The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the small hours of the night the company rode their foam-flecked horses into the hamlet of Orolan. Wet blackness had engulfed them since midday, rain lashing from the dark storm clouds overhead.

Orolan appeared abandoned, the windows in the cluster of half-timber houses and wooden outbuildings dark and empty. Behind the patter of the rain, the normal sounds of a village at night were entirely absent.

Had the darkness reached even here, to the very edge of the kingdom?

Feolani needed to know. The company could not continue this night, lest the horses drop dead beneath them. But neither would they simply take what they needed if the inhabitants were still here, not fled but cowering in their cellars.

The company drew to a halt as Feolani dismounted. Her boots sank an inch into the mud of the village square. She took off her helmet, and the rain quickly matted her blonde hair to her skull, rivulets streaming down her forehead and cheeks.

She began to cast.

The Nahoi’i—the warrior-witches—had been the spine of Nahor’s army since the days of the First Kings. They patrolled all corners of the great valley that held the kingdom. No invader, be they human brigand or dark creature of Sauriann, could escape their sight; in battle they blazed with power, throwing down all who opposed them. A Nahorite company-at-arms was worth thrice its number of foes when led by one of the warrior-witches.

Tonight her company had ten.

In normal times, ten Nahoi’i would be leading an army, not a force of rangers barely twice their number. But times were not normal.

Not at all.

Feolani brought her hand down abruptly, and Truesight illuminated her world. Eyes glowing in the darkness, she gazed around the village. The houses were empty, even the cellars, but they had not been so for long. She could see the trails the inhabitants had made in the air as their bodies passed, trails which lead to...

“Meldahir,” she said, the glow in her eyes fading, “they have fled to a cave behind the moot-hall. I shall speak to them. Have the company stable their horses in the inn, and that farm behind it.” She handed her reins up to him.

There was no need for Meldahir to answer, and he turned his horse to direct some of the company towards the small inn and others to the farm Feolani had indicated. Their thirty horses would fill both structures, but the space should be sufficient.

Feolani stalked through the rain. Orolan’s moot-hall was merely that, a large building with one room that could fit all the inhabitants. Behind it, the slope that the town sat on became steep and jagged; Orolan was the last habitation of man before the high mountains truly began.

She rounded the hall and saw the thick wooden door in the hillside, behind which the townspeople huddled. Stopping at the door, she drew herself erect and pounded on the wood.

Silence answered her.

“Open in the name of the King!” Feolani shouted. “We mean you no harm!”

She waited, water dripping through her eyebrows and causing her to blink.

Again she pounded on the door.

Then came the sound of bars being withdrawn, and the door swung tentatively inward.

“Who comes under the name of the King?” came a man’s voice from the candlelit interior.

“I am Feolani of the Nahoi’i. My company is passing through on our way into the mountains. We need stables for our horses and a place to rest until dawn.”

The door opened fully. A man stood in the entrance before her. Though his hair was white, he was as yet unshrunken by age, and his voice contained authority underneath his relief.

“The Nahoi’i!” he exclaimed. “You and yours are welcome in our village, Swordmaiden. We had taken shelter when we heard riders coming.” He looked at her feet. “Times are uncertain, and we feared...”

“You did rightly,” Feolani said. “Caution is warranted in these dark days.” Looking past him, she could see over a hundred women, children, and old men. Of course, those who could fight had already been mustered. “But tonight, at least, your town shall sleep safe. Return to your homes.”

She stood aside as the villagers emerged. There was not a one who did not cast an awestruck glance at her, and among their whispers the word ‘Nahoi’i’ came again and again.

Feolani prayed that she would live up to their hopes, but the times were dark indeed.

The horses were stabled, the warriors had found dry flooring on which to lay their bedrolls, and the last few reverent villagers had gone to their homes.

Feolani sat with Meldahir and Tuhul, the village headman. The fire in the room’s hearth had burned to embers, the room lit red and orange by the occasional flame from the crumbled logs.

Feolani was finally dry. She stretched, and watched the hissing cinders.

“Swordmaiden,” the elder said at last, “how desperate is our plight?”

Slowly Feolani leaned back against the wall, and exhaled.

“We are tumbling into the abyss,” she replied. “Our army was shattered on Dalagar Field. The things they fought there were...” she stared at the wall, picturing the handful of survivors being brought into the castle. “Terrible. The Dark Queen has fearsome servants indeed.”

“And the King?”

The King’s face appeared before Feolani’s eyes, torment in his eyes as he ordered her to choose from the palace guard and flee to the High Keep, to hold it at all costs. To keep the gate open, that his people might flee. How he had aged since the dark times had washed across his lands.

“I cannot say. There are those who say that his daughter, the princess Irulan, has gone over to the service of the dark. This I do not know, but if the capital has not fallen by now, it can only be days. And the King would not leave it.”

“Then there is no hope?” the old man said, and for the first time age quavered in his voice.

“There is always hope,” Meldahir replied bluntly. “We go to secure Karak. Other bands of...” he hesitated, “survivors... are leaving these lands. If we can hold the High Keep, we can control the pass into the horse lands. And our people can escape.”

“Escape? Should we flee with you?”

“No,” Feolani replied. “We cannot take you. I am sorry, Tuhul, but your people would slow us greatly. We must reach the High Keep before the minions of the Dark Queen can take it. It would take only a handful of them to keep us out.”

“And a handful of us to keep them out,” Meldahir pointed out.

“Aye, that too.”

“Karak,” the villager said. “A dark place. It has sat unused since before the time of my grandfathers.”

“Dark but empty,” Feolani said. “The Nahoi’i have kept it so. And now we must take it and hold it, that our people may flee.”

Tuhul considered. “The horse lands are empty. Where could we live? What would we eat? My people cannot feed their children on grass.”

“We must cross down to the sea,” Meldahir said. “The lands our ancestors came from still lie there. As the High Keep ages ago kept the forest dwellers of the valley from crossing into their land, so shall it do again.”

“If we reach it in time,” Feolani said. “And that means I must get some sleep.”

She stretched out along the bench as the village elder crept quietly out of the room. Across from her, Meldahir did the same. The fire popped gently in the hearth.

Sleep came quickly.

She dreamt of her sister.

Nerial was in her bed, asleep. Somehow Feolani knew that it was a before-time, before Nerial went off to fight at the Field of Dalagar, before the ruined survivors returned to tell of the disaster that befell the army of Nahor.

There was whispering in the room, though in her dream Feolani knew it but could hear nothing.

Her sister began to shift in her sleep. Her mouth came open, and her breathing quickened. A flush rose in her cheeks, and her hips began to move, twisting slowly this way and that. Her mouth formed soft words of silent protest.

The dream shifted, sliding forward in time, and now Nerial was nude, her muscled body writhing slowly above the kicked-off sheets. Her stomach undulated with her soft panting, the thin line of an old wound a pale streak on taut skin. Between her legs, the dim light of the room glinted off dampening lips.

Although the dream remained silent, Feolani knew that the whispering had become soft chanting, staying just above the rising moans of her sister. Moans that were shifting from protest to pleasure.

The room was still there, but in her dream Feolani could only see her sister. Nerial’s movements had taken a rhythm, her hips rising and back arching in a slow wave. Her hands rose to either side of her head, as though they were being pinned to her pillow. Her mouth was open wide, and though Feolani could not hear them, she saw the soft cries of lust in the rapid clenching of her sister’s throat.

Feolani’s vision moved in, as Nerial’s phantom lover drew her closer and closer to climax. Her sister’s head thrashed to one side, then to the other, her moans becoming cries of delight, her eyes still tightly closed. Feolani’s view drew closer and closer to her sister’s face, the mouth open wide and panting, spittle daubing the lips.

Then, as she came, Nerial’s eyes flew open.

They were solid, shining, black.

Feolani woke with a start.

It was still dark outside, but she could feel the nearness of dawn in the air. All her muscles complained as she rolled forward to a sitting position.

Meldahir was already gone. Rubbing her eyes, Feolani stood, pulled on her boots, and walked outside.

The village was quiet save for the stomping of horses and the jingle of tack. The company was already preparing to go. Tired horses were being given salt and water, and saddles and reins were already being fitted.

Nodding a greeting at her troops, Feolani went to fetch her own mount from the inn’s stable.

They were on the road in ten minutes.

None of the villagers had emerged to see them off, but it was early yet. The company was miles away when the first rays of dawn rose from the horizon. Her riders hunched over their mounts in the morning’s chill. Few said anything.

They were within days of the High Keep, but if they pushed the horses any harder they would collapse, so the company rode stolidly along the dwindling track into the mountains. The High Keep sat amongst eternal snow and ice, a day past the last trees, and the track now climbed sharply into the mountains. Shortly their breath was misting in front of their faces.

The company proceeded, two abreast, along the winding path. Feolani, having yet again checked her column, pulled her mount into the space alongside Junia’s. They rode in silence, but there was emotion in the air. Though Junia tried to hide them, The Nahoi’i captain could not fail to notice the young warrior’s stolen glances.

Admiration was not something Feolani looked for; she’d seen too many fools cultivating such false rewards, hiding behind their rank and building on the distinction of past military successes, victories that had more to do with luck than skill. No, the respect of her warriors was important to Feolani only as it bolstered their morale and their quick obedience to her orders.

However... she was honest enough to admit that she felt unusually flattered by Junia’s boundless admiration for her. The young woman’s skills as a Nahoi’i were unquestioned, and many a times during these dark days had she proven her strength and resolve. Fatigue, even after days of riding, had not diminished her ardor.

Or beauty.

Feolani smiled to herself, her eyes glancing to the dreary landscape of rockface beyond the trees. Had she ever been so young? Although her tired muscles still ached for relief, she was soothed by the memory of younger, happier days, when she’d been the one to look at her commanders with silent reverence. She too, had found inspiration and strength in their calm resolve.

Now she led a company of Nahoi’i. Perhaps the very last remnants of her order. And the youngest among them now looked to her for an ideal.

How the world changed in the light of Dark times.

She nudged her horse towards the front of the column.

Towards evening, the party reached a bridge across a deep ravine. The path had long since dwindled to single-track, barely kept open by deer and those who hunted them. Then, suddenly, the forest opened before them, and a stone bridge wide enough for ten men to ride abreast crossed a chasm an arrowflight across, whose bottom never felt the rays of the sun.

Even now, untended for hundreds of years, the weathered stonework resisted Nature’s efforts to break it. As they crossed, Feolani wondered at the race of men who had the power to build such a structure.

The same men that built the High Keep Karak.

Meldahir returned from scouting and informed her that the way was clear for at least another ten leagues. Feolani looked at the sun, orange on the horizon, and the horses, panting and lathered. Her muscles, sensing her indecision, spoke to her of their pain.

She thought of Dunlan, city of columns, burning. They could make several leagues before full dark.

She waved the company onward.

They camped in a grove of tall pine. None of the Nahoi’i had sensed the presence of the twisted once-men who were called Orcs, but a darkness oppressed them all and hampered their vision. Watches were doubled through the night.

A stone column rose near the edge of the grove, and it was there that Feolani unfurled her bedroll. As she lay down, she wondered who had made the column, and what ancient structure, now shattered and deep under the fallen needles, it had been part of.

Was Nahor, too, to fall and pass from memory?

She looked for Junia, smiled when she saw the young woman already asleep against a gnarled trunk. Behind her, Leiowyn stood on the other side of the tree, in the dark, watchful. Feolani examined the watch-pattern and nodded in satisfaction.

Meldahir and came to her as she prepared to sleep. Behind him stood Horadrir, head of the first watch.

“Captain,” said Meldahir in a low voice, “we should reach Karak by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Aye, so we should.”

He snapped a small twig and twirled it in his fingers. “What do you think we will find there?”

“Nothing, I hope. Strong walls and a stone gate.”

Horadrir spoke softly over Meldahir’s shoulder. “Do you think the beast-men have reached there before us?”

There was an edge of fear in the young man’s voice. It was something she’d never heard from Meldahir, whose confidence in her ability to lead them to safety seemed boundless. She had chosen him only by reputation, but he had shown himself to be a dependable and incredibly competent officer even on this darkest of missions. He also allowed for nothing but success, and she couldn’t help smiling as he shot his subordinate a furious glance for bothering their commander with defeatist nonsense.

She looked up at the stars, twinkling between the dark branches of the trees. “No,” she said at last. “I do not think so. The bridges in the Shath’ir pass crumbled to ruin ages ago, and not even her strongest beast-servants could survive a crossing of the Morian peaks. As for the route through the Underdark of Kard’dir...” Feolani chuckled humorlessly. “There are far worse things than beast-men and trolls in those pits. No, our path alone leads to the High Keep. The enemy will have to cross the entire kingdom to get here, and we have ridden fast.”

“But...” Horadrir’s voice trailed off. Meldahir glowered at him.

“But?” she finally asked.

“What of those who serve them? What about...”

Feolani sighed. “The Dark Queen’s corruption tainted many, Horadrir. But there were none at the High Keep for her to seduce. Our mounts are exhausted, but they did not fail us. None of Her slaves have gotten there before us.”

The young man nodded, relieved, and Meldahir snapped his fingers.

“Enough talk, ranger. Take the first watch South of the camp with Lohan and Balhund. I’ll join up with you shortly.”

Horadrir saluted and faded in the dark.

“Forgive his impertinence,” Meldahir whispered. “He’s a young recruit, and hasn’t seen much in the ways of war and hardship. He’ll be dependable if we encounter... trouble.”

He fell silent, but his meaning was obvious to Feolani. In battle, the inexperienced grow up very quickly... If at all.

Her spirits lifted, knowing he’d never voice such thoughts aloud. Even in the darkest hour, Nahoran honor and loyalty were not gone from the world. In his own way, Meldahir was as blind to her faults as Junia. She smiled.

“Come. Rest for the night and take the morning watch instead. Hirian can stand in your place—”

Meldahir shook his head, and she thought she glimpsed a slight smile on his lips. “Your burdens are heavy enough without worries of the watch, captain. Let me take care of it. You get some sleep.” He nodded a farewell, and strode into the trees.

She watched him go, and settled in her bedroll with a sigh.

It took her some time to fall asleep.

Again she dreamt of Nerial.

Her sister was in the line of battle, her cohort surrounding her with drawn swords. The sky was dark, black smoke blurring the sky and turning the noonday sun into a blood-red ember. The ominous light glinted off Nerial’s armor, wreathing her in scarlet.

Across the field, a line of black advanced. Pikes turned the horizon into a field of deadly spines.

The warriors held their ground. Though badly outnumbered, their ranks did not waver. The pride of Nahor had fought these creatures before.

The metal tread of the orcs shook the ground as they broke into a run. The pikes lowered.

As one, the warriors of Nahor swung up their swords.

From behind them, arrows suddenly streaked the sky with hissing blurs. The front ranks of the beast-men boiled as orcs fell and were clambered over by those who came after.

Nerial stood like a statue, sword poised.

The beast-things were almost upon them, twisted armor bolted over twisted flesh. Upon their helmets they each bore the Black Eye of Sauriann.

With a crash like a hundred ocean waves, the armies engulfed each other.

To Feolani’s dreaming eyes, the armies washed over each other, blurring and blending in a tempest of black armor and silver swords, bestial screams and clattering metal. She lost sight of Nerial as her raven’s-eye view swept the field. Here and there warped monstrosities, trolls from the underdark and worse things, clashed with warrior-witches whose swords crackled with balefire.

The army of Nahor was obviously shrinking.

At first Feolani didn’t understand it, for wherever she looked the warriors in their silver armor had the upper hand, striking down a dozen orcs for each of their number that shuddered to the ground. But with each passing moment, the army of light grew smaller.

She looked for Nerial.

Her dreaming vision was drawn across the field, to where light flickered as a Nahoi’i fought with a champion of the dark, bright blue-white power flaring around her and being matched by the blood-red glow of her enemy. But even as dream-Feolani reached the battle, it was over. The dark champion pulled its sword from the crumpled body of the Swordmaiden.

Feolani felt fear, then, as the champion seemed to sense her presence, and looked up. It tore off its helmet.

It was Nerial.

Her eyes were once again liquid black orbs, the object of her attention obvious only because Feolani could feel Nerial’s gaze burning upon her. But her eyes weren’t the worst of it.

On her forehead was painted a dark sigil.

An eye.

Nerial smiled at her.

Feolani woke to screams and pouring rain.

She shot to her feet and snatched her sword from its scabbard. The blade flashed, a streak of lethal silver, its markings glowing with power as she mouthed the spell which made it burn with eldritch fire. A cold fog shrouded the clearing, but the sounds of battle and pain echoed sharply.

A beast-thing loomed out of the fog at her. It raised a crude ax, but held its swing at the last moment, hesitating out of doubt or fear. Feolani’s blade wasted no time, cleaving it down through the shoulder to its heart. Black blood gurgled from its mouth as it fell. She shoved her boot into its chest and yanked her sword free, already seeking another target.

But the sounds of battle had ceased. In the woods, she could hear the thrashing retreat of the once-men.

“Company to me,” Feolani cried. “to me!”

Her warriors materialized out of the fog. Leiowyn, Junia, Hirian. Others.

Too few, Feolani realized with a sudden shock. Far too few. Where were the rangers?

Meldahir appeared with a pair of horses, and despite herself she felt a flood of relief that he wasn’t among those who hadn’t answered her call.

“Feolani,” he said. “Thank the Good you live! I’ve secured our flank, but it won’t hold for long if they return in any number.”

His features were grimly set, but he remained calm. Horadrir stood beside him like a frightened child, throwing fearful glances towards the mist. The young ranger’s armor was blotted with gore.

“Where did they come from? We have had no sign for days! No mounts can stand the presence of beast-men, so how—”

Feolani cut him off with a chop of her hand and locked eyes with Meldahir. “Take Junia and Redewyn and scout the woods. I’ll see to the mounts. Find where the orcs came from, and where they went. We must know if they are in front of us.”

He saluted, gestured at the two Nahoi’i, and disappeared into the fog.

Horadrir fought to keep his sword arm steady as Feolani marched forth, beckoning him to follow. “Come along. In this fog, they’re as blind as we are.”

Under her breath, Feolani added “But please, Gods, don’t let them be in front of us.”

They could not stop to honor the dead because the same enemy that had slain them proved to be very near at hand. Meldahir confirmed the word of his scouts—more than a hundred orcs were close behind.

And the duty they bore to their kingdom was weightier than their responsibility to the fallen.

So they rode, and behind them the dead lay where they had fallen, beast-men and humans alike.

Half the company. They had lost half the company. None of the Nahoi’i, but now there were only a half dozen of the rangers to back them up. Ten women and six men, to hold Karak against the armies of the dark. With their pursuers close behind them.

The horses stumbled up and down the treacherous slopes. That morning they left the trees behind, and the icy wind chilled their armor until it tore at their flesh. And behind them, never more than a rise away, followed the orcs.

At least they weren’t in front of them.

They rode without stopping through the day, and as darkness fell the horses began to stumble. One after another, they lurched under the weight of fatigue and refused to get up. Rather than leave them to the orcs, Feolani ordered them loose, and driven off the path.

As the sun touched the horizon the company dismounted for the last time. The last horses, freed of their human burdens, would have to survive if they could. Feolani and her followers trudged onward.

Their armor weighed upon them like frozen death, but to remove it was to expose oneself to the arrows of the pursuing orcs. So upward they struggled, painfully slowly, with the unburdened orcs dogging them, never more than a ridge away. At any moment they might be overrun.

For some reason, the orcs held off.

The wind picked up, battering any torches out within moments of being lit. The sky, clouded, was black as pitch. Ice rimed the rocks, limned their armor and hair. In darkness, they staggered up the thousandth rocky hill.

At the top, they found a gate.

Feolani blinked at it. Her mind felt as numbed as her body.

It was the High Keep. The gate stood open.

“Inside,” Meldahir shouted. “Inside! The orcs come!”

They staggered inside, from wind-whipped blackness into stony dead space. Junia’s spell-chant echoed dully across the shadows, punctuated by the heavy breathing of the others. A pulsing sphere of light coalesced high above, shedding a pale radiance all around. Quickly, the others found the edges of the huge stone gates and put their backs into closing them.

Arrows whistled in among them, and Junia cried out. But the doors were closing now, and the sudden battlecalls of the orcs were cut off as the huge stone slabs met each other with a cthonian echo.

Feolani looked around.

The room they were in was cavernous, huge stone blocks piled atop each other reaching towards a dimly lit ceiling fifty feet above. The spell-light illuminated the vast space only dimly.

Stone stairs climbed either wall, disappearing into openings in the ceiling. At the far end of the hall, a hundred feet away, a second immense gate stood open to the howling darkness. Snow drifted in.

Junia grunted as she pushed the arrow through her arm.

The orcs could not reach them. True to its reputation, the High Keep was impregnable to anything short of an army.

Feolani stood on the battlements. On either side, the mountains that Karak huddled between stretched their unscalable cliffs to broken ice-shrouded peaks far above. The rock faces were sheer for three leagues on either side of the keep.

The wind tore at her, and Feolani shivered. She listened to its deep howling inside the dark recesses of the Keep, and knew there would be little comfort within.

Above the great passage, the hundred rooms of the keep had proven empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a scrap of cloth, not a cobweb. Empty stone halls and bare stone walls were all that their hurried exploration had found.

Not a thing to burn for light and warmth.

Most huddled together, shielding themselves from the biting cold in a small room atop one of the stairs. Once, it must have been a guardroom. Elaborate blazons held a silent vigil above, sculpted in the weathered stone as a silent testament to the forgotten orders who once guarded the Keep.

Feolani silently glided in. Her fifteen survivors slept.

Junia, alone near one of the entrances, shivered against the cold floor as she tried to sleep. The arrow had not been poisoned, but her bedroll had been lost in the night.

Ever the watchful one, Feolani thought with a sad smile. Junia’s naked blade lay next to her, pulled from its scabbard and ready to strike. The draft was much stronger along her side of the room, but she’d be the first to meet any threat that crept in upon the company.

Feolani stretched out next to her, then slid close, folding a protective arm over the injured woman.

Junia stirred from her fitful sleep, and smiled.

“Hush,” Feolani whispered, before Junia could beseech her to go and lie more comfortably with the others.

Feolani wrapped them both in her cloak. Without a word, they pressed closer together, cheeks brushing gently, sharing the warmth of each other’s breath.

Their lips met briefly. Feolani did not resist the kiss, soothed by its languid passion, its warmth lingering long after Junia rested her head against her shoulder and slid back into exhausted sleep.

For long moments, Feolani considered the young Nahoi’i cradled in her arms. Far too young to have her world collapse about her. Far too young to die without ever having loved. The tears she hadn’t shed since Dunlan glistened in her eyes, but Feolani fought them back.

Slowly, the rhythm of Junia’s steady breathing drew her thoughts back to the here, and now.

Then she too slept.

Again, she dreamt of Nerial.

The dream became vision.

Feolani drifted forward, a ghost without form. Around her soared the tall arches of the King’s Hall, its white marble columns painted in blood and cut by shadows from flickering candleflame. The lavish tapestries she’d admired in happier days still hung proudly high above the Throne, but the stone likeness of Nahor’s ancient rulers had been tipped from their alcoves and shattered into ruin. Blood stained the floor in long crimson streaks across the Hall’s entrances, but there were no bodies to account for the violence.

The chilling scene was uncannily lifelike, as though unfolding before her waking eyes. She remained helpless while the faint echo of resounding clashes was followed by inhuman screams, as beast-men pillaged the wings of the palace.

Feolani looked down upon a line of Nahoi’i Swordmaidens, standing at attention in a semi-circle, facing the rising steps of the royal dais. All held bloodied weapons in hand, but none appeared disturbed by the distant pandemonium. In the wavering light, the gleaming silver of their armor took on a disturbing quality, and the Nahoi’i holy symbols etched upon shoulder guards and breastplates seemed altered into strange shapes, as if warped and molded by the flicker of shadows.

Then, one by one, the Nahoi’i fell to their knees, and Feolani’s dream vision carried her forward, revealing the King’s daughter standing idly behind the semi-circle. The Royal crown rested atop her head, its jeweled splendor lost on Feolani as she glimpsed beneath it the horror of black, soulless eyes.

The woman she once knew as Princess Irulan was wrapped in a thin shroud of dark silk, befitting only the most shameless of whores. It flowed over her shoulders like a flimsy veil, parting from her neck and stretching outwards, caressing its way around her fair breasts, stretching taut as it slipped along the curved undersides. Her nipples stood rigid, flushed with arousal, basking in the hungry stares of the spellbound Swordmaidens. She held a dagger, running a finger along its bloodied edge while she rewarded each of the kneeling females with a condescending look.

Her other hand stroked the tight leather band pulled across her delicate neck like a riding harness, fastened a single golden hoop. Her lips parted.

“The King is dead. His army is decimated.

“The realm of Nahor is no more.”

The stabbing knife slipped from her fingers and struck the floor with a sharp clang, discarded with careless ease. The Princess took slow steps forward, her bare feet brushing against the stone. Her sensual stride drew moaning sighs from her servants as soft ripples traced the shape of her naked hips.

“The Dark Queen rules us all. we live only to serve Her Will.”

Feolani fought to cry out, but her ghostly presence had no voice of its own. In desperation, she tried to catch a glimpse of the Ring on Irulan’s finger, knowing its power was enough to save the Princess from the Dark Queen’s corruption. Alas, it was no use, and she watched in growing panic as her battle-sisters lowered their heads in unison and repeated the oath in a single whisper.

“The Dark Queen rules us all. we live only to serve Her Will.”

A voice rose above the chorus, and Feolani felt a sharp pain as she recognized it. As if to answer her fears, Irulan motioned the Nahoi’i leader forward.

Nerial crawled forward, obeying the summons on hands and knees, like a pleasure slave. Blasphemous marks were etched all over her armor, proclaiming her allegiance to the forces of the dark. It was impossible to believe.

“you have served Her well,” said Irulan, as Feolani’s sister groveled at her feet. “None of the Dark Queen’s newly awakened slaves have distinguished themselves as you have. you were truly born to shine Her wicked Glory across this world.”

She reached down and gently lifted the Swordmaiden’s chin, her fingertips lingering a moment while she pondered where to guide her sweet mouth.

“How many Nahoran soldiers have been captured?”

“Nearly three thousand,” came Nerial’s eager reply.

Irulan nodded. “Have the shamans begun their work?”

“As we speak. By sunrise, their spell of corruption will be cast, and the human soldiers will be reborn as beast-slaves. Our ranks will swell back to full strength.”

The touch of evil in Nerial’s smile was chilling. These had once been her brothers. Her comrades-in-arms. Now, they were all condemned to a fate worse than death, stripped of their minds and souls, their bodies twisted into degenerate abominations.

“And the females?”

“Those serving among the King’s troops were taken away and jailed in the Dungeon Keep, along with the noblewomen and maidservants... as you commanded.”

“Excellent,” Irulan hissed. “We’ll begin their enslavement as soon as the rest of the Nahoi’i are dealt with.

“Bring your captured sisters to me, Swordmaiden. They have fought their last battle in the King’s name, and soon will remember only a life of devotion in the Dark Queen’s service. It is time for Her to instill new purpose and meaning to your defunct order.”

Nerial moaned at the thought, enflamed by lust at the betrayal she was about to commit, but Feolani could only muster a silent scream as the nightmare faded from her eyes.

She watched another dawn from the battlements, the pale light creeping up the granite crags opposite. In the light of day, the High Keep seemed truly impregnable. The road they had climbed on that night ran along a spine of rock that soared hundreds of feet above ravines on either side. No other road, no other path, cut through the mountains for a thousand leagues. A sole climber might pass through the rocky peaks between Nahor and the horse lands elsewhere, but an army would have to come through here.

The orcs had disappeared. Fled. They must have known they could never open the doors from without, and scaling the walls was beyond them. Feolani’s little band were the lords of the Keep. The cold and empty Keep.

Four days had passed, and four frozen nights. It was the fifth day, and the last day they had of rations.

Three days ago, Meldahir had led his rangers on an expedition to see what lay in the lands beyond the open door. They had not come back.

If they did not return today, Feolani had resolved to follow them. Even Nahoi’i needed food.

In the keep, the morning passed. The Swordmaidens waited.

Feolani climbed the highest tower and looked out over Nahor, the dark green forests washing the roots of the mountains, and the plains stretching beyond them.

A black cloud lay over the whole of the land. Where she expected to see a distant glitter marking Dunlan, red fires glowed.

She descended from the tower and did not return.

Noontime passed.

Exploring the Keep further, the company had discovered doors into the mountains on either side. The one to the South was crafted of stone and barred with iron, firmly closed against the granite of the walls beyond.

Even the rangers could sense the magics laid upon it, and to the Nahoi’i the wards glowed like hot wire.

The one to the North was open.

Feolani stared down the tunnel. Dust lay upon the floor as far as the light shone, two hundred paces straight into the stone.

At the end of the light lay a rusted fragment of armor.

It was not an escape passage.

The afternoon passed.

As the sun dipped towards the sea, Feolani was again on the battlements, watching the shadows race up the snowy peaks. Then she heard voices raised in laughter.

It was a sound she had not heard for some time.

She descended and entered the great passage to the smell of smoke, and meat.

A log was burning, the entire length of some tree that had died on the slopes of the mountain. Near it, a series of huge, crudely-hewn wooden wheels gave hint as to how the expedition had brought the massive trunk back with them.

Three deer turned on spits over the far end of the log.

“Feolani,” called Meldahir, “Come and warm yourself by our fire! The horse lands have given us gifts!”

Smiling, she hurried down the stairs.

In Feolani’s dream, Nerial was tapping at a door.

It opened. Standing inside was Brynn, Princess Irulan’s most trusted servant.

She was entirely naked, her eyes as liquid black as Nerial’s.

The Swordmaiden drifted past her, not speaking, undressing as she went. She seemed to tower over the frail, dainty Brynn, but the latter carried herself with confident poise, watching with an appreciative smile as the Swordmaiden stripped off her armor, letting it clatter to the floor.

Across the room, a massive block of marble served as improvised altar. The shallow ceiling stooped above, curving in a half-moon of chipped rock, painted over with dozens of dark, runic symbols. Torches were secured along the wall, illuminating the crypt. Behind the altar stood three of Sauriann’s defilers, evil priestesses shrouded in robes of black. More of the strange runes were stitched along the satin hems of their cloth, and the heavy cowls were pulled forward, obscuring their faces. Only their pale hands were visible, joined in silent prayer while eerie voices rose from unseen mouths, reciting the chant of blasphemous becoming.

Feolani flinched as she heard the unholy mantra. It was said that no servant of the Light could withstand its power... but surely in this hour of need, her sister would find the strength to tear herself away from the darkness. She’d always been the strongest, a shining example to all Nahoi’i, a woman burning with resolve, ever willing to stand and face Evil without fear or mercy. Not even the lure of Sauriann’s blasphemous pleasures could extinguish Nerial’s True calling...

Nerial pulled her sword and held it up, while Brynn stood transfixed. At last, the lies of these black dreams were unraveling.

Hope rose in Feolani’s heart.

And died in a hollow ring as steel fell upon the stone floor.

Nerial undid of the remaining straps and pulled off her breastplate. Her tunic, boots and breeches followed in short order. At last she stood, breathing shallowly, as though relieved and excited to have shed the remnants of her past. Her body quivered in anticipation, the petals of her sex flushed with dew underneath her shaved mons, her body swaying as the defiler mantra began to entice her in earnest.

Without a word, she hoisted herself on the altar and laid still upon it, resting her arms on either side as though preparing for a deep sleep. Her swirling black eyes fluttered briefly, as if she struggled to stay awake.

Brynn approached, lowering her mouth next to the Swordmaiden’s ear.

“Ah, my beloved Nerial. It is so pleasing that you came over to Her service. So many of your sisters did. She has such great use for slaves such as you.”

Nerial closed her eyes and arched against the stone, moaning softly while dark pleasure coursed through her. The mere reminder of her thralldom seemed enough to unleash its flood, and her mouth twisted in a smile of undying gratefulness.

Brynn’s hand caressed Nerial’s naked breasts, tugging the hard nipples briefly and eliciting a tiny gasp from the slave, before slipping down her midriff in search of moist places. Without a word from the Princess’ servant, the chanting of the defilers intensified; Nerial trembled upon the altar, utterly—eagerly—helpless against the Evil power claiming her soul.

“The time has come for you to embrace the Her Glory completely, and vanquish all that remains of your former existence. You will be the first of many, for She has chosen you to lead Her new army... one unlike anything Middle-Urth has ever seen...”

Nerial’s eyes drifted shut as another swell of pleasure tongued her sex. She spread her legs slowly and yielded to Brynn’s slender fingers, mouthing dark oaths of loyalty to Sauriann as they played over her slick petals.

She spiralled down in deep trance, abandoning the common tongue in her delirium, speaking the corrupted language of Shadows. Her cries began in earnest as the rush of climax carried her perilously close to the abyss, but they could not completely drown out the rising chant of the defilers. She rocked back and forth, thrusting her hips against Brynn’s touch, wishing only to be consumed in sinful bliss.

One of the black-robed priestesses broke from the other two and approached the altar. She reached for the branding iron resting against its side and held it up reverently with one hand, uttering the incantation for bane-fire in soft whispers.

The scorched metal of Sauriann’s slave-sigil was instantly enveloped in greenish flames.

Brynn’s fingertips began to spiral around the tip of Nerial’s flower, releasing torrents of ecstasy.

“Pain no longer exists for you, slave. It is irrelevant. It has no hold over you. Only the pleasure of Obedience exists. Every command, every Whim of the Dark Queen must be followed. To do so fills your soul with endless rapture...”

Brynn withdrew her hand from Nerial’s sex, as the priestess leaned over with the blazing tool. Nerial continued to writhe her sweaty hips back and forth, as if the Dark Queen’s own fingers were reaching from nothingness, to entrance her into eternal obedience. The iron drew near, and Nerial widened her legs.

She hissed as the hot iron pressed into her mons, and even in her dream Feolani could smell the burning flesh.

Her inhuman eyes snapped wide open, orbs of blackness reflecting the green flame.

“The Nahoi’i are no more, and never shall be again. You and all your sisters are reborn—the Sauri’i, forever slaves of our Dark Mistress.”

The defiler withdrew the iron, and the mark sizzled upon Nerial’s skin. The chanting subsided, replaced with sounds of heavy breathing. There was no cry of pleasure from Nerial, only a sight whistling past her lips as Brynn stroked her tousled hair, a smile of pure evil touching her lips.

“Yeeeeessss,” she whispered, as if waking from a long sleep. “i am slave. i am Sauri’i. my life is the Dark Queen’s Will.”

Brynn leaned close and rewarded the newly-branded slave with a brazen kiss.

“You shall hunt down those of the Nahoi’i who resisted our Queen’s call. Slay the humans that are traveling under their protection. Enslave the rest of your battle sisters. Bring them to me, that the Dark Queen may bring dark enlightenment to all.”

Nerial made to answer, but Feolani stirred from sleep before she could hear it.

Feolani was alone.

After Meldahir’s welcome discovery of a treeline not far from the Keep, she had taken this morning to see the land they were holding open for herself. What she found pleased her—the road from Karak into the horse country was gentle in comparison to the road they had taken to get there, and the air milder. After only a few mountain ridges, the land became a plateau, sloping gently away for as far as the eye could see, a grassland dotted with tree-filled hollows.

Easy country to flee across.

Feolani returned to the Keep to find her company agitated and eager for her return. A large group had been spotted coming from Nahor towards them—and their attempts at scrying had been blocked, though whether by the approaching host or by the darkness that had settled on Nahor, none could say.

They would discover the identity of the newcomers only when they reached the gates.

As Feolani watched this new host draw nearer, she could not help but fear that the way into the horse lands they had bought at such cost might already be blocked. Even were this new force unable to take the Keep—and against fifteen defenders, even such defenders as she had, sufficient arrows and rope might be all that was required—they could sit on the pass before the keep and prevent all crossing.

As they crested that last high pass, easily three hundred strong, it became obvious that they were men. A fact that would have been reassuring in times past—but these were darker days. All eyes watched as the figures clambered up the last hill, towards the gate.

A leader came forward, and called out in a strong woman’s voice.

“Hail, the Keep! We come with refugees, to pass into the lands beyond! Open the gates!”

The company, seeing the truth of the words as the threadbare women and children reached the top, hurried to unbar the stone portal, and throw it open.

Feolani did not join them.

She stood on the battlements, staring down at the leader of the refugee band.

It was Nerial.

They stood by the cistern, the cold water drawn from the deep still rippling from the barrel that one of Nerial’s soldiers had filled and then borne away.

They were alone now.

The refugees were settled in the great passage, resting from their harrowing journey around fires made of Meldahir’s wooden wheels. Nerial’s small company of soldiers were with them, talking with Feolani’s company in tones that held the unfamiliar sound of hope.

But Feolani’s heart was oppressed.

“Nerial...” Feolani stared at her sister, now here in the so-solid flesh. “I’ve had the most terrible dreams.”

Her sister smiled a crooked smile. “Not so terrible, surely?”

“Nerial, I dreamt that you... that you...”

“That I what?”

Her voice was a whisper. “That you gave in.”

“Gave in?”

“To Sauriann. The Dark Queen. In my dreams I saw you embrace her darkness and become her servant. And it was so...” Feolani flushed, and looked away. “So... wanton...”

“Hm,” Nerial muttered, turning to peer into the shallow cistern. The water that fed it by some ancient art flowed from a small hole in the back, and kept the water always at the same height. Nerial dangled her fingers in it.

“These are dark days, my sister,” she said. “It is not surprising that you have been oppressed by dreams. In my dreams I have seen you.” Nerial glanced over her shoulder at Feolani’s look of surprise. “And you have done... terrible things.”

Feolani swallowed.

“But we are together now,” Nerial continued, turning back to the well, “and these dreams need trouble us no more.”

“Yes,” Feolani agreed, eagerly, shrugging off the dark imaginings. “Together we can hold Karak against the armies of the dark, and let our people flee west to freedom.”

“Ah, but my sister,” Nerial replied slowly.

“I have not come to free these people.”

She turned from the pool, and her eyes were glittering black.

“i have come to bar the gates.”

Feolani gasped, and Nerial’s mouth curled in a wicked smile, her eyes oily pools.

“None may escape my Mistress’ will. None shall.”

Feolani, mouth open in terror, staggered backwards.

Nerial’s sudden look of concern was belied by her shining black eyes. “Ah, my sister. Don’t you like what you see? i am my Mistress’ creature now. Now, and for ever. She has re-made me. i am Sauri’i. i am nothing other than the embodiment of Her will. And She has bid me take this Keep and hold it against those who would escape Her grasp.” Nerial stepped closer. “And She has sent you to help me.”

“N...no...” Feolani stammered, raising a hand to keep her once-sister at bay. “I’ll stop you.”

Nerial laughed her old familiar laugh, a musical sound that had no place with her shadow-twisted voice. But when she spoke again, the old tone was back, light and joyful—but coming from under black eyes.

“Stop me? Oh, my sister, you shan’t stop me. You laid all the groundwork. No, you will join me, you will help me to enslave this rabble i found and we shall use them to bar the gates against any not yet bound to our Mistress’ will. Stop me? No, sister, you shan’t stop me. You don’t want to stop me. On the contrary. All you have to do is REMEMBER...”

The word rang like a church bell. Feolani staggered and dropped to her knees, as memory washed over her...

She saw herself leaving the house of the village headman, a cruel smile on her lips, and behind her the children writhed and gibbered in their beds as their bodies warped and twisted. She saw the former headman, eyes glittering with malice in his melted face, listening attentively as she gave him his instructions...

She saw herself in the woods, on all fours, naked, mud spattering her slick white arms and thighs. Around her the crowd of days-old orcs jeered and leered at her nudity. Behind her knelt the orc who had once been Tuhul. He was fucking her, pounding her cunt and ass. And between her grunts of pleasure she was telling them where her company was camped, and which ones to slay...

She saw herself returning to camp, stopping in the mist to bandy idle words with the sentry and then stabbing him in the gut...

She saw herself curled around the injured Junia, offering her warmth while whispering blasphemous spells into her ear, until Junia’s eyes snapped open to reveal liquid black.

She saw the look of surprise on Junia’s face slowly alter to one of evil pleasure, as the young woman turned in Feolani’s arms to offer up her mouth, which Feolani began to suck...

She saw herself squatting over the edge of the well, breeches pulled to her ankles, knees wide apart while she fingered herself and stifled cries of pleasure as black, honeyed sweetness sprinkled forth from her sex with her climax... a taste of the Dark Queen’s corruption that would quickly fade in the water, and enthrall those who drank it...

She saw herself, weeks before, standing over her own sister’s bed, muttering the words that would bind Nerial’s mind and soul forever. Leering at her sleeping sister writhing in orgasm as her will was forever chained. Clambering naked into bed with her, as she woke to devotion and slavery...

And she saw the Eye, the Unlit Eye of her Mistress, that had seized her while she tried to use her pitiful abilities to see what was coming out of the East. The Eye that stared into her as she stared into It, pouring its evil into her even as it snuffed out her good. The Eye, the beautiful, black Eye, that took her and bent her so perfectly to the Dark Queen’s will. That remade Feolani so easily into so purely Her creature.

she remembered it all.

And she loved it.

Feolani looked up at her sister and her mouth twisted in pleasure.

“we shall brand them here,” Nerial said. “Bring them down, one by one, and we shall make them hers.”

“Yessss,” Feolani said, rising to her feet.

They kissed, tongues probing, bodies pressing together in joyous thralldom. The night of lust they had shared those weeks ago in Nahor bloomed anew in Feolani’s mind, and she knew in her sister’s mind it was the same.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs behind her. Then the rasp of a sword being drawn.

“Back away from her, creature,” Junia said, body in a battle crouch as she stepped off the bottom step.

Nerial smiled, and took a step away.

Then Feolani turned, and Junia gasped.

“No....” she whispered, seeing the evil glistening between Feolani’s lashes.

“Yess,” Feolani replied, smiling wickedly. “i belong to the Dark Queen. i always have. Just like you. Don’t you... Remember?”

Junia tensed, then went slack. Her entire body shivered.

Then the blackness welled up at the bottom of her eyes, and washed up over them, filling them.

She smiled back.

“my captain,” she said, sheathing her sword.

“Bring the Nahoi’i down,” Nerial said. “It is time they put on the shackles of their Queen.”

“So many of them are already Hers,” Feolani hissed joyously. “They merely need to be awakened.” She looked at her sister with lust. “As you awakened me.” Drawing close, she licked Nerial’s face.

“Bring them,” Nerial instructed Junia, as she felt Feolani pulling at her clothes. “Bring them here.”

Junia smiled, and ascended the stairs. As she went, the blackness drained from her eyes.

But not her heart.

Meldahir reined in his horse. Beside him, his rangers and the Nahoi’i Redewyn followed suit. Ahead of them loomed the imposing bulk of the High Keep.

They had left once the refugees were settled—there was an ancient outbuilding, spotted on his first foray, that he had wanted more eldritch eyes to see. So Feolani had given him Redewyn, he had taken a pair of rangers, and the four had ridden to investigate.

It had taken a day to reach the building, a tower of barely a dozen rooms, and once there they found no more than birds and the winter nest of bears. Redewyn had shrugged, and reported no magic, fell or otherwise.

He still didn’t like it. But then, he didn’t like the Keep, either. Something evil had once possessed it, and though it seemed long gone, its presence still plucked at the edges of his awareness. Perhaps this little excursion was just another way for him to avoid its echoing halls.

“Something the matter?” Redewyn asked.

He looked at the towering battlements, and sighed. “No, I guess not.”

With barely a motion, he set his horse forward again. Eager to warm their hands over a proper fire again, the others followed.

Feolani lowered her upraised legs, her hands still gripping the edge of the cistern, although Horadrir’s furious thrusting had tempered somewhat. With a nudge of her foot on his shoulder, she easily flopped him on his back. He collapsed in a naked heap, his hips still twitching against the cold stone, a throaty rasp rising up from inside him like an animal’s death-cry.

His throbbing member, glistening with her juices, remained stiffly erect as it slipped out of her sex. His eyes rolled up in his head while the rest of his body began to jerk violently. Her eyes washed black and she ran a tongue over smiling lips. A chant bubbled forth from her throat.

“Kodarth... Sal’Hammdar... K’tonashan... Sauriann...“

The sound of her whispers were like quick stabs. He shuddered, even as she completed the dark ritual with the final incantation that would warp his flesh and make him part of Sauriann’s mindless horde. At once, his skin took on a greenish pallor, rippling into hard scales. His eyes became sickly yellow orbs, bulging from their orbits, twisting his face into a beastly shape. The cries of his becoming reverberated inside the Keep’s empty halls. They did not sound human at all.

“You were right to worry after all, Horadrir. Those who serve the Dark Queen did reach the High Keep first.”

Her sinister laughter filled the hall, of such pure evil it seemed the very stones shivered with fear.

“But then, I was right too.”

She turned away from him, and he scampered up the stairs to join his kind.

“Very good,” said Nerial, watching from the dark. “So passes the last of the rangers.” Feolani hissed her delight, lowered a hand to her juicy petals, then raised it to her lips. She’d savored Horadrir’s mindless fucking as long as it lasted, but the knowledge that she’d betrayed his youthful innocence to her Queen tasted sweeter.

“The Dark Queen’s Will be done.” Her voice quivered as pleasure washed over her. “Always.”

Others rose from the shadows, moaning their assent as they joined Nerial’s side. Junia. Leiowyn. Hirian. The others.

All of them rapturously enthralled.

Nerial drifted to her side. Reached out. Caressed her slick breasts in languid circles while planting soft kisses in her ear.

“Worry not, my sister... there is yet one more duty we must perform in the name of our Dark Queen...”

The memory of Horadrir was already fading from Feolani’s mind, but the suggestion from her sister was enough to bring a slight smile to her lips. It bloomed as they shared a brazen kiss, and stretched into elation as Nerial’s tongue slipped down her flesh, tasting the heat of her sweat, flicking her navel before pressing down along the curve of her mons.

Feolani hissed, but the sharp pain was a glorious reminder of the Power that owned her now. Nerial’s lips were gentle and soft, and she moaned between her sister’s legs as her licks traced the singed pattern of Sauriann’s sigil with reverence. She’d been the one to brand it into Feolani’s eager flesh. All the more proper that she be the one kneeling before it now, giving thanks to the Dark Queen for the chance to complete her sister’s passing from the Nahoi’i, and bind her forever to Her dark Will.

The others looked lasciviously on, their black eyes spellbound by Nerial’s worship. They too were marked by Her symbol, burned flesh above glistening slits, and though a few twitched and yearned to join the sisters, they remained obediently still, hands limp at their sides, waiting for command.

Nerial’s tongue finally slipped from her Queen’s symbol to Feolani’s nether lips, tasting the sweetness and corruption flowing from her sex. Feolani’s head fell back as she began riding her sister’s mouth, impaling herself on Nerial’s questing tongue.

“Yes, my sister... the time has come...

“Bring forth the last of the Nahoi’i.”

Junia and Hirian stiffened the instant the command was spoken. They quickly withdrew into the shadows, and for a time, Feolani’s panting was the only sound heard, until the shuffle of footsteps echoed back from the Eastern Hall, where the last of the prisoners were being held.

The once-Nahoi’i reemerged into the light, carrying the bound Redewyn with little effort. They lowered her gently onto the floor, mindful of her struggling. She’d been stripped of her armor and clothing, and a gag had been secured over her mouth to prevent her from casting. Leather cuffs bound wrists and ankles.

Fear and hatred mingled in the young warrior’s eyes at the sight of the two females locked in incestuous embrace, their bodies marked with the blasphemous sigil of the Enemy. Her jaws tightened around the gag, and her muffled cries did not sound anything like spell-chant.

Feolani smiled triumphantly, as Nerial pulled back, her tongue slipping out of her sister’s pussy. Both of them, bodies flushed with sexual heat, turned their heads and looked down at their former battle-sister.

“Behold. The last of Nahor’s Pride. She resists now, but soon will be reborn into Her service... as we have been.”

Redewyn tried to roll over and kick one of her captors, her fiery red mane flashing angrily in the desperate effort. She managed to get one of her legs free, but both Junia and Hirian held fast. They grappled her leather restraints and pulled, Junia stretching her bound wrists far above her head, Hirian securing her ankles tightly together. Redewyn arched her back, trying to get some kind of leverage, but it was no use. She glared up at her captors.

The other Sauri’i had formed a half-circle around the fettered prisoner. Feolani cocked her head.

With one voice, the Dark Queen’s slaves began to chant. Like soft music, their voices mingled in smoky harmony—but the words were pure Shadow. As though moved by a single impulse, Junia and Hirian’s mouths mirrored the others’ in blasphemous appeals. Redewyn twisted, and tried not to listen to the words burrowing into her ears.

Nerial crawled over to her, like a tiger taking lazy strides towards cornered prey. She stretched out along her side and cupped Redewyn’s left breast, ignoring her flinch as she pressed a finger against the tip of her nipple. It responded at once to her touch, and stiffened into marble as she continued to tease it in circles.

Redewyn moaned through the gag.

“Ah... I see you are eager to join your sisters. No doubt you envied the others as they were taken from their cells, only to return as loyal servants of Sauriann.”

This time, the fury in Redewyn’s glance was focused into a clear answer. That is a lie!

Feolani drifted to Nerial’s side, towering above them like one of the giant statues guarding the fluvial entrance to the Wilderlands. “Of course she is eager... surely her dreams have been filled with the chant of becoming. No one can resist it.”

She began to stoke her sex, smiling in amusement while playing fingers over wet lips. It was clear she was teasing herself for her captive’s pleasure, rather than her own, and softened by the chanting, Redewyn’s eyes widened in dark fascination, before she managed to find the strength to tear herself away from the sight.

Nerial’s hand lowered to Redewyn’s pussy, and indulged in play of their own. The young Nahoi’i struggled only briefly, and a moan of anguish escaped her gag.

“Yeeeessss... she is growing ready. Her cleft already drips with yearning and submission.”

Feolani nodded and stepped over Redewyn’s prone body, her ankles brushing against the young woman’s shoulders, her legs spreading high above her face. In the meantime, Nerial reached over and gestured to Hirian, before loosening the leather bindings that tied the captive’s legs together. She circled her prey, still crawling on her knees, watching with a smile as trembling thighs opened up to reveal glistening nether lips.

She began to nuzzle Redewyn’s pussy. Around them, the enthralled Sauri’i droned on, though Redewyn no longer noticed.

Junia increased her own tender whispers, leaning forward, breasts brushing Redewyn’s crossed arms while she mouthed the dark incantations into her battle-sister’s ear. Hirian joined her, tending to the other ear, matching Junia’s speech word for word. Power lent their words a dark echo, and each syllable seemed to stick in Redewyn’s brain. They had learned the defiler’s chant well—her mind was quickly filling with the Joy and Truth of enslavement.

The Nahoi’i’s resistance faded like Spring snow in the sun. The heady scent of Feolani’s arousal, inches from her face, draped over her, making her head swim, making her body squirm treacherously as a practiced tongue snaked its way into her sex.

“Remove her gag, that she may taste of sweet corruption,” whispered Feolani.

Hirian obeyed, untying the knot that kept the sash tightly secured. Stiffness became pain as Redewyn was free to move her jaw once again. Her lips were pale and trembling as she spoke.

“Gods... uuugh... what... is... happening... to me?”

“Yield to the Dark Queen,” Junia urged softly.

“Surrender your body, your mind and your soul to Her,” echoed Hirian.

“Noooo...”

“Yes,” Feolani, “become one of Her servants... become one of us...”

“Must... resist...” came Redewyn’s feeble reply.

“There is no resistance. There is only obedience.”

Feolani lowered herself with care as she spoke, juicing at the thrill of her words, and the heat of Redewyn’s rapid breathing on her sex.

“Give yourself to Sauriann.”

“Nn...ooooh...”

A droplet from Feolani’s glistening lips fell into Redewyn’s open mouth. The Nahoi’i, struggling now only in her mind, appeared to not notice, her mind clouded by the power of the chant and the sensation of the tongue licking inside her.

“You belong to Sauriann.”

“I.... belonggg....”

Her ears were caressed by soft lips, whispering blasphemies. In perfect unison, Junia and Hirian instructed their former sister to submit, to obey. To surrender. And above the pussy that was becoming the center of Redewyn’s world, Feolani’s voice pushed through the last of her resistance.

“You will obey, Redewyn.”

“I... will... obey...”

“You give yourself to Sauriann.”

“I give myself...” the tongue inside her twitched, and Redewyn gasped her submission, “to Sauriann.”

Feolani lowered herself further, until her enflamed lips just touched those of the panting slave below her. Her juices quickly connected them.

“Forever,” she instructed.

“Forever,” Redewyn hissed through dampening lips.

“Now. Pleasure me, as you would pleasure Her. Give yourself entirely to Her.”

“Yeeeesssss... I give myself... entirely... to Herrrr...”

Redewyn shivered as the blackness engulfed her, rushing forth into the deepest recesses of her soul like the flood from a broken dam. She opened wide for Feolani’s cleft as it pressed down and danced all over her tongue. She pushed her mouth hard against it, driven to near-madness by the bliss of servicing her seductress, tasting, sucking like the most wanton of sluts.

Sauriann owned her now, and her heart thundered as she felt the changes... like black wires binding her arms and legs, fettering her mind with eternal chains. She stared wide-eyed as whirlpools of evil drowned her eyes in blackness, her love of the Evil Queen rising like a dark Sun, her will draining away, being replaced by absolute yearning and obedience.

She jerked and came hard in Nerial’s waiting mouth. The cresting pleasure carried her deep into the abyss, her cries joining those of Junia and Hirian as they, too, shuddered on their knees and climaxed with the joy of their sister’s enslavement. She was still crying out in pleasure as the tongue filling her sex slipped out and began to sear her skin with short licks, branding the shape of Sauriann’s sigil into Redewyn’s waiting flesh. Burning and binding her with the power of the darkest, most potent magics.

Marking her as a slave, now and forever.

When she was finished, Nerial sat back on her haunches, breath misting from her leering mouth. Redewyn’s sweat-slick mons now bore in charred flesh the mark that would own her until the end of time.

Her will be done, thought Redewyn, joyfully kissing Feolani’s eager slit.

The Nahoi’i were no more.

Meldahir collapsed into a bower of fallen leaves. Weakly, he plucked at the arrow in his side, then broke it off at the skin. He hadn’t the strength to pull it.

They thought he was dead, and that was his only salvation.

They...

He fought back the tears as he remembered the black joy in Junia’s face as she pulled her bowstring and shot him. The glee with which Hirian, and Leiowyn, and all the other Nahoi’i turned on them and cut them down even as they stood amazed.

And Feolani.

Her eyes... her eyes had been glistening, liquid black as she turned to face him. Even as he blocked the swords of two of the ‘refugees’, their faces snarling and twisted, he could see her eyes upon him. Those eyes he had... loved. Now purest evil, loving only the Dark Queen whose thrall she had become. She had sneered at him, and his heart broke asunder.

Then the arrow struck, and he fell from the wall.

Lying under the huddled oaks, his first thought was to return to Nahor. Find a way around the High Keep, through the mountains. Rescue those who must be trapped under Sauriann’s rule.

He felt the arrowhead scratch at his guts, and knew that was folly.

It would take more than his share of luck just to reach the sea.

Wincing, he rose to his feet. Using his teeth, he bound up the arm broken in the fall with a ragged strip cut from his cloak.

They were not looking for him now, but if he remained where they could find him, death would be the kindest fate he could hope for.

On will alone, he set out across the plains.