than to simply feel fucked.


THE BROTHEL


Just outside the castle gates, the city of Pronna spread out as far as the eye
could see.  It was the center of Malascon's government and culture, and it was
by far the most significant location in all the kingdom.  From markets to
vendors and craftsman, if a trade had a place anywhere in Malascon, it had
representation in the city of Pronna.

Several blocks away from the castle, an old stone building not unlike its
neighbors advertised its services as a place for weary travelers to rest their
heads at night.  The front half of the building was an ordinary tavern;
however, behind the bar and through a tiny dark corridor beyond that, the
business' true moneymaking operations could be found shrouded in semi-secrecy.
An elaborate brothel tailoring to all tastes was tucked away in the second,
third and fourth stories of the building, giving locals and informed travelers
more than just sleep at night--if they had the coin to spare.

Though most of the workers there were perky young women, there were four men
employed as pleasure workers.  Three catered to the aristocratic women with
their rippling muscles, toned physiques and hairy masculine bodies.  Stripped
from the waist up at all times, their noblewomen were regular clients at the
establishment and paid their whore men well.  To keep women from impregnating
themselves, the three had been forced to undergo sterilization prior to
joining the brothel.  A hot knife was slipped swiftly behind the balls of each
boy, severing the necessary piping to plant a seed between a woman's legs.
The pain had been intense but faded after several days with the application of
ice blocks from the northlands, and the enormous amounts of coin the three men
collected erased any regrets they'd had about the operation.

The fourth male pleasure worker, however, was a curious one.  Reserved for
noblemen, he serviced only illicit male clients.  Because of his sexuality, he
didn't have to go under the knife before working in the brothel.  That fact
made his fellow workers jealous, though they were glad they didn't have to
cater to the whims of deviants like him and the grotesque services he had to
dole out each day.

The gay whore boy's skin was like fresh cream, poreless and soft.  Every
morning and every night, he spent an hour in the baths scrubbing and
exfoliating, making him a continuously fresh delight.  With the help of one of
the older woman workers in the brothel, he carefully plucked all of this body
hairs save a few around his cock--"Just in case one of the noblemen prefers
his bird in the bush," he said--even clearing out the hairs around his tight,
clean anus.

The boy regularly rubbed spices and oils into his body and short raven hair,
giving him a luscious aroma that drove his customers frantic with passion.
The spices lingered for days on his soft, supple skin, and one particularly
greasy client of his compared him to the spice shop across Alonsia Mer in the
city of Cullutia, a port town with a shady reputation.

"I've never been," replied the boy as the nobleman buried his oily face
between his ass cheeks, supping on his boyish hole.

Coming up for a breath of air, the nobleman replied, "I'll take you there,
perhaps. Gods know I'll have plenty to eat on the ship across."  His tongue
and nose returned to the whore's man hole, greedily ravaging it for many more
minutes.

Unlike the other male workers, the milky white boy never wore any clothes
around the brothel.  He often went weeks without putting on a single silk.
However, he did always wear his two nipple piercings as well as the solid gold
guiche behind his sac.  That piercing had been particularly painful, but it
was well worth it once it healed.  He could still feel the piercer's needle
ripping through his taint, and his cries and tears lasted for days as the
wound oozed blood.  When it finally healed, it opened a whole new world of
pleasure for him.  Each time a man fucked his ass or nibbled on his delicate
anus, they would brush the sensitive piercing, sending him into a wave of
pleasure.  A perk for a priss, thought the boy.

Other than his three piercings, the boy also wore two other pieces of gold
jewelry.  The first was a solid gold anklet which draped over the top part of
his slender right foot.  The other was a matching gold ring, which he slipped
on his second toe on the same right foot.  He thought about wearing the ring
on his pinky finger, but with the number of handjobs and fingerings he
performed, it seemed safer to keep it out of business' way.  He couldn't stand
to think of his precious ring swimming up some old man's anus for the rest of
his year's before being buried in the cold, hard ground.

The boy's earnings were deposited directly into an account at the brothel, and
he made a tidy sum each month.  At his rate, he would be able to buy his way
out of indentured sex work and begin turning a profit before the summer was
upon the land.  Men came from around the kingdoms' lordships to spend a night
with him, and he was frequently reserved months in advance.  A piece of honey
cake.

Truth be told, the boy was, quite frankly, a fantastic lover.  He knew how to
work all of his parts, and his versatility in the bedroom satiated all wants
and desires.  He could gyrate his hips and bring a man to orgasm in minutes,
clenching his muscles and releasing as he took the man's full cock for a nice,
slow ride.  On top of his pleasant ass, the boy was also exceptionally
flexible and could contort into a number of positions.  Some men came just
watching him suck himself off, an enviable trait and easy money for the boy.
Others longed for his long, soft tongue to explore their own bodies.  Once,
the boy even took two cocks in his own ass at one time, a logistical feat made
possible only by his extreme flexibility.  Though the cocks were lean, it
still hurt (though not as much as the guiche piercing); however, he made an
impressive sum for a few minutes of pain, and despite bleeding after the fact
for several hours, he vowed to never turn down such an opportunity again no
matter how painful it promised to be.  He was a businessman first, and a flesh
teaser second.

This particular spring afternoon, the boy had only one appointment: a middle-
aged lord from the edge of the salt plains who was traveling to the king's
castle to report on conditions out west.  The lord was handsome, and the boy
rather liked his salt and pepper hair.  It suited him and gave him a dignified
appearance though he'd only just seen his 34th star rise.  Though, having
walked through his sexual proclivities with him, the boy knew there wasn't
much else dignified about him in the bedroom.

"Well, well, sweet Wylem of Pronna," the well-dressed visitor said at the
doorway, catching the boy off guard.  He dropped his anklet on the floor and
quickly picked it up, turning sensually as he did.  He would have recognized
the lord's voice anywhere.

"If it isn't Lord Mynnrhor in the flesh!  How you started this poor little
working boy," said Wylem with a twinkle.  He stood to face the lord and give
him a full view of his boyish good looks.

"I swear, you haven't gained a single day since I saw you last, but you look a
bit buffer.  Have you been working out?"

"Not out, but working, yes."  Wylem approached the lord and put his hands
around his neck, leaning in with his lips for a long, savory kiss.  Before
long, the lord was as nude as his boy whore and they were fucking all over the
bedroom.  Hours later, the man slipped away leaving his usual fare on the
table.  Wylem bid him farewell and a safe return soon.

After his guest had left, Wylem intended to rest for a while before making the
evening rounds, helping out the women of the brothel and taking care of
housekeeping chores that they shared equally.  As he closed his chamber's
door, it was forced back open immediately, knocking him back onto his messy
bed.

Standing before him were his three working male colleagues.  Brun was a tall
boy with a shaved head, popular with many of the older noblewomen for his
strong cheekbones and his stronger cock.  Ollivan was a bit shorter and had
brown hair with perfect eyebrows and amber eyes, and his rippled abdominal
muscles were the envy of all the young men in the city.  Finally, Zaphryn was
an exotic young man from across the seas with skin the color of oak bark and a
silky, sweet voice that could charm any woman to a climax without so much as a
finger.  Wylem had secretly lusted over him for some time but never had an
opportunity to act on his feelings; he doubted Zaphryn would have given him
more than a swift blow to the temple.

"We heard you and Lord Minnow going at it again," said Brun, while Ollivan and
Zaphryn sniggered at the fishy nickname for Wylem's client.  "It sounded to us
like you were a good boy, taking it up the ass and moaning to make him feel
adequate?"

"Fuck off," said Wylem, turning from the three.  They were rough with him, but
they'd never hurt him.  There was a certain brotherhood to the brothel, and
some lines were never crossed.  Or so Wylem thought.

"You know what, priss, we think it's about time that we start taking on some
of the noblemen, too.  You're getting awfully wealthy off 'em, aren't you?"
Brun continued as Zaphryn shut the door.  The boys began closing in on him,
making him feel suddenly nervous about what would come next.  "So tonight,
you're going to teach us what it is that you do so well in here."

Wylem was scared.  He'd never been confronted by three muscular men at once,
and he knew they could easily hurt him in many ways.  In a brothel, a broken
bone was the loss of six weeks of work, and torn holes or diseases benched
whores for longer than that.  On top of his trepidation about violence, he
didn't want to share his clients with these three; he was so close to paying
his way out of poverty and making a life for himself that he couldn't bear the
thought of losing it all this far in the game.

"Nah, I think you're better suited to pussies and tits," said Wylem, trying to
brush past them to get into the hall.  He knew his escape wouldn't work, but
he was too flustered to come up with a better plan.  Naturally, the three boys
blocked his path, and it was Ollivan who grabbed him from behind. Roughly.

"Fuck you, you little man cunt," Ollivan said, giving Wylem the chills.  This
was dangerous; he was nervous about what might come next.  Ollivan's hands
when from his shoulders down to his tight ass, and his fingers snaked around
his cock and balls, squeezing tight.

Wylem he had every right to be nervous, and the pain seeping into his genitals
was only getting worse.

While Brun and Zaphryn held him down, Ollivan had his way with Wylem's tight,
still lubricated ass from the lord's fuck session.  The pounding was nothing
he wasn't already used to, but then he felt Brun press his own cock against
the hole.  Wylem started to panic.  Zaphryn held him tight against the bed,
keeping his squirming at bay.  With both cocks stretching his hole, Wylem felt
more than a bit uncomfortable.  Then, the unthinkable happened: angling his
body to a completely different plane, Zaphryn himself shoved his large cock
toward the already stuffed hole.  Forcing Wylem's legs into a split, the three
boys took him at once.  It was crude, it was not pretty, but somehow, the men
all used him at the exact same time.

After they came inside him, one by one, the three left the room.  Brun was the
last to leave; he threw a copper coin at Wylem, a bitter token of what he'd
endured.  Wylem cried a while, but realizing it would not solve anything, he
composed himself.  He had trouble walking that night, and so, he resolved to
stay in and formulate a plan to leave the brothel early the following morning
to escape his harsh comrades and competitors.  It would be simple: a few
nights earlier, during one of his routine sessions with a local lord, he heard
whispers of the crown prince favoring the company of gentlemen over ladies.
If Wylem could see the prince just once, he would convince him to buy his
remaining time and keep him at the castle to satisfy his every sexual whim,
day or night.  Wylem was irresistible, and it wouldn't take much to convince
the prince.

The night passed strangely fast, and Wylem didn't wake even once.  The chores
could wait.

The next morning, he put on his finest silks and waddled downstairs, the pain
still excruciating between his legs.  His sheets had been stained with some
blood, but the wounds were already healing.  Before leaving the brothel for
the streets, he found the flagon that Ollivan, Brun and Zaphryn used to drink
their morning beer.  Pulling his cock out from the silks, he relieved himself
into the vessel, swirled the hot piss around the beer jug and placed it back
on the shelf.  Whoever awoke first would be in for a very terrible breakfast
surprise, and if he was lucky, all three would drink at once.  It made him
smile a bit.

And so Wylem, the boy whore from the hidden brothel in Pronna, began the short
walk to the castle to figure out a way to meet his charming prince. Breaking
in would be tricky, but his female whore friends often talked about the secret
corridors they used to enter the castle to entertain lords and their guests.
It was breached through a false wall located just around the corner from the
eastern portcullis, and it led directly into the crypt below the Great Hall.
Once Wylem found the entrance, he looked in both directions before slipping
into the darkness of the castle.

"Someday soon," he whispered to himself as he held his breath in the dank
crypt, "My prince will cum."


SALTLANDS WATCH


At the top of the 80-foot tall tower, Brylan Weathersall shuddered as he
looked out over the interminable salt wasteland spread out before him.
Nothing stirred among the grains of white crystal, save the occasional swirl
of light wind that carried a small amount of sparkling dust through the air,
dropping it several feet away in intricate, organic patterns.  The blue skies
overhead were peppered with white clouds, and the scene would have been
idyllic--had the temperature not been so blasted warm.

He stepped back from the window to avoid salt blindness, a condition that
affected at least one man at the watch per week.  It would start with a
headache brought on by gazing at the reflective white salt flats for too long,
and it would progress to a throbbing ache deep in the sinuses.  Moments later,
his vision would fade to white, eventually blinding him for several hours.
The pain was terrible, and the frustration was even worse.

"Thank the gods that I'm almost free of this place," thought Brylan, who had
been counting down his remaining days of watch duty ever since he arrived at
the western edge of the kingdom.  A member of the military, he was looking
forward to returning to the infantry and becoming just another face in the
crowd charged with protecting the realm.

Every two years, each infantryman spent two weeks of duty at the Saltlands
Watch.  The post was a desolate, hot place that no one enjoyed patrolling.
Because of the arid environment, there was no way to monitor across the flats
save for watching from the tower.  Once, nearly two centuries ago, a foolish
general attempted to cross the flats on horseback to survey the lands beyond.
Of the sixty men who departed Malascon that day, only one returned.  He told
horrific tales of horses who quickly dehydrated, the moisture sucked from
their flesh and the marrow of their bones through the salty ground and
surrounding air.  As the horses fell in skeletal heaps, the men too began
drying out.  The one survivor was nearly dead himself; another hour or two in
the expanse would have brought him eternal sleep.  The infantrymen often share
tales about those 59 men and their horses, dried mummified corpses who wander
the saltlands eternally searching for water.

Shuddering from the thought of being trapped out there forever, Brylan turned
to the others.  In groups of four, they watched over the expanse with sighs
and frustration.  If five dozen men on horseback perished out there, what good
came from them staring out over the impassable desert?

"What in the blazes are we watching for?" asked Croin, an ugly stalwart lad
whose one saving grace was his ability to swing a battle axe like no other.
Croin's long green beard fascinated Brylan, who himself was having trouble
sprouting facial hair.  It was not surprising; Croin's family had dwerrow
flesh deep in the bloodlines, and despite being primarily human, the family's
features were still overwhelmed by the stronger blood some century and a half
later.

It made Brylan think back to the warning his mother had given him when he
first reached manhood after he accidentally soiled the bed with his seed one
summer's night.  She was less concerned with his unsolicited cum and more
nervous about the heritage of his future sexual partners.  "Never, ever marry
anyone with dwerrow blood, no matter how deep in the lines it goes," she
scolded him and his sister as she dunked the bed quilt into scalding water.
"Your children will grow slowly and will become fat, and they will have short
stubby toes and long tangled beards. Even the women!"  He chuckled the first
time he met Croin, realizing that his dear mother may have been onto something
not terribly far from the truth.  He hadn't yet asked Croin if his mother had
facial hair, but he planned on it when they visited a tavern on the way back
to camp, leaving the watch zone behind for two more splendid years.

"There've been rumors that the rangers have struck a deal with King Uz'hal in
the Westlands.  They could march on Malascon any day now," chimed in Dorium,
another short fellow from the infantry.  Though he swore he didn't have any
dwerrow blood, Brylan suspected otherwise judging by his stout posture and
short digits.

"Hasn't this rumor been swirling for the past decade?" asked Brylan, knowing
full well the response he'd receive from his weary comrades.

"Aye," said Croin and Dorium in unison, sounding like a chorus of jolly tavern
folk retelling a story from back in the old ages.

Their fourth comrade was assigned to night duty that evening, and he slept in
the comfortable bed of straw above the watch station.  His name was Muwin, and
he was a tall swordsman.  He surely had no dwerrow blood in his veins, but he
did have a queer look to him all the same.  Muwin's eyes were a deep gray, and
his skin had a slightly silver luster.  During cadet training, Brylan swung
his wooden sword with such force that it sliced a small cut on his friend's
forearm.  The blood that ran was a dark red-violet, much bluer than any blood
he'd seen before.  Brylan pushed the question about his friend's ancestry, but
Muwin was quick to change the subject and wipe away the bluish blood.  Perhaps
he was descended from one of the last drow, a shadow people whose homes in the
quarries were destroyed hundreds of years earlier?  Brylan didn't know for
certain.

Backgrounds varied though they were, the four got along famously, and they
were as close as friends could be.  Kings and lords be damned; their loyalty
was to the realm and each other, no one else.  In eight years, they would
retire from the military and return home to their native city of Pronna, free
to raise families, pursue trades and live out their days knowing they had
served the kingdom well in their primes.  It frightened Brylan that the rest
of his life was essentially planned out for him like a game of thruse, a
strategic board game he used to play back home as a boy; but all the same, he
took comfort in knowing that the surprises ahead would likely be minimal.

"I hear that Lord Mynnrhor has taken leave for the castle at Pronna," said
Croin, running a flint stone over the edge of his battleaxe.  It gleamed in
the bright salt-reflected daylight of the tower room.

"Aye," replied Brylan. "The Duke of Ivy Meadow is entrusted with Stone Point
until he returns."  Brylan disliked the duke; he was a short, fat man with a
penchant for excess.  His robes were made of mountain lion skins, and his
silks were drawn from the hairs of forest maiden virgins.  He slept with no
less than four women in his bedchamber each night, and rumor had it, he never
fucked the same girl twice.  Topping it off, his ugliness did no favors for
his proud, foolish countenance.

"Should make for a quieter than usual round for us," Croin retorted. "Too few
lords to make us lads jump about for our suppers."

The three laughed, comrades in a vast political battleground greater than
their own minds could begin to grasp.  Little did they know just how wrong
Croin was; something was brewing in the great salty expanse, and the
tranquility they thought they could savor was about to be carried off on the
wind.

Suddenly, Brylan stopped laughing as the tower faded away like he had been
plucked upwards by a giant hand and pulled out of reality.  It was as though
he was stricken, and he watched unmoving as a scene swirl into his mind from
the darkness.  First, four stone walls appeared, then a desk.  A fireplace
rose from the wooden floorboards, and a candle flared up.  Books adorned the
shelves that melted out of the walls, and quills and papers piled up on the
desk out of thin air.  Next, a man swirled into view, seated at the desk
holding a paper.  It was all so real and yet, he knew deep down that it was
little more than a vision based on the swirls and fades.

The man was reading a scroll in the dark room.  Perhaps it was a study?  Or a
cloister?  The scroll seemed important judging by the stern look on the man's
face, but he couldn't make out the seal on the white wax seal, nor could he
discern the reader's identity by his face.  Was he a priest?  An ancient
scribe, like Lo'th Horlan?  Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared behind him
with a dark blue scabbard drawn, one that appeared to have been forged with
sapphire from the quarries.  It glimmered in the candlelight, sending blue
glimmers dancing on the wall behind him, and before the reading man even
noticed the figure, it was upon him.  In three fast, fierce strokes, his
throat was slashed open, his belly cut, spilling out his steaming pink guts,
and the blade was plunged into his upper left chest, forcing dark black blood
to run out of the pierced heart.  As quickly as the vision came on, it faded
to black and consciousness returned to Brylan.

"...nothing like those great big tits on the southern girls at the brothel,
eh, Bry?" said Croin, while Dorium guffawed in agreement.  Brylan tried to
shake the violent vision without alerting the others, and he smiled painfully
at Croin.  The two were not particularly emphatic, and they didn't sense the
unease in their friend's face.

"It must be all this salt air," he thought to himself. "It makes men's heads
see crazy things."


THE GREAT HALL


With her slender hands, Lady Genna flattened out a crease in the hip of her
dark green velvet gown.  Gone was the mail and weaponry she had been growing
accustomed to wearing; tonight was a night for celebrating in finery.  Lord
Mynnrhor of Stone Point was visiting the castle to report on conditions from
the edge of the saltlands, a troubling area that the king had been monitoring
for quite some time from his keep.  Tonight the king was throwing a feast in
the good lord's honor.

Since her appointment to the position of master of secrets, she had enjoyed
nearly unfettered access to the king and the innermost thoughts of his mind.
She would silently pace the halls of the dark timberstone fortress and, from a
distance, watch him move tiny figurines on the tabletop maps by candlelight,
diligently strategizing every move of the great armies should the enemies rise
up.  If the rangers attacked, the realm would be ready to defend itself.

But it wasn't just the keep where Genna took her watch.  She glided around the
court and the castle, the town and the towers, listening and manipulating the
good people of the kingdom to wring out any secrets that they held.  Her
loyalty was to the king and his new wife, a young woman with pretty blonde
hair and freckles who some say looked eerily similar to his former queen, the
princes' mother.  Any plots, disturbances or other interesting tidbits were
immediately shared with her liege and dealt with accordingly.  This was no
time for the king to worry about domestic affairs; she took on the burden for
him.

As she walked into the Great Hall, Genna spied the handsome young boy leaning
against a pillar in the shadows.  Smiling slightly, she approached him.

"Dear, sweet, handsome Epton," she said.  Her voice was cloyingly insincere.
"It's been five moonrises since we last met.  How have your efforts been
progressing?"

The servants milling around the room were busy setting tables, raising
candlelit chandeliers and preparing the hall for an elaborate feast.  They
paid no mind to the noblewoman or her younger companion, a well-dressed young
man whose face seemed distantly pained despite the gaieties at hand.

"It is no easy task, Genna," he said, an air of disdain in his voice.  He did
not like this woman or her false presence, and any pain he momentarily felt
for her as she witnessed her husband's matrimonial betrayal were gone.

"You will address me as Lady Genna, boy, lest you think that we are equals.
We are not.  I am a lady, a master of secrets for the king.  You are but a
humble deviant playing the role of an assassin for a few days.  Personally, I
doubt that you'll succeed and I look forward to watching the consequences play
out.  But you do know why you were selected for this task, I assume?"

"It's because I conceived the idea of the second potion," the boy responded
confidently, adding, "Since your husband failed, Lady Genna."  In his mind, he
took the insult one step further, thinking, "In more ways than one, if my
stretched asshole is to be believed."

"Oh, silly boy.  You're more foolish than you look--which, actually, is the
only reason the king picked you for your task.  That adorable dark hair," she
said, running her fingers through his shaped locks, "and that striking
physique," she added, dragging her hand over his clothed chest, "and, of
course, that nice thick piece of meat that jiggles between your thighs when
you sob," she finished her point by cupping his groin, gently yet with a sure
firmness.  The boy flinched, but did not pull away from her molesting grasp.

"The prince is as much a deviant as you are.  Actually, with his position in
the court, he's even more flamboyant and grotesque than you could ever hope to
be.  He'd enjoy a plaything like you, I'm certain of that much."  Leaning in,
Genna whispered into Epton's ear, "Just as long as you do your duty licking
the asshole of a royal mess for a few hours.  That's the type of shit I would
never deal with."

Epton writhed, pushing aside Genna.

"I still have two days, Lady," he said, still favoring his unburned rear cheek
as he leaned back against the column.  "And when I succeed..."

Genna cut him off with a quiet laugh, placing a soft hand on the side of his
face. "Oh, dear boy, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

She walked away, and Epton slunk back into the shadows to await the feast.  He
hated that woman, and yet, she was untouchable.

Before becoming caught up in this affair, Epton had been an advisor the king's
comptroller as the boy who helped collect taxes from various lords in the
land.  One of his duties was maintaining the comptroller's stables, giving him
his fine-tuned lithe body and an appreciation for strong steeds.  Despite his
lowly position, he was still a member of the court and, as such, had been
invited to attend the feast.

Over the next several hours, the tables were set and the kitchen fires burned
hot, emanating through the stone walls to heat the hall.  Barrels of wine were
emptied into flagons and flasks in preparation for the visitors while cool
water was siphoned from the castle's personal well.  Fresh fruits plucked from
the vines just outside the city were piled high on plates, tempting attendees
to sample the sweetness of the realm's spring crops.  Next came the hard
griddle buns, hearty rolls with crisp crusts but buttery soft crumb inside.
It was said that the king's baker had perfected the recipe and that only two
others in the realm knew exactly how to make them so perfect.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the guests started to arrive.  One
by one, the young ushers escorted well-dressed ladies and garishly adorned
lords to their spots at the tables.  The Great Room sat over 300; it was to be
filled to capacity on this particular evening.

Finally, nearly an hour into the night, the king and his close family entered
and took their seats at the head table.  His new wife sat to one side of his
large gold chair; Lord Mynnrhor sat at his other hand.  Further down the
table, the three princes sat next to one another looking bored.  Lextyr and
Jey were dressed in their house's maroon and black colors, while Calib favored
a bolder scarlet and silver robe.  With his silver eyes and dark blond hair,
he was exceedingly handsome, much more so than his brothers.  By candlelight,
he looked like an earthly god.  Epton was surprised he hadn't noticed this in
his two previous encounters with the boy.

Epton took his seat at the back of the hall, staring at his gorgeous target.
It still wasn't comfortable to sit with the iron brand in his flesh, but the
wound was healing slowly.  In his right boot, he felt a cold sharpness press
against the skin of his ankle.  The small dagger, sharpened to a neat point,
was at the ready for him to slit Calib's throat if the moment presented
itself.  Epton swallowed hard, loathing the terrible duty to which he was
bound.  "I'd much rather slit the throat of the middle prince with the silver
and blue irises," he thought to himself. "That two-faced icy abomination will
make for a horrible ruler."

The feast went on without a hitch.  Course after course was brought before the
guests, and the kitchen staff did not disappoint. Grease ran down every
eater's chin, and laughter echoed in the room all night long.  At one point,
Epton, whose spirits were raised by several glasses of soothing turbinberry
wine, caught the eyes of the king glaring at him.  Beady and inquisitive, they
burned into his face like the brand in his ass.  Epton turned away
respectfully, knowing that his time to kill the prince was running out.  He
felt a strange ache in his groin, but he brushed it off to trepidation.

As the final sweets trickled out to the tables during the dessert course, the
guests themselves began to dissipate from the large room and the din became
softer.  Epton left after the first 50 or so people exited the hall, watching
Calib from a distance as he turned.  The prince had been laughing with the
small group of handmaidens that surrounded him, and it was obvious that his
brothers took no delight in his feminine nature.

But Epton was taken, and his heart began to twist and contort in his chest.
Still, if he wanted it to stay in his chest, he'd have to do the terrible
deed.

"It's a shame," he thought, sighing. "I'll bet he'd make a great king, and an
even better lover."


THE CRYPT


Wylem listened carefully from the cold, damp tunnel.  Not having yet bathed
that day, he felt vile and disgusting after several hours in the company of
the royal dead--though in reality, he was fresher than the vast majority of
noble people dining in the Great Hall above him.  He could hear their chatter,
laughter and clanging dinner ware rattling away, and for a moment, he wished
he was there rubbing elbows with the top brass of the city.  He was certain a
few faces in the crowd would have recognized him and blushed a deep red.

But the Great Hall was not where he needed to be this evening.  He needed to
be with the Crown Prince Calib, seducing him in his room and convincing him to
keep him as his own personal whore.  If his plan worked, his freedom would be
all the faster.

As he quietly slipped along the crypt, his fingers fumbled along the cold
stone walls, feeling for the door that his friend insisted was there.
Creeping along ever so slowly, he was beginning to have doubts; it was chilly
and damp in the crypt, and without a torch, the darkness made the space nearly
black.  The only light shone in from the main staircase at the far end of the
hall; but this would be guarded, and it was no place for a pleasure worker to
sneak up into the turrets and towers.  That's what the veiled passage was for.
It kept secrets quiet within the bustling castle walls.

Suddenly, his index finger caught on a strange stone that didn't feel like the
rest.  Groping blindly, he felt a loose stone, and he twisted it.  The stone
wall creaked open, heavy with the weight of a thousand pounds of rock clinging
to it.  If the door had fallen, Wylem would have been crushed beneath its
weight instantly; but fortunately, the hinges did not give out.

Up the spiral staircase he climbed, not knowing what to expect above.  Higher
and higher he went, his steps making faint scratching echoes as he went.
Every few dozen stairs was a small window; he peered out each and watched the
town below growing smaller and smaller.

Finally, when he felt he could go no further, the staircase ended and another
stone door loomed.  He opened it the same as the other and poked his boyish
head through, looking for signs of guards.  None were to be found this high in
the royal chambers on the feast night; they were all stationed downstairs by
the king and his family.

Creeping out into the warm hall, Wylem looked at the sigils hanging from each
door.  The king and queen's chamber had a large swallow etched in intricate
gold, red and black on the double doors.  Each prince had a chamber as well,
with one sparrow larger than the other two.  "That must be Calib's room,"
thought Wylem. "The Crown Prince is the heir, and his sigil would be larger
than those of his pretender brothers."

Wylem turned the knob on the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.  He
slipped in and closed the door behind him, quietly slipping into the shadows
near the flowing window drapes.


THE GREAT HALL


With most of the guests dispersed, the king rose from his seat.  A belly full
of food and a head full of wine, he was tired and ready to sleep the night's
follies away.  Motioning for his wife to join him upstairs, he bid the
visiting lord and the distinguished guests goodnight.  They thanked him for
his kindness and the excellent feast, and he nodded to acknowledge their
gratitude.

As the couple ascended the staircase, a guard in light mail rushed to meet
them.  "My king," said the guard, "An urgent message has arrived from
Saltlands Watch.  It is waiting for you in your keep."

"Can't it wait until morning?" grumbled the tired king, his eyelids heavy with
drink and age.  The queen looked at him with a concerned expression, hoping
this business could hold off until the morrow.

"My apologies, my king, but the rider was an infantryman who said it was of
utmost importance.  It appears the rumors about King Uz'hal and the rangers
are, unfortunately, true."

At the mention of Uz'hal, the king's face grew pale and drawn.  He turned to
his young second wife and kissed her forehead.  She knew it meant he would be
up late into the night.

"Go on, my dear," he said. "I will join you as soon as I've dealt with these
matters."

"My king," she responded. "You are a good man, and a great ruler.  I will keep
your side of the bed warm until you arrive."

With that, she continued up the stairs to their chamber to begin preparing for
yet another night alone.  The king turned and followed the guard back down the
steps, past the empty Great Hall and into the cool, dark keep.  His usual
sentries were all still stationed at the keep doors, and he enjoyed being
surrounded during such a sensitive moment.  Even if the realm was under siege,
he and his family would be protected by valiant knights.

When he entered his office, he saw a tightly rolled parchment scroll sitting
on his desk.  Turning to the two chamber guards, he motioned them to take
leave.  This was a private matter of state, and he needed no peering eyes to
spill its secrets just yet.

The parchment's seal of white wax bore an ornate diamond shape, and it had not
been broken.  The king turned it over twice in his hands, pulled up his chair,
lit the candle with a wick aflame from the glowing fireplace and tore the wax
to read the paper's contents.  As he did, his eyes grew wider and his
breathing grew faster.

"No," he said softly to himself, scanning the contents of the parchment a
second time. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen..."

In the corner of the keep, something else stirred silently.


THE CROWN PRINCE'S CHAMBERS


The night's festivities done and over, Calib slogged upstairs to get some
rest.  He was quite drunk, and he looked forward to sleeping for hours on end
until the sun was high in the sky.

Past the guards and down the hall, he lazily leaned into his door, letting it
swing open.  As it closed behind him, he stripped off his robes and stepped
out of his boots.  The prince always slept naked, and tonight was no
exception.  As he walked toward the bed, arms stretched high in the air
reaching for the ceiling, he heard someone in heavy boots step behind him.
The prince swung around, nervous, and saw the beautiful young man before him.

"It's a grave crime to break into a royal's room," said the prince, his voice
rising slightly.  He looked to his bedside table where a hidden compartment
held a small dagger.  He'd never used it before, but tonight seemed as good a
night as any to lose his martial virginity.

"My prince," said the man, his green eyes gleaming. "I-I-I..."  He could not
complete his thought, and he knew he could not finish his task.

"Tell me your name, handsome burglar," asked the prince, no longer afraid of
his visitor.  Despite his nudity, he was perfectly comfortable addressing a
beautiful stranger.

"Ep-p-ton, sir," he said, his voice quivering. "I-I'm so sorry to bother
you...  I should leave..."

"I should think not," said the prince, his voice growing louder, strikingly
similar to his father. He was annoyed at the intrusion, but the liquor and his
sexual desires tempered the frustration that he felt. "As I said, it's a grave
crime breaking and entering into a royal chamber.  You'll pay for this, and
you'll pay here and now."

"Surely, my prince, I'll take all I deserve," Epton said, tears forming in his
eyes.

Before the prince could respond, another shadow moved behind the drapes.

"Gods be good," said the prince, again spying the compartment in his table
from the corner of his eye. "It is a good night for burglars and fools to
interrupt the crown prince!  Show yourself in the moonlight."

The second figure stepped out, showing off his fine silks and creamy skin as
he did.  He was a porcelain god with dark hair, a gorgeous specimen fit for a
tawdry bard's lustful ballad.

"My, my," said the prince. "Should I presume you two know one another?  Or is
this one strange dream brought on by the feast's ample wine?"

"No," said the second figure. "I am Wylem, a pleasure worker from the brothel.
I've come to serve my prince and to see to his every need.  This boy, well,
I've never seen him before.  He must have slipped in while I was hiding
myself."

"Ah," said the prince.  He turned to Epton. "And what's your story?"

"My prince," said Epton, planning to skew the truth. "I saw you during the
feast tonight and I could not resist meeting you in person.  I was captivated
by your beauty, your charm and your grace, and I needed to meet you in private
to introduce myself.  I knew the guards would deny me, so I, too, slipped into
your chambers unnoticed."

"Well, what a conundrum," said the sly prince, putting his hands at his hips.
He crossed his right leg over his left, balancing his toes on the cool wooden
floorboards.  "The crime must fit the punishment, or so my dull father says,
and if the crime was wanting to be with me...  Then we'll have to put that to
work."

The prince uncrossed his legs and sat on the bed, propped against the
headboard, and put his hands behind his head.

"You there, whore boy, come stand by this courtier in the light."  Wylem
obliged, his fine silks blowing in the cool Wind of the Quarries stirring in
the night air.  The open window was a blessing on nights like this, cooling
the room and keeping the royal family comfortable as they slumbered.

"That's better.  Whore, begin by taking off this boy's boots."

Wylem nodded, kneeling in front of Epton.  His face was at the level of his
crotch, and he couldn't help but to lick his lips spying the full leather-
wrapped package before his eyes.  He slowly lifted both hands to Epton's
thigh, cusping it gently and working their way down past his knee, along his
calf and to his right heel.  Wylem placed one hand on the toe of the boot and
kept the other on the heel, gently tugging the boot off.  Epton placed his
bare foot on the planks, lifting his other boot for Wylem to remove.  He
obliged a second time.

"Good," said the prince. "Now, remove his cloak and shirt.  Show me his
chest."

Wylem rose, slipping out of his own silk top robe.  The prince made a "tsk"
noise of disapproval. "Did I tell you to remove that, whore?  Put it back on."
Wylem listened, then got back to work removing Epton's cloak.  Next, off came
his tied linen shirt, showing his gentle, delicious physique.  His hard dark
nipples were like faded lily pads on a creamy alabaster pond.

"Excellent," said the prince, his cock stirring.  Epton watched the sizeable
member fill with blood, gorging itself in sexual excitement.  The cock head
swelled to a bulbous, purple form; the shaft throbbed, and his large testicles
swam eagerly in the smooth skin of the taut scrotum.  Epton wanted to suck on
the prince's scepter until it brought forth the sweet seed milk into his eager
mouth.

"Now," said the prince, devilishly, "Take off his breeches.  Peel them off
slowly."

Wylem obeyed, unbuckling the clasp and untying the zipper.  The whore enjoyed
the experience; he managed to cop a few feels of his fellow commoner in the
process, and his fingers liked what they touched.  He ran his soft index
fingers along the seam of the pants, loosening them against Epton's skin.
Next, he gently began working the pants down over his hips, slowly revealing
his delightful brown pubic hairs.  It was full, but not gangly or unkempt;
just the way the prince liked his men.

As Wylem continued pulling, more and more of the young man became visible.  He
worked his hands around to the boy's buttocks, pausing when he felt something
odd on his one cheek.  He walked around him and continued dropping his drawers
from behind, catching a glimpse of the brand wound.  Wylem felt sorry for the
pain this boy had suffered recently, a pain much like the three cocks he had
endured the previous day.  The burned flesh was clearly an iron brand, but he
couldn't make out the muddled shape by torchlight.  Still, Wylem's hands
continued slowly revealing the boy to the prince, and he ran his fingers
through the coarse hairs of Epton's crotch.

At this point, the prince was touching himself unabashedly.  The sound of
beating emanated from the bed, and his eyes fluttered between opened and
closed.

An instant later, Epton's cock base was visible, and shortly after, his large,
pronounced head bounced forth into view.  It was glorious, and the prince was
exceptionally excited at his good fortune to be burgled by such a delicious
looking man.  As the breeches peeled down his toned thighs, they started to
fall faster past his knees.  Epton stepped out of them, and stood nude,
aroused, in front of the hard prince.

"Very, very nice, boy," said the prince, fervently masturbating.  "Now,
undress the whore.  Do it fast, I can't wait much longer."

Wylem was a bit unnerved, seeing that the prince clearly favored the common
boy in front of him over his perfectly groomed body.  Still, he would sway him
with his gyrations and clenched sphincter when the time was right.  He could
woo any man with the rhythm of the jewels between his legs.

Epton was less graceful in stripping Wylem, even though his task was
considerably easier.  He slipped the silk garment off his shoulders, and
pulled the belt off the silk breeches.  They fell away, exposing the pleasure
boy and his piercings in just under a minute.

"A boy with pierced nipples, that's quite exotic," said the prince, continuing
to jerk himself off.

"That's not all, my prince," said Wylem with a raspy, husky voice, lifting his
cock to the side and pulling his balls with it.  The golden guiche was
exposed, delighting the prince.

"Delicious, whore!  I will delight in fucking that tight ass of yours while
tugging on your ring!"  Wylem giggled excitedly, his dick also swelling.

"Come, boys, and join me in bed," said Calib as he stared at his two common
prizes.  They obliged, each approaching the soft, large bed from a different
side.  They sat on the fine silks, rolled over and faced the prince, not quite
in unison.

Within minutes, the three began rolling around in a sensual threeway.  Tongues
darted into mouths, lips were chewed playfully and hands groped flesh
greedily.  Commoner met royalty, and no one particularly cared about good
graces and manners.  When the prince fell on his back, kissing Epton
passionately, Wylem took the opportunity to sink down and suck on his dick.
The prince moaned, grabbing Wylems hair with a balled fist and forcing him
down deeper on the shaft. "That's a good whore," he thought.

After a few minutes of intense pleasure and gurgling slurps, Wylem and Epton
switched positions seamlessly.  The moans continued.  "True," thought the
prince, "The whore is better at blowing.  But it's not who best dances in the
wind that wins the prince.  It's who better commands the breeze and fills the
sails that steers the man."

Wylem soon pushed away from the prince's mouth and joined Epton in playing
with Calib's member.  The boy was in intense pleasure; he had one beautiful
boy sucking his pole and another nibbling gently on his sac, plus a tongue
reaching around and cusping behind his royal jewels.  It was exquisite.

That same tongue continued its exploration, flicking along the prince's clean
perineum.  It felt marvelous, and the prince's prostrate throbbed inside him.
He was leaking precum like a snapped river levy, and yet, the young courtier
boy was drinking up every drop as though it was sweet nectar from the lavender
shrubs at the edge of the King's Grove.

Soon, the exploring tongue made it to the prince's anus, circling the tight
hole and probing it gently.  This put Calib over the edge, and he flung his
arms onto the pillows and curled his long, thin toes in ecstasy, howling in
happiness.  The tongue probed further, scooping his royal hole and making his
heart flutter with delight.

The boys continued, swapping positions and enjoying one another's mouths,
cocks and asses.  Before long, the prince let out a longer, lower moan and
came into Wylem's mouth.  Wylem felt the cock let out three violent pulses
before a moist saltiness swirled in his mouth before draining down his open
throat.  He sucked harder, forcing every last drop out of the royal cock.

The taste of the cum was intoxicating, like the salty waters of the Alonsia
Mer in the summertime.  It was delicious, and it sent Wylem into a fit of
pleasure.  All Epton had to do was brush against Wylem's cock, and he shot his
seed all over the three boys.  The prince laughed, as did Wylem.  Wylem then
scooted down lower onto Epton's throbbing member, placing it between his plump
lips and sucking intensely.  Before long, he was taking a second load of cum
on the back of his tongue.  Epton's seed was less salty than the prince's, but
it had a delightful earthy quality to it.  The fragrance was nearly herbal, in
fact.  Before he could swallow, the prince pulled Wylem up to meet him,
kissing him with an open mouth and scooping out some of Epton's seed with his
own tongue.  Their lips sizzled with the taste of semen, and Epton joined the
kiss so as not to miss out.

Satisfied, they drifted off to bed together.  The prince was in the middle
with Epton spooned against his back and Wylem in front of him.  Calib's soft
cock nestled between Wylem's cheeks, and the whore boy wiggled in closer to
keep it covered and warm.  Their legs intertwined, and their feet brushed
against one another.  They felt content, and they smelled the sweet aroma of
pheromones mixed with notes of masculinity and Wylem's sweetly spiced skin,
the most delicious fragrance in all of Malascon.

Minutes or hours later, with no way to tell, there was a commotion in the
tower hall, and the sleeping prince sat up between his two lovers.  "Everyone
wants in here tonight, it seems," he said groggily, yawning.  The door to his
chamber was suddenly flung open, flooding the room with torchlight as Genna
stood at the door.  The sight of three nude men curled up in the crown
prince's bed did not seem to faze her.  Not even the sight of the boy who had
seduced her own husband just a week earlier shook her in her current state.

"My prince," she said, her voice warbling as she kneeled.  "Something terrible
has happened."

"What is it, Lady Genna?  You've never knelt like that before me, not even on
my star rises, not even to your dear husband Shackelford.  Why the formality
now?  What has happened?" asked the prince, sitting up.  His two bedmates
began to stir as well.

"It's your father," said Genna, choking back tears. "He's...  He's..."

"He's what?  Ill?  Drunk?  Stupid?  Speak!"

"Dead, my prince, he's dead."  Genna bowed her head solemnly. She looked up,
blue eyes bright and scared.  "Calib, you are now the king of Malascon."


END OF PART 1.


Long live King Calib!  The adventures in Malascon are just beginning: don't
miss the next exciting chapter in this gay epic fantasy series, coming to you
on the Nifty Archives throughout summer and autumn 2013.  And don't forget to
send your ideas, suggestions and thoughts to GreenEyeGuySmut@yahoo.com--you,
too, can shape happenings in the realm!