They had decided to settle the bet off-base and to that end Ann had come to John’s London flat in Kensington. It was a small place at the top of a Georgian terrace house in side road off Holland Street. John told her that the landlord had had the apartment sound-proofed and that they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Drink?” He asked pouring two large cognacs without waiting for her answer. She took one and swigged half of it down, although he just swirled his a bit as he stood watching.

Ann was as nervous as hell and not a little excited. She wore a simple grey dress which served a dual purpose of street wear and something by way of a smart-casual outfit for dinner. That was if he still wanted to take her.

The dress, although loose, clung to her in all the right places. Ann noticed his wolfish grin and wondered if she wasn’t playing with fire.

“What’s that?” He asked pointing at the large floppy black holdall she had with her. “A bit large for a handbag.”

She blushed and sucked in her cheeks and tried to put him down with a snotty look. He didn’t bite, but merely returned a quizzical stare.

With a deep sigh she pulled the zip and extracted the cane she had borrowed from home. Not the military grade one she had last felt, the very thought of that one still made her shudder, but it was a decent enough weighted dragon cane nonetheless.

“I thought you might want this,” she said as scornfully as she could manage tossing the stick onto his coffee table.

“That’s a serious bit of kit isn’t it? I was just going to give you a good spanking to put you in your place a bit,” he said smoothly beginning to wonder what he had got himself into.

“I am not going over your knee like a child. A bet’s a bet and I’ll take my licks, but not your way,” she tried to sound firm, but even to her it sounded a little sullen.

He nodded and put down his drink. “I understand.”

“How do you want me?” She was shaking a little now and the words were thick in her throat.

“You seem to be an expert, you tell me,” he said picking up the cane. “I generally spank a girl on the bare, but you can chicken out if you want to.” It was a deliberate provocation, he had no intention of letting her off now that they had come this far.

She bristled and the blushed again. In the corner was a chair exactly like the one her father had. He followed her gaze.

“School or home?” he asked as he realised what she was thinking.

“Both,” she whispered. “My father…”

He nodded. “Over you go then.” He swiped the air with the cane, making her jump despite herself.

She licked her lips and then turned her back on him. This was insane, Ann thought, as she reached under the skirts of her dress and began to work her knickers down.

He smiled as he watched her do a little shimmy, shaking her hips from side to side as her knickers appeared below her hemline and onto her thighs. As she stepped out of them something caught in his throat and he felt himself stiffen.

Ann was equally aroused now and drawing on a little bravado she gently raised her skirt to reveal her pale round bottom before sensuously sliding over the back of the chair.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped as she pushed her bottom up at him.

It was strange and exciting for Ann to be bent over offering a man her bare bottom. If she was honest then sometimes she had felt a frisson with her father, but nothing like this. Then as John tapped her bottom with the cane she gasped, shifting her elbows a little where they lay pressed against the base of the chair.

“We haven’t started yet,” he murmured as he patted her bottom some more, letting the smooth hard stick slip across her even smoother flesh.

“How many?” she asked, her voice muffled by the leather pressing into her face.

He had no idea. At school it was rarely more than eight and more usually six. For a grown woman and a soldier yet perhaps he should double it. Twice six or eight, he pondered.

“Sixteen,” he said at last.

From beneath her hair Ann’s eyes widened, but she had had worse from Daddy. “Bring it on Lieutenant Casemore,” she said defiantly.

“Only Acting Lieutenant, my bare-bottomed 2nd Lieutenant, but yes, let’s have a ‘sir’ to go with that,” he used his parade ground voice. It was true, as top cadet he had already received a temporary promotion, although officially he did not take up post for three days so they were still technically the same rank; a moot, but possibly important detail if this escapade ever came out.

“Yes Sir,” she said quickly, thrilling at the enforced submission.

The cane stroke came suddenly and she moaned in surprise through clenched teeth. It was the hardest stroke she had ever received. The hardest until the second cut across her bottom as sharp as a dress sword.

She could not supress an angry groan and this time she had to stamp her feet in an attempt to shake out the pain. Come back Daddy, all is forgiven, she prayed. I will not cry, I will not, she let the mantra run through her head as stroke followed stroke.

At seven or eight, she wasn’t certain, she yelled and began to claw at the leather upholstery, her breathing ragged like a machine gun.

“You wanted this,” he accused. “I just wanted to give you a playful smack-bottom.”

She nodded, her face wet with tears.

“Shall I commute the sentence to a simple over the knee spanking?” He asked seriously.

When she didn’t reply he caned her again, right where she sat.

“Oh fuck,” she screamed leaping to her feet and dancing around the room. Never with Daddy had it been so bad.

“That will cost you an extra stroke,” he growled.

“Please John, please I…” she pleaded with him with her eyes.

“Over my knee then?”

She nodded vigorously and ran to his arms.

“Shush,” he soothed and hugged into her. “I suppose I could always spank you tomorrow?”

“Oh you darling man,” she gushed, kissing him. “You bested me, no other man in the regiment could have done it.”

He wasn’t sure about that, but scooped her up in his arms anyway. Dinner would become breakfast instead.

The next morning he had pulled her over his knee for the spanking of her life. The first of many as it turned out. She even had the good grace to cry again, which wasn’t that difficult given that the stripes on her bottom still felt like hot wires under the skin.

To be continued…

Our story begins here.

The Army had been a good life for her, but after three years, she knew she was never going to break the mould and be the British Army’s first woman combat officer. Also as much as the realisation hurt, John wasn’t going to give up the Army for her, so it was his career or hers and life without him would have been unthinkable. So without even making captain, she took the three year option and resigned.

To celebrate, she had gone on the razz with some of the girls a wild little shindig that had begun at Dixie’s Bar and ended with her father’s car sitting in the middle of the roundabout just outside Andover.

The girl driving would probably lose her license, but Ann seemed to remember that at some point she had also taken a turn and had not been entirely sober at the time.

“You’re 24 not 14,” he father had bellowed. “When will you grow up?”

“Look I’m sorry Daddy but I really don’t think…”

“Oh we are back to the not thinking again are we,” her father was furious.

“Look I’m sorry about the car, but it will be OK, John has already got someone…”

“The car,” her father was incandescent now, “I am not worried about the car. I am not even, for the moment anyway, worried about your reputation. You might have been killed. Only last week, three youths…” Her father bit down on his lower lip and appeared to choke on the words.

Taking advantage of the break in her father’s tirade she broke in with, “I am not some boy on a…” She rolled her eyes; it had been one last hurrah not a joyride.

“No, no that’s exactly…” He was purple now and paused to wipe some spittle from his mouth. Then more calmly he said, “that is exactly my point. What were you thinking? I ought to blister your backside raw.”

“Daddy, don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed.

“Well if he doesn’t, then I am going to.” John’s voice seized the room behind her and she froze.

“John,” she said in surprise and grasped her heart. “You’re back… how was it?”

“Never mind the car, we have some serious talking to do; all three of us. I think our Ann here as a serious lesson coming to her and if you won’t do it then I will,” he said continuing his theme.

“Be my guest,” Father said throwing up his arms.

“John not in…” Ann gaped.

“May I borrow one of your canes Sir?” John cut in, ignoring her.

“Oh you know about those,” Father chuckled turning to a cabinet behind him. With a slow deliberate movement Ann’s father slid back the cabinet doors to reveal an impressive array of modern and antique canes. “Most of these have never been used, not on Ann anyway,” he said and then with a shrug added, “A strange hobby, I know.”

Ann went a little white and silently worked her mouth, “look now if you think…”

“You’re not too old for a spanking my girl,” Father growled and then eyeing his canes he added “although maybe you are a little tough for one.”

Ann swallowed and exchanged looks with John. He had certainly proved over and over that he didn’t regard her as too old to be spanked. Not that she always minded so much. However her experience of one of his canings kept her genuinely apprehensive and to have even the suggestion of a punishment with her father in the room was beyond embarrassing.

“Come on… you’re not… I mean, you’re joking right?” Ann wished she believed that as her father made an expansive gesture at the cane rack and then stepped out of John’s way.

Walking forward John removed the military grade cane and one of the larger dragon canes from the cabinet and appeared to weigh them up.

“There is no way…” Ann blushed as she backed away and then turned for the door.

“Oh dear,” John sighed putting the canes down on the desk and with three easy strides closing the gap between him and Ann.

“Daddy please, you can’t let him,” Ann wailed as John took her arm and led her to an empty chair. Sitting down he pulled a half struggling Ann over his lap and swatted the seat of her knee-length loose floral skirt.

“Stop it you bastard,” she squealed as John swatted down again even harder. “Please John, Mrs Hart, she’ll hear us.”

“Hear us? By the time I’m through she might just get to see as well,” John growled flipping up her skirt to expose her high-cut briefs.

“It wouldn’t be the first time Mrs Hart and her daughter has seen you catch it,” Ann’s father chuckled.

Ann’s eyes went wide and she felt her ears melt. Mrs Hart’s daughter Catherine was home from college, she might even be in the house. “Please Daddy, please…” the last word ended in a squeal as her knickers went south.

“Oh dear,” her father muttered as he turned away, “you never seem to learn Ann.”

John landed a fast hard volley of spanks onto Ann’s bottom, which extracted more angry yelps than usual on account of the public nature of her spanking.

“I am going to give you a spanking you’ll never forget and then you are going to apologise to your father and ask me nicely to give you the caning you deserve,” John said forcefully spanking her again.

“What… if you… ow… ouch, John… Please… yah,” Ann went from indignant to out and out panic in a moment.

“Well? Make your mind up,” John threatened putting some weight behind his hand.

“John please,” Ann wailed, but she knew she was defeated.

Tipping her forward so that her head was nearer the floor, John tucked one leg around Ann’s, elevating her bottom. Then he let his arm fall heavily several times spanking her until the sting began to trouble the palm of his hand.

Ann responded with threats and pleadings by turn until her bottom was a definite shade of red.

“Do you have something to say?” John rasped insistently.

“Please John, I’m sorry.”

“Ann,” John bent low to growl in her ear.

“I’m sorry Daddy,” she said in meek voice.

“And?” John pushed her.

“Please John, haven’t you…?”

“Ann,” John snapped.

Ann hugged into John’s leg and tried to recover her breath while John menaced her flaming bottom with his hand. Ann’s father was astonished at the transformation and stifled a chuckle with his hand.

“Please,” Ann swallowed and glanced angrily around at her father, “John, will you… cane me.” The last part was whispered.

“Ann,” John said in a warning tone adding another spank to her bare bottom.

“As I deserve,” Ann added barely audibly.

“We can’t hear you,” John said trying not to laugh.

“Please cane me as I deserve,” Ann said woodenly and hoped John wouldn’t think she was being sullen. Her face was as hot as her bottom as she spoke.

John released her at once. “Bring me a cane from the desk.”

Ann tucked her chin onto her chest and clutched at her front. The cane choice was diabolical. It was no choice at all. Without waiting she snatched up the dragon cane and extended her arm to offer it to John without turning around.

“Now bend over the chair,” John ordered, flexing the cane between the fingers of both hands.

Ann raised her head and fixed her attention on the chair. Then with what was left of her bravado, she walked briskly forward and dipped over the back of the padded leather. She knew what was required and before John could speak, she shuffled forward and worked her read right down so that her bare bottom was properly elevated.

“Good girl,” John said swishing the cane through the air.

Ann fumed at the comment as she clamped her legs together.

John looked at Ann’s father and saw him nod slightly, so he took up his position behind his future wife and sized up her reddened curves as he tapped her with the cane.

The first stroke would have sent her upright, but she was bent too far over. She growled angrily as the pain sawed in.

John didn’t wait and sliced in with slow even strokes that extracted ever greater distress from Ann until she broke to tears.

Ann pounded on the seat of the chair as she yelled and tried to claw her way out of the punishment, but John did not relent until he had delivered a solid two dozen strokes to her bottom.

“Now apologise properly to your father,” John said finally.

Ann half hugged the chair and half supported herself with it as she stood up. One hand clutched at her seared bottom and it was all she could do not to dance like a kid around the room holding her bottom in earnest.

After a moment she abandoned any pretence at dignity and began to sob. “Daddy I’m sorry,” she wailed, “I’m really sorry.” But it was John she ran to for a hug.

“You know when she was younger a spell in the corner always made sure a true apology took,” her father suggested archly.

Ann took half a step away from John and tried to read him. Her eyes darted rapidly and pleaded with him for it to be over, but she knew better than to speak.

“Where would you suggest sir?” John said evenly, not taking his eyes off of Ann.

“I think the corner in the kitchen should prove most edifying,” Father said.

“I won’t…” Ann spluttered, but was stopped from saying more with one raised eyebrow from John. “Oh…” She stamped her foot.

Two minutes later, Ann was led sheepishly into the kitchen with her skirt bunched up in the small of her back with one hand and holding her knickers up at her knees with the other. She was led over to the corner, where she let go of her underwear to ensure her skirt didn’t fall with both hands. John had promised her another dozen in front of Mrs Hart if on inch of her punished bottom was covered by her skirts.

Mrs Hart’s daughter hugged herself with glee, “classic,” the 19-year-old giggled.

“Shush,” Mrs Hart scolded, but a smile touched her lips as she said it.

To be continued…

Our story begins here.

Ann smiled at the memory. She had been mortified. No that was an understatement. For days afterwards she had winced whenever she had tried to sit down. But that had been the least of it. It had been months before she could look Mrs Hart or her daughter in the eye again.

Nevertheless she had deserved it. Even as she had realised that, all those years ago, she had felt a strange frisson; like a tickle or comforting warmth she could not quite define. Even, or perhaps especially, the humiliation had warmed her. She remembered examining the marks in the mirror and being thrilled. Even better, afterwards she and John had been closer than ever.

It was these kinds of feelings that Susie felt, Ann now realised. Well if that was true, the girl would get more than she bargained for. That was essential. If Ann was too easy on her, then Susie would soon come back for more. No, Ann knew what the girl needed. Ann and her future daughter-in-law were cut from the same cloth.

She had been careful to consult John first; and Peter of course. John had agreed, but had decided to keep out of it. Peter had protested angrily, at first anyway, but Ann had been determined and after letting her son rage for a while had quietly outlined her plan. “You must know… well your father and I…?”

“Mother,” Peter had blushed, “that’s your business.”

“Your discretion does you credit, but if you want a successful relationship, then it is time you faced certain things. Women are not all dainty creatures. In fact most are not and many, like me, like… Susie, need a firm hand.” Ann spoke softly, “especially Susie.”

That had been only yesterday. Now the time had finally come. Ann took a deep breath and then went to confront Susie.

“Well, have you decided?” Ann said as she entered the room.

The pretty 19-year-old nodded, her soft brown shoulder-length hair shaking as if in a tremble as she did so.

“You have to say it,” Ann tried to sound stern, although she was unused to such a posture as John had always been the disciplinarian in the family.

“I want you… need you to…” Susie licked her lips. She was blushing. “…punish me. In anyway… you see fit…”

“I am going to spank you first. Soundly spank you on your bare bottom,” Ann said. Her mouth was suddenly dry. What would it be like dishing it out, she wondered. “And then… well then you must be properly punished… as you say, as I see fit. Do you trust me?”

“You are going to…” Susie swallowed and dipped her head, “…cane me?”

“Do you trust me?” Ann repeated.

Susie nodded shyly and even smiled a little.

“You won’t like it,” Ann warned. “Do you accept this?”

“Yes… yes Ann… I mean Mrs Casemore… I mean…” Susie pouted and fell silent. She wished she had the courage to say Ma’am.

“I am going to fetch a short brush from the hall. When I get back I want you undressed from the waist down and facing that wall,” Ann instructed.

Susie blushed and then nodded. She didn’t even wait for Ann to leave, she just began to work at the belt of her jeans.

Ann felt nervous and even her palms were damp. She remembered the army and how she had even commanded men. She could do this. Steeling herself she went into the hall and picked up the hall brush off the telephone table. Then she waited for a slow count of 50 before returning to the long room that served as lounge-dining room.

Susie was stripped to her t-shirt and white ankle socks. Her jeans, jumper and underwear neatly folded and placed on the dining room table. She was standing as instructed, facing the wall with her cute little white bottom thrusting from under the hem of her shirt; so small compared to mine, Ann thought ruefully, and oh my, doesn’t it stick out so in profile.

Ann decided to wait a little to make sure Susie was in the right frame of mind. She pulled a dining room chair into the middle of the room and sat on it with the brush in her lap.

Susie twitched a little at the sound and glanced at Ann over her shoulder.

“Eyes front young lady, you are not to take your nose off the wall,” Ann scolded. “Failure to comply can lead to extra punishment. Don’t you know that?”

Susie’s face whipped around and she visibly gulped. “Sorry A… Mrs Casemore, I didn’t know, really I didn’t,” Susie said anxiously, the tone of her voice somewhere between earnest and fearful.

“That’s alright,” Ann soothed, “I know it’s hard for you, being your first time.”

Susie gasped a little at the phrase ‘first time,’ was there to be a second time then? To distract herself from how she might feel about that she asked, “how… how long do I… will I be made to stand here?”

“Until I tell you to move,” Ann said firmly, she was getting the hang of this. “Embarrassing isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” it escaped Susie as a breath and Ann could imagine the wide-eyed stare she offered the wall in front of her nose as she said. “But… Mrs Casemore, what if someone comes? And sees me I mean?”

“Then they will see you, won’t they?”

“But they will laugh at me and…” Susie wailed, she didn’t want to think about what they would actually see.

“Perhaps they will, but isn’t that what you deserve?” Ann remembered Mrs Hart, her daughter and the associated tradesmen and delivery boys who had witnessed her own punishment. It was the very worst part.

“Yes,” Susie said in a small voice. She sounded close to tears.

“After your punishment, I think you can go back to the corner for the rest of the afternoon,” Ann suggested lightly, wondering if the girl would submit, “Perhaps until the colonel gets home.”

“Oh,” Susie squeaked, fidgeting a bit before settling down. Ann could see the extent of her blushing even from the behind her.

The woman fell silent and Ann watched Susie carefully for the least sign of rebellion. Then she decided to wait for half an hour or so before actually spanking her.

It was a long 40 minutes for Susie and the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall. By the end of her wait Susie was a nervous wreck and quite cowed.

“Alright Susie, come here,” Ann patted her lap even though Susie had yet to turn around. It was as if now that the moment had come, the 19-year-old would much rather stay facing the wall.

Ann didn’t hurry her, but savoured the moment. She was enjoying this she realised and felt a pang of guilt. She might well pay for her pleasure later, if John realised her game.

It took almost a minute for Susie to peel herself from the wall and turn around; even then, it was only after Ann had finally lost patience and scolded her.

Now Susie stood head bowed and peering meekly at Ann from under unruly tumble of hair half covering her eyes. When she saw the brush in Ann’s her face did a little dance of horror before she could still it.

Ann beckoned her and Susie crossed the room with small steps, walking on her toes and tugging the front of her t-shirt down to cover her sex.

After all the procrastination, Susie was in an almost indecent haste on to scramble over Ann’s lap. Her breathing audible, the girl wriggled to obtain a measure of comfort, finally settling on a right-angle with her head towards the floor and her legs strait out and closed together.

Susie’s bottom seemed larger now, but smooth and neat like two peeled hardboiled eggs in a dish at a summer’s picnic. Well this was going to be no picnic for them, Ann thought sternly, addressing herself to the matter in hand.

Ann couldn’t resist running her hand along the silky cheeks before patting Susie’s bottom with the back of the brush. It was cool to the touch and firm. My God, was I ever this cute, Ann wondered.

Meanwhile Susie gasped at the sensation, but didn’t resist. “Ann, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” Ann replied. Then raising her arm she brought the first of many swats down hard on Susie’s bottom.

The girl’s breathing rapidly became ragged and she pumped her legs in her distress. “Oh… oh… oh…” she gasped sounding increasingly more frantic, breaking to tears almost at once.

“Such a cry baby,” Ann chided, but she was surprised at how red the girl’s bottom had so quickly become.

“I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry,” Susie said in a rough husky voice, but she seemed lost in herself and offered not the least resistance.

The pistol-crack spanking lasted for several long minutes, by which time Susie’s bottom was near puce with whitish rubbery welts where the spanked flesh collided with still virgin skin. The girl had taken to kicking, then crossing and uncrossing her ankles as she bawled like a baby, but it was no worse than Ann had got at the same age and the girl had it coming, they both knew that. Nevertheless after 15 minutes or near, it was time to put her back in the corner. By then, the sobbing Susie was happy to go, no matter how humiliating or who saw her.

“I’m sorry, Ann, I’m so sorry,” Susie wailed over and over as she dropped to her knees and hugged into Ann’s legs.

Ann hugged back, but there was yet more to come, so she didn’t indulge her maternal instincts too much. “I know, but you still have to fully atone, don’t you,” she said.

Susie nodded and sniffed as she struggled to bring her crying under control. She glanced at the wall and blushed.

“That too,” Ann said calmly, noting the puzzled look on Susie’s face.

The girl didn’t ask, but got unsteadily to her feet and tottered across the room to the wall. Once there she was again overwhelmed by tears and broke into fresh sobs.

Ann pursed her lips sympathetically and watched the girl until the jerking motion of her shoulders had eased a little and her crying abated. Susie’s bottom had a fierce even sheen of dark red, which she clawed at as she tried not to dance on the spot by the wall.

“No rubbing now, I should have told you, or else…”

Susie’s hands were snatched away and she clasped them into the small of her back.

“That’s a good girl,” Ann murmured.

Susie heaved a sigh and shuffled a little and then picked a spot on the wall to stare at to wait.

About 20 minutes later there came a rattle of a key at the lock and Susie was shaken from her dosing at the wall and began to appear agitated. Her bottom could still feel the harsh impact of the brush and it throbbed gently, but that was nothing to the prospect of being seeing like a naughty girl in the corner, let alone if it were the colonel about to see her bare bottom.

“Steady down now,” Ann chided, “you were warned that this wasn’t over.”

“Mum,” Peter called tentatively from the hall.

“In here Peter,” Ann sang out.

“Oh please,” Susie gasped, fluttering like a trapped bird at the wall. But Ann noticed she did not turn around or try to flee.

“Oh god,” Peter caught his breath as he entered. “That looks… sore,” he ventured.

“Are you ready to do your duty?” Ann asked seriously.

Peter nodded.

“Susie. Stay where you are. You are under Peter’s direction now. After all it was him you betrayed most of all.” Ann tried to sound firm, but suddenly the situation seemed… too bizarre.

“Yes Ann,” Susie whispered miserably. “I’m so sorry Peter. Will you forgive me?”

Peter opened his mouth and was about to rush at her to enfold her in his arms. However Ann stood up and blocked him with her hand. “Peter,” she warned, “you have to do this, for Susie’s sake.”

“It’s alright Peter,” Susie said in a faraway voice. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Peter said the words catching in his throat, “But if…”

“Peter,” Ann cautioned again and seeing him nod, she said, “I’ll get the cane. A standard one, but nonetheless…”

Peter watched his mother go and then turned to study his future wife standing in the corner. He seen her nude before of course, but there was something about her half-nudity and vulnerability that caused his throat and something lower to tighten. Without taking his eyes off Susie’s bottom he began to unbutton his coat and then he tossed it carelessly on the couch.

Running his eye over Susie’s well-marked skin he said, “Are you… are you OK with this? I mean…” He didn’t know what he meant.

“I want…” Susie whispered, but she couldn’t speak. Please don’t make me say it, she prayed.

Just then Ann returned. She paused at the door with the cane and looked at her son and future daughter-in-law. She remembered how Susie had sat open mouthed with something approaching longing at all of Ann’s tales; of her life with John and how it had led them here. She was certain now that this was for the best.

She handed Peter the cane and then said, “I told Susie that she was to remain in the corner as she is for the rest of the day… afterwards. But I suppose… that decision is yours. Remember this though; she wants… needs a firm hand, not a wimp. You get me?”

Susie fluttered and let her left leg take her weight for a bit. It seems I am to be here for a while, she thought ruefully. But she was thinking something else too, something she dare not name perhaps.

Peter cut the air with the cane. “How… how many do I..?”

“Daddy would have given me anything up to 30 or so,” Ann whispered. Then added with a confident smile, “anything less than half that and we’ll both take you for a wimp.”

Susie giggled nervously, not altogether a wise thing to do in her position and John frowned and cut the air again.

“Alright my pretty little thief, come and bend over that chair. We will see how you handle… 18 I think, and then we will see.” Peter felt his power and caned the air again as Susie hurried to obey.

He might break this up into two or three sets. It would be good to take his time.

Ann had already left by the time the first stroke sliced the air in for real. Susie’s squealed quickly followed, although after that first yelp she held her peace until the sixth stroke.

Then as his mother pretended to busy herself in the kitchen, Peter began the caning in earnest and a slow steady thwack and squeal became the background music for the afternoon.

Ends (for now).

Land Girls, some hi-jinks and possible consequences

No idea where this came from. It was found while digging around in snippets culled from the Internet, along with a sorority spanking story by PN Deadaux of all things.

Before we continue we had better explain that the term leathering is a mainly northern England expression for strapping, although the snippet below is from Norfolk. It may be something that was unearthed during research for the short story, Long Live the King.

Coming from the south, the first time DJ Black ever heard the term used in earnest was during an English lesson when we were discussing punishment after one girl told the class as part of her contribution that she had once been spanked for running away.

Another girl, who had recently arrived in our class from the north, said something like, “ee, if I had done that I would have got a leathering.”

It would also probably be wise to explain that Land Girls was the term for a quasi-military organisation of women drafted to work on the land during the Second World War.

Often very young girls from the city found themselves hundreds of miles from home working the land and experiencing a whole new way of life. Often on very small holdings, one or two girls would live with the family and become ‘like daughters to the farmer and his wife.’

It can only be imagined what that sometimes entailed, or so one might think. What then of this snippet.

‘I had a surprise insight into some family history while visiting my aunt who still lives on the farm where she and my mother were brought up. I had asked how my grandmother and grandfather had come to meet, since I knew her family had been Londoners and his farm, the one I was visiting, was in Norfolk. I was especially interested as I had never known my grandfather, him being apparently some 27 years older than my Nan.

I was told that my grandmother had been a Land Girl during the war and had been posted there.

“I have no idea what she saw in him,” I was told. “Apparently he leathered her bare backside on more than one occasion when she first worked for him.”

Asking more, I found out that that my grandmother had something of a rebellious streak back in the day. Apparently she once took the tractor without permission and it ended up in the village duck pond. It took three days to get it out on account of it being the only tractor in the area.

Being less innocent than my aunt apparently was, I tried to extract some more details about the punishments my grandmother had got and how, what must have been some sort of torrid Mills & Boon type romance, had got started. Sadly I did not learn much more.

However, I did say something like, “I suppose that’s just how it was back in the day,” and my aunt goes, “don’t you believe it. When your mother and I were young, your grandfather blistered our bottoms quite often enough no matter how big we were.”

I did learn that there were three other Land Girls on the farm and although my aunt didn’t know for sure if they got ‘a leathering,’ she did say that her father didn’t play favourites, which I took to mean that it was likely.’

By the way the pictures above (apart from the last one) are of real land girls who did a sterling job and there is no reason to assume that they were in anyway deficient in their professionalism or behaviour. Their use here is just for illustative reasons.

Sometimes when you are on the verge of saying you have seen just about every mainstream movie spanking or CP scene another one crops up on You Tube.

No idea what is going on in this Hungarian film, but the poor girl picture above has to hang about naked in a courtyard while some dashing army officers have a long chat. Then she has to walk out to get a mass caning by a lot of strapping men.

No doubt you have seen it and can tell us all about it; if not then be horrified (or enjoy) it here.

A reconstruction

Cadets, including women in Tsarist Russia

Women cadets co-opted into the Soviet military circa 1917

Uncovered a whole set of vintage Russian flogging pictures the other day. The thing is, they do not look particularly erotic or like they were intended to be erotic. They are mostly judicial floggings of women of one kind or another and look either documentarian or cautionary.

They will probably be published on another day, but during the course of some research into these pictures another curious snippet was uncovered.

It seems that in the days just prior to and during the Great War, the Tsarist regime experimented with women cadets; the idea being to give ‘secretaries and nurses some semblance of military life’ before being assigned to a unit.

The discipline was not to be too harsh on account of the cadets being women and measures such as ‘those used at home or in school’ should be used. Any doubt as to what that meant tends to end with the stipulation that the cane or martinet were to be used in preference to the knout.

The knout is a particularly harsh flogging implement used on Russian serfs up until the Revolution.

Further details seemed scant, but there was a reference in Russian on форум, which was translated using Google (and heavily edited).

An account by one Olga Eltsina read as:

On being reassigned to a women’s fighting-battalion, I had not yet completed my training. And so I found myself back at basics.

I was told that I would no longer be soft-bedded just because I was a woman; and indeed on my very first day I saw a woman whipped raw on her bare buttocks in the squad yard, which would not have happened so publically at camp-school.

However, as it turned out, it was not so bad for me as only once or twice did I have to bend to feel the stick across my bare bottom.

This doesn’t seem to have been a standard arrangement, it was described as an experiment and as with many such things it is very difficult to verify. Added to which, the context on the Russian forum was difficult to extract. So that’s all folks but no doubt there are many accounts like these out there waiting to be unmasked by Google translate. The trick is to guess which passage to translate when you have absolutely no Russian.

Authors note: Poetic licence has been taken with the extent of the content and frequency of correspondence between PoWs and their families. It also important to remember that this is an entertainment and no disrespect is intended to the Allied soldiers of the Second World War, their families, Blitzed Londoners or the people of Putney who suffered particular heavy air raids during August 1943.

The letters had come so infrequently, both hers to him and more especially his to her.

Before the war their marriage had been rocky enough and she often thought that had he not been taken prisoner after Dunkirk then they might have divorced. As it was, when she heard he was a prisoner she was crushed with guilt. Guilt not only that he would not be coming home, but an overriding guilt at the realisation that part of her had perhaps secretly wished he could have died and spared her the uncertainty of their marriage and the shame of a divorce.

When the bombs had fallen on Putney she had refused to go to the shelter or even take cover. If the bombs came then her pain could yet be ended. After all, if he could die, then why not her.

That night had been the longest of her life. She had only been 28, but ever afterwards she attributed the hint of grey behind her ears as directed consequence of the fear.

The next day she had applied for war work and had been posted to the Midlands and away from London in less than three weeks.

The first letter had been a shock. It was brim-full of missing her and words of love that he had never been able to say to her face. Even before the tears had dried at her eyes she had screwed up the letter and tossed aside. The guilt had come too thick and fast for her then.

Only later did she retrieve it to read and re-read it again and again.

She heard from his regiment that he had volunteered for the rear guard so that his comrades could escape on the beaches. In her heart she knew that he too had strived, like her, not to return.

Her reply had been an outpouring, not of her guilt or her despair, but of the life they would have when he came home. It was the least she could do, she knew it.

At first their words had been inconsequential.

“Darling, the blossom is on the cherry trees,” or “It is not so bad here. I hear they have it much, much worse back in Putney. At least we have enough to eat.”

Then as he confided in her and spoke of the children he wished they had had, she found herself responding in kind.

“That night in Putney was my last. No truly. I knew even if I lived that I would never be the same again.”

At first he did not fully understand her words, but as time went, even though often weeks passed without a missive, he began to piece together the story of her secret guilt and what amounted to her attempt suicide.

“You silly fool,” he wrote, “What is the point of even fighting this war when so many die if you stage such a reckless stunt? Grandstanding as usual. I bet you think you wanted to die. Well not a bit of it. Not the girl I used to know. Always the centre of attention, always having to take the woes of the world on your shoulder. Well it takes two to tango, just as it takes two to have a war, just you wait until after the war is over.”

She laughed when she read it. He had never been a great writer. She wrote back.

“It’s weight of the world, not woe. Who ever heard of woe on one’s shoulder? As for the guilt, well you didn’t wish me away as I did you. You gave up everything to keep us in the war and I did nothing; nothing but pack bullets in stupid boxes. And I only did that after Putney.”

She didn’t hear from him for a long time after that. So long, in fact, that she began to think he had either been too angry or had died. The last thought made her feel sick.

Then one day there was a postwoman waiting on her step. Her stomach turned knots and her knees gave way a little.

“You, you have a telegram?”

“Telegram? No madam, that’s not my department. No I have a bundle of letters. Wouldn’t go through the box see, I thought… well I didn’t want them to go astray what with being… well you know.”

The grey blackening world fell away from her and somewhere a bird sang. Or was it just a cawing crow?

“Thank you,” she managed, taking the bundle.

She had shared a room with a fellow worker on the first floor. She never made it before the first letter was open and then she sat halfway up the stairs devouring each of his misspelled masterpieces over and over.

“Where do I begin, you silly little fool,” he had written in what she took to be the first in the series. “Firstly, bullets is good work. We won’t see off old Adolf without them. Second. Well, stop putting yourself down. This war has made a muck of everything. Stop trying to take all the blame. Anyone would think you were half important. Well, you are see? Important to me. I have a bloody good mind to get out of this hole and come over there and spank the living daylights out of you until you couldn’t sit down for a month. As it is, I think I will anyway once we see off these… perishing blighters.”

The spanking threat had sent her giddy. It made it real somehow, like he cared.

She wrote back, “You couldn’t make your way out of a paper bag, but if you did, then I wouldn’t mind what you did. You could spank me for a whole month if you wanted. Only don’t try to escape. Not for anything. Stay there safe and wait until after the war is over.”

She got just one more letter before Monty landed in Normandy. After that the mail went astray as the British and Canadians pushed north under the British hero and the Americans east.

Among many, many other things he wrote: “I can see I need to take a firm hand with you girl. Just you wait until I get home.”

The days wore on and 1944 turned into 1945. Everywhere there were rumours. Some said the Nazi’s were shooting their prisoners and others that many had been liberated and the rescued troops mobilised back into the army.

That would be just like him to go and volunteer, the bloody hero, she thought.

VE Day came and went and her job came to an end. It was strange to return to Putney, but the house was still there, even if it were occupied by a lot of strangers. The empty house had been temporarily commandeered for emergency housing. Nevertheless, she managed to get a room in her own house and after a few weeks the family that had been occupying the rest of the upstairs moved out leaving her with just one formerly homeless family downstairs.

May gave way to June and then July. The summer made no impact on her mood and she felt as if she were just marking time as day followed day. They were well into August when one day she was scrubbing the front step when she got a strange feeling. It was a feeling that grew until she remembered that night in the Blitz and knew that somehow her life would never be the same.

What made her look up just at that moment she would never recall, but coming up the street a long way away was a soldier. There was something familiar about his gait and the sway of his broad shoulders, but for a moment she felt a disconnect that one often has at such times. Then before she even knew why, she was running.

At first the soldier didn’t react then he paused and dropped his bag and took two great strides towards her as he swept her up in his arms.

*

They had walked arm in arm up the street, although to her it felt that he had carried her weight as she leaned into him. But it was not a feeling that was to last. Once they were back indoors and had exchanged more rational greetings a silence fell and for her the guilt returned with the awkwardness. The only sound was the persistent tick of the clock, which taunted them like an unexploded bomb.

He was thinner, but taller somehow and she wondered if he had outgrown her.

“You look well,” she said.

“I could murder a pint and a pork pie,” he said cheerily, but it sounded like something he was expected to say.

“The ration doesn’t run to pork pies this week, but there might be one to be had at the pub. You’ll get a pint anyway.” It was painfully mundane, but then what had she expected.

“Talking of which,” he said unbuttoning his top pocket, “Here.”

He handed her his ration book.

“Gave it to me at the repatriation station,” he snorted, “I hardly know what to do with it.”

She nodded and took it from him.

“I wonder how long we’ll have to use these things,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe once we’ve beaten the Japs.”

“I heard they have it bad in Germany,” she said.

He nodded. Then he said, “Anyway, never mind the bloody Krauts, Jerry can take care of himself now that those crackpots have gone. I hope they string ‘em up.”

“Shush, let’s not…”

“Quiet woman, I’m talking,” he growled

She pursed her lips and fell silent. His anger was thrilling somehow.

“I believe we have some unfinished business.” His words made the hairs on her neck stand up and she felt a little light-headed.

It was stupid, but she knew he was talking about something else, but only one thing flooded her mind right then.

“You’ve been a silly girl, haven’t you?” His voice was firm, but kindly. “What did I say I’d do after the war was over?”

She opened her mouth to speak. Surely he didn’t want to say the words. She blushed. That would be so humiliating. But the very idea thrilled her.

Mercifully he didn’t wait. He took one great stride towards her and closed the chasm that had opened up between them at a bound. Then he half-carried and half-led her to the settee and sat down, tossing her casually across his knees as he did so.

“Darling,” she whispered.

He struck her firm war-honed bottom hard with his great right arm and she gasped. If he had thought she would break, he was wrong; she merely wriggled under the sting and waited.

Seeing her compliance, he set about spanking her as Clark Cable should have spanked Scarlet, as Bogey might have spanked Bacall.

He spanked her until she lay panting and his hand hurt. He let it rest against her bottom so that it throbbed in time to her throbbing.

“I expect I’ll be able to sit down in a day or two,” she whispered.

“I didn’t hit you that hard,” he growled.

“That’s my point,” she chided.

“Take me to bed,” she sighed. “Then you can really sort me out. After all there really shouldn’t be anything between a man and a wife, especially not a stupid skirt and knickers.”

He gave her a hard stare, but it soon softened and then because she had said it, he stripped her there and not in the bedroom and began spanking her again on her bare bottom until she could no longer hold her peace and began to cry.

“I think maybe we need one of those instalment plans to get this done,” he said as he pulled her to him.

“That could take years,” she sobbed, crushing into him.

“I think we have time,” he said kissing her. “Now that war is over.”

Pedantically she thought of the Japs, but she knew he wasn’t talking about that war.

Ends.

Our story started here.

Tammy and Jen were quiet as they entered the ‘woodshed.’ Seeing Jen glaring at her, Tammy could only shrug. The younger girl knew it was all her fault and that sometimes she didn’t know when to stop, but Jen had gone along with the prank and could hardly escape responsibility now.

“’We may have to take a licking, but it will be worth it,’” Jen threw Tammy’s words back at her in a childish voice. “’We won’t get caught.’”

“Sorry.” Tammy pulled a face.

“Tell Luna that,” Jen retorted angrily. “This is nothing. We screwed up. The stupid kid could have been killed.”

Okay, so Jen is taking responsibility. My bad again, Tammy thought bitterly. But it was so unfair, she lied to herself.

“All she had to do was get in the damn lift,” Tammy wailed in frustration.

“We would never have got away with it anyway. Darius would have known that the elevator had been used and he would have reported it,” Jen explained, realising it was true.

“Yeah, but it would have been funnier and the kid wouldn’t have got hurt,” Tammy said angrily as she stepped out of her coveralls.

“Sure, but now the joke is on us,” Jen moaned as she followed suit.

Tammy didn’t wait, but stepped out of her tight undershorts as Dale had told her to before and then turned to face the wall with an angry flush.

It was odd standing bare-bottomed next to another girl in nothing but her bra-top and facing the wall. Jen wondered if this was what it was like having sisters.

They both became quiet for a short time before Tammy said, “You hate me now?”

Jen snorted. “Nah, I’m a Sororian through and through. ‘Tendering my tail for tenderisation,’” she quoted from an old rhyme, “is engraved on my soul.”

“It’s about to be engraved on your arse,” Tammy remarked ruefully.

After that they both fell silent and listened to the music of the ship. Faint metallic clangs that seemed to be tortuously long before snapping back to begin over and never quite being still. Both girls knew enough about ships to know that all large ships made such sounds when underway; especially old vessels like the Ad Astra.

It seemed to take an age for Dane to come and each random clunk on the gantry outside threatened to announce his arrival. A long wait tended to grate on the nerves somewhat. Then all at once he was there and they were taken by surprise.

“Turn around,” Captain Dane growled.

The girls snapped around, dropping their hands to their fronts and blushing. They could see at once by his thunderous face that he meant business and both of them gulped and blanched as their nervous eyes avoided his.

“We have a stowaway and she is now part of the crew, get over it,” Dane rasped. “I know it’s a pain and it will be weeks before she is any use to us. But the truth is we could use the extra hand.”

He let that sink in.

“You hope to be an officer some day?” Dane looked at Tammy and she nodded without meeting his eyes. “Then you know that is true.”

Jen sucked in her cheeks and stole a side glance at her friend.

“You too, you both know what a dangerous place a ship can be. What were you thinking? You hazed her once already, this time you nearly killed the girl. Almost worse, you screwed around with emergency equipment,” Dane continued.

Jen started to answer back. They hadn’t touched the emergency escape.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dane growled in a tone of death. “She was assigned to your team and you left her to play silly buggers with the hatch. I don’t want to hear about ‘you only meant’ or ‘how were you to know.’”

“Yes Sir,” they both chimed in unison, blinking hard from his onslaught.

“This has been placed on both your personal records as well it should,” Dane said quietly.

Tammy’s face tightened around her eyes and a little panic showed. Unlike Jen, she was not going through the motions for a family business. This was a career for her.

“Maybe the entry will get lost before the end of this trip, maybe it won’t. Maybe that is up to you,” Dane’s words were pregnant with menace. “Do either of you want to appeal the punishment?”

“No Sir,” Jen said.

“No Sir,” Tammy followed suit after a sharp intake of breath.

“So this is how it is going to be,” Dane’s voice rumbled. “You will both take a turn on the rack there for a stiff workout with the cob.”

Tammy’s eyes went wide and her heart sank.

Jen didn’t think this sounded good, but she didn’t know which of the punishment implements he meant.

Dane didn’t care, she would soon find out.

He continued, “Then until further notice, when not on duty and not on designated sleep-time, you will each report in full dress uniform and stand to attention on the bridge facing the wall. And since you like to play childish pranks, you will both stand with your pants and trousers at your ankles.”

The blood flooded Tammy’s face and Jen’s jaw dropped.

“That too will be on your personal record,” Dane explained.

“Yes Sir.” Tammy’s voice was thick and tears welled-up in her eyes.

Personal records were notoriously insecure and routinely formed the basis for ship gossip about any new crew member. Such an entry had the potential to amuse shipmates for years to come. Tammy could only pray that Dane would relent.

Jen rolled her eyes up. This was going to be embarrassing. Then she remembered something.

“Sir… I eh… I don’t have a dress uniform,” she ventured.

“Get one,” the captain bellowed.

*

Dane had decided to take Jen first and ordered her bend over the padded bench. Being punished by a man was a novel experience and she had never felt so vulnerable with her head far lower than her now elevated bare bottom.

Even from that position she could see the captain reach for the long thin white rod hanging from a hook. She had heard about it, but never felt it before. Her mother usually referred to it as a cane; cob was a new word for her.

How bad can it be? Dane moved behind her as she pondered. Not as bad as the heavy paddle or the…

The whistle-swish broke into her thoughts, her curiosity piqued. Then a line of fire bit in hard across the width of her exposed bottom and her eyes flew apart in time to the thwack that followed in its wake.

It was hard to draw enough breath to yell and then the stroke really took hold; sawing into her as if it would never let go.

Dane didn’t wait to lay on the next and Jen had yet to cope with the first stroke before the second cut in below it. She announced this impact with a garbled groan and a hiss through her nose.

Jen slapped and clawed at the rack as she rode waves of pain and struggled even to wonder how many he would give her.

The third and fourth sliced with an unnatural power into the uppermost curves of her bottom and finally she managed a pained yell. Thereafter as stroke followed efficient stroke she barked out yelps that rapidly descended into kindergarten bawling.

At that moment Jen would have done anything, anything at all that Dane told her to do.

“I’m sorry,” she wailed before her barking wails descended into all out sobbing.

“A captain’s punishment is usually 30,” Dane said in a dark voice, “But for a one time offer, you can have half. So how many is that?”

Jen was beyond speaking, let alone counting and just lay there sobbing, so Dane flicked a glance at an open-mouthed Tammy. She merely gaped at him.

“That is a dozen. Three more,” Dane told them.

Tammy had received a cobbing before, but only twice and only once at Dane’s hands. He too had offered her half on the grounds that it had been her first time. She had prayed for the belt ever after. Now she felt a little sick. She had the full captain’s 30 to come. No excuses.

Jen greeted the last three strokes with an unrestrained bellow at each and tammy marvelled at the nest of angry purple worms that dominated her friend’s whole bottom.

“Alright, up and face that wall,” Dane ordered.

“S-ess S-sir, ‘ank oo S-sir,” Jen wept.

It took an age for the sobbing Jen to comply and Tammy for one was grateful.

“Tammy, you are a disappointment to me,” Dane sighed.

“Yes Sir,” Tammy said with a curt nod as a single tear rolled down her right cheek.

“Any reason you shouldn’t get the full 30?”

Tammy gulped and went white. But bravely she managed to say, “None Sir.”

“Well said,” Dane said with a sad smile. “In the interests of equality I’ll give you half. But that is your last reprieve. If you so much as have a hair out of place before we get to Rigel, your sore bottom will feel my belt, understand?”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir,” Tammy gabbled gratefully.

“Alright, over you go,” he ordered her.

*

The days that followed were very tense for the younger members of the crew.

Tammy and Jen had to serve out a never ending rolling punishment that swallowed all of their spare time.

For Luna it was impossible not to be amused by the sight of one or other and sometimes both of the young cadets standing to face the wall of the bridge with their uniform bottoms at their ankles. But although it was funny to see the two sorry girls so shamefully exposed with what looked like a laser rash of blistered welts on both bottoms, it was also quite sobering. She couldn’t help but have mixed feelings as she knew that she too could find herself in the same predicament if she didn’t learn the ropes quickly enough.

Luna knew for a fact that both girls had cried themselves to sleep the first night after and had not sat down since, even three days later. Not that she had much time to dwell on such things. Dale, Michelin and even Captain Dane had run her ragged at every opportunity giving her a crash course in just about every routine and emergency procedure on the ship. That morning had been typical.

“How many times have I told you how to run a panel diagnostic? You have to reboot each and every time,” Dale said wearily.

“Sorry, I meant to but…” Luna whined.

“Meant to? Did you read the manual chapter I gave you?” Dale persisted.

“I started to but then I… well kinda forgot,” Luna said sheepishly.

“Give me strength,” Dale sighed. “Come here.”

Without ceremony Dale pulled the hapless trainee across her knee and began to tug down her coveralls.

“I’m sorry,” Luna wailed as he bottom was bared.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dale said as she pulled a panel cleaning brush from her tool belt. “I’m going to spank your behind cherry red and after I’m done you are going to learn two chapters of the manual. The one I set and the next one. Then I am going to test you on it.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Luna squeaked.

She was utterly mortified to be across the older woman’s lap and she squirmed like a squished puppy.

“If you don’t get at least a pass I’m gonna spank you again and again until you do. Then I’ll have you carry out your duties with a bare behind just for good measure.”

Dale was certain that all the spoilt brat needed was a firm hand. After all they couldn’t have a replay of the escape hatch incident. Then just to make her point she spanked the girl soundly and thoroughly leaving no corner of her tail unmarked. Then just to be sure, she spanked her over until the former socialite was bawling in total surrender.

“Now get,” Dale barked and watched as the moist-eyed girl scurried away hobbled by her coveralls at her knees.

That had been only this morning and Luna could still feel the burn in her behind. The funny thing was she couldn’t bring herself to resent it. Her whole life no one had ever gave a damn about her and now here was Dale showing her things and teaching her things she would never have believed she was capable of.

Reliving the spanking before she had come on watch again had left her embarrassed sure, but something else. There was a warm tickle deep inside her and something like a door opening from a life outside. She shook her head; she had to focus before she screwed up again.

Reporting to the bridge for her next safety routine assignment, she ran through in her mind the half-learned chapters she had been set. God, I hope she doesn’t test me yet, but somehow she knew before too long she was destined for another spanking.

Then she eyed Tammy’s welted behind at her station facing the wall. Still, at least I haven’t earned anything like that yet. Luna’s eyes were drawn to the punished girl like magnets, even though she tried hard not to look. Then she saw Jen glowering at her and she blushed.

Not that Jen looked exactly comfortable.

“Alright, change watches,” Dale yelled out. “This will be the last full watch before we make the jump.”

Then spying Luna, Dale said, “You will run maintenance diagnostics with Michelin. I’ll test you tomorrow. But I wasn’t joking about what I said this morning.”

“No Ma’am,” Luna gulped.

“Hey, I said change shifts,” Dale barked turning her attention to Jen who stood at the consul.

Tammy was already pulling up her uniform trousers.

“Permission to stand my watch Ma’am,” Tammy said in a tight voice.

Any thought that the hardened cadet could take her punishment in her stride was dashed by the sight of Tammy’s woeful face and a rather glassy look to her eyes.

“Granted,” Dale said.

Then she turned to a rather sheepish looking Jen who was getting ready to take Tammy’s place.

“You know the captain’s orders,” Dale said stiffly.

“Yes Ma’am,” Jen swallowed as she bent to drive her undershorts emphatically down to her ankles.

Luna went wide-eyed at the textured stain on Jen’s bottom as she inadvertently shoved it towards her.

“It could happen to you if you don’t shape up,” Dale suggested.

“Yes Ma’am,” Luna baulked.

*

Everyone was on the bridge for the approach to the jump point, even Luna. However, she was made to stand at the back next to Jen and Tammy as the rest of the crew went through their procedures by the numbers.

“There is a long-hauler on the mid scan,” Gail announced.

“Shall I take the comms station and hail them?” Tammy said eagerly. She was desperate to get back into Dane’s good books.

Dane nodded thoughtfully. Communications weren’t generally needed in transit. Not unless there was a problem. But if the long-hauler transport on the scan was too close then they may need to cooperate before they could both make the jump.

“Please standby,” Dane said in answer to cadet Win. “Officer Lustrom?”

Interpreting his order to mean she should take position at the communications station, Tammy moved eagerly across the bridge. A sudden movement that caused a flare in her behind and she visibly winced.

Meanwhile answering the captain, Gail said, “They are a ways off.”

Anticipating the question Gail began to run the numbers, but Dane didn’t ask and instead looked at Dale at the navigation station.

“There’s no interference, the jump signal is clean,” she reported.

“Clear for jump at your order,” Michelin confirmed.

“Lustrom, anything unusual about the ship?” Dane asked Gail.

“No Sir,” she said emphatically.

“Cadet Win, any comms traffic?”

Tammy blanched, she hardly had time to log in.

“Eh… no Sir, nothing.” Damn, she thought.

Dane didn’t notice the slip.

“Darius?”

Darius replied from his station off the bridge in his trademark sing-song voice, “All systems normal.”

“Okay Hollister, let’s go to Rigel Nine.” Dane hit the release code button his consul and sat back.

*

The Ad Astra had dropped into space more than two days out from the planet. The asteroids and debris scattered throughout the system not only slowed up a nearer approach but made communications somewhat spotty.

For most of the crew this was just one more planet and a not so remarkable one at that. But for Luna this was going to be her first off-world experience. So with each passing day the excitement grew and not even another spanking from Dale for failing to learn her service manuals adequately was enough to dampen it.

Now with the penultimate watch nearly over the ship was closing with the Rigel space port fast.

Absently Luna rubbed at her tender behind, totally absorbed in the ‘better-than-life’ display of the approaching planet. Even the sight of Jen and Tammy standing side-by-side with their still sore bottoms on show did not distract her, although if she had spared a thought for them, she would have noticed that the welting on their backsides had subsided somewhat. Now any witness could see distinct tracks where the cob had bit home so that both girls had roughly even lines described across both bottom cheeks all the way from cleft-top to where the thigh met the fold of their tail globes.

Jen pouted in irritation at her humiliating position, but it was not the first time she had found herself doing corner time during a planetary approach. For Tammy it was far worse and she still felt acute shame at her embarrassing predicament.

I’m all hugs and smiles for the newbie forever, I swear, Tammy promised silently. She could only pray that her punishment parade would come to an end with this voyage and that it wouldn’t be continued on to Maelstrom.

The trouble was, Tammy was not used to the humiliating aspects of punishments. Dane usually just gave her a deserved good hiding when she had one coming. She had been horrified when Jen had casually and almost cheerfully told her of the times she had still been in the corner when customs officials had come aboard.

Just to change the subject Tammy had asked Jen that morning, “I wonder what Rigel Nine is like?”

“It’s a dump,” Jen had replied as she struggled with the buttons on the still unfamiliar uniform Darius had run-up for her. “We used to stop in all the time. My mother has friends there.”

To be continued…

He entered the room and she buried her face in the pillow. She could not see his face anyway. She had never seen his face.

She felt his hand at her waist as he flipped up her petticoats and then drew down her bloomers to her ankles. Then she felt the tickle of the rod against her exposed flesh but as always before the first blow was struck he was gone.

Eliza Andersen awoke bathed in sweat and kicked back the bed clothes. The chill of the room was refreshing after such a hot close dream, but as always she was touched with a sense of regret of something unfulfilled.

She was now almost 37 and the dreams had been with her all her life; ever since she had left the Potsdam Ladies Academy to become a teacher.

At school the prospect of a thrashing had always terrified her. Even now she could almost feel the sweep of the rods across her bare bottom and her heart raced. It had seemed in those days that whatever she did she could not escape the summons to Frau Heidrich’s room even to the age of 21 when she had graduated.

How happy she had been to escape into her profession and become the wielder of the rod and cane rather than its recipient. Perhaps almost too happy, she mused.

The thought sent her sitting upright with a start and she glanced nervously at her reflection in bedside glass. How ridiculous, she only did what was necessary for the maintenance of order. All the same she thought of her favourite student Francine and her neat round bottom exposed to the cane.

Eliza shook herself and gazed more boldly into the glass; her clear blue eyes accused her bitterly. She was a professional and a leading light at the Lucerne Finishing School for daughters of the nobility of Europe, such introspection was beneath her.

She reached for a hairbrush and began to attack her unruly locks of non-descript dark hair, ignoring the almost invisible intruding grey streaks, deciding they were remnants of the blonde of her youth.

*

Eliza Andersen paused at the corner to count the crocodile of young ladies. She hated such sorties into the town and was certain that like sheep, the girls would scatter into the surrounding streets if they were not closely marshalled.

Then there were the young men who boldly loitered in shop doorways and hung on lampposts to ogle her charges or sometimes indulging in wolf-whistling.

As each girl passed she fixed them with a hard gaze least one of them return a smile or exchange an encouraging glance. There would be consequences for such behaviour.

Eliza did not see the man across the street following the scene over the top of his journal. Although it was not the silly girls of 19 and 20 that he followed, but the more sophisticated charms of Miss Andersen herself.

There is a fortress worthy of storming he thought as he stroked his broad chin in amusement.

Karl von Straus had recently left the army and now being on the retreating side of 40 he was seeking new challenges. He was not yet ready to return to the family estates of Bavaria and had come to Switzerland in search of distraction.

Eliza Andersen cut a fine figure in her smart brown waist-nipped dress and under her severe demeanour he fancied he saw something in her lively blue eyes.

“Don’t dawdle there Katherine,” Eliza barked imperious, “And Francine if I even think you are looking at that boy you will see me later.”

A pretty little blonde blushed and dipped her head at the words.

Karl smiled at her imagined fate should she incur the wrath of Miss Andersen and then his eyes strayed to the latter’s ample seat and his grin broadened. A colleague had recently pointed her out at some town function or other, although he doubted that Miss Andersen would remember. However, if he could organise things in some way it would be enough.

*

Francine stood before Miss Andersen wide-eyed and blinking.

“You were warned Francine,” Eliza intoned.

“Please Miss Andersen I’m ever so sorry,” Francine said wringing her hands.

Eliza sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“You are always sorry Francine,” Eliza said wearily, “And now you will be sorrier still.”

Francine’s mouth became as round as her eyes and for a moment she gangled awkwardly like a rabbit about to flee and shot a glance at the door.

Eliza took up a medium length cane from her desk and pointed with purpose at the back of the chair reserved for such moments.

“You know the position now give me your derrière,” Eliza said crisply.

“Yes Ma’am,” Francine said sorrowfully as she reached under her long skirts and fumbled for her underwear.

Her bloomers fell to meet her shoes even as Francine rolled up the back hem of her skirt in tandem with her petticoats. Then with her small fists bunched over the exposed neat domes of her bottom she turned to face the chair and folded herself forward so that her behind was elevated.

Eliza’s throat became tight as the usual thrill matched her hidden shame and she contemplated the proffered behind. For a moment Eliza considered applying a dozen strokes, but the sin was a small one.

“I think eight this time,” Eliza softly breathed.

“Yes Miss Andersen,” Francine woefully acknowledged.

The first stroke sliced the air and landed with a satisfying thwack, which Francine managed in silence.

Eliza eyed the white line across pale flesh as it pinkened and delayed the next stroke as long as she dared.

Francine grunted softly at the second impact and Eliza waited until both pink lines had darkened and welted up a little. Then she added another stroke.

This time the small bottom shuddered and Francine whimpered a little, her breathing audible now.

I will have tears by seven, Eliza bet with herself in the event Francine gave a wet wail of “ooh” at six; the last two strokes extracting more fulsome cries.

Eliza would have loved to put the girl in the corner but her offence really was a trifle and some penalties needed to be held in reserve. After all she was in no doubt that Francine would be back again.

*

Time past as much as they ever did and Eliza continued to dream. She filled her life with days carefully shaped to hide the longing for something which she could barely acknowledge. Deportment got taught, essays got marked and bottoms got caned. The latter, the only real joy Eliza felt, although she knew not why and it troubled her far too much to consider.

Then one day she found the time to visit a coffee house in one of the better parts of town. It was in the Viennese style and was becoming quite the fashion among the well-to-do. The windows were large and grand to pour light upon tasteful furnishings and elegant waiters running hither and thither. In one corner was a brass trolley bearing gateaux and numerous confectionaries, guarded judiciously by a young lady wearing a white lacy apron.

The best thing however was the smell which pervaded all with its blend of coffee, spice and unnameable flavourings used in the preparation of the proffered delicacies.

Eliza tried to appear as cool as the cumber savouries and inclined her head modestly as she gazed around the room, but the truth was she was in a world on the very edge of her class and the experience was a treat beyond her daily means. In some ways she felt as wide-eyed and innocent as Francine about to be justly thrashed on a wet Wednesday afternoon.

She had been sitting for quite some time when she noticed a man of military bearing watching her from the other side of the salon.

At first she tried to ignore him and fixed her eyes on her gateaux plate, but once he had seen her recognition of him, he seemed all the more encouraged.

Finally a waiter appeared and offered her a slice of cherry gateaux compliments of Oberst Baron Karl von Straus.

“This is… well really not done,” Eliza spluttered, “We have not been introduced.”

The waiter bowed low and briskly crossed the room to where the man of military bearing sat. Again he bowed low and for a few moments the two men exchanged words. Then all at once the man stood and marched towards her.

He had no sooner closed on her position as he might as if she were a fortification when he stopped and bowed with a click of his heels.

“Allow me to present myself madam,” he said crisply and with a warm smile, “I am Karl von Straus, late of His Majesties Bavarian Guard.”

“Why I am… flattered, but surely a person of breeding would not… I mean to say if one of my girls were to act so forwardly I would spank her soundly.”

The words were out of her mouth beyond recall before she could stop them and she flushed.

“Madam, I merely offered you cake, surely not an act that invites such insult,” Karl frowned, “Perhaps it is you that deserves a spanking.”

“My apologies I… I… oh dear,” Eliza stuttered.

Karl did not miss the reaction and his eyes narrowed. For a moment he considered pressing home the advantage but he had yet to marshal his forces and decided to wait until he was on firmer ground. So instead he again clicked his heels and said, “Please enjoy the gateaux.”

Then to the waiter he said, “More coffee for madam and put her bill on my account.”

Then with a final bow he was gone.

*

Eliza was in a whirl for days afterwards. Even her dreams changed. For once the stern punisher had a face and whenever she was presented with a bottom to thrash her thoughts ran to the idea of being in the errant student’s place with the strangely fierce baron wielding the rod.

It was all she could do to wait for another day of leisure so that she could return to the coffee house in the hopes of another encounter.

So lost in her thoughts did she become that she feared that others might notice so when she was summoned to the Directress’s office she wondered if she was to be reprimanded.

The Directress, Frau Munchheimer, had a suite at the far end of the west wing, which suited her rather laissez-faire approach to running the school and was largely why Eliza was left to decide upon and administer punishments to the girls; an arrangement that suited them both.

The Directress’s quarters were at the end of a long panelled passage overlooking the orangery and with every step Eliza formulated excuses and promises regarding her inattentiveness that past week. But all too soon the heavy oak door loomed and Eliza stood before it with her mouth dry.

Time stood still at her mouse-scratch knock and as she waited all her carefully crafted arguments emptied from her mind like sands from a glass.

“Miss Andersen, please come in,” Frau Munchheimer finally called from within.

Eliza strode in with more confidence than she felt only to freeze at the sight that greeted her.

Manfully posed by the fireplace, stood Karl and he looked, for anyone who cared to see, as though he was home in his castle and totally at ease with the smiling Directress.

Eliza was about to blurt out in recognition, but Karl cut her off saying, “Is this the young lady who I have heard so much about?”

“Quite,” Frau Munchheimer beamed, “May I present Miss Eliza Andersen who is my right hand. Miss Andersen, Baron von Straus.”

Eliza swallowed back her confusion and managed to remember her curtsy.

“Delighted,” she said unevenly.

“The baron is considering making a generous donation to our little establishment, but being a military man he is concerned that our approach to discipline may be too… modern,” Frau Munchheimer continued. “I have explained that for the most part you are responsible for such matters and I have suggested that you show him around.”

“Capital idea,” Karl said enthusiastically.

“Well… yes… I would be delighted,” Eliza said quickly.

*

They were no sooner out of the room when Eliza rounded on him.

“How dare you come to my place of employment? Who do you think you are?” She raged in a harsh whisper.

“I am Baron von Straus and now we have been introduced,” Karl smiled, “I am here to make a financial donation. Why else?”

Eliza glared at him.

“Would you prefer that we return to Frau Munchheimer and tell her we are already acquainted and that you object to my presence?”

Eliza pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Quite so,” Karl said sharply, indicating that she should proceed with the tour. “Perhaps you should show me your study first. That is where you deal with errant young ladies is it not?”

Eliza sucked in her cheeks and brusquely walked ahead.

Once they arrived at Eliza’s room Karl once again took his ease and presented himself as if he were the host.

“Wh-what is it you wish to know?” Eliza began once she saw he was in no hurry.

“Discipline,” he said curtly, “I trust you do not trifle with lines or impositions or any such nonsense?”

“Occasionally, but…” Eliza licked her lips and thought the best way to tackle such an indelicate subject was to pick up a cane and hand it to him.

“It looks effective enough, better than a childish slipper applied to the behind anyway,” Karl said feigning interest, “How is it applied?”

“With vigour, I assure you,” Eliza said indignantly.

“I mean, to which end and so forth,” Karl grinned.

“To the place that God provided for the purposes,” Eliza blushed, “After… after suitable adjustments.”

“You mean young ladies present their behinds as God made them?” Karl suggested mischievously.

“Quite so,” Eliza shifted uneasily where she stood.

“I prefer the birch,” Karl said, giving the cane a flick through the air. “Any experience of it?”

“Eh… it is occasionally employed for… eh… that is to say… serious matters, but…”

“Your demeanour suggests more than an occasional encounter,” Karl challenged her.

Eliza blushed to her ears.

“It was much more commonly used in recent times was it not? The birch I mean,” Karl offered, “Perhaps you were on the receiving end as a girl?”

“It was not unknown,” Eliza whispered.

“Good,” Karl said with an emphatic nod, “I would see its return to supplement this device. That would be conditional on my contribution.”

“I see,” Eliza licked her lips.

“You have no objection?”

“None, I…”

Karl removed his jacket and then again took up the cane.

“What are you doing? This is most…” Eliza spluttered.

“We have unfinished business I believe,” Karl replied casually.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Tell me, what would you do if a girl was rude to her betters? Rude yet, to one who is a patron of the school?” Karl said ignoring her.

“I-I think you know,” Eliza whispered not taking her eyes from the rod in his hand.

“I think I do,” Karl agreed. “Tell me, your students are not children, they are young women, are they not?”

Eliza nodded.

“None too old for a sound thrashing?”

Eliza shook her head.

“From time to time, with Frau Munchheimer’s permission of course, I shall visit and monitor your… progress,” Karl explained. “On another occasion I will birch you soundly as you deserve. As you have agreed is appropriate. But for now this will suffice for your transgression.”

“If you think…” Eliza was wide-eyed and took a step backwards.

“I will have your bottom bare please,” Karl said firmly.

“Baron please… I… this is… this highly…” Eliza swallowed. “I will not have you exploiting my girls in this manner.”

“The girls I wish not to see,” Karl said, “That is your province. But I will have your pretty bare bottom bent over that chair.”

“You are a cad Sir and you have no right,” Eliza gasped, but her heart and mind were racing.

“Since I intend to marry you, I have every right, you insulted me,” Karl growled.

“Marry…?” Eliza gasped.

“Indeed, in pursuit of that intention I will be ruthless. So unless you wish me to take up our former acquaintanceship with the Frau Directress, I suggest you submit.”

Eliza could scarce draw breath and stood panting in the centre of the rug.

Karl loosened his cravat and flexed the cane like sword as he watched.

“Please Baron, this is too… sudden. I…”

He sighed and appeared to consider her words.

“You questioned my breeding did you not?” He said calmly.

She nodded and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“So by your lights this is deserved?”

She nodded, adding, “But…”

“My overtures are too sudden you say, so here is my proposition,” he said sternly, “Accept your correction and I will court you formerly for a year as well as support this school. Then I will make a more… conventional proposal. If not, I will deposit 10,000 francs with Frau Munchheimer and you will never see me again.”

“Why me? I am not such a catch. Surely there are…”

“Shush,” he soothed gently, “Do not impugn my honour by impugning yours or there will be further consequences.”

Eliza considered this for a moment and then nodded.

“My lord baron I am sorry and I deserve chastisement,” Eliza muttered somewhat shyly, “If you will undertake my correction I will give you permission to call on me.”

Karl nodded then barked, “Well!?”

“Sir?” Eliza started, suddenly puzzled.

“Place your bare bottom over that chair at once,” Karl ordered.

*

It had been a long time since Eliza had been in the supplicant position and never had she been seen even this partially naked by a man. The idea thrilled her even as she trembled. The indignity of presenting her not inconsiderable bare bottom to him as she lay over the back of the chair was primeval. And yet the tingle she felt was more intense than that felt when she had Francine at her mercy. It was almost as if that experience was but a shadow or a foretaste of the one she now shared with Karl.

“How many strokes would you award a student for insulting a patron of the school as you did?” Karl asked pointedly.

Eliza shuddered as she felt a touch of the rattan on her chilled naked flesh.

“I will not ask you again,” Karl growled, “The next time you prevaricated you will find my response harsh I promise you.”

Eliza thought about it and realised the truth. Such a girl may expect a public birching, but at the very least she would get a sound dozen.

“Perhaps 12,” Eliza whispered, “Perhaps more.”

“I’ll take that as a guide,” Karl said sharply, “You will receive two dozen as you should have known better.”

Karl felt a pulse in his head and he had to pause to adjust his trousers before he was comfortable in a punisher’s stance. But Eliza saw none of this. Her head fizzed as she threatened to faint, whether from her inverted head, the situation or the threat of a double drubbing she knew not.

Her small hands clutched at the antimacassar lace that had fallen into the seat of the chair prior to her taking position. The soft fabric felt reassuring in her hands and for a moment it held all her attention like she had never seen it before.

Then a slice of pain crossed her exposed bottom and she lurched up bucking with an angry growl.

“No complaining now, you richly deserve this,” Karl warned.

He immediately added to the vivid rose welt cutting her cheeks and watched her buttocks churn and roll in position.

“Ah,” Eliza squealed, hating herself for carrying worse than a new girl under her first chastisement.

Karl felt the power in his hands and lined himself up rapier style to deliver three more cuts and watched her dance.

“Oh my lord,” Eliza gasped.

“Oh, I do hope you address me or I shall add strokes for blasphemy,” Karl threatened.

“Yes Sir,” Eliza lied, taking a moment to rock her hips back and forth like a dog with a bone.

Within a minute Karl had doubled her bill so that her bottom was scored red with angry lines from crown to under-bum and her breathing was heavily laboured.

Eliza was transported to the dark place she inhabited between dreams and awakening with only the burning throb sawing at her behind pinning her to reality. Then as two more strokes seared into her she heard someone close by begin to cry. A stranger to her now and someone she was leaving behind.

“You may well cry,” Karl chided her, “But to serve you well, I will pay you out with 30 at out next encounter, impeccable behaviour or no.”

“Yes Sir,” Eliza consented, but she was sobbing heavily now and cursing herself she had not the stoicism or dignity to forebear in silence.

Over the next minute Karl lay-on six further strokes as Eliza bucked and howled. She scarce had time to recover from each biting cut before its fellow sang into her.

“Have you ever been so cruel?” Karl demanded; his blood now up.

Yes, she thought, knowing it was true.

“Are you not mastered?” Karl pressed her.

“Yes,” Eliza wailed.

Karl regretted his mercy and wished he had promised more. All the same he enjoyed his power as he sliced in the final six with a fencer’s skill.

At the final cut, Eliza collapsed into the chair and bawled like her merest student, revelling in her utter surrender to the pain.

“You will furnish birch rods for our next encounter and then pray I do not use them,” Karl said, picturing judicial bundles as he spoke, although he suspected that he would have to settle for a governess birch.

Harsher measures would require more training before Eliza would submit.

The surge of power rivalled his last cavalry charge and his nostrils flared as he again adjusted his breeches.

“Will you see me again?” He finally managed to ask her.

“Yes,” she sniffed as she too adjusted her limbs lest he see her shame.

*

It was days later and even with careful steps Eliza’s bottom flared with every step. She took delight in the fact that she could no more sit down than fly to the moon, although she had resolved to find a coffee house with good hard chairs once it was imaginable so that she could revel in her secret discomfort in public. A curious idea, she knew, and yet it thrilled her.

Thrice she had caned girls far beyond the normal penalties without the hint of remorse only to slip away to her room to make comparisons with their marks and hers. She found her own efforts wanting; a sin she would have to report to her secret fiancé as soon as he again called upon her.

Nevertheless today was a sad day as her favourite student was graduating, her family having found her suitable husband had taken out of school.

Eliza took a hidden thrill from receiving Francine in an upright position, amused by the fact that the girl would never know that her teacher carried a healthy crop of welts where she had ambitions to one day sit again.

“Oh Miss Andersen,” Francine gushed, “I just had to say goodbye before I left.”

“Why thank you dear, that is only polite,” Eliza said pleasantly, “But I doubt much if you will miss me.”

“Oh, I did not mind that so very much,” Francine blushed, her hand stealing to her behind as she said ‘that.’ “No I had to tell you that you are my very favourite teacher and I will miss you.”

Eliza blushed.

“I might even miss ‘that’ occasionally,” Francine added shyly.

“Well perhaps your new husband will take a firm line with you,” Eliza offered, although she was still blushing. “I understand that some husbands are so inclined in such matters.”

“Oh do you really think so?” Francine said eagerly.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll write to your man and suggest it,” Eliza teased.

“Oh would you,” Francine gushed, missing the jest.

Eliza hid her expression as she turned her gaze fell upon the new delivery of birch rods in the corner waiting to be made up. She knew for certain that the new intake of students would be in for a warm time of it. But also, she pondered, she wondered how many of those rods she would feel across her own behind.

Ends.

It seems that LSF are determined to publisher a sizeable proportion of my back catalogue. (Is that a double entendre or a pun?) Anyway, hot on the heels of the novella, Lizzie Baines, comes the re-publishing of The Academy (originally published as The Academy: the future of spanking).

There are two original works in the pipeline, but before then there are plans afoot to publish other works, including a collection of short stories to be sold on Amazon.

Getting back to the Academy; it is largely a dystopian sci-fi story that centres on a secret government project to save the world in the guise of some intrigue. Oh and there is quite a bit of spanking.

I had no hand in writing the publishers blurb but I kind of like it. It runs thus:

Founded after ‘The Fall’ when the world was changed forever and women outnumber men three to one, the Academy is a place of training for young women between 19 and 25. In this school, teachers are punished as well as the students! Having escaped prison, five new girls are sent to The Academy as an alternative.

All are nervous and horrified by the idea of corporal punishment. Kate is particularly brash and insolent, and quite determined that no-one will lay a hand on her, let alone a cane or a paddle. But deep down, she is as scared as the rest. It is not long before the girls plus new arrivals experience the disciplinary regime of The Academy.

But who are The Sacred Sisters of Revenge? And is Callie all she appears to be? Deceptions and punishments abound in this erotic tale of adult discipline.

For those who want a copy it is available here.

This unusual snippet was sent in by Karl Gauss so many thanks to him.

The women soldiers pictured above got in some seriously hot water after posing semi-naked and posting the pictures on the Internet.

As the New York Post reported:

Israeli military officials did not divulge the exact nature of the punishment they face but blasted their lack of professionalism stating, “The commanding officers disciplined the soldiers as they saw fitting,” the army said in a statement.

 In an effort to encourage female conscripts to stop stripping, the military instituted a series of lectures that stressed the importance of staying clothed while on duty.

 Apparently the lectures had little effect on the women because the group published three more photos after they were disciplined. In the new pictures, the women are seen wearing very skimpy underwear while they cover their breasts with rifles…. (second picture top)

Interestingly there appears to be some welt marks on the bottom of the girl in the first picture. Maybe she had been in trouble before and the commanding officer punished her as he or she “saw fitting” that time too.

Our story began here.

End of Days
The vast Western host had all-but overwhelmed the point of the wedge, but still more pike men came forward to offer some semblance of resistance. The steep angle of the formation continued to confuse the enemy forces of the west’s stretched-out lines while piles of their dead slowed their advance making them vulnerable to Eastern archers.

Sorties to the rear of the wedge fared little better, with counter charge after counter charge from Timbre and Precips cavalry checking the repeated attempts at envelopment.

Peron had twice had an arrow whizz past his ear and two of his staff officers had been hit and struck from the saddle. But he remained un-rattled and very much in control.

To his right, William Armarlon, continued to rally hard pressed pike men, who to a man had stood their ground. The Duke struck the pose of a hero, exuding the confidence that nothing would touch him.

Only the Grand Magus showed any sign that the battle had taken its toll. He looked sick and his eyes lolled in his head like a fish hurled onto dry land. As for the rest of the Magister, there was no one to be seen and Peron was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this battle would be won only by blood and steel.

Meanwhile the enemies repeated cavalry charges had thinned their ranks and Peron calculated that his forces now had parity with them. All this and none of his elite swordsmen had yet been committed.

The King was still pondering the positions and dispositions of the battle when the sudden deadly roar of battle died down. This evil hubbub was the kind of sound that fighting and dying men do not hear until it quietens and Peron had lived to hear it many times. It always meant a change of tempo amid the hostilities. He checked his lines.

Even Davidus had noticed the change and was looking around expectantly.

The moment of truth, Peron decided. His lines were sound so the shift in mood came from the enemy. They would either break or…

The rush of wind stunned many a novice in war. But for the likes of Peron and William it was an old friend. Finally after piecemeal attacks the enemy had fully engaged and their archers at last concentrated a volley.

“Shields up,” someone screamed. It was a gruff common voice; that of a grizzled captain or a sergeant-at-arms; the backbone of an army.

The well-drilled allies responded and almost every shield went up to form a partial wall skyward. But the blow never fell.

Instead a blast of heat blew back at them as every sinister missile burst to flame and feel harmlessly as ash. Peron shot a look at a smug Davidus. They could win this, be damned, he cursed, we could win.

As if to confirm his hopes there was no pause in the magic as dozens of fireball swept over them and into the pell-mell ranks of the Western army as it surged forward hoping to take advantage of the disarray their arrows should have wrought.

The little globes of silver-blue looked so small and seemed to move too slowly to be a threat. Almost like snowballs hurled by a child, they landed upon the bemused ranks of the foe.

Then where each touched, a plume of sparks like fireworks exploded followed by a wave of airborne fire that blossomed like great blue-white flowers.

The only screams were from the untouched men. For every man caught in the slow blasts shimmered but for a moment before turning ashen grey like statues. Peron gaped at the sight. Perhaps half a thousand men in disparate groups became as cloudy smudges where they stood. One or two even took a few stumbling steps forward on a cascade of dust that used to be their legs before falling to ash on the ground.

This mage fire was followed by a hail of mortal arrows that pin-cushioned the stunned survivors sending the entire massed ranks of the Western Host staggering back in disarray.

“Now your grace, now,” Peron screamed at William.

The Duke made one chop with his sword and ranks of pike men stood down by files opening up ‘gates’ in their ranks. No sooner had they opened when scores of swordsmen surged forward cutting swathes through the enemy lines and starting a rout along most of the lines.

Once the Peron was certain he sent a herald to the signal master and held his breath; it was all timing. King Peron waited.

In the long moments that followed whole days passed and unbidden thoughts of his life rushed into Peron’s mind as it might a man drowning. Then half an age later trumpets sounded followed by shrill horns. Even then time stopped and the King gazed in horror upon his committed swordsman. They are exposed to any rally. He bit down on vomit that had risen in his mouth.

Then a light rumble turned into a roar and the combined ranks of the Allied cavalry charged.

“Get them, get them, get them,” someone was screaming excitedly.

It wasn’t until the Grand Magus looked at him in surprise that Peron realised it was himself who was screaming.

*

The old nobleman on the horse looked exhausted. His armour was dented and smeared with blood and the way his right arm draped limply at his side told Peron that he had strained it almost beyond use in hacking down foes.

The king swept his gaze over his largely intact, but bedraggled army. Much the same could be said for it too. It would take days to recover, but they had done it.

Peron turned back to the officer on horseback. He was an old pro and waited patiently for the king to acknowledge him. Damn fine soldier, the king decided, not like some of the young popinjays over eager to please.

“Please report… colonel…?” King Peron said wearily catching sight of the braided rope that was wound around one of the man’s shoulders.

“De Lacy your majesty, Sir Mark De Lacy of Downley,” Sir Mark said crisply. “The enemy are in full rout. We pursued them to the river crossing south of here and I can report that most discarded their war gear to escape us. The rest…”

Sir Mark shrugged and offered the king a grim face.

“Losses Sir Mark?” Peron said graciously.

“Ours?” Sir Mark shrugged, “Very light. Theirs… well the reports aren’t all in, but I would say that we outmatch them now in all departments and overall by two to one.”

“Excellent work De Lacy,” Peron allowed himself to crow.

Then he saw that Sir Mark was frowning.

“Let’s have it,” Peron asked.

Sir Mark sucked in air through his nose in something not quite like a sniff. As child he used the gesture to disguise the fact that he might cry.

“Lord Mycroft and Colonel Vanpike are dead,” he reported, “And…

Peron didn’t know Vanpike, but Mycroft had been a poet before the war, a great loss.

“Who now commands the cavalry?” Peron asked to hide his own regret.

“Until it pleases your majesty… Sire, I do,” Sir Mark informed the king, “But Sire…”

Peron looked up.

“There were dust clouds reported to the west and a little north of here,” Sir Mark continued. “I sent scouts but…”

“You saw them yourself?” Peron’s voice was hard.

“I saw the southernmost elements,” Sir Mark intoned.

“And?”

“Another army Sire, a big one. A very big one.”

*

King Peron was still weighing up the options of defeating another large army when another of Sir Mark De Lacy’s scouts rode up and spoke some rapid anxious words into the acting commander of horse’s ear.

Peron flexed his hand unconsciously around the hilt of his sword still in its scabbard and time seemed to stand still. Sir Mark’s face was stiff and ashen grey as he heard the scout’s report. The King wanted to scream at the man to hurry up, but what was needed right then was a calm respect for the chain of command.

All at once Sir Mark broke from his brief conference with the scout and wheeled his horse so that it faced his king.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Mark called before he had even ridden to the king’s side, “To the north,” he could scarce get the words out, “Another report of dust; a large force moving fast, Sire.”

“How large?” Peron murmured, his head bowed.

He dreaded the next words.

“It’s another army. At least a match for ours,” Sir Mark said gently, now having pulled his horse to a stop. “But given the speed and numbers of their outriders I would suggest that this may be their main force.”

Peron nodded. He sucked air in gently through his nose and glanced at the enemy he was already about to engage. With the Magister’s help he could defeat it, but not without severe losses. But it was a virtual certainty that this new threat would close with them before he could rout its fellow and disengage. And then what? His army would be decimated and exhausted. He doubted he could outrun the new host, let alone defeat it.

Breaking into his thoughts the Grand Magus chose that moment to ride up for a conference.

“Not now Grand Maestro,” Peron said wearily.

“You have heard about this new threat then?” Davidus said sharply.

Peron nodded dejectedly.

“There are strong signs of magic among this new body of troops. Many priests, witches and much else besides,” the Grand Magus said confidently.

“Could you neutralise this new threat? Delay it even while we deal with this lot?” King Peron nodded in the direction of the assembling hoard to the south.

“We might level the playing field magically speaking but…” Davidus’s voice was heavy with regret.

“We would still be outnumbered what… four, five, even six to one?” Peron groaned, “And caught betwixt the two.”

The Grand Magus nodded.

Peron wondered how many more men Timbre could offer to the war; in time, another army such as this perhaps. He sighed. But apart from the garrison at his capital and a few marines with the fleet Precips, his entire force was committed here. His plan of taking the war to the West had failed. In fact if he could not extract himself from this trap then the war was lost.

William Armarlon, the Duke of Timon knew something was amiss now and discarding his usual indefatigable bravado he closed with the small group of leaders huddled around the king.

“We cannot win here can we your majesty?” he said grimly.

Peron shook his head.

“Can we retreat?”

No, thought Peron.

“Oh yes,” said the Grand Magus brightly. “We have a few hours yet and I have the means to contact the fleet to extract us from a supply beach a league from here.”

“The entire army?” Peron said incredulously. “What about them?”

He looked at the host to the south which was now dangerously near.

“Now they can be delayed,” Davidus smiled grimly.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

The Flight of the Doves
The Scroll Keeper, Sejanus Jacelon, stood patiently waiting in the middle of the admiral’s quarters that had been turned over to King Peron. Although his majesty had acknowledged him on his entrance he was still deep in conference with the Duke of Timon and other senior officers.

The fleet was three days out from battle on the beach and with a mage wind behind it was making good time across the Southern Sea.

Sejanus coughed and looked across at the small group expectantly.

“My good fellow, Scroll Keeper Jacelon,” Peron said at last. He had no idea how to address a scroll keeper, so tentatively he ventured, “Maestro is it?”

“You honour me your majesty,” Sejanus bowed.

“How is the Grand Magus?” the King asked.

The babble stopped and all eyes swivelled to the Mage.

“He is…” Sejanus shrugged, “… yet to awaken. His condition is grave. If he lives…” the scroll keeper’s voice strained as if he might break to sobbing, “He will take no further part in this war.”

“And you are now Pandoria’s leader?” Peron said gently.

“Until Davidus again takes up the reins or a Grand Magus pro temp is appointed. Until then I will attend to all civil matters and Gort will lead the fight,” Sejanus informed him.

“Gort the High Hand, the one who can fly,” Peron nodded thoughtfully, “A useful fellow to have around,” he added.

“Can I enquire as to where we are going?” the Scroll Keeper asked.

Peron bristled for a moment; he wasn’t accustomed to accounting to anyone. But then he realised that Sejanus represented his most powerful ally after the Duke of Timon and he had been remiss for not inviting the fellow or this Gort chap to the council of war.

“As to that you have me,” the King’s voice softened. “Every fibre in my being says we should head for Precips, but as his grace points out, given the strength of the enemy we should consolidate our forces in Timbre where no doubt the main attack will come.”

The Duke of Timon leaned across the desk and pounded on a map. His eyes were wild.

“With what we have gathered here added to the main Timbre army we might have a quarter of a million men,” he said eagerly.

“So you have heard,” Sejanus said with an emphasis on the word ‘have.’ Then from the quizzical expressions he realised that they hadn’t. “We really must organise our intelligence better. You do understand that Pandoria misses nothing that happens in this war,” the Scroll Keeper said impatiently.

“What has happened?” Peron asked.

“An invasion force has landed on Precips. Castle Maelon is under siege,” Sejanus informed him. “As for Timbre, another force is headed for Motra Mundy.”

Peron sunk into himself and looked aghast at William Armarlon, the Duke. Then with a cold steady glare he seized some papers form the desk and tore them into quarters.

“You had better tell me everything Maestro,” he said wearily, and then to an aide he said, “Oh and can you ask Maestro Gort to join us.”

*

People had been pouring across the bridge spanning the River Renton all morning. The bridge that led to the castle gates was wide enough on any usual day but the threat of war and news of the invasion had led to widespread panic and crowds of jostling folk began to form a panicked knot as they pressed across.

To an outside observer the refugees presented a living image of every section of Precips society. Among them were whole families pushing carts together with noblemen a horse, dejected retreating warriors and an assortment of rag-tag skulking ne’er-do-wells who hoped to profit from the coming hostilities.

High above the crowds from the main tower a woman looked down with strain etched on her face as she clutched her cloak to her neck against an imagined chill. Word had reached Castle Maelon that Aspen was already under attack and that any hope of escape from there was closed.

“What other intelligence is there?” Shula asked the captain of the guard without turning away from the window.

The captain, Euan Stand, sighed and shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to be held accountable by women, but with King Peron and his brother Prince Jason away at war, Prince Cygwin, the king’s son had left Princess Shula in charge while he rallied Precips remaining forces across the sea in Timbre.

If Shula noticed Euan’s slow response she didn’t show it. Instead she continued to watch the streams of refugees crossing Renton Bridge for the dubious safety of the castle.

“We can’t let them keep coming,” Euan said, taking a step forward, “We should send them north.”

“Perhaps I will,” Shula said with a sharp emphasis on ‘I’ to counter the Guard Captain’s ‘we.’ Any decision would be hers. “That is if I get any answer to my question,” she continued.

Euan wasn’t exactly quaking at her rebuke, but at least Princess Shula was in charge and not that ditsy mother of hers.

“Aspen’s defences will not stand. The town may already have fallen. The defence fleet retreated as soon as the city was attacked from the land,” Euan explained.

“Eminently sensible,” Shula agreed, “But how were the enemy able to effect a landing in the first place? I thought we had them on the run at sea?”

Euan shrugged.

“Your uncle and our main fleet have performed with valour, but it was decided to tie up Challis and the armies there with a blockade,” Euan told his lady carefully.

You never knew with women if they understood strategy.

“We never expected an attack here, not with the king’s invasion to support the free cities of the Western Plain and our naval victories,” he continued.

“We assumed that they would move on Timbre,” Shula nodded. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes and no, your highness,” Euan said bitterly, “Timbre has been attacked we hear. Motra Mundy may already have fallen.”

“What?” Shula at last took her eyes from her fleeing people and wheeled around to face the captain. “But if the enemy is engaged in the West and at Challis, how are they able to attack here and in Timbre?”

“Oh it is worse Ma’am,” Euan said patiently as if lecturing a child, “I am afraid our king may have had to retreat from the West after encountering overwhelming resistance. I have it from an adept left here to facilitate…”

“We must overpower them somewhere, they cannot be this strong,” Shula accused Euan as if it were his fault.

“The report from the West is unconfirmed,” Euan said placating, “This magic is… unreliable. I don’t trust it.”

“Well I do captain,” Shula sighed dejectedly, “And I want to know every detail of this adept’s information. Send this… what’s his name, this adept?”

“Crane, Ma’am,” Euan said, he hadn’t liked the man at all.

*
Only the north gate to the city was still open, the rest having been closed to the advancing enemy. But smoke to the East and South was too close now and the old man suspected that the city walls had already been breached. At that moment, as if to confirm his suspicions a great wail went up from that direction. The screams that followed made him shudder.

Varius, spared a thought for his grandchildren on the road to Timon. He hoped that they would make it. He prayed they would. They had begged the old man to flee with them, but he had told them his duty was to remain and tend the birds. He had always loved the pigeons and doves he kept in the city’s service more than them, so they believed him.

It was not true of course; he had ever loved his family more. He just didn’t like them very much. No the reason he had not fled with them was because he was too old. As it was they had little chance of outrunning the invaders, but with him wheezing along behind they had none.

Varius heard another scream and he scanned the city rooftops and squinted for its source. His Loft was not the highest in a city of squat brick buildings, but it was high enough. He glanced around the room as if he seeing it for the first time; or the last. It smelled of pigeon shit and musty damp wood. Even in high summer the damp got into his bones and this time of year the smell was worse.

“I must make haste,” he croaked to himself and tuned back to the small scrolls of paper on the table.

He had few notes left to write and he prayed that at least one would reach Timon in time.

There was a crash in the street below and horses came at a gallop across the stone cobbled pavement. It was followed by the clash of steel and the sound of fighting nearby. Already Varius’s loft might be within arrow range and if the enemy suspected that it housed message birds on the king’s service then all would be for nought.

What to do, what to do, he pondered? If he let one bird go at a time with a single message the foe might catch on and place archers to intercept. But if he waited until he had finished attaching all the messages… What to do?

Bellow a fat ageing city watchman hacked a western warrior to the floor and split his skull. He had always suspected that he wasn’t up to the job as a guard and that if this day ever came he would desert his post and run.

He might have considered the irony of such thinking, but there really was no time. Another enemy scout swung around the corner set on plunder ahead of his comrades. Brian pierced the man’s mount in the oncoming guts and then hastily stepped back to let the horse’s body fall kicking to the ground.

The rider looked confused and nudged the horse with his knee as if to confirm it was actually dying. A horrified Brian took the rider’s head with a sweep of his sword and swallowed back the bile at his throat. After all it was only the third man he had ever killed. And it was nothing at all like picking-up drunks.

He was still considering whether to flee or throw-up when another clatter of horses’ hooves came up the street from beyond his line of sight. I should flee, he decided. But his sword posed itself to receive an attack and he moved forward and not back.

This time there were nine of them. All battle hardened and eager for the kill. The comedy warrior with armour that didn’t fit didn’t even stand right. The cocky western rider at their head laughed and turned to share an insult with the man at his right; it was his last ever action in that life.

Brain couldn’t reach the second rider so he hacked at his horse and took them both down. One down and seven to go, he thought idly as if he believed it. The blow that took him from behind was hindered by his shoulder and instead of dying at once; the old watchman fell in a pool of blood.

There was so much of it he thought. Must be the horse’s not mine, he decided. Looking up he saw the gutter on the house above them was broken. Someone should fix that, the stray thought was an idle one and as incongruous as he was in a battle.

The fallen enemy rider had gained his feet and now stood over Brian with a mask of hate and entitlement carved on his face.

“You didn’t have to come here son,” Brian coughed. Blood was wet on his chin.

Oh, that’s not good, he thought, but for some reason he laughed. The young man standing over him was so angry.

There were a few of them now; all hovering in the street, loitering with intent he would have called it. The nearest held his sword as if it was a foreign object.

Never killed a man before, Brain thought. But the kid with the sword seemed scarcely worth his time. The clouds of white doves that took flight and glowed in the sun above the city were so much more beautiful. There were millions of them all flying away; all flying north. Birds fit for a king.

The western warriors in the street looked up and saw them too. Even the doves flee, they sneered oblivious to the significance of the flight. Then turning back to the fallen watchman they saw he was already dead.

“Come on boys, let’s see what we can take,” one of them laughed. And the men remounted and with a clatter of hooves pressed on deeper into the city.

To be continued.

Some time ago I came across a little piece of military history regarding the home front and the use of photography for keeping up the morale of men off fighting. Certainly by the time of both the Crimean War and the American Civil War photography was available to the officer classes among the British, French and Union Army.

It is by no means clear how widespread this practice was, but there is a suggestion that some young wives and sweethearts of serving officers (and some men) had risqué portraits taken of themselves (much like the themed one above) in order to keep their men’s spirits up.

One can well imagine that these women kept this naughtiness from their families and many a Victorian father would have been outraged and all that that promised. Remember this was the age of the birch and strap which were not spared when it came to a young woman’s bottom. Remember too that the same young ladies may well have been required to lodge with older relatives, sister’s, or even their imperious mother-in-laws.

One can speculate too what their husbands would say (or do) on returning for war to confront the butter-wouldn’t-melt demeanour of demure women who had dared all.

I couldn’t find more of substance on this. A selection letters from the First World War had these two little snippets.

Dear Bell,

Thanks for the items you sent, especially the socks and the other thing. That certainly was a surprise. Now I really am looking forward to when I can come back home.

And this…

Some of the men have been sent pictures of their girls got up in bathing suits and sometimes even less. I would hate to think of you getting up to such antics and if you ever did you and I would have words when I got home. The respectable portrait of you that you had made last summer is more than enough for me.

Pictures from the First War are relatively common and abound on vintage erotica sites, but many from earlier times were printed on glass and would have been lucky to survive the post in the first place and are now mostly lost or are in private collections.

Our story began here.

The Invasion of Timbre
The cliffs of Challis stood like a wall for as far as the eye could see in both directions. They weren’t high as cliffs went and unusually from a Precips perspective they were topped by sporadic clusters of pine trees that grew so abundantly here in the north. Facing the cliffs were the combined fleets of Precips and Timbre ranging the seas in patrol.

Prince Jason viewed the shoreline with grim satisfaction. Every so often a horseman would break cover and go racing along the edge of the trees atop of the cliff before ducking into the undergrowth. We have them rattled, he thought. He knew that his smaller faster ships had eyes on every port and possible landing site ready to turn on their keels and signal the larger flotillas should any western ship try to run the blockade.

Since his previous battle, his fleet had dominated the northern ocean, a situation that coupled with the internal collapse of the kingdom of Challis, had taken that nation out of the war.

Jason knew that victory was in no small part due to the magical intervention of Maxine Du Jared and he regretted that she had been recalled to Timber for the battle there. Still, the blockade was working and a good part of the Western Army was bottled in Challis, unable to swell the ranks for the invasions elsewhere.

“Does it matter then?” Captain Timorous asked.

The Admiral shrugged.

“We might have prevented the landings at Precips if we had known, but nothing could have prevented the fall of Motra Mundy,” he said. “In any case, the army on Challis is going nowhere. Those were our orders.”

“What if they use magic against us?” Timorous remembered the mountains of ocean falling on the foe at a word. Thanks to Maxine, that had served them well, but the captain feared what would happen if the tables were turned.

As if reading his mind another authoritative voice answered his fears.

“Wild Magic holds no dominion over the sea and even without the presence of a magus; my fellow adepts and I are more than a match for any threat here.”

Captain Timorous turned to view the old man. He hadn’t liked the look of him since he had first been dispatched to replace Maxine in leading the cadre of wizards. It wasn’t just that the captain felt they were being palmed off with a mere wizard, but the ancient sage looked too frail for war and he was far too condescending.

“Mr Dniester, you are confident that you can contain any magical threat then?” Prince Jason asked.

“Any magical threat, you say, well that is a big ask indeed,” Dniester replied, “But I know I can meet any challenge that is likely to arise.”

*

Motra Mundy was still burning and even though his forces would need the city largely intact Maiestatis had given no orders to halt the carnage. This after all was what he had foreseen and victory was in his grasp.

Draken watched the demon shuffle from side to side and at first he was puzzled by what he saw. Surely the Wolf of the West and last of Triptych could see that their army would need the port before the war was done. The enemy may have been out manoeuvred, but it still held a threat at sea and if Maiestatis knew where the King of Precips and those damn mages were, he was not saying.

“The fire is spreading,” the warlock offered tentatively.

But the demon ignored him as he continued his grotesque dance.

“Don’t we need the port?” Draken tried again.

“The port will survive the onslaught,” Maiestatis said chokingly, his mouth and head twitching. “I have seen it, seen it.” His voice scratched like rats’ claws on marble.

From the hill he not only saw the city as it was, but how it had been and would or could be again. There were still hopelessly hopeful people fighting for their homes and resisting the invaders. Maiestatis could feel the song of their pain and frustration as he danced.

“What about…?” Draken tried one more time.

“The mages?” the demon cackle-croaked, “They come, they come, but he is not among them. Not yet.”

Draken was not sure of whom he spoke, so he said nothing. The latest reports had been that Castle Maelon was under siege and even without reinforcements from Challis they outnumbered the allied armies in Timbre by five to one or would until the King of Precips arrived with is paltry army. Why was the damn demon so complacent? They should strike now before the allies combined their forces.

The warlock looked back at the city and to the land beyond stretched out before them. Soon it would be time to do his part.

*

Nansi Pyke hated that she had no magical ability. It meant that as a woman she had been relegated to a commissary role in the coming siege on Timon. At least she hoped there would be a siege. If there wasn’t and the fools of Timbre decided to meet them in open combat then the battle would be short and fierce and she would have no role to play at all.

Nansi, the Sword Leader of the Fourth Battle Coven, was half a head taller than most woman of her clan, that is to say a foot shorter than most of the men. But what she lacked in physical presence she made up for in determination. Her hard grey eyes had seen much in her 25-year life and if anyone had every thought she was beautiful, they had never said.

Formerly she had been second upper housemaid at Griswold Hold far to the West, a bitter remote place that had afforded her little authority and 18 hours a day hard drudgery. There had been few men of her social rank and her time had been spent bitching her way to the top of an inferior heap of females. Foolish women who did nothing but preen themselves for imaginary men they would never see and do as little work as possible.

When the conscription order had come most women had been horrified. This had been the first war in history that had ever admitted women; war was no place for them, or that was the common view.

But Nansi was an uncommon girl and ambitious. Cropping her dusty brown hair like a boy, she had quickly transferred her paltry domestic leadership role into that of marshalling sergeant. Unlike many other more reluctant women she had applied herself diligently to every task assigned her. This had included three extra hours a day at weapons drill while other warrior maidens slept. Added to that was the fact that she was one of the few women who could read so she had quickly risen to be an officer.

Up to now the women cadres had been assigned to rounding up the surviving civilians and guarding supply wagons. There were great many slaves to be resettled in the West and even with men to spare the War Leader had demanded every one of them for the coming battles.

Nansi drew her sword and scythed a stand of grass just outside Motra Mundy’s city gates. Nothing but a glorified housemaid again, she thought bitterly. Then she caught an under-sergeant watching her display of temper.

Under-sergeant Rondel was a tall nervous woman whose face had a permanently startled look as if she had no idea where she was or what she was doing, which in her case was probably true. The woman was a hopeless warrior and had probably only made under-sergeant on account of the fact that she could read.

“Get on with your work girl,” Nansi bellowed at her.

The woman jumped and unconsciously grabbed at her behind.

“Eh… Ma’am… one of the prisoners…” the poor women looked like she wanted to flee.

Nansi wondered how the stupid girl had ever made under-sergeant, but then on reflection it wasn’t that much of a mystery, few enough wanted the job. No wonder we don’t get a proper job.

“What about this prisoner? Spit it out girl,” Nansi barked at her.

“Ma’am, she was complaining and the sergeant beat her…” the under-sergeant said meekly.

“So,” Nansi shot back angrily.

She hated the sergeant. She was a brutal woman who provoked the prisoners beyond reason and made everyone’s job more difficult, but in this army such reasoned stances might be seen as a weakness.

“She didn’t just… ma’am… eh… it was one of the highborn women that… our orders…” the under-sergeant was obviously terrified that the whole coven could get crucified if they disobeyed standing orders.

“For the gods’ sake,” Nansi groaned as she strode back through the city gates.

Inside the city reeked of burnt flesh and stale smoke. Just one of the reasons Nansi had opted for hanging around the gates. She was a country girl and hated cities at the best of times. This was so far from the best of times for Motra Mundy that very stones might weep.

There was an open area to the right of the gates where wagons had been stored and beyond it was a tavern that served as the Fourth Battle Cadre’s headquarters. The cadre’s pennant hung next to the Wolf’s head of the Western Host’s flag, obscuring a large ugly painting of a great red head of a boar, which Nansi presumed was the tavern’s name.

To the left, opposite the pub, was a burnt-out building that could have served any purpose. And although its walls still stood the floors inside were gone as was the roof, so that building was exposed to the sky right down to the cellar.

It was in the basement of this ruined structure that prisoners had been secured pending dispatch to wherever they had been assigned. In addition an impromptu whipping post and pillory had been set-up by the hastily repaired doors and next that was a small block of wood over which women warriors were disciplined when the need arose.

The difficult highborn women were supposed to be taken down a peg by being caned across this block like her warriors, but Nansi could now see that Lady Merringham, the self-appointed leader of the slaves, was sitting on the floor nursing a bloody face while the sergeant stood over her bellowing.

“I don’t take no shit from the likes of you, not anymore,” the sergeant was yelling.

Lady Merringham glowered up at her defiantly. The woman has spunk, no question, Nansi thought.

“Callous, Sergeant Callous,” Nansi called over, thinking and not for the first time that it was a highly apt name, “What is that woman doing out here?”

“Complaining,” Callous sneered.

Callous was a tall girl of around Nansi’s age. She was a city girl and although pretty, was given to rough ways. Nansi suspected that she may have had a less than respectable occupation before the war.

“Reasonable complaints are to be brought to me. Unreasonable complaints… well just cane their backsides or birch them in the pillory,” Nansi said with a sigh, adding pointedly, “Highborn ladies are caned, remember?”

“I don’t need no help here Sword Leader,” Callous did not even turn round or salute.

Nansi had been here before, but not while there was still fighting all around. She couldn’t let this pass. Furthermore all the guards were watching them.

The sword leader turned and glanced at the headquarters building. The Cadre Leader had strolled onto the street and was leaning on the door post. No doubt she had seen the beating and was considering what to do about the breach of standing orders.

“Callous,” Nansi said sharply, “Stand to attention when you are talking to me.”

The sergeant was still bending over the fallen noble woman, but she turned her head with a look of scorn in Nansi’s direction before slowly standing upright in a poor semblance of ‘at attention.’

“Ma’am,” Callous said belatedly in acknowledgement.

“Highborn ladies are caned; don’t you remember the standing orders?”

Callous shrugged and mumbled something.

“What was that?” Nansi barked, striding forward to close the gap between them.

“The bitch had it coming,” Callous sneered, adding, “Ma’am.”

Nansi pressed her face in close to her sergeant and whispered, “I decide what she had coming, get it? If you want to have some fun, then do it as if you at least gave a shit about orders. Or don’t do it at all.”

“Not one of these bitches could fill me shoes and you know it. So it looks like we are just stuck with each other,” Callous said with a yawn. The absent ‘ma’am’ was deliberate.

Nansi had never killed a woman, or a man, come to that. She had seen it done though. An officer had been crucified for a breach of orders on the long march to the coast. That had been before the ships and that long horrible voyage. Callous was pushing it.

Damn this stupid woman, Nansi groaned inwardly.

The only difference between a sergeant’s rig and one of the ordinary warriors was the red rope that was wound around her shoulder. Nansi gave Callous one long hard look willing her to say ma’am and stand down.

It soon became horribly clear that the woman was never going to. Damn, Nansi thought and snatched the rope from the sergeant’s shoulder.

Callous gaped at her for a moment, giving Nansi time to bark an order.

“Under-sergeant, put this woman over the block,” she yelled, then seeing that no one moved, she all but screamed, “Do it.”

Even then it took a moment before the under-sergeant motioned to three other warriors. By then Callous was smirking.

“You think you can handle this mob without me,” she sneered.

But there was no resistance. The former sergeant just walked casually to the block and dropped her breeches. Then kneeling with her bare thighs touching the dust, Callous bent over so that her bare bottom was sticking upwards and her head was down.

Nansi studied the proffered bottom in some awe. If this woman hadn’t been selling it back before the war, she certainly could have, she thought. And then someone handed her a cane.

*

Callous was an athletic woman, but no less feminine for that. There was a defiance to her posture and from her place over the block she seemed to thrust her bottom up at Nansi as if daring the Sword Leader to do her best.

In her own way Nansi Pyke would normally take some pleasure form having a comely bottom at her mercy, just as Callous did. But for the former sergeant it was a brutal way of life and she had demonstrated no finesse or art to her sadism. Whereas for Nansi it was just good sport and she had long dreamed of this moment.

However, it was no game and Nansi’s limited pleasure came at a cost. The demotion of Callous would be a sore loss to their battle coven. Damn the woman.

With that bitter thought Nansi brought the cane down with a will and struck Callous hard across her firm hard buttocks. The former sergeant did not even flinch. Although the Sword Leader noticed that the ninny of an under-sergeant did. By the gods’ rotten teeth I can’t promote her, Nansi thought bitterly and in frustration she struck Callous again across the bottom.

There were now two hard red scores across the woman’s behind. In contrast to the pale ruddiness of Callous’s flesh, they stood up like mountain tracks and looked twice as raw. But still she made no show of discomfort.

“How many do you think Rondel?” Nansi asked the under-sergeant with a hint of mockery.

Rondel gaped and began rubbing her hands on her thighs in some agitation. Her eyes, Nansi noticed, had not left Callous’s bottom. I would love to have you across this block, Nansi thought. And then she recalled that she already had. The woman had a ridiculously small bottom, Nansi remembered and she had not taken her punishment well.

“I… eh…” Rondel swallowed and continued to stare. “A standard is 15, ma’am,” she said nervously.

“I know what a standard is woman,” Nansi barked, “So you think gross insubordination and disregard for standing orders only rates a standard then do you?”

Rondel looked panicked and finally tore her eyes away from Callous to look at Nansi.

“No I… a double standard I should think,” she spluttered.

“You think far too much woman. I ought to give you a double standard,” Nansi snapped.

Rondel blanched.

Returning to Callous, Nansi laid on three more strokes just about as hard as she could and then added another with some real vim. This stroke finally got a grunt from the former sergeant. But it was Nansi who was doing all the heavy breathing.

Looking down she saw that the bottom was heavily scored now and the redness from each welt had ‘bled’ out into the surrounding whiteness. I’ll have her bleeding in earnest if she doesn’t… but it was just Nansi’s frustration. That sort of extremity was something that was more Callous’s line.

Nansi looked at Lady Merringham on the ground. She was still bleeding from her nose, but her eyes were clear and sharp. You don’t want us here do you? Nansi thought. She had been so determined to get away from her drudge ridden life that she had never given the least thought to the justice, necessity or the indeed the value to the war.

Somewhere someone screamed and there was a crash of falling masonry. Parts of the city were still burning, mostly for the pleasure of brutes like Callous, Nansi realised.

Nansi put nine hard strokes down with a more artful follow through of her wrist. With 10 or 15 seconds between each Callous began to twitch a bit and for the last three she groaned louder than she yet had.

There was no sign that the skin was broken, but for mischief’s sake and as a precaution she ordered one of the more brutish women in her command to fetch a scrubbing brush and some styptic before she continued with the second 15.

Callous’s bottom was raw beyond belief before Nansi struck again and this time the former sergeant felt it. A fact which she announced through gritted teeth at each stroke.

Damn the woman and damn this war, Nansi screamed inwardly, damn it all.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

War of the Wizards
It had been a long swim out to the ship in the dark and on several occasions Stephen didn’t think he would make it. For one thing the water was cold. Not the sharp cold of late night swim, but the soul chilling burn that bit so hard it felt as if your bones been turned to ice and would at any moment shatter like glass.

The ship, large enough from the shore, was now huge in the water beside him. Like a castle of wood looming out of the half-light, which was made all the worse because Stephen knew that it was full to the gunwales with death.

The Challis patriot had already reason enough to hate the invader and this proximity did nothing to ease his soul. But he had a mission and one that might end the war for his nation.

As he finally came in touching distance of the hard planked sides he considered what damage he might to. Had his brother not died in a ship destroyed by this very Precips fleet? He cursed the darkness and the chill and hoped that one day the captain of this vessel would know such loss.

But then he sighed. This was not his mission. Not today.

“Hello the ship,” he called, “Ahoy.”

The lantern picked him out instantly in the water and it was rapidly followed by shouts and frantic activity on the ship’s decks above.

“Ahoy there,” Stephen called, “I want to talk to your captain. I have a message from the Challis resistance.”

*

“I am your wife,” Miriam Stand told her husband, “I am entitled to more food surely.”

“You get as much as I do and strictly speaking that is more than you are entitled to. You eat better than Princess Shula does,” Euan groaned.

Miriam looked with disdain at the already stale loaf, the paltry chunk of cheese and half an apple on the fine polished table in their quarters. The table had been a wedding present from her family, and when Euan had made Captain of the Guard, she had demanded some quarters equal to their rank. Equal indeed to her furniture. The scraps on her table were an insult.

“Well she gets to make the rules and if she wants to play politics then that is her affair,” Miriam whined, “I have been to the stores during your inspection, we have tons and tons of food. Surely…”

Miriam made an acid face and clutched at her belly. She was accustomed to making a fuss over nothing; that was how she kept her man on his toes. Even her brief affair with the sergeant-at-arms had been to get his attention. But this was beyond a joke. She was hungry; this wasn’t ‘nothing.’

Oh why didn’t I flee the castle to my family in the north when I had the chance? It was the first thing she thought on waking and the last thing at night. She knew the answer of course. She couldn’t leave her husband, she loved him. Her only fear when the war had come was that he would send her away from her.

“There is little enough food as it is,” Euan snapped, banging his hand on the table in anger, “Accept that woman. We might lose this siege, hell, we might lose the war. Have you considered what will happen then?”

“Lose the war… don’t be an idiot, that is just too silly. Any day now the King will return and see off these ghastly Westerners at our gates.” Miriam’s laughter tinkled like her best crystal.

“An idiot, an idiot,” Euan spluttered, “I have two men in the infirmary after yesterday’s food riots. One man is dead after taking a stray arrow and those damn Westerners are up to something over the river… an idiot you say? Where… what… where have you been?”

No one but his wife could ever make Euan Stand lose his temper.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” Miriam said defensively, “I am entitled my opinion. The King will return mark my words he will. Then you will all look jolly silly hoarding all that food when everyone is starving to death.”

Euan let out a horrified gasp. He even felt his fist ball up and that sickened him. Lunging at his wife he ignored her cringing as he grabbed her by the back of the neck and propelled her to the window.

“Look, look out there,” he barked.

“Alright, you don’t have to be so rough,” Miriam said irritably.

She shrugged his hand from her neck and made a pout. If he was going to hit her it would be at the other end she knew. Then composed she looked out at the ranks of Western troops arrayed around the castle. She generally didn’t look because when she did it was all too much. On a bad day she might even believe that Euan was right.

“They are just a lot of silly soldiers,” she muttered, straining not to look too hard.

“Ah,” Euan growled angrily, “One hell of a lot,” he groaned in exasperation, “And you won’t think it silly when they pour through our gates. Get it through your head, the King is not coming. The King is in Timber defending Timon. If Timon falls then the war is lost. We are expendable.”

Miriam pouted again.

“But this is Peron’s castle. His family are here. He won’t sacrifice them for an ally’s capital, not even Timbre’s,” she sniffed snootily.

Euan whirled on her and stuck his face in hers. Then with chopping motions with his hand for emphasis at each word he spat out, “He-has-no-choice.”

The captain thought he saw an inkling of understanding grow in her eyes, but she quelled it with a sneer and pulled away from him.

“You don’t have to be shouty about it,” she pouted yet again.

Euan sighed and made to get his helm and sword to leave. But as he watched Miriam crossed the room snatched up the half of apple and carelessly bit into it. In moments she had consumed it all.

“That was to be shared between us for today and tomorrow. All of that food is,” Euan said in disbelief. “Did you hear nothing I said?”

Miriam stared him down for a moment and then with a mischievous grin she broke off slightly more than half the cheese and began to eat it.

“I will not fetch more for either of us,” Euan said quietly.

Miriam took another bite and then glanced at the bread.

Euan offered a brief warning look and then as if making up his mind he strode towards her and dragged her over to their bed. Sitting down he hauled her across his lap and began fighting with a mass of over-elaborate red silk skirts.

“Get off me you oaf,” she spat.

But Euan shoved her down and finally pulled her clothing up into her back. Most soldier’s wives disdained underwear as impractical, but Miriam always did have ideas above her position, so Euan’s eyes were greeted by the sight of a tailored pair of silk pantaloons of a kind that he doubted even Princess Shula would wear.

“How much did they cost?” he snapped.

Miriam’s eyes widened and she took a moment to swallow some of her righteous indignation. Not too much yet, but she had waited weeks for some attention and now she was getting altogether too much.

Euan didn’t wait for an explanation but seized the waistband of her undergarment and half tore and half pulled them down.

“Careful,” she wailed.

He wasn’t, not in the least, but once her bottom was bare he began spanking her in hard fast swats until she became shrill and kicked up her legs in dismay. It took only moments for her bottom to become a vivid red, which given that the volley of thwacks was louder than her yelling he was not surprised.

“Euan, alright, I’m sorry,” Miriam howled, “The Westerners are bad people, they will win. Does that satisfy you?”

Her husband paused in horror and then really put his back into it.

“Euan,” she screeched, “Oh the gods.”

He prayed that no one had heard her outburst and misunderstood. The damn woman was a fool.

“What did you say?” he bellowed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was just mad at you,” she wailed.

“And now I am mad at you,” he barked.

The spanking took a while yet and even using his hand Miriam’s bottom took on some quite startling hues.

“You will not eat one more thing without my permission. Is that understood?”

“Yes Euan,” his wife sniffed.

“I ought to make you stand in the corner until I get back,” he told her as he brought the spanking to a close.

“Yes Euan,” she agreed.

“Oh you little idiot,” he sighed as he pulled her onto his lap.

They kissed for the longest moment and then she pulled away.

“Do you really think we will lose?” she asked.

He couldn’t help smiling as she rubbed at her bottom. She was still more concerned with herself he realised.

“Not if I have anything to do with it, but we must be vigilant,” he reassured her.

Miriam nodded. Then she sighed and got to her feet. As he watched she crossed the room to her hope chest and opened it. Now what? He frowned. Retrieving something, she closed the box and walked slowly and ruefully back towards him.

“I have been bad again haven’t I?” she was using her small nervous pout now, instead of her defiant one.

Before he could answer she handed him the half-length rod of well-oiled lime-hazel. It was a traditional wedding gift, but Euan had scarce used it in their marriage, preferring his hand or when warranted his belt.

“I just wish…” but she closed his mouth with a kiss delivered with a bend at her waist like a humble bow.

Then she rolled up her skirts again and went to the table and bent over it to offer him a full view of her red round bottom.

Euan was still too cross with her to be entirely pleased at this submission. If it is a lesson you want, then you will have one, he decided.

“When I have finished with you, you won’t sit down for… well as long as I can arrange it,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied in her smallest voice, “Not least because I expect I will be standing in the corner.”

“Yes you will,” he told her firmly, “And to make sure of that I will have Mistress Kent sit with you until I return.”

Miriam gasped at his words and considered a protest, but she knew it was hopeless. After all he was in charge here and she had asked for it. But he didn’t have been quite so amenable. In any case the first swipe of the rod burned beyond all expectation and gave a hearty shout at every subsequent impact for a long, long time that hour.

“Oh Euan, my bottom is on fire,” she sobbed.

“As it damn well should be,” Euan told her.

*

The dawn had yet to break but already the darkness had thinned to a heavy grey as the ships of the assault flotilla neared the shore. Captain Timorous had ordered all the chains to be wrapped with old rags and grease, but that did not stop the occasional dull clank on wood nor the almost continuous creak of rigging as the lightest of breezes strained at the sails.

The flotilla could not land by night and would be seen by day; an invasion upon an open town was absolute madness and yet here they were.

The captain now stood on the prow of the lead ship willing the foe not to see them. But how could they not? The damn shoreline was wide open here and even on the edge of the small Challis port there were high enough cliffs with a thousand of places for spies to lurk.

Prince Jason had worked closely with the grumpy old wizard and the scar-faced one, Vosper, on the plan and he had been assured that when the time came there would be magic enough to aid them.

Captain Timorous glanced at his lieutenant and swallowed down the nasty taste that assaulted his mouth. The man merely shrugged and went back to scanning the looming murky shore ahead of them in the gloom.

Well, Timorous thought, the time has pretty much damn well come, so what happens now? He peered into the pale light of the pre-dawn and tried to pick out the nearest ship that held the wizards.

“Come on, come on,” he heard the lieutenant mutter.

Well quite, my sentiments exactly, Timorous thought, but all the same he hissed for the man to be quiet.

Not 200 yards from the captain’s ship Dniester stood next to Vosper amid a dozen grey, red and yellow adepts on the quarter deck of their ship. Most of them wore swords or at least daggers and one or two had donned light mail in readiness for the attack. None of them looked particularly convincing as warriors and to the studied eye of the accompanying marines it didn’t look as if they would be much help at all.

“Remember, this is a coordinated attack,” Dniester rasped in a harsh whisper. “Our task is to give cover to the marines as they go ashore to support the Challis patriots who will be rising against the Western occupying forces. Remember the patterns and use your sight to see through the fog before launching a fire ball or some such magical assault. We don’t want to kill our own side so if in doubt… well you get the general idea.”

“Eh… Sir, what fog?” whispered a young mustard-clad adept.

Dniester grinned like a dragon. It was a dreadful to behold and the young wizard shuddered.

“Mr Vosper, shall we?” the old man said brusquely to the scar-faced weather-shaper.

All around them, though no mortal eyes could see, the air was resplendent with moisture from the sea. But for one gifted with the sight of the patterns especially an adept of air and water from Pandoria the breeze around them was a textured weave of both elements.

Even a fire adept could sense the change and if he was to look harder, he could see the beginnings of a blend. Moments later a thick white mist appeared out of the air all around them like autumn smoke.

Captain Timorous, who had been just making out the outline of the near ships and beginning to despair, shuddered. One minute the shape of the vessel had been dark grey on the gloom and then nothing. It was as if a veil had been dropped in the air between them. But this was no ordinary fog, for behind him and out to sea the tops of the flotilla’s sails were catching the incoming rays of the rising sun, while ahead of them a huge grey wall of vapour rolled inland.

“How the hell will we land now?” the lieutenant hissed.

Timorous didn’t know, but he was beginning to suspect that the cranky old wizard in the next ship had everything in hand.

*

The guard at the end of the outer harbour wall could scarce see the stones beneath his feet let alone the waves beyond the port’s entrance. He had never seen anything like it. By the gods if this is what coastal life was like then take me back to the plains, he cursed.

It had not been his only cause for cursing since coming to Challis. The girls were unfriendly, the food was disgusting and he dared not slip away to an inn at night in case one of the locals stuck a shiv in his ribs. I thought bloody Challis was on our side? He cursed again.

He was broken from his thoughts by a hard sound that he rather felt than heard. Sometimes a heavy wave slammed into the stonework of the harbour wall bellow him, but this sounded different. Almost as if… something hard a heavy wrapped around his neck and pulled him backwards. If he had lived another second he would have recognised a mailed arm at his throat, but the unfelt thin blade through his ear was quicker than thought.

The marine lowered the dead guard to the stone floor and then on fleet sued-booted feet jogged on down the harbour wall to where no doubt another member of the dawn patrol was waiting to die.

By the time Dniester and Vosper reached the inner harbour two dozen marines had gathered there to secure the fortifications.

“Open the veil and guide the assault ships in,” the old man snapped at Vosper.

“What about the signal?” the weather crafter asked.

The marine sergeant turned a quizzical head as if he had the same question.

“The enemy will know we are here soon enough, but I’d rather Timorous was ashore with at least some of the main force before that. Work quickly,” Dniester snapped as if making an easy point to a class in a lecture hall.

“What if they come against us before the captain arrives?” the sergeant asked.

“Then we will have to deal with the situation won’t we young man.” Dniester didn’t sound as if he was asking a question.

Vosper shot one more glance at the mist-shrouded town and then dashed back to the end of the harbour wall where they had docked.

*

The whispered shouts of the docking ships were loud enough to wake the dead. But in any case, unattended, the magical fog had begun to clear and already patches of blue could be seen above them. While ahead dark brown shadows of the town’s roofs began to break through the mist.

Much to the marine sergeant’s frustration the remaining 11 wizards had formed a line between the warriors and the direction of any attack.

“Please Sir, it is not safe,” he said anxiously.

As if to confirm his fears a bell sounded from somewhere in the town and the angry shouts that followed were accompanied by heavy boots on cobbles and the ring of steel being pulled from leather.

A flurry of arrows came out of the dying mist, but no more than two or three buzzed past their ears before a curious thing happened. The deadly darts seemed to pause in the air just short of the line of wizards before dropping harmlessly to the ground like so many dead sparrows felled in flight.

“I can see the archers,” a budding war mage said excitedly.

“Are you certain they are the foe?” Dniester asked, but he could see through what remained of the fog as if it wasn’t there and knew that the boy was right.

The mustard-robed adept did not answer, but extending his hands hurled two blue-green spheres at the shades in the mist. Their exact effect wasn’t clear, as two burst of fire just glowed in the milky grey, but no more arrows came their way.

“Here they come,” the sergeant drew his sword.

Suddenly the mist dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. Like a conjurer in a stage magic show the veil was lifted to reveal the large town wrapped around a great stone port. In the middle of the harbour sat two-score ships disgorging marines onto jetty walls and the shingle beach below the wall.

Facing them were a thousand sleep-clogged Western warriors in various degrees of disarray pulling on armour and donning shields as they formed ranks. Only one company of men was in good order and this group now charged the small contingent of marines on the inner harbour wall.

There were too many to be stopped by random the fire balls the few mustard and red adepts threw at them and for a moment it looked as if the counter attack would be effective.

But then Dniester calmly extended a hand and held up his dragon’s tooth cane. He made an ostentatious twist with his arm and a spiral of water ascending from the water’s edge and formed a sea-spout on the ground in front of him. Then with a flick of his stick it shot away from him and into the charging men ahead.

Whilst it wasn’t enough to engulf them, the men staggered back as a dozen of them were dashed sideways to be broken on the ground. Then as they floundered, two similar attacks swept into them followed by seven or eight fire balls.

It was enough, for even as the counterattack failed the men of Timber and Precips began to pour ashore in great numbers and the first of them reached the edge of the town.

“You boasted you could send an over-large green fireball a mile into the sky,” Dniester said in a sharp voice to one of the red adepts. “Please do so now.”

Far out to sea Prince Jason, commanding admiral of the fleet saw a second sun rise high into the sky above the port. Only this sun was bright green and hung motionless for several long minutes as every Challis loyalist broke from dark corners and fell upon the occupying force from the West.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

Return the Hero
It seemed as if all of Pandoria had turned out as the ship came in. Even the children of married students and service workers of all kinds lined the jetty and harbour walls. But the only sound was the continuous clink, clink, clink of rope cinches against the mast of the ships at rest and the occasional gull wheeling overhead.

Gareth Parmenter had been chosen by Fear to meet the ship and make arrangements for the comatose Grand Magus to be conveyed to the hospital. This was yet another task to which the Grey Mage felt he was unfit for. He closed his eyes against the world and then stepped forward; it seemed to him that this was the end of days.

“Gareth,” a gentle voice spoke.

Unnoticed, the Scroll Keeper had come and stood beside him and had put his and on the reluctant administrator’s shoulder.

“I am so glad that you’re here,” Gareth sighed in relief.

“Tired of Arlon Fear’s management style eh?” Sejanus forced a smile.

“No, I am tired of being the one who has to help him,” Gareth groaned, “I am teacher not a manager.”

“Sadly Fear is needed elsewhere now and I will need your help more than ever,” Sejanus replied, “How have you all been coping?”

“Nadine is in her element, I doubt if Fear and I could have run the place without her… anyway, never mind how we are, the Grand Magus…? How is he?”

As he spoke the tiny stretcher bearing Davidus Grimm was brought on deck and carefully manhandled onto the dock. This action brought a ripple of applause from the crowds, but no one was cheering, not today.

In answer to Gareth, Sejanus Jacelon sucked in air through his nose. It was a harsh sound and devoid of all hope. He shook his head; a small movement that spoke loudly.

Gareth opened his mouth to say more, but closed it again in bitter acceptance.

“Come on, let’s go and see Dr Fear,” the Scroll Keeper murmured and gently led the Grey Mage towards the college.

*

Far to the West the main Precips-Timbre fleet were upping anchor and preparing to sail for the Precips Isles. History would no doubt say that the great attack on Challis by their combined marines was led by the Wizards who swept all before them in the great liberation. Certainly most of the praise of the citizens had been directed in that direction.

But the truth was it had been one very small attack in the great way of things. The marines and a dozen wizards could not have defeated the army of occupation perhaps 100 times their force. Challis was too large for that. But the raid on the port had been a catalyst for a thousand risings and it had been the citizens themselves who had triumphed.

Prince Jason looked at Dniester and frowned. The occupation in Precips was far greater and it would take a miracle to pull off the same trick twice. And even if they did, this war would be won or lost in Timbre at the gates of the great city of Timon.

“Do you have any more tricks up your sleeves old man?” Jason asked in a tone of good natured banter.

“I, your highness, am a professional. I do not do tricks,” Dniester replied snootily. But after a pause he gave the prince a wink and rubbed his hands together as if he knew something that Jason didn’t.

“Then I hope you continue to ‘not do tricks,’” Jason chuckled, “You saved a lot of lives back there.”

“And took a great many,” Dniester countered.

The Admiral Prince made an expansive gesture with his hands and shrugged.

“I know it can’t be helped,” the Grey Wizard sighed, “But I dislike using magic for killing. I have withheld my hand more often than not.”

At these words one of Dniester’s colleagues, a woman adept who also wore grey glanced at him and smirked. She was young and not three years hence had been one of the old man’s students. She scarce remembered a time when the wizard had withheld his arm, as he put it. Oh to have those days again, she thought, life was so much simpler then.

*

It was yet still early and there were few to see Fear and Katrin leading the small group from the school down through the town to the harbour. Among them too were Sejanus Jacelon, Amber Sage, Meredith Greydove, Erin Stone and Tabitha.

At that time of the morning the early haze had yet to clear, but the tide was nigh and the wind fair set for Timbre. So it was that the same ship that had brought Davidus and Sejanus the day before made ready to leave as the small party gathered on the dockside.

“Dozens of journeymen have already gone to the war and I am a Green, surely I can help,” Katrin pleaded for the umpteenth time that day. “Besides, I hear my father is at Timon…”

It was a new line of argument from her. Fear stopped and gave her a hard stare.

“So my precious Lady Katrin, you think your father would thank me for taking you into danger?”

“No,” Katrin admitted in a slow voice, “But…”

She chewed at her lip and gave him a wheedling look that worked so often over matters as trivial of getting to stay the night in his bed. Taking a deep breath, Fear wheeled on her and seized her by the shoulders.

“You are not coming and if you ask me again I will put you across my knee here and now and spank you out here in front of everyone. And I do mean on the bare bottom,” Fear scolded her.

Katrin flushed, but she was beyond true caring, faced as she was with the prospect of never seeing her man again.

Fear looked at Amber who pulled a sympathetic face and shrugged. The witch totally understood Fear’s feelings, but had Katrin been a man then Amber had no doubt that the girl would be coming. Also as the De Lacy girl was forbidden to come then so was Tabitha, a loss that would be sorely missed as the girl was fast becoming an accomplished witch in her own right.

“Well if your mind is made up, then we really have to be going,” Meredith put in. “My sisters are waiting and there is much to do be done. I feel something foul in the air.”

Fear glanced about him. He felt it too, but he had put it down to his feelings about being separated from Katrin. He nodded.

“Let us be away,” he said at last. “I leave Pandoria in good hands.”

Fear took Sejanus by the hand and with a quick squeeze he turned and kissed Katrin as if he meant to keep it brief. But the girl crushed into him and returned such an epic kiss that the Scroll Keeper had to cough and look away.

“I think I’ll join the baggage,” Meredith said with a rolling of her eyes as she went up the gangplank.

“Oh sweet, sweet,” Erin scoffed at the lovers as she too followed the elder witch.

Fear composed himself and then pulling his black robes about him and firmly grasping his staff, he strode up the crossway to the ship’s deck. Amber shot a final withering look at Katrin, but she managed a smile and then she too went aboard.

No one saw the significant glance that Erin threw Tabitha, or the fact that the usually ebullient girl chose to cut short her farewell’s and slip away behind a pile of barrels.

The ship was barely un-cabled when the Scroll Keeper turned on his heel and began going back to the college leaving the sad green-clad figure alone on the dock.

Katrin sighed and with a small impotent fist she crushed at the small bag of her belongings that she had brought along against the hope that Fear would change his mind.

“Katrin,” Tabitha hissed from behind the barrels.

Katrin looked around.

“Quick, follow me,” her friend whispered.

Then without waiting Tabitha dropped out of sight and scurried away. Katrin shot one look at the ship and then followed her. Hard against the pallet at the dockside’s edge was a small staircase leading down to a lower platform under the quay.

“Down here,” Tabitha hissed.

Katrin wasn’t sure what her friend was up to, but caught up in the excitement she tumbled down the steps to see. Just then a small hatch opened in the side of the ship next to them and a small grinning face peeked out.

“You stay-at-homes coming or what?” Erin teased them.

Katrin and Tabitha swapped glances and then seizing their chance lunged at the opening even as the ship undocked and slipped its mooring. A moment later all three girls lay panting heavily in the lower hold of the ship.

“You do know don’t you that between Amber and Dr Fear, none of us will sit down for the rest of the war when they find out about this little stunt?” Erin grinned as if she didn’t care.

Katrin could only laugh and after a surfeit of grins the two witches joined in.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

The Reconciled
When Erin awoke it took her a moment to work out where she was. It had been the slow hard pressure of the ground under her that had first driven her from slumber, but it took a moment for her memory to catch-up. Next came the dry burn of boiled sandpaper at either end of her being. Her dust-filled mouth could be eased by working her jaw, but the unrelenting sore ache in every nook of her bottom only got worse with wakefulness.

Then she remembered with a groan. War is hell she thought bitterly; magical war is hell all over my arse. Utilising the corners of her thumbs she rubbed sleep from her eyes and staggered to her feet. It was worse than she thought and every muscle in her body screamed for mercy.

The previous night she had lain prone face down on the floor bawling like a kid and wishing she had never heard of Pandorian and all its evil ways. Now she would have almost traded another spanking for a soft bed and decided that witch had not devised a worse torture than sleeping on the hard floor of a Timbre barn. Then with half her mind on the location of the nearest latrine she immediately revised that thought as million birch twigs flared in her bottom. The bandy-legged stagger to the back door of the barn shredded the very last of her dignity

Tabitha had slept like the forgiven and yawned herself gently awake. She always felt clean and refreshed after a good spanking and the previous evening had certainly qualified as that. Only Dniester ministrations could have purged her soul better. Nevertheless her bottom felt like two hot coals in a finger tender parchment sack.

Shyly she looked around the barn and saw that most of the others were rousing too. She guessed they had seen it all before.

“How are you today?” Meredith asked.

“I’m alright ma’am,” Tabitha said meekly.

“They tell me you were a hunter before you went to school,” Meredith said conversationally.

Tabitha nodded.

“Take this,” Meredith extended her arm with something in her hand. “It is a witch knife. The others already have one, but you weren’t supposed to be here.” It might have been a reproach but the elder was smiling at her.

Tabitha sat up and immediately regretted it. Rolling onto all fours she chomped down on her lower lip and took a moment. Meredith couldn’t help grin at her.

“No hard feelings I trust?” Meredith asked cheerfully.

“No ma’am,” Tabitha said emphatically as she arched her back and thrust her bare bottom back and forth to waggle it like a dog, “I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.”

Then she looked at the knife in the elder witches hand and took it.

“What does it do?” Tabitha asked as she eyed the knife.

“Here take it,” Meredith pressed her. “It is just a knife really, more of a symbol than anything, rather like a mage’s staff. We use it to cut offerings of nature’s bounty and for certain spells.”

“It is made of stone isn’t it?” Tabitha said examining it.

“Yours is,” Meredith told her, “It’s special and I have a hunch you will suit it.”

Tabitha nodded.

“Eat and wash quickly, we must be away,” Meredith told her.

*

Katrin had been walking all night. Nor had she been alone. For on every track and lane that led to Timon people had pressed against her, mile after mile of them. So many in fact that the roadway had been churned to nothing by a million footsteps or more and at times she had had to walk on the verge lest she sink ankle deep in mud.

Ahead and behind for as far as she could see was a glowing snake of a thousand torches that danced about her and lit the way. Although here and there small groups had dropped out of line and had gathered around fires at the roadside.

Katrin hoped that these delays were only on account of the night, but she couldn’t help but suspect that some had merely dropped where they had fallen and would never rise again. She shuddered at the thought, more determined than ever to press on.

Every once in a while the lines of people would thin out as the going got easier so that she was able to make good time. But then a knot in the crowds would form as some delay was encountered and Katrin had been overcome by dread. Is this where I will die, she wondered? But always after minute-stretched moments the obstruction would ease and she would again make some progress.

It was after one such occurrence that she finally crested a hill and saw Timon for the first time. The city was far bigger than she remembered, although she had only been there once and it was unconscionable that it could fall to any foe.

“Keep left people, keep moving,” said an authoritative voice.

There were soldiers now, calm and cheerful like city watchmen marshalling a festival crowd. It gave a semblance of order and offered with conviction a sense that all was not lost. Katrin could have wept.

She could see that most people obeyed and filed on down the main road that led to the city. But every once in a while a soldier would pull a young man from the slow moving queue and murmur in his ear. Most would nod.

It took a moment for Katrin to work out the why of it. Then she made out another line snake away to the right, a smaller line of all men making for a hill on which stood some banners.

Her eyes scanned the coloured pennants and poles of glory for anything she recognised, wondering why there were so many noble standards standing there against the last of the night sky picked out by the firelight. Then she saw them, the hundred-hundred lights of camp fires, the allied army massed in vale beyond, thousands of them amid a city of tents and corals of horses.

*

The side of the hill was eroded where hundreds of feet had made their way to the top. Fear thought that the ripped away turf that revealed the bare rocky earth under it had probably been there before the army had made its camp, but the most recent visitors certainly hadn’t helped. In any case the raised fissure gave him somewhere to sit and watch the sunrise, perhaps his last respite before the coming day.

“Are you Dr Arlon Fear?” said a weary voice a little to his left.

No one called him Arlon or referred to that name; no one here anyway and to hear it startled him. The speaker was old by his voice, but in the pre-dawn he was little more than an outline, although he gave the impression of nobility from the bearing. The man was certainly wearing copious amounts of armour from the metallic clatter he made.

“Who is it?” Fear asked getting to his feet, thinking perhaps that it was a messenger. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew a regular messenger would not have used his given name.

It crossed the mages mind that the man was an assassin and he slipped into the patterns warily ready for a counterstrike.

“You are the Magus Fear?” the man asked again.

Fear could now make the man out. He was in his advanced middle age, although apart from some battle scars he was in good shape. Nevertheless the man had a tired gaunt look about him as if he had seen much fighting. Then Fear noted the broach and the golden braid that adorned the warrior’s right shoulder, a general then, Fear thought, a commander of horse from the style of sword and the horse head medallion he wore.

It took the magus only a moment longer to identify the man he had never met, but of whom he had heard so much about.

“I am Fear,” he said.

The general before him returned an appraising look and all but looked the mage up and down with something that might have been disdain.

“I am Sir Mark De Lacy, Katrin’s father,” Mark said formally.

“First Commander of the Timber Horse I hear, Katrin is very proud,” Fear told the man, his voice firm but gentle.

“You are my daughter’s…” Mark paused; he had guessed from Katrin’s letters that the man was more than just her master and teacher, “…close friend and tutor,” he finished carefully. Some words could not be recalled.

“I am, and more I hope,” Fear said warmly, “So we meet at last.”

“I should…” Mark sighed, “Oh to hell with it, my daughter is her own woman and the proprieties be buggered, in war a friend of a friend is…”

Fear extended his hand so that it hung between them like a promise or a threat.

Mark eyed it cautiously.

“After this war and Katrin has completed her studies… I would ask for her hand,” Fear said, his arm still extended.

Sir Mark nodded and then without committing himself to this news he took Fear’s hand and shook it firmly.

“And how is my daughter?” Mark asked.

“I left her…” Fear was about to add in Pandoria when he saw another figure approaching.

He was tired and it had been too long, he cursed inwardly, but he could swear… Sir Mark, disgruntled by the fellow’s rudeness swung around to see where the Magus was looking.

“Good gracious,” Sir Mark exclaimed.

“Katrin,” Fear barked anxiously, “What in the name of the gods are you doing here?”

“That is what I want to know,” Sir Mark bellowed.

“Hello Daddy,” Katrin said meekly.

But her eyes were on Fear.

Until that moment the Black Magus had not known that in his heart had believed he would never see her again and it was as if all space and time was suddenly compressed into that moment. But Katrin was no stranger to that fatalism, with a woman’s intuition she had feared that truth since he had tried to sail without her.

But it was Sir Mark who broke the tension. In a reunion as violent as it was sudden he strode forward and seized his daughter into his bear-like arms totally heedless of the tears that leaked into his eyes.

“Katrin,” his voice strained and he made as if to crush the life from his only child.

Then as suddenly as it began he stepped back as Katrin dashed forward in to the embrace of the dark mage who had usurped his place in his little one’s heart.

“I thought, I thought, oh…” Katrin sighed over and over.

Sir Mark studied the dark man who held her with new eyes. He had the look of a tiger tenaciously guarding his prey and the old warrior thought of his late wife and then of Delia Cane and Downley.

Finally the embrace ended with a kiss and Katrin stepped back with a broad grin.

“I left you safely in Pandoria,” Fear growled, “What are you doing here?”

“That, young lady, is what I would like to know,” Sir Mark said gruffly, “Is this how you care for my daughter Sir?”

Fear bristled, but he had no recourse against the man’s anger. “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, taking up the theme, his anger too now rising.

“I… I wanted to see you… to be with you…” Katrin said childishly as she tried and failed to meet Fear’s eyes. There was more, but there were no words. Everything she was or could be was here and not in Pandoria.

“I ought to tan your backside raw right here in front of everyone,” Sir Mark bellowed.

Katrin’s face went puce and she hastily looked around and saw that even some way off there were young soldiers looking their way now.

“With rods of blackthorn dipped in pepper oil,” Fear promised.

Katrin gulped. Her father’s spanking threat was as hollow as it was embarrassing, but her new master’s words held truth.

“Spank her by all means Sir,” Fear said sharply, “But when this battle’s done I will not spare my arm a jot on that account.”

Sir Mark snorted in amusement.

“I think perhaps my daughter is better left to you,” he chuckled. “I trust you will not fail me twice.”

“Oh no Sir,” Fear growled.

“Then I have things that need my attention and will leave you to it,” Mark chuckled again, “I am glad to have met you. Fare thee well in the coming hostilities.”

Fear turned then and took Sir Mark’s hand.

“And you Sir, and you,” he said as the two men shook.

Then the general was gone.

“As for you, I make no idle threats, as soon as I get a minute…” Fear scolded Katrin.

Her father gone she flew at him and kissed him to silence and made to hold him until all the stars went out.

*

By the time they reached Fear’s tent Katrin was naked and he but a pair of breeks from being so. They had shamelessly embraced and stripped all but their intimate clothing all the way down the hill, drawing envious gazes from leering soldiers and cheerful comrades-in-arms.

Now with Katrin’s full round bottom cupped in his hands, Fear considered spanking her on account, but his passion was rising and would brook no delay.

Turning her about he bent her double on the small enough support of his travel cot and entered her without preamble from behind.

“Ah,” she gasped, “My love, oh… ah, my love.”

He grunted, rutting her like a beast devouring mutton at a feast and pressing into her with a groan. In moments that lasted years they came together and tumbled forward carelessly onto the narrow bed. Slick and naked it took an age for him to gain a breath and they both clung to each other in open-mouthed wonder and laboured for air.

“I want, I want, I want…” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said in a thick voice that tailed off to a groan as she flicked his chest with her tongue before going lower.

“Take me everywhere,” she spoke as a sigh.

“But I’m not…” but then he found he was as she took him her mouth.

Unseemly and undignified sucking noises ensued as she drew the pout of her lips down over his engorged member again and again. Never had he been so big and he had to doubt that it could possibly fit all the way to… then with him still ensconced in his mouth she drew him in and kissed him towards the base above his ball sack. The world spun away from him all a fuzz, as like a lemon-salt oyster she tasted him on her tongue as she went back for more.

*

The second time that she tasted him he pulled her up, or tried to, for she was voracious.

“Let me…” he whispered huskily.

She shushed him and with a final lick to lubricate his staff she swung about and offered him her rear. Then seizing her hips and careless of her intent he pushed his plum-sized head at her narrow opening and gently eased himself passed her gate.

“Harder, don’t… ooh…” she groaned and he leaned into her taking her deeply.

“I should spank you,” he hissed in her ear.

“Do what you want with me,” she groaned.

This time it took longer. Much longer and the relentless fullness of him seemed to fill her all the way to her eyes as she pushed back hungrily. But finally she felt something like a flexing fist and hot seed flooded her innards as she clawed at her sex.

All this and more came to pass over and over as the grey dawn went from dark to pale.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

The Battle of Timon
Katrin was awoken by the sound of boots on gravel. Then before she had even opened her eyes she heard muted shouts of marshalling sergeants amid the cacophony and reluctantly she allowed thoughts of the day to touch her mind. She reached out then, but Fear was no longer beside her. Why was that important, she pondered as wakefulness caught up with her?

The taste in her mouth was a little sour and the urge for the pot competed with her thirst for her attention. So she sat up and opened her eyes.

There was a warm orange light as the beige canvas tent glowed all around her in the morning light and Arlon Fear was crouching in the sunny gloom at the foot of the bed.

“Good morning,” she smiled, the love-light warm in her eyes.

Fear straightened up and smiled back.

“You’re awake then sleepyhead,” he teased.

He grinned as she pulled the covers about her naked form and peered at him under a bird’s nest of raven hair that cascaded across her face like straws in the wind.

She nodded and her own grin widened.

Then his smile left his eyes and he turned to retrieve his black robe.

Katrin watched Fear finish getting dressed with a sense of foreboding. Thoughts of the coming day could no longer be ignored. If the battle did not come this day, then it would be upon the next.

The tent had a lacklustre feel now as if they were going through the motions of ordinariness. It was hard for Katrin to imagine that she may never be alone with this man again.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” she asked sullenly.

Fear regarded her with a hard stare and then purposefully snatched up his staff as if warding off his emotions.

“You know that I can’t,” he sighed.

Again she nodded, but this time she looked sad.

“Listen to me,” he said with sudden hard edge to his voice, “I have not forgotten that you disobeyed me. You will not do so again. Once you have washed and bathed, I want you to find the healers and offer your services at the rear. If things do not go well do not go to Timon, flee south-west. Take a horse if you can and try and get to Gansk. From there you can find your way back to Pandoria.”

“But…” Katrin began to protest.

“Obey me,” he barked with a flash to his eyes. “If all fails here you will be needed at Pandoria. Now go to the rear and find work with the healers.”

The heat rose to Katrin’s cheeks and she gave him a pout. But he held her gaze until she nodded her assent.

“I love you,” he whispered and stooping to her they kissed.

She held on to him like it was the last time and then he left.

*

Sometime that afternoon word reached them that the Great Western Host was drawing near. They had made far better time than any had imagined and the order went out to strike camp.

“There is a ridge to the east of Timon, with a slight southerly slope between. We will set our command post atop of the high ground with our ranks aligned up along the top of the slope guarded at the flanks by the ridge on the left and the city on the right,” William Armarlon told his senior officers. “Their majesties have decided to combine our cavalry and place them on our left flank beyond the ridge. In that way we will make the most of the cover and have a hammer blow in reserve should the opportunity arise to use it.”

All around them men were striking tents and gathering weapons for the tactical withdrawal east and among the clanking of iron and urgent shouts came singing.

“Are there any questions?” the Duke of Timon asked.

There were some shrugs and exchanged glances, but most shook their head. What was there to ask? By the end of the next day they would be dead or they would be victorious.

As the men left him to attend to their various commands, William looked southwards dreading what he might see. However the horizon was mostly clear, and but for a few circling crows and the last straggling refugees, devoid of life.

“It will take all day to strike camp and move it north,” his aide said.

William nodded absently. That was what he had told his brother and their ally Peron. But he doubted that the enemy would reach them before nightfall and by then they would have secured their defensive positions.

It was a good plan and made the most of their inferior numbers as it did not tie down their cavalry in defence. This left it free for the counter attack. If this had been any other battle he would be feeling confident despite being outnumbered, but this conflict would be decided by magic.

*

The next day word reached Peron about an hour after dawn. The Great Army of the West was moving up fast and would be with them by noon.

“The gods help us,” he muttered.

“And so it begins,” William Armarlon said from somewhere behind him.

The rest of the general staff looked at King Peron expectantly as if he might say something else but the King of Precips could not meet their eyes. What was there to say?

Then someone laughed. “Will you stand with me your majesty? Shall we bear this burden together?” said a voice.

King John strode from behind the assembled ranks beaming as if he had just issued a party invitation. In response Peron’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he began to chuckle.

“I will,” Peron whispered and then with more heart, “I will.”

“And I,” said one of the officers.

Others joined in the assertion and in a moment the mood had changed.

“We have a good battle plan and I for one welcome the foe,” the Duke of Timon added to the chorus.

“Well-spoken William,” King John said cheerfully. “Now there is only one detail to which we must attend.”

“Those mages,” Peron agreed with a nod, anticipating his ally’s thoughts.

*

Noon came and went and a strange calm befell the amassed ranks of the allied army. Officers had been coming and going all morning but none of them had anything new to report. Although at eleven the General of Horse, Sir Mark De Lacy, rode up and said that all final arrangements had been made and that his men were in position. Then with a ‘good luck’ and a ‘fare thee well’ he rode away.

The Duke of Timon felt a knot in his stomach and remembered the part Sir Mark had played in their abortive attack on the West. As he watched the retreating back of his old comrade he wondered if he would ever see the man alive again.

But then an officer handed him a note and the press of duty overtook him. Now all reports had ceased and all but the furthest extent of the outriders had returned. There was nothing to be done but wait.

William glanced at his brother who sat his horse with aplomb and a steady look in his eye; he might even be enjoying himself. But the assembled staff officers merely looked bored now and only Peron held himself with concern. His shoulders looked as if his armour was now too heavy and there were two sharp lines marking his brow.

On the lower slope less than a furlong from his position a dust devil swirled along parallel to the ranks of waiting warriors. William followed it with his eye and idly wondered if it might turn on them. And then it died with the breeze leaving the army marooned in still air like a ship becalmed.

Far to his right a horse whinnied and another began to kick at the traces rattling its war gear. If the Duke listened hard he could hear such sounds all along the lines, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This gentle melody was marred only by the intermittent buzz of solitary horse fly.

But as he listened another insect hum caught his attention, a more rhythmic sound on the very edge of his hearing. Then it was gone.

Next to King John a mounted courier sighed and began to blink hard as if awakening. He was a callow youth with carrot red hair who was not above 17 and who looked far too young for war. The boy pulled a cork stopper from a pewter horn and took a swig of water. William had to laugh as the courier struggled with the bottle and fumbled with the top for long nervous moments before pushing it home.

Then the insect hum was back and William surrendered to his own drowsiness. But this time the sound did not fade and the Duke fancied he heard a bell above the chimes of the harness.

“What’s that sire?” the redheaded courier asked.

Several ears pricked up and then let their attention drop again. The long wait was apt to play on the mind of the inexperienced. But William heard it too. An indistinct drone that seemed to end on a… he strained to hear, a bell?

“It sounds like… voices,” the boy said hesitantly.

King John pulled a face and shook his head doubtfully. But now he was listening too.

“I hear it,” said a voice from the assembled staff.

“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried to them on the wind and then a small bell rang.

*

At eight minutes past one the Western Host spilled over the far hills like black water as the vanguard tumbled pell-mell towards them. In its train came dark blocks of cohorts, slowly but surely advancing on their positions like the teeth of some huge monster. Wending between the oncoming ranks were small lines of slowly chanting priest-witches. This army was vast, having near twice the ally’s numbers. It was a grim sight.

King Peron looked like a greyhound that had caught a scent. His horse skittishly danced as the king looked up and down the ordered ranks for any detail he might have missed.

While King John opted for ostentation and drew his sword then then charged up and down the lines urging the men to hold-fast.

“I think my brother is going to make a speech,” William laughed; battle had now come and he was ready.

“Good, for I have no words on this day,” Peron replied.

John made three turns on the battlefield before coming to a halt at the dead centre.

“Comrades,” he screamed with more authority than any man in the history of the world. “My brothers and sisters in arms…”

Peron knew then that he may be the director of this battle, but King John, ruler of the great Timbre Empire would command it.

“Once again the armies of the West have come to our lands. And once again we have risen to meet them. There is nothing new here today. Look at them and their pretty little formations. Look at the heedless rabble and the unwashed witches that come dragging on their tails,” King John sounded as if he were addressing a village hall, yet his words were quiet and firm and heard by all. “Once again we will meet these unwelcome guests in the land of Timbre as our forefathers have before. But do you remember your history? Do you?”

The King now paused for effect. Every man and a woman in the army knew the histories and the great victories of old.

“Just weeks ago we met this rabble in Precips and cast them out as we have many times before. But who remembers when they conquered us?”

There was muttering now and some men called out.

“When have they ever?” King John answered them.

“Never,” came a shout.

“Never,” John bellowed and 40,000 voices answered him.

John broke now from his position and reared his horse.

“So I say to you,” he called to them, “Once again we meet them and once again we will have… victory!”

He rode then in triumph as if victory was already theirs for the whole length of the line while 40,000 men screamed in a chant, “Armarlon, Armarlon, Armarlon…”

The enemy tried to answer him with drums, but horns and trumpets from the Precips contingent drowned them out.

But still weaving its spell among the celebrations was the relentless song, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” followed by that bitter little bell.

*

Arlon Fear could feel the waves of dark magic fouling the air like stale smoke and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. As he scanned the patterns, he saw them tremble as if a shadow was trying to supplant them and push them aside. It was as if a hundred million spike ants were burrowing under the fabric of reality.

“What do you see Fear?” Gort asked, the strenuous mage now standing at his side resplendent in golden yellow.

Fear frowned at his colleague and saw from his eyes that he did not sense it.

“It has begun,” Fear replied, but now he was troubled, for if Gort did not see the obvious then how could he combat it?

*

The crone was as a walking corpse and twice as foul. Her clothes were barely worthy of the name and it was beyond understanding how even the Wild Magic had sustained her life for so long.

She held aloft a twisted stick draped in feathers and bones and twirled thrice in the air before muttering something under her stench-ridden breath.

“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” sang her followers as they came on behind her.

Already they were within arrow range of the front ranks of the Timbre troops, but as yet not a shot had been fired.

“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” the crone added to the chant.

Two dozen voices countered with, “Saggy, saggy, saggy, sah,” followed as ever by the nasty little bell.

The men in the front rank, who up until then had viewed the small foray with amusement, began to feel uneasy. One or two of them were even sick. Then men who had stood in the face of certain death many times before began to feel the terror and made as if to break ranks.

“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da.” The terror spell worked its will, weaving among the mortal men and turning their hearts.

Suddenly then the bestial cat leapt from the long grass and landed on the dead-faced crone with a wailing scream. Before a single priest-witch could react the old priestess’s head had been torn from the shoulders and now rolled on the ground. None would mourn her, not even her own.

The next witch in the line who knew the lead chant well let his mouth hang open indecision for a heartbeat too long. For in another moment the wild cat’s dread caterwauling was joined by the feral shouts of a dozen other voices.

A near naked Hemple reached the procrastinator first and took his throat with her knife. Others may have overwhelmed her, but the first two who tried died on the spot clutching their necks as if slashed by an unseen blade.

Once on the Silver Shore Tabitha had told ptarmigan to wait passively for her knife, but now seasoned warrior witches and foul priests stood agape as she danced among them taking heads.

Brusquely Amber Sage strolled into the melee ordering heads from necks with a spell and putting up warding spells for the sisters like Tabitha who had to come close for the knife work.

“Meredith can you…?” Amber was not wont to give orders here, but so far the more powerful witch had held back.

“Where there was terror there will be resolve,” she said simply and cast a mutter-supported hand in the direction of the allied ranks.

Two of the Shadow Dreamers rushed at her, the air before them fizzing with hellish hornets, but Meredith dusted the insect-spawn and then set the two to become at once toads and rats so that their bodies twisted in the conflict and they spewed blood.

The remaining eight and two more pacts of priest-witches that had been closing on other positions first waivered and then broke, a hell-born tiger-beast lunging at their heels.

“Peel, fall back,” Amber ordered the shape-shifting witch.

Finally the previously paralysed archers let fly with a volley and the first wave of Shadow Dreamers together with their supporting warriors perished or fled the field.

“Did you see what Meredith did?” Erin gushed excitedly.

Amber turned to see her friend and pupil grinning from ear to ear whilst holding up a rat by its tail.

“Best I could do I am afraid,” Erin said sheepishly.

“You turned a witch into a rat?” Amber gasped. Sure she could do it, just, but not under battle conditions.

“Sorry,” Erin winced, “I got a bit squeamish about knife work.”

Amber rolled back her head a laughed.

*

All along the battlefront, sorties of Western warriors were repelled by well entrenched defenders. Only where there were no witches to counter the Shadow Dreamers did they make any headway. But they were not the only magical forces at work.

Fear and the other mages had set-up on the right flank where less effective adepts and journeymen could be placed nearby on the walls of Timon safely passing on magical intelligence.

At intervals behind the lines there were mages and wizards to counter various magical attacks, but for the most part they could only detect such assaults. After all a water mage might creatively counter a direct attack but there was little he or she could do against a spell that cast a whole phalanx of regular veterans into a funk.

The Fire mages fared rather better and although in terms of fire power they were barely equal to a company of archers, they did have the ability and skills to be immune from the Shadow Dreamers terror spells and pick out the leadership of various chapters and incinerate them where they stood.

“Our people are overstretched,” Fear yelled above the din of the fighting, “We have far too few witches and Wild Magicians on our side.”

Maxine du Jared at his elbow nodded. It would seem that Fear and Amber had been right all along, thaumaturgy in this instance was no match for powers that could by-pass the physical world and directly influence the soldiers on the ground.

Maxine herself had little to do for now. Even though she could raise an ocean and dash it onto fleets at sea, the most she could do here on a grand scale was set the ground to frost and slow up the enemies cavalry.

Nevertheless, in private she had dabbled in forbidden magic that had enabled her to boil the water content of person in seconds and with some effort she could extend that to a dozen warriors or more, she had no doubt. But that was but a drop in the sea in this fight.

“We could try forming a concert,” Maxine yelled.

Fear nodded, but he was at a loss to what the target should be. Not unless Maiestatis showed himself and then what?

“Concert be damned, let me show you what a war mage can do,” Gort growled.

A moment later Gort the High Hand had lifted from the ground like a harrier and with ever increasing speed soared over the battle field. Below him a rain of fire from the fire mages showered the Western Army and from his lofty vantage he could see the puddles of death delivered by his comrades amid the fray. But it was not enough, he could see that now. A flight of arrows did almost as much damage and the Allies had far more archers than it had fire mages.

But Gort was no mere Fire Mage and with a thought and barely a sweep of his arm a dozen fire balls spun from his hand and splashed like waves among the enemy. Where each ball of plasma landed small lakes fire expanded in all directions engulfing hundreds in their wake.

A great cry went up among the Allied troops and where previously they had fallen back, great sections of warriors pushed forward and began to recover lost ground.

Not content, Gort affixed his mind on his staff of office and filled it with flame. Then in a great rolling whip he unleashed tongues of white hot fire along the attackers’ lines. This was even more effective than fire balls and whole companies ceased to exist.

“I take it back,” Maxine screamed gleefully at Fear. “Sic ‘em boy, kill them all Gort.”

Fear tried to be horrified by the sight of death and Maxine’s enthusiasm for it, but part of him rejoiced. It was working and if he could just hold them back on the ground then…

His train of thought was interrupted by an unearthly scream. The loud eeriness of the sound was somewhere between the wail of leviathan and the roar of a dragon. It was the howl of a wolf like no beast Fear had ever heard before. And then he saw him. Maiestatis, the Wolf Lord, the Warmonger and now he feared, the Three-Who-Are-One in the combined power of the Triptych.

The creature was at once merely a man and a giant, his demonic form bursting to escape the mortal facade it had usurped. And although on the scale of the battle he was a dwarf, all eyes were suddenly drawn to him and transfixed so that there were none who did not shudder.

Maiestatis howled again and the great Western Host surged forward.

“We must hold them,” Maxine yelled.

Half a league away Maiestatis strode through his minions, his eyes scanning the opposing mortals for any who could trouble him. To his left he quickly found the Magister and dismissing the distance between them he devoured each one in turn with his eyes as he marked them for death. He was not complacent, but for each one he had a plan. That left Gort high above him as he put the Army of the West to the flame.

Always challenged by the present, it took the Wolf Lord a moment to focus as he saw the two armies rise and fall in death and defeat, and survival and victory by turns as his visions cycled through the past and present.

Then among it all was an archer, a mere youth from the farthest end of the Western Plains. The boy stood just yards from where Maiestatis’s mortal form now surveyed the battle and in all versions of the past and future the boy shot arrow after arrow unerringly into everything he aimed at.

The Wolf Lord let out another terrifying howl and then waded through his minions as they fell dead at his touch.

“Boy,” he hissed, “The War Mage above; end him for me.”

The archer glanced upwards and wondered at the shot. But before he could answer his dread lord, Maiestatis laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and drank his soul leaving nothing but his aim.

The boy, a dead thing now, bleeding from his unseeing eyes, staggered for a moment and then notched another arrow. It sailed further and faster than any he had ever shot.

Gort barely noticed the shaft that screamed past his head. It was not the first and any that came too close he smashed them to ash with a thought. Nor did he notice the next six or the seventh, which all came near with deadly speed, but could scarce be called a threat.

Below, the archer, one of many when viewed from the sky, seized arrow after arrow from a frame that stood adjacent with a demonic speed now. Each arrow was collected and fired in a blur so that the ghoulish marksman became the equal of his whole company.

Above and much too late Gort realised the danger and extended his will to counter the rain of deadly darts that were launched at him. Had they been mortal or one fewer he would have prevailed, but the last escaped his sanction and glanced off his staff. Then like a shard of ice the necromantic spike speared his side and deep into his heart.

It was a death he may even yet have survived. A War Mage was ever hard to kill, but what little of his will there was left smashed into the ground from a hundred yards above, where a dozen Western Axmen fell upon him and Gort the High Hand was no more.

Uncaring the demon released his hold on the archer, who fell dead to the ground finally expended for the life of a magus.

*

Katrin saw the Mustard Mage, as she remembered him, hang in the air and knew at once something had changed. Then like a broken golden kite he seemed to twist and fall, tumbling to the ground until he passed from her sight among the melee of angry soldiers on the ground.

Just minutes before she had gained Timon’s outer battlements after some premonition had pulled at her. The healers had set-up in impromptu hospitals within Timon itself, leaving Katrin with no choice of obedience to her master. But that was far from her thoughts as she watched the death of Gort. Was this what she was meant to see then? All around her the old men and boys left warding the city gasped in horror and there were startled screams.

Katrin thought of Rachel then and wondered at the girl’s feelings for her former mentor. They were never close, but Pandoria without Gort… Katrin heaved a sob. Yet deep within her she knew that this was not what she had meant to see.

Free of the fire the Western Army rallied itself and again surged forward. Now the Shadow Dreamers were in their element and as their song took hold, whole companies of the allies broke ranks and fled back up the slope.

Katrin felt sick. She could even smell the terror of her countrymen as they ran and for the first time in her life she knew the meaning of defeat. Is this what you show me, she cursed the universe, is it? And then she doubled over crying.

But the world was not done with her yet and something compelled her to look again. Amid the fleeing troops she made out a dark figure who stood his ground. In moments the last of the warriors had broken past him and he was alone.

It took no sixth sense, if that was what had brought her here, to tell her that it was Arlon Fear who now stood like a solitary battle pike on the field. Oh the gods no, she wailed within herself, please by all that is holy…

As she watched a storm of arrows almost blotted out the sun in an indecent haste to smudge the Black Magus from the world, and in a blink she could see her love no more.

Katrin’s heart filled her mouth and she went numb. Nothing could have survived such an onslaught. Why hadn’t he dashed the arrows from the sky?

But the storm passed and among a forest of knee high sticks in the ground Fear still stood unwavering. Katrin found the strength to breath.

Calm then befell the battlefield and the only sound was the chanting of the Shadow Dreamers punctuated by that damn bell. Ten thousand men who should have charged forward held back and Katrin again held her breath.

“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried on the wind, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” and a hollow metallic clang.

It was enough and all at once the enemy surged ahead.

Katrin trembled then. An unstoppable quaking seized her body and her knees crumpled beneath so that she had to hold on to the wall. But the shake did not stop and all around her others staggered to hold their feet.

Then as she watched, far out on the battlefield the ground rolled as smoothly as an ocean until a great crack opened cleaving the grass. The Black Magus, master of Fire and Earth, had seized the land and melded it to his will.

Katrin saw the crack grow into a chasm and men who would have slain all in their path staggered at the abyss and then tumbled before it. Her fellows were too shaken to cheer, but the dying are rarely so silent and Katrin had to clamp her hands to drown out a hundred-hundred screams.

The earthquake lasted for several minutes and when it was over near a tenth of the Western Host were dead. Better yet, there was now a great ditch between the armies, a trench of twisted shattered ground.

*

King Peron had never been so afraid. The terror had seized him from nowhere and it was all he could do to hang onto his horse and not flee. But others were not so strong and whole battalions of soldiers flowed past him in a torrent of fear for some imagined haven a league beyond the battle he adjudged.

“Rally to me, rally to me,” he yelled.

But there was no conviction in his voice and for the price of his spit he would have turned and fled with his men too.

Unknown to the king, Meredith Greydove and her coven had found a spot behind the lines to form a circle and hold hands. At once they sensed others doing the same and in a chant as old as the mountains they gave all they had to counter the Shadow Dreamer spell.

“What is it?” Tabitha gasped as she burned where she touched Erin and Amber in their place within the circle.

“Hold on,” Meredith yelled, but she felt as a woman drowning in a sea of evil as the terror, like winter mist chilled her and surged up to engulf them. “Hold on.”

Magic can break a soul. Sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, but magic-shattered souls there were, and this day would see more yet if Meredith’s coven could not hold. The terror rushed at them and surrounded them to blind senses and still they held…

The threat was slowed but not yet defeated but before the covens could claim a triumph the Shadow Dreamer chant abruptly stopped and a new threat began.

“The ground, it is shaking,” Amber screamed.

“It is the demon,” said another in terror.

“This is not Wild Magic” Meredith said.

Amber focussed and looked for the patterns of Earth Power as she had been taught. There was only one who could do this. She grinned, about time you did something Fear, she thought happily.

By now Peron had gathered his courage and joined by King John and the Duke of Timon they put renewed spirit into their men and little by little the ranks reformed.

“We are not done yet boys,” John said affectionately, “Those Pandoria magicians have not deserted us.”

By the time the ground stopped shaking lines of warriors had returned to formation wondering why they had ever been afraid.

High beyond the battle lines Katrin should have felt relieved, but something still compelled her and deep inside she knew that she had not yet seen all.

“My lady, the walls are unsafe, the earthquake has undermined them,” said an old watch sergeant commanding that section, “We must fall back to the inner ramparts.”

Katrin nodded absently. But in her heart she knew that Fear needed her. It made no sense of course; the man had just torn up the battlefield single-handed and probably won the war for them, but…

*

Fear studied the retreating Westerners and regained some of the hope he had felt before the fall of Gort. The Allies now just about matched the foe for numbers and they had the added advantage of the high ground. Even the Shadow Dreamers had fallen silent and in any case before the quake Fear had sensed that Meredith and her ilk had begun to turn the tide. It also boded well that neither king had fled.

But the ground was littered with the corpses of the dead, many at his hands, both friend and foe alike, although thankfully, most of his fallen comrades had died by an honest sword or arrow. It was a grim sight and in the late afternoon sun the bodies had begun to stink.

The Black Mage looked for Maiestatis now. The last of the Triptych was all that mattered now and as he and Dniester had defeated his brothers, so he would deal with Maiestatis and send him back to hell.

As he scanned the warriors that faced him he was pleased that in adversity they had not the discipline of his own side, convincing him that without the Wolf Lord they would flee or surrender.

But then he saw one among them, as one does when someone stands out against a rabble and Fear narrowed his eyes. It was not Maiestatis, but nevertheless Fear sensed danger.

The man who drew near was not a man at all. Not by his appearance. He was a shrivelled ugly thing with bluish white paper dry skin. Everything about him spoke of death, he even moved like one who had died and had forgotten to lie down. But it was his eyes, like two dead polished coals that made Fear shiver.

The cadaverous creature was less than 20 yards away now and only separated from Fear by the broken ditch that was left as a consequence of the earthquake.

“You are Dr Fear,” he said, his voice like sand running off parchment. “I have heard so much about you.”

“Draken, I presume,” Fear replied.

The warlock inclined his head in acknowledgement that suggested he was flattered.

“Where is Maiestatis?” Fear growled, he had no more time for minions.

“You will meet him soon enough,” Draken said sardonically.

Fear was on his guard now. What did this necromancer want with him if he had not come to fight? Surely he did not intend to die?

“So what business do you have with me?” the Black Mage asked.

“With you?” Draken sounded like one genuinely puzzled, “No my brother, you are for Maiestatis.”

Fear frowned. There was something he had missed. He had battled two demons now and Maiestatis was no greater than they? The Western Host had tried and failed to triumph and now they had a stalemate surely. That was why the demon hid from him?

“You speak in riddles dying one, or are you already dead?” Fear sneered. He had no understanding of this level of sacrifice. What did Draken have to gain? “What do think you do here?”

Fear readied himself to blast the creature out of existence, although a witch of the seventh circle would not go down so easily and this warlock had the power of the Triptych behind him.

“Do? I do nothing,” Draken said gently, “It is done.”

There was a shimmer and suddenly the magus found it hard to focus on the warlock. The natural elemental patterns were disrupted in a haze of Wild Magic and Fear knew that few if any of his colleagues would even have seen it. Then he realised, Draken believed himself invisible as he retreated back into the ranks of the Western Army. What was that all about? He wondered, suspecting that he had been distracted while some cunning trap had been set.

Fear gathered himself and braced against any unseen attack. But there was none. The sun still shone and the only sounds for the moment were the flies feasting on the dead and occasional cry of a dying horse. No, that was not all. There was a scrape to his left, like the claws of a dead rabbit on hard ground. Then he heard the metallic ring of a sword being taken up. Fear sensed dread and foreboding so strong that it was tangible, but there was no magic that he could discern.

Then a man he had previously taken to be dead staggered to his feet with a groan. Fear almost blasted him where he stood until he saw that he was of Precips; a marine from his light armour.

“You gave me a fright friend,” Fear said, relaxing a little, “Come on, let me help you back to the lines.”

The man grunted angrily and although Fear could not see his face, from the man’s posture he looked as if he was glaring at the enemy.

“Over here,” Fear called him, “This way. You are in no shape to fight again this day.”

The man ignored him and slashed angrily at the air with his sword. There was some clumsiness to his movement and the sword blow was inexpert. But who was he fighting?

Then Fear saw the reason. Another of the fallen men had gained his feet, this time one of the Westerners. Oh the gods, Fear cursed, there must be many wounded out here unattended.

The wounded Westerner was so battered that something reminded Fear of Draken as he lumbered awkwardly towards the other wounded man as if to do battle.

Fear might have dropped the lame soul, but he felt sorry for him and then he heard another scrape behind him. Turning he saw another warrior had risen, but this man was different. For all down his left side he was bloodied and Fear saw that not only did he have no arm, but half his face was missing. The man was as clearly dead as any the Magus had ever seen.

Then all around him corpses got to their feet lashing out the nearest mobile cadaver in a slow parody of a fight already lost. There were hundreds if not thousands of them now.

Fear backed away. An entire army of the dead had risen to refight the battle, broken warriors now all sharing gory damnation. There must have been half as many as there were yet living on both sides, Fear realised, but why?

Then far to the rear of the Western lines a horn sounded three times; a sound so low and ominous that Fear felt his teeth on edge and nausea tremble in his guts.

Then as one and in strange synchronicity, the entire army of the damned swung their dead faces to regard the Allied army on the rise above them and began to advance.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

Arch Magus
The sun was well towards the west now and the shadows of Timon’s eastern walls extended far out form the city towards the allied right flank. The late afternoon glow was slipping into a premature blood-red, casting a pall over the shambling army of the dead.

No doubt the allied commanders were casting anxious looks in the direction of the Pandoria contingent on that wing. But with Gort dead and Fear out on the battlefield there was no clear leadership among the Magister. All in all there were barely 20 fire adepts and mages in any case, and few others had offensive magic for this kind of warfare. So it was a wizard who spoke first.

“I have seen this before,” Dniester said quietly, “But never on this scale.”

Maxine swallowed hard unable to tear her eyes from the army of the dead as they advanced.

“Can they be killed?” Maxine asked nervously.

“Well technically not,” Dniester sounded as if he might chuckle at a private joke, “Being already dead, but they can be destroyed.”

Maxine and two or three of her colleagues swung around to confront the old wizard. But Dniester said no more and merely stroked his beard as he studied the latest development with academic interest.

“Well you old fool,” Maxine said urgently, “How?”

Dniester took a deep breath as if trying to recall and then said, “Hacking them up usually renders them ineffective; they are almost harmless if you can decapitate them.”

“Some of our men are beginning to run,” said an anxious young water adept. One of Maxine’s hangers-on Dniester didn’t wonder. She was certainly pretty enough.

“Fire is probably best, but unless it is well prepared mage fire it tends to take a while,” Dniester said absently. “I used to be able to toss a pretty good one as can some of you. But strictly speaking it is not my area.”

On the battlefield below a mass flight of arrows filled the sky and peppered the forward staggering cadavers so that many appeared as two-legged hedgehogs. It did nothing to even slow the advance.

Maxine was about to take command and try to send word to any of her colleagues who could use fire when around 50 head-sized globes arched high over the allied troops and landed with various degrees of effectiveness among the zombie army.

Perhaps 150 of the creatures were so badly charred that they fell destroyed. But twice that number staggered on more dreadfully than before, appearing now as human torches.

It was several moments before another rain of fire reached the death-ridden hoard and this had much the same effect.

“Well it’s working,” Maxine said tartly, “Sort of.”

By then the first of the zombies reached the forward edge of the allied troops. Dniester was particularly gratified to see a big fellow with an axe cleave one of the monsters down the middle. In fact all along the front the battle fared encouragingly well, but then the real threat became apparent.

For every three or four creatures felled, a mortal man went down to a bloody sword or spear. But a moment later the dead man got to his feet to join the walking dead.

Maxine gasped and clapped a shocked hand to her mouth.

“Even if the men stand, there will be too few to fight the living Westerners later,” she groaned.

“They won’t stand will they,” said Denton Barry, a white mage of some standing. “Come on, I know a few tricks, we have to stem this tide.”

“Where is he going?” Maxine wailed, “We need a plan.”

Dniester had finished pondering the problem and saw no easy solutions. But he did rather think that he knew what Denton might have in mind.

“Maestro, have you ever seen what a natural tornado can do to cattle on exposed ground?” he said by way of answer.

“He can do that?” Maxine gaped.

“As easily as you can bring a maelstrom to the sea,” Dniester chuckled.

Maxine whirled around with a fresh eye for the battle.

“This is too easy,” she yelled.

Dniester was nodding and in unison they said, “It’s a decoy.”

*

The witches had found a stand of trees to the north of the battlefield. Technically they were behind enemy lines, but since Fear had showed his hand the Westerners had fallen back somewhat to let the army of the dead do its work.

“If every dead soldier gets up again and fights for them, then, then…” Erin was in a panic. “We have to stop them, we just have to…”

Meredith was in agreement. She didn’t say that it was far worse than that. She didn’t say that if Draken had evoked a summoning and had broken down the very walls of death then there was no limit to what might rise in Maiestatis’s cause.

The elder witch looked at Amber who looked as sick as she felt.

“We must close the door,” Amber said.

“Close what door?” Tabitha asked. But she had never been so excited.

“Mother, will the…?” Meredith began.

“The summoning will end with Draken, but that is not the threat here,” Demdike crooned.

Amber rolled her eyes up as the seer went into another of her cryptic sermons.

“It seems pretty bloody threatening to me,” Erin shot back at her.

“Hold your tongue girl, have some respect,” Meredith snapped at her.

“The girl is right, Draken could win this fight alone, but it is not all that is at stake here,” Demdike replied.

Meredith and Amber looked at her and waited for some more words of wisdom.

“Well?” Meredith said at last, letting her impatience show.

“I cannot see… the Wolf is…” Demdike was shaking her head.

“Oh for f-flibbertigibbet’s sake,” Amber groaned.

“Never mind that now, let’s find Draken and end the bastard,” Meredith said sharply. “Demdike, cast the bloody runes and tell us what the heck is going on.”

*

Fear stood in the middle of a vast mob of the dead eyeing them with disgust. Not one of the creatures came to within a dozen yards of him and so far he had stayed his hand. Maybe they sensed he could smite them or maybe the compulsion they were under was too specifically focussed upon the Allied warriors.

From somewhere a wind tore at his coat and he hugged it close to his throat and blinked hard against the sudden rise of dust. Behind him a tornado of all things was tearing a swathe through the ranks of the dead hurling them into the air and smashing them to broken bones and pulp.

Fear shook his head, this gruesome army was all very spectacular but it wasn’t going to win the Wolf Lord’s war for him. The demon knew that and Fear did too. What had he missed? It was time, he decided, that he found out.

The march of cadavers had thinned out now and Fear was able to blast a great wedge of them from his path so that half a thousand shambling wretches were frozen black and brittle like a petrified forest. Then utilising an air magic spell that he should not have been able to master, he launched himself across the great ditch he had made and landed in no man’s land.

Quietly over the years he had dabbled in magical pursuits outside his discipline and struggled, albeit less than he should. Now he felt invigorated. The short jump-flight manipulations of the Air patterns had been too easy.

“I have never been so strong,” he said aloud in wonder.

It should have been a troubling thought, but he had too much to do to dwell upon it.

*

With no time for fancy tricks like the stunt Draken pulled with his invisibility, Fear opted for a heat haze wall between him and the Western Host. The last thing he needed was to ward off over eager arrows. Not until he had located Maiestatis anyway.

The haze would make it hard for the enemy’s eyes to identify him and allow him to draw in close. But maybe that was the Wolf Lord’s plan. To draw the only one who might yet destroy him onto his ground.

Fear stopped and scanned the patterns, first one at a time and then overlaid so that he could see any signs of Wild Magic in the spaces between.

He drew a sharp breath and studied the weave of reality anew, his heart rate rising and the sweat pricking his palms. Something was wrong. He shook his head. There was nothing amiss as such and yet… He looked again at the ground and at the sure firm Earth which was his chief domain. The border between the ground and the air was stark where the afternoon sun beat down upon it, stark hard and… cold; why cold?

The ground was absorbing heat far faster than it should. Fear scanned hard, relaxing his mind so that he might glean patterns of Wild Magic. The ground was wrong somehow, he knew it and yet there was nothing wrong.

Then little by little he saw the corruption, at first just small twists in the Earth lines and then whole bulges in the ground where it should be flat. Looking with his eyes he saw nothing. But something made him step backwards.

Then trampled turf began to tear and rip apart from beneath.

“What in hades…?” he gasped and braced at the air with is staff.

The horse head was a surprise. It was mundane thing of ancient bone and rancid clay. The head was quickly followed by two twisted hooves that the creature used to drag itself from the broken ground. Then once it staggered onto the grass Fear saw that it had but three legs and could only lurch with a stuttering gait.

The rat-like slugs that tumbled out of the hole in the equine beast’s wake were far more disturbing. There were hundreds of them, all fossilised skin and teeth. Then as Fear watched, every creature that had ever died on this ground erupted out and clawed their way from hell onto the once clean soil of the world.

“Behold Maiestatis’s world,” Fear muttered under a bitter breath.

It was not just the one hole that opened, but all across no man’s land dozens of pits twisted apart spewing forth lions, tigers and bears, all rancid with decay and advanced fossilisation and all lumbering in one deadly direction.

Fear ran strategies through his mind and wondered how far this canker could spread; how many tornados, he wondered, could smash this bestial army?

Then he saw not one, but two skeletal dragons lunge from the ground and silently croak fireless breath as they impotently tried to fly. Fear shuddered. These creatures must be ancient and the gods alone knew what else would come.

“Tell me,” pain whispered in his ear, “Could you not extinguish such lowly ones from your world?”

Fear was on his guard, but apart from the growing menagerie of the dead, he could see nothing this side of the enemy lines.

“Unleash your power, break these ancient bones,” the tortured voice hissed.

Fear was calm now and tore at the veils of the world with his sight. Hell was erupting all about him so that he saw the world in darkness; a mirror of the one that men saw. For here, where it should be light it was dark and where natural shadows should be there was crystal white frost.

Amid it all was Maiestatis grinning with agony and watching him with cold burning eyes.

There is a trap here, Fear thought, but where?

“At last foul one,” he sighed, “I have come to send you back to hell with your brothers.”

“Oh why bother dark one, for can’t you see that I bring hell to me,” Maiestatis sighed with a voice like ice.

“I see it,” Fear replied, “But it is too cold for hell, surely?”

“Hell is how I devise,” Maiestatis challenged.

“No,” Fear spat, “How I devise.”

The ground then began to tremble. A little at first and then with the power of the earthquake he had wrought earlier that day.

“Shake harder little man,” the Wolf chided the Mage, “Maybe you can rattle those bones.”

“Rattle? Or burn?” Fear shot back.

As he spoke the ground across the plain fractured, not as with the quake, but like shattered glass. Then glowing red it began to boil as lakes of lava spewed from pits and crevices of the day’s magical battles.

Maiestatis did not linger and fled the way he had come, but Fear did not see where.

“I’ll settle with you later,” Fear roared and then turned his attention back to the sea of fire he had created.

The ground was gone now, giving way to a lake of liquid rock that oozed like smoking mud sucking in the ancient dead and incinerating them as they drowned.

“My poor, poor pretty’s,” Maiestatis sang in his ear, “But Draken can soon make me more. We will fill the whole world with its dead.”

*

Tabitha heard it first. It was an unearthly scream that made her think of a bandersnatch. The coven as one dropped to a crouch and hid behind what little cover the undergrowth offered.

“That was close to,” Amber hissed.

They had been skirting the battlefield for an hour now, several times having to press deeper into the scrubby woodland that lay to the east to avoid detection.

They had been following Gasgook who sensed, so he said, a great source of Wild Magic beyond the enemy’s right flank.

“Wouldn’t Draken be with the Wolf Lord at the heart of the army?” Erin had asked.

“Well if he is then he will be beyond our reach,” Meredith had sighed, “But if I remember the wretch, that would not be his style.”

“Besides, if Gasgook is right, then what else is on the eastern flank? We should investigate at least,” Amber had agreed.

So little by little they had picked their way through silver birch and dwarf oaks, whilst hiding or hexing their way past outriders.

Once they had encountered a whole troop of cavalry. Tabitha had coaxed each horse like ptarmigan for supper and away from the others where the rider had been dealt with in turn. But it hadn’t taken long for their comrades to catch on that their fellows had gone into the undergrowth and were not coming back

Then it was if all hell had come a calling. But these men were no priest-witches and after Meredith had worked a transmogrification spell leaving two riders sitting astride bears, the scouts had fallen easily.

“Some of the horses escaped,” Tabitha cursed.

Meredith frowned and did some hasty thinking.

“Turn the wounded and captives into… squirrels for a day and leave the rest to the bears,” she said hastily. “That ought to confuse them for long enough, by morning we will be gone.”

Amber didn’t like it. All this magical activity so close to the enemy was bound to draw some unwelcome attention. But there was nothing else for it.

After that Tabitha, who was a huntress of old, took the lead and the coven ranged even wider into the woodlands.

Then they had heard the scream.

“What was that?” Amber hissed.

“I don’t know, but it came from where I sense a strong presence,” Gasgook said calmly.

“I’ll go and look,” Tabitha whispered and before anyone could speak she was gone.

Meredith looked at Amber and they exchanged their fears. Suddenly ranging behind enemy lines to hunt the world’s second most dangerous enemy didn’t seem so intelligent.

But Draken was one of their own and the damn Magister, with a few exceptions, were not best placed to deal with him. Amber took a small gulp.

Among the coven, she, Gasgook and Meredith touched upon the Sixth Circle in power. However, Draken’s gifts lay well within the Seventh and who knew what powers the Triptych had granted him.

Just then something broke through the undergrowth and Amber drew her witch knife. It was Tabitha.

“It’s a… a kind of man… I think… I think…” Tabitha swallowed hard.

“Draken,” Meredith said with some distaste.

“He doesn’t look too good,” Tabitha said breathlessly.

“He never did,” Meredith said, pulling a face.

“No, I mean he is crouching down, like he is in pain,” Tabitha gushed.

Her chest was heaving and there was a sheen of sweat on her naked thighs. The witch was wearing no more than a singlet and knife belt and for a moment Amber wondered why Fear hadn’t chosen her over Katrin. But then she blushed, the thoughts betrayed her own tastes, not Fear’s.

Erin saw the direction of Amber’s gaze and scowled.

All this was missed by Meredith who stared at the trees ahead as she wrestled with her fear.

“It’s now or never then, let’s go,” Meredith said in a determined voice.

*

Draken had never doubted before, not since he had first chosen to serve Maiestatis. The demon had known things about Draken that no one and nothing else could have; his omnipresence was godlike. Until now the warlock had never doubted the final victory.

The Wolf Lord had augmented Draken’s power over the dead beyond anything he could have gained form a hundred years of study. Furthermore he had promised his chief servant immortality. But now he thought on it, Draken remembered all the evasive cryptic answers to his questions and further he remembered how many servants had fallen to the demon on a whim.

Somewhere a bird sang to taunt him and he became aware of the hard ground beneath his knees. It made him feel… he choked on a sob, mortal. And just when had he fallen to his knees? Then he remembered the sudden pain, the all-encompassing soul-reaving that he had felt when Fear had destroyed his creatures.

Draken looked around and saw that the sun was now low to the horizon and just scraping the tree tops in the direction of the battlefield. But that was not the only glow in the sky. A great fire was burning and the smell of ash and smoke was carried to him on the breeze.

Just as the Magister had crushed his zombie hoard, so Fear had destroyed his second army of the dead; the real one, the one that had counted. But Maiestatis saw everything, he must have known that Fear had such power he must have known… what? The world was wheels within wheels and Draken had been above it all, on top of everything with the Wolf Lord, the Warmonger, but it wasn’t so. Draken was just one more deception, one more decoy for Maiestatis’s hidden hand.

Well he was not done yet. He still had the power, he still had it all. He would raise a still greater host of demon spawn to rule the world. He would raise everything that had ever lived, ever died, fish or foul, beast or man…

Deep into his schemes, Draken did not see the semi-circle of women and one man closing on him. He did not see the present leader of his old coven muttering ancient words and preparing to strike.

Meredith had never been more afraid; she had more cause than most to fear the warlock. But if Meredith was afraid there was another who was terrified.

For Amber, Draken had been the subject of her nightmares for years. She remembered now the baby and the girl in the woods. She remembered Tobias and…

Draken stiffened and a cold calculating cunning crossed his features. His smile was visceral and never once touched his eyes as he sniffed the air.

“Fee foe fie fum…” he chuckled, “Welcome sister Meredith,” his gaze shot around to stare at the witch, “Welcome sister Amber,” and then whipped around to confront Amber. “You will all make pretty recruits for my army of the dead.”

Hemple screamed then and breaking discipline she ran at the warlock bearing her knife.

Draken directed a half-hearted fist at her and then opened it with a five finger point. Hemple was thrown back and slammed hard into the ground. That he did not kill her betrayed his confidence.

Gasgook made a two handed gesture that echoed Draken’s own and a gust of wind blasted at the necromancer stinging at his flesh.

It seemed to Amber then that darkness fell and all that had been vibrant was now grey and dead. She added her power to that of Gasgook’s and felt Draken’s in return.

“What do you do Greydove? You think I will roll-up into a worm or a rat for you?” Draken sneered.

Erin who had been thinking of doing that very thing hesitated and took a step backwards. It was then that Hemple rushed at Draken again. As she launched herself a shimmer surrounded her and twisting in the air she fell as a sandy brown rabbit in a heap on the floor.

Angrily Erin cast and Draken actually staggered before turning on her the young witch.

“You have some power little one,” Draken chuckled patronisingly, “Pity it is so wasted here. Now you will die.”

The simple pronouncement chilled Erin to the core.

“No foul creature, no,” Gasgook yelled and with an onrush of power he charged and actually knocked Draken back two yards.

Amber too chose the moment to strike and the smell of sulphur burned in her nose. The resistance was incredible and something rent at her existence and she glimpsed her own mortality.

“You cannot beat us all,” Meredith said with more conviction than she felt and ripped at his throat with her mind.

“Three such powerful ones,” Draken hissed, “So close to overmatching me, so close, but…”

All three of his attackers were blasted back. Perhaps because he had plans for them, Amber and Meredith landed hard, but were alive. Gasgook was not so lucky. He seemed to twist where he stood and then burst open like a melon on a rocky road.

The remaining witches screamed in anger and frustration and one or two rushed at the warlock as Hemple had done, instantly meeting the same fate. To their credit the other women did not flee, but held the circle casting for all they were worth. They were many, but it was hopeless.

Draken had not seen the girl who jumped on his back until that moment. She was a small dark creature with a look of the Southern Desert about her; a Silver Shore girl, no doubt. He shrugged her off with a spell.

Tabitha felt the searing heat of a force emanate from Draken as she clung about his shoulders. It almost threw her, but she could see the patterns of it as Fear had taught her. It was a laughable attempt, she thought as she countered it.

Draken gaped and suddenly confused began to stagger and claw at the girl on his back.

“You cannot…”

Tabitha bit him and wrapped her legs around his chest. She could hold her own as well as his, she laughed inwardly at the pun, but the man was no ptarmigan and her offence for now was purely physical. He could shrug off her hexing as easily as she could his.

“Tabitha, flee,” Amber wailed in despair.

Draken growled and prepared to end the bitch Sage once and for all.

It was then that Tabitha remembered the witch knife Meredith had given her. Launching herself upwards she clasped now it two hands and blessing it with her will she plunged it deep between Draken’s neck and his collar bone.

“No,” Draken gasped, “No.”

Tabitha was finally thrown clear as the necromancer clutched impotently at the hilt of the knife protruding from his shoulder.

“No,” he said again, “I am immortal.”

Then he fell dead.

*

Fear felt Draken’s demise and knew that no more creatures would rise from the ground. Not that there had been any immediate danger of that. For where there had been largely flat grass, now lay an expanse of orange lava oozing to find its level and already crusting a brownish-grey on its surface.

This last effect Fear encouraged by extracting and dissipating the heat so that glowing cracks formed around small islands of rock that slowly merged together. The scar of the land would last for centuries perhaps, a permanent mark on the landscape where the Battle of Timon had been fought.

It had been hard to control such power and Fear had once again had to resort to the Ubermind, that separation of his dispassionate and his emotions selves. He felt like a god.

As if from above he imagined that he saw all the armies of the world laid out, each warrior carved on his mind, each a small play thing to be snuffed out or preserved. Now it was time to end this, the Western Host was his to destroy.

“It feels good doesn’t it?” like the lava Maiestatis oozed into his consciousness. “One such as you has not walked this world for a thousand years.”

“One such as I?” Fear asked, only vaguely curious now, for such concerns were beneath him.

“An Arch Magus, a master of his crafts and one who can draw upon the Wild Magic as if of the Seventh Circle,” Maiestatis hissed into the void of Fear’s mind. “You have even drawn upon the Air Magic and perhaps Water too, haven’t you? These arts should be closed to you, or would be if you were not as you were.”

“There is no such thing as an Arch Magus,” Fear muttered with what was left of his emotion, but the last of his self-denial and modesty was crumbling. Dispassionately however he knew that Maiestatis was right. He had changed and had been changing since… all his life had led to this moment. It was an epiphany and he surrendered to it.

“Draken was weak, it was always you Arlon Fear, always you,” Maiestatis said silkily. “This body of mine, this king will die soon, the vessel of yours, its power allied to mine… oh think, think.”

There was a pleading tone hinting at hope and fear.

“You are nothing,” Fear said absently, “I destroyed your brother before the Triptych was realised.”

“No, that was not it at all,” Maiestatis’s voice but a breath now, a breath that touched Fear’s lips as closely as his own.

Just a little closer, just one or two more breaths and they would be one.

“The Triptych cannot be destroyed, just the hosts, by destroying my brothers you set them free and the three became one in me,” Maiestatis continued, his explanation occupying all that was left of the one who was once Arlon Fear.

“But you needed the girl,” Fear frowned; something was troubling him still, something he could not quite let go. The girl was it? What girl?

“She was unimportant, her early subjugation would have merely ensued this outcome all the sooner,” Maiestatis sounded impatient and just a little further away.

Fear nodded, another decoy then, it was unimportant he supposed, but still there was something.

“Fear, Arlon,” the voice called, it was very far away, “Master please.”

“You are just a decoy,” Fear muttered, the Ubermind was him he was the…

“I love you,” Katrin yelled.

She had come across the battlefield as soon as the Magister had destroyed the army of the dead. Even then it was all but impossible to get across the lake of fire until it cooled.

She felt the hot sticky ground even now. There was a disgusting smell where the leather of her boots had begun to burn.

“Arlon,” she screamed once more and then almost angrily she barked, “Look at me.”

“Who orders Fear?” Fear snapped and turned from Maiestatis who was no more an arm’s length away now.

Katrin looked so small and vulnerable to the Arch Mage Fear, he should do something, shouldn’t he?

“Arlon,” Katrin was pleading, not knowing what to say.

The demon was near, right there, but Arlon just stood in a stupor. What was wrong with him?

“Fear, forget the girl, look at me,” Maiestatis snarled.

As he spoke he grabbed Katrin as if he had a great invisible hand and tossed her in the air to dash her into the ground. The Ubermind saw it all, the tendrils of Wild Magic in the patterns were as clear to Fear as those of the Earth or Fire. He twisted them with is mind, unspinning them as he traced them back to his source.

“Leave her be if she is so unimportant,” Fear snapped at Maiestatis.

“As you say Arch Mage,” Maiestatis said hastily. He seemed afraid now.

“Why was she so unimportant? Why did you want her?” Fear was asking himself now, as if there was something just out of the reach of his mind.

“Arlon, come back to me,” Katrin yelled.

This happened once before, when I… when she… I lost her, Fear remembered.

“Katrin,” he yelled, “Get out of here.”

Just in time Fear stepped between a blast from the Wolf Lord and his beloved apprentice. He was sent sailing across the smouldering plateau of cooling lava.

“Fool, you could have had the world,” Maiestatis sneered.

As Fear gained his feet he could see the Wolf Lord for what he was. Not the broken war chief the demon had subsumed but the shades of shimmering patterns of something that was not quite right. It was the same canker he had seen within Katrin on the day he had cured her, on the day the he had last been lost to the Ubermind. He had so nearly lost her again, he knew.

“Fool? Not I,” Fear sighed, “I already have the world.”

He smiled at the still terrified Katrin and then turned to confront Maiestatis.

“Will you blast me with lava? Send a tornado of fire to engulf me?” the Wolf Lord laughed mirthlessly. “Little Man.”

Fear frowned and then reaching out with his mind seized the cankerous patterns wrapped around the captured soul and unpicked them.

“Impossible,” Maiestatis screamed. “What are you doing?”

Fear adopted his customary posture and leaned on his staff as he spoke.

“It is called magic,” he said.

And then the last of the demon was unbound and the shell that had once been a man fell to the ground.

“Thank you,” the prince said as he died.

“Arlon,” Katrin wailed and rushed at Fear and seized him into her arms.

“I told you to stay behind,” he scolded her.

He didn’t sound like he was about the compromise just then, but Katrin didn’t care.

“Is it over, is it?” Katrin sobbed.

Fear sighed and turned towards the Western Army. It still outnumbered the Allies by a healthy margin, but left to a conventional fight King John and Peron would prevail eventually. But too many would die.

*

Lord Commander Varis of the West stood morosely trying to get his head around recent events. He was a big man who had long been a general. But still he had never thought to be first commander.

Now he had to weigh his options and it seemed prudent to hear the enemy out. Maybe the way things were they were ready to surrender, but one look at the damn magus in black told him that it wasn’t so.

The Shadow Dreamers had fled with the fall of the War Chief and he noticed that the three or four mages that had rallied to their cause were nowhere to be seen. Still he had witches and sorcerers aplenty yet to draw on, loyalist from the west that were not so faint of heart.

He had accepted a summons to meet with King John and the Magus. And the small contingent now stood at the edge of the lava field eyeing each other like cats on a garden fence.

“What terms do you demand?” he decided to bluff it out.

“I can answer that,” Fear said.

The new Arch Mage indicated the lava field and then put is face close to Lord Varis’s ear.

“You agree to surrender unconditionally and I agree not to open up the regions first volcano under your camp,” Fear hissed.

Varis gulped and glanced at King John and then back at Fear. Then with the smallest of motions he nodded.

And so ended the Battle of Timon and the War of the Shadow Dreamers as it would come to be known

To be continued.