Shalma's Destruction (Part XVII) (Patreon)

Link to preceding scene: https://www.patreon.com/posts/shalmas-part-xv-150092225

“I answer to no one but Shalma,” you sneer.  It comes out even more convincing than you expect.  You’re impressed.

Prince Harrington, on the other hand...

“I’d be careful to whom you swear allegiance,” he hisses, leaning forward in his saddle so far that he nearly falls from his mount.  Keeping up with Shalma—both on horseback and in whatever activities the two had engaged in previously—had apparently taken a physical toll on the red-eyed royal.  “You attacked a royal caravan.  That’s a crime punishable by death.”

You swallow hard.  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to insult the dignity of the sovereign.  Just as you’re about to apologize, an unlikely ally comes to your defense. 

“Oh, give it a rest, Oliver,” Shalma sighs.  She shows none of the ill effects plaguing the unfortunate, and unfortunately named, prince.   “That rag-tag pushcart parade was no more royal than I am.” 

Your impunity forgotten, Prince Harrinton pivots to face the irreverent barbarian, his righteous indignation replaced by incredulity.  The courtesies of their recent summit were obviously over. 

“So, what say you of my offer?” Shalma queries the stammering prince.

The flummoxed royal straightens in his saddle, regaining a hint of his regal bearing.    “I can’t authorize that,” he says.  “I’ll need to speak with the king.”

Shalma nods.  “You do that.  In the meantime, we’ll be taking these horses as a down payment.”  The barbarian makes a sweeping gesture toward the noble, indicating he’s to dismount.  “Consider it a good-faith gesture.”

Once again, the prince is speechless.  He’s clearly not used to being addressed in this way.   

Skasnell steps forward and grasps the reins of the prince’s jet-black steed.  “Your majesty,” he smarms in mock deference.

The prince grudgingly dismounts.  He strokes the horse’s mane, then steps back, giving the burly warrior a wide berth. 

The thought of Skasnell riding anything smaller than an elephant is comical, but apparently, it isn't funny to the horse.  As the mammoth man squeezes his boot in the stirrup, the nervous steed whinnies and rears, toppling him backwards onto his butt.

You can’t help but smile as a dust cloud engulfs the proud warrior.  He shoots you a glance that informs you you’re going to pay for it during your next training session.  Of course, Shalma and Prince Harrington are smiling too, but that doesn’t matter.  Shit rolls downhill, after all.

“You may want the boy to ride him,” Prince Harrington snarks.  “He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

Skasnell glares at the nobleman, his ego clearly as bruised as his backside.     

You step forward and soothe the jittery steed, running your hand along its lathered neck.  “Easy, boy.”

“Apollo,” Prince Harrington says.

You continue stroking the animal.  “Easy there, Apollo.” 

The prince nods approvingly, then addresses Shalma.  “Until we meet again, m’lady.”

Shalma smiles.  “Your highness.”

With that, the prince straightens his tunic and begins the long walk back to Darrumburgh.

***

Unsurprisingly, Skasnell doesn’t follow Prince Harrington’s advice.  As soon as you’ve settled the horse, Skasnell attempts to mount it again.  This time, with you holding the reins and rubbing its nose, he’s successful. 

“You can ride with me,” Shalma says, extending her hand.

While you suspect the barbarian’s offer to share her saddle has less to do with trust than it does with not wanting Apollo subjected to the undue cruelty of multiple riders (especially with Skasnell the size of several already), you’re still surprised by it.  You place your hand in Shalma’s, and she pulls you onto the mount as effortlessly as she might toss a gunnysack filled with potatoes over her shoulder.  Then she digs her heels into the animal, lurching it forward.

Instinctively, you grasp Shalma’s waist.  Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind.

As you bounce down the road toward Mount Vindergast, you think about what transpired with Prince Harrington.  “Here’s the matter we discussed last night." That was how Shalma introduced you.  What had she meant by that?  And the way the prince addressed you—at least before you snarkily pledged your allegiance to Shalma—was almost reverent. 

What was going on?  What do they know about you, or think they know about you, that you don’t? And what of Shalma's mysterious ‘offer’ that needed the king’s endorsement?

The constant pounding of the road makes it difficult to focus.  One by one, your thoughts bounce from your head like marbles from an open jar until only one remains—

How easy it would be to kill Shalma right now.

You glance over your shoulder.  Skasnell was falling behind, his efforts to control the quarrelsome Apollo failing.  You could unsheathe your dagger and plunge it deep into your mount-mate without fear of reprisal.  Then you could double back to Darrumburgh.   Surely, assassinating Shalma, who had been terrorizing caravans to and from the town for some time, would earn you haven and a healthy reward.   Returning the prince’s mount would likely curry further favor, at least enough to ask questions about your shrouded past.           

No.  If there was one lesson you had learned well, it was that nothing was ever as easy as it seemed.  Even if Prince Harrington were receptive to you and your murder of Shalma--a big if considering their antics and your crimes--Skasnell and the rest of her henchmen would surely hunt you down.    

It would be too easy on Shalma, too.  She deserved worse.  Much worse. 

Still, it was a pleasant thought.   Almost as pleasant as the touch of Shalma’s waist.

While the after-effects of her royal rendezvous weren't evident in her behavior or on her face, as they were with the prince, consequences had gathered around the beautiful barbarian’s midsection.  There's an intimidating tension of muscle buried beneath your grasp, but it’s cocooned in a layer of softness that fills your fingers and, like a feather duvet spread across a king’s bed, speaks of indulgence.  It shifts in your grip and, whenever the horse’s stride is disturbed by a dip in the road, jiggles against it. 

Soon, the feel of Shalma’s flesh, coupled with the bounce of her buttocks against your crotch, has you wanting to stab her with more than just your dagger. 

You try quelling your desire with thoughts of menial labor, but herding and harvesting fail to firm your resolve or soften your member. So, you scoot back in the saddle, lest Shalma feel the thrust of your lust. 

The remaining journey back to Mount Vindergast is uneventful.  If Shalma notices the occasional poke against her back, she doesn’t say anything.  When you dismount at the mouth of the old goblin cave, however, she smiles slyly.

“Come with me,” she says, handing the reins of the prince’s noble steed to a befuddled Pug, who emerges from the cave to greet her. 

You do as she orders, following her into the woods.  Once you're ensconced in a thicket of trees, she turns back to you, her gaze drifting to the bulge that remains beneath your belt.

“Can I help you with something?”

What do you say?