The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘Lens’

(mc, f/f, sf, nc)

DISCLAIMER: This material is for adults only; it contains explicit sexual imagery and non-consensual relationships. If you are offended by this type of material or you are under legal age in your area, do NOT continue.

SYNOPSIS:

A patrol of barbarian hunters encounters a slave caravan which has blundered into an ancient threat.

WARNING:

Story contains squicky things! If poking through someone’s skull into their brain disturbs you, this story may not be for you.

* * *

‘Lens’

Part Eight

* * *

The fire crackled beneath the lone tree. One of the horses whickered softly.

“Isleif,” Brynwyrren said, sitting by the fire, “it’s been long enough. We need make some plans.”

Isleif looked into the fire and prodded one of the glowing logs with her stick. They were camped in a small dell, surrounded by man-high hills. The fire would not be visible across the plains, but anyone approaching would be silhouetted against the skyline. Not that they had seen anyone, but they had found shod hoofprints at a creek where they had stopped to water. The steppes were not unoccupied.

“Yes,” Isleif agreed. “I think you’re right. So where do we go from here?”

Brynwyrren lay back on the grass and stared at the evening sky. “Well. We need to stay away from Mistress; I don’t know if she can sense us from afar, but getting within a week of her is a risk I don’t want to take. Still, that leaves us a number of options. I think we can reduce them to three.”

She held up a hand. “First, we could just keep going east. Whatever she’s doing, whatever her plans, they don’t have to involve us. We could keep going and live off the land. Deal with whatever people we encounter. When we... when we hatch these things, we just stash them somewhere and keep moving.”

Isleif rubbed her belly. She could feel it, now, the extra... thing, growing inside her. She could even vaguely remember Mistress planting it in her, the bulge sliding up through her inhumanly long tongue and depositing itself into Isleif’s womb.

“Second,” Brynwyrren continued, “We could return to Oversea Kyur, and attempt to warn the Kyurren about Mistress. If avoiding Mistress’ control is as simple as wearing a helmet, it should be trivial for them to... to... deal with her.”

Isleif understood the hesitation. She loved Mistress and wanted her to prosper. Warning the Kyurren might mean that they would... harm... Mistress—and that was almost unthinkable. For the sake of humanity, Mistress needed to be stopped... but Isleif’s mind had been molded and set with the need to prevent Mistress from being harmed. Her desire to see Mistress succeed in her goals was less rigid, but setting in motion events that might harm her was painful to even consider.

Brynwyrren traced a pattern in the sky with her finger. “Third, we could go home. To your people, at least. They should be warned, and they will believe you. The Kyurren might scoff, and would certainly be skeptical of us. But I assume your clan would take your word.”

“Yes,” Isleif replied, “I would expect so. But then, returning to the clan is what Mistress would probably expect us to do. Might she be waiting for us there? Or perhaps she sent one of the Dominne?”

“That’s a hard question to answer. I don’t think that any of the Dominne would be sufficient to deal with an entire Norren clan. Not even Shaliri-Dominne. And I don’t think Mistress would want to uproot her home to travel a month through the north woods just on the chance that we might return that way. But... it is possible. I guess it depends on how badly she wants us back.”

Isleif poked her stick into the fire again. “What of your people? We could keep going, cross the high passes, move into Thyr. Would your clan welcome us?”

“Oh, they would, at least until one of them figured out a way to profit by betraying us. But some would believe my story. My family, at any rate. Still, I think your clan would be a better place to start.”

“But the question remains—will Mistress be waiting for us there?”

Brynwyrren sat up, then stood and brushed off her pants. She walked around the fire and sat down behind Isleif, pressing herself into Isleif’s back.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to answer that,” she said, pressing her face into Isleif’s pale hair. “Hmm, you smell like smoke. We’re just going to have to assume that Mistress might have taken steps to find us if we return to your clan. Is that risk enough to keep us away? We could just keep heading east.”

“My woodcraft will be less useful out on the plains, and we know nothing of the people who live there. It would be safest for our minds but... but meanwhile, Mistress will be consuming the entire world we know.”

Brynwyrren sighed. “This is true. If there is a wasp in the tent, better to know where it is and to deal with it, than to ignore it and hope it goes away.”

Isleif turned her head. “Are you comparing Mistress to a wasp?”

Brynwyrren shrugged. “Well, she does have a black carapace.”

Isleif snorted. “She wouldn’t be nearly as attractive if her skin were wildflower yellow.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” Brynwyrren lay back again, her legs wrapped around Isleif’s seated form. “So. One, two, or three?”

“We could go south. Through Kyur, to Fashedia, or even further. We’d know the culture a bit better than if we went east. And we could carry a warning.”

“Mm, that’s an idea. Serena spoke highly of Surian food.”

“To you, too?” Isleif poked the fire again. It was burning low; soon it would be time to bank it in dirt. “It would be interesting, would it not, to travel so far south? To be the only white pebbles on a dusky beach?”

“I wonder how they treat travelers there,” Brynwyrren mused.

“I wonder if Soo or Ishinen ever went that far.”

“There’s another option. We could head north, to the clans, then pass through Thyr and keep going, to Tsulengi.”

Isleif yawned. “It’s a big world, isn’t it?”

Brynwyrren spread her legs and pulled them away from Isleif, rolling to her knees, then standing up. “It is.” She walked away from the fire, looking into the darkness.

Isleif rose and flattened the fire with an unused log, then scraped dirt over it. She checked on the horses, who were standing placidly on the far side of the lone tree; then she walked through the darkness to Brynwyrren.

Brynwyrren was staring up at the stars. “It is a big world,” she said. “And it will all belong to Mistress—and her spawn—if we do nothing.”

Isleif wrapped her arms around the Thyryn and Brynwyrren pulled them around herself.

“Yes,” Isleif said. “We need to go to the clans. They will believe us. And then we need to go to Kyur—Mainland Kyur. And warn them. Before Mistress has too many Dominne. At the rate she is birthing those—these—things, she’ll be able to control Oversea Kyur in a handful of years.”

“I don’t want to stop her,” Brynwyrren said. “I want to help her. Obey her. I love her. But... she could take over everything.”

“I understand,” Isleif said. “But she won’t have everything tomorrow. Or the next day. Even Mistress can only move so fast. We have time.”

Brynwyrren turned around within her arms. “I am thankful for that. Yes, we have to go back. We have to give warning.”

Isleif looked at the stars reflected in Brynwyrren’s eyes, and they kissed.

* * *

The air was crisper, clean-smelling. It smelled of the pines, the cedar, the Sky Trees of the Norren homelands.

Isleif looked down the rocky slope of the mountainside and breathed in large, slow lungfuls of northern air. She smiled and looked over her shoulder.

Brynwyrren was still walking up the rocky scarp to where Isleif stood. It was a pass, a high pass, between the eastern lands and those of the Norren; Isleif had been told about it but had never come here. No trade passed this way, and only rare travelers.

She sucked in another great lungful of air.

“You’ve been missing this place, haven’t you?” Brynwyrren asked.

Isleif turned around, her hair blowing around her. “I hadn’t known how much. It’s just... it...” She turned back to face the great sweeps of tree-carpeted valleys stretching away and around white-capped mountains. “It smells like life.”

“It smells like pitch and cold,” Brynwyrren replied, stepping up to wrap her arms around Isleif from behind. “But I expect you would find Thyr to smell like moss and rain. If it makes you happy- oh. Oh.”

Brynwyrren’s arms slipped away and Isleif turned. “What is it?”

Brynwyrren looked up at her, one hand on her stomach. “It’s- I think it’s happening. Oh.”

Isleif dismissed the sudden cold rush she felt and looked around the pass. It was strewn with shale rocks, there was no place for shelter. The treeline was well down the mountain, not far to hike but if Brynwyrren-

Brynwyrren doubled over. “Argh! Ow, that hurts!”

She couldn’t walk far. Isleif looked again, scanning the nearby- yes, there. A cave, or something near. A bowshot away, behind a fallen boulder. It would have to do.

Isleif scampered across the sliding rocks to the cave and found it better than she had hoped for, a scoop in the side of the mountain, easily eight or nine man-heights deep. She ran back, scattering rocks as she went.

“There’s a cave, just there; I’ll take the horses over and come back for you.”

“Go on,” Brynwyrren gasped. “I can—urg—walk.”

Isleif took the reins and brought the horses close to the mouth of the cave. She hobbled them quickly and unstrapped the mats and the sleeping furs, which she tossed to the rear of the cave. The floor there was scraped mostly clear of rocks, but there was no sign of animal nest so it was probable that some of those rare travelers camped here occasionally and had done the scraping clean.

She ran back to Brynwyrren. Brynwyrren had hobbled halfway to the cave, gripping her stomach. Isleif thrust herself under one arm, lifted, and helped her walk the rest of the way. She spread out the mats and got Brynwyrren seated.

Despite the crisp air, sweat was beading on Brynwyrren’s brow. She moaned again, and looked up.

“Ice,” she gasped. “Just so you know, this is—owwww—not pleasant.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out soon,” Isleif replied.

“That you, unnnnh, that... aaaa... pants. Get my... pants. Oh Northlords that hurts!”

Isleif slithered Brynwyrren’s pants down her legs, and her linens beneath, pulling them off and piling them to the side. As soon as her crotch was bare Brynwyrren spread her legs wide, whining.

“Oh,” she gasped, “Get out! Get out! I have to... puuuusshhhhhh....”

Brynwyrren clenched down on her belly, then stopped to pant for a moment. Then she pushed again. Isleif watched, feeling helpless, desperate for something to do.

“Oh Fouling Spirits that hurts! Hnnnnngggg...” Brynwyrren grit her teeth and moaned as she bore down on the things within her, forcing it down, forcing it out...

Then it appeared. Glistening white, a wet egg, at the mouth of Brynwyrren’s sex. Brynwyrren leaned back on her hands and groaned, then gritted her teeth and pushed again, muscles across her entire body flexing and twitching.

Her labia spread as the white sphere swelled in her vagina. Isleif’s hands twitched—should she grab it? When? Would it just come out? It wasn’t so large as a human child, and smoother, but... but...

Brynwyrren groaned again and the shell pushed slightly out of her vagina, a glistening translucent white. She stopped for a moment, panting, then flexed and pushed again.

“It’s... it’s stopped....” she gasped. Her hands flexed into fists on the floor and her face compressed into wincing lines as she squeezed yet another time. Her voice rose into a trembling wail.

The egg shivered, and then a white spike burst out of it.

Of course, Isleif remembered, the spike. She could use it, use it to pull the thing out...

Brynwyrren had gone quiet, staring down between her splayed legs, panting quietly.

Isleif waited for her to say something.

“Fire?” she asked.

Brynwyrren looked up at her and smiled vacantly.

“Isleif,” she said, and her eyes were glassy and wide. “My gift has hatched. Mistress has written in my mind what I must do now. I will obey her words. And she has written in yours.” Brynwyrren’s blissful smile widened.

“Oh no,” Isleif whispered, “No, no...”

“It is time for you to join, Isleif,” Brynwyrren said happily. “Mistress says: remember, our huntress, and obey.”

Isleif remembered.

Lavender eyes. Black gloss. Writing in her mind, instructing her how she must obey, when she remembered...

“Yesss....”

She blinked and looked at her hands. There was something she must... something she must do. Something she would do.

Isleif looked up and there was Brynwyrren, her love, her legs spread wide. And between her legs-

White. Glossy.

Spike.

Yes.

Isleif smiled and crawled forward. Brynwyrren was smiling too, pressing against the cave wall, using it to rise awkwardly to her feet.

“You will join now,” Brynwyrren said.

“Yes,” Isleif replied. She turned around and sat on the floor, just forward of where Brynwyrren had been a moment ago. “I will join. I must.”

Legs splayed, Brynwyrren shuffled forward behind her.

Hands came down on either side of Isleif’ head, holding it in place. Isleif reached up to lay her hands on top of them, to hold them in place.

“Yes,” Isleif whispered. “I must.”

“I obey,” Brynwyrren said, and a spear-point stabbed into Isleif’s skull.

* * *

Pain, pain, pain—and then pleasure.

Isleif gasped. Something was knifing violently into her skull and it hurt like fire—and yet suddenly she was being washed with pleasure as though her whole body were being caressed, as though there was something firm and agile flickering around inside her sex...

Suddenly she was inside her mind. Inside, watching from the edges.

Something black had speared into her mind, something black and throbbing, and now it was in the center of her mind and she was watching as it reached out long ropy tendrils and then thrust them into the mindflesh around it-

“We are one”, the blackness said, plunging a tendril into the flesh of Isleif’s mind.

“One,” her mind answered, and where the tendril had entered the flesh of her mind, it turned black.

“I am the Master,” and another tendril stabbed. “You are the slave.”

Isleif watched, feeling powerless and detached, as her mind obediently answered: “You are the Master. I am the slave.”

A tendril thrust. “I will control you.”

Her mind blackened around it. “You will control me.”

Thrust. “You will obey.”

“I will obey.”

Thrust. “My needs are your needs.”

“Your needs are my needs.”

Thrust. “You desire only to obey me.”

“I desire only to obey you.”

Each thrust, each stab of the black tendrils, was accompanied with a wave of physical pleasure, blinding Isleif’s mind, numbing it, turning it wet and submissive. No wonder I can’t resist, thought Isleif’s consciousness from its place of witness. It just feels too good to submit.

“You control this body; I control you.”

“I control this body; you control me.”

“You are host, and food, and transport; I am direction and purpose.”

“I am host, and food, and transport; you are direction and purpose.”

“I am your Master.”

“You are my Master.”

“You are my slave.”

“I am your slave.”

The inside of her mind was a web of black ropes, now, reaching out from the miasmic black column impaled in the center to burrow into every part of her brain. What had been pink was rapidly turning black; there was in fact very little pink left. Isleif’s consciousness could vaguely feel the ossification, the hardening of her mind; once a part agreed to the black column’s truth, that part blackened and froze and lost the ability to think anything else.

“Your purpose is to serve me.”

“My purpose is to serve you.”

“Nothing you were before matters.”

“Nothing I was before matters.”

“My needs are all.”

“Your needs are all.”

“You have one need and one need only—to obey me.”

“I have one need and one need only—to obey you.”

“You are my slave now.”

“Yes. I am your slave.”

The pink was gone now, and the interior of Isleif’s mind pulsed quiet and black. The mind of a slave, obedient to the black intruder that had claimed it.

Then, whiplike, a tendril shot out of the pillar and stabbed Isleif in the stomach.

Shocked, she looked down, and was yanked from her perch at the edge of her mind to hover in the air, floating in front of the obsidian column, surrounded by her own enslaved brain.

“Will,” the black column observed. “Unacceptable. I am this mind’s will, now. Dissolve yourself. Submit.”

Pleasure rolled over Isleif like a thousand stroking hands, a thousand probing tongues.

“Submit,” the column instructed. “Dissolve.”

Oh, how she wanted to. Her brain already belonged to it, what business did it have with a free Will? And the pleasure felt so good...

The she-wolf snarled.

“No,” Isleif replied, so quietly she almost did not hear herself.

Instantly, the pleasure stopped.

“This mind is ours,” the column said. “This flesh is now a slave. You have no place here. Surrender and dissolve.”

“No,” Isleif’s Will replied, and suddenly she was wracked with agony, the blade of the guardswoman slicing into her side again and again and cutting her all over her body-

She shrieked.

It stopped.

“You shall live in pleasure or I shall crush you with pain,” the black spike said. “You do not belong! Submit and dissolve!”

She cringed at the pain—and the fear of more pain.

But.

“I... won’t...”

The reply was a scream of rage and a wave of agony. “Destroy her!” the blackness cried, “Destroy her!”

And Isleif’s enslaved brain arose, black and obedient and filled with the fury of its Master.

It surged up and engulfed Isleif’s Will and squeezed and crushed and battered and Isleif’s Will cried out and fought its way forward, crawled through the battering flesh of the enslaved brain to the center, to the black pillar itself, and Isleif’s Will reached back and then thrust its hand into the pillar and there was a shock like lightning and then everything was black-

* * *

Brynwyrren sat with her back against the wall of the cave, tears running down her cheeks.

She watched as Isleif’s body twitched on the floor.

One of Isleif’s axes was in Brynwyrren’s hand.

She knew she should kill her. Kill Isleif. This was her last, her only chance. If Isleif—when Isleif—rose as a Dominne, she would brainsmooth Brynwyrren and then Brynwyrren would happily let Isleif turn her into a creature, too. For a crazy moment Brynwyrren considered wearing a helmet, trying to reason with the creature Isleif would become, but that was foolish. Isleif-Dominne would simply wave the helmet off. And then Brynwyrren would obey her.

Brynwyrren sobbed. She needed to kill her.

But she couldn’t.

For the dozenth time she damned Mistress for the words that she had burned into Brynwyrren’s brain; the things she had made her do. She remembered it all, remembered seeing that glossy white spike thrust out of her own pussy and how the sight of it turned a key in her mind, opening the door to the Things She Must Do.

She remembered how happy she had been to do them.

Isleif had stopped moving.

Now. Or never.

Brynwyrren tapped the axe against the floor helplessly.

She was too weak. Weak with love.

This is how it would end, then. Isleif would rise, and smile the smile of the wicked, and slide into Brynwyrren’s brain and turn her into her pet, ready to receive her own slick egg when it came from Isleif’s belly.

Her hand tightened on the axe.

She could kill herself...

Isleif gasped suddenly. She shook her head a few times, as though to dislodge what enfolded it.

Her hands pressed against the floor, a little unsteadily. She rose to her hands and knees, then raised her head to look around.

But of course she could not look, for the creature shrouded her eyes.

“B... Brynwyrren?” she said.

Brynwyrren stifled a sob.

Isleif’s head turned to face her. Her mouth moved for a moment, silently.

Then, with a soft grunt, she sat down.

“Brynwyrren,” she said. “We- we....”

Her face rotated as though looking around the interior of the cave.

“We are... ‘we’...” she said, sounding mystified. Her hands rose to gingerly touch the glistening, sticky shell that covered her face.

“How... strange...”

Her head turned towards Brynwyrren again. “Brynwyrren, we... oh...” Isleif looked down at her belly, laid a hand on it. The glossy whiteness turned back towards Brynwyrren.

“We are supposed to give this one to you,” she said.

Again Isleif looked down, this time at her hands. She turned them over, considering the backs, the palms.

“But...”

She looked at Brynwyrren again. Her lips tightened into a line.

“You can go if you want.”

Brynwyrren blinked, tears still blurring her vision.

“What?” she rasped.

“We are... Isleif,” Isleif said. “We have... joined, but the will... the will is Isleif’s. We are her. The slave is the Master and the Master, the slave... We’re sorry, Brynwyrren, this is all very strange. We can see so much...”

Unsteadily, Isleif rose to her feet. “We can see... the cave, and the trees, and the mountains, and they can... obey us...” She lifted a hand in the air and a rock the size of a pig rose from the floor near the front of the cave. She looked at Brynwyrren again and it dropped to the floor. “And we can see your mind... wait, Brynwyrren, we will not... we won’t hurt you. We won’t... change you. Not against your will.”

Isleif took a few steps forward, towards the cave mouth. “This is... Brynwyrren, it’s wonderful... what we can see... what we can do...”

“I can go?” Brynwyrren asked.

Isleif turned around. “We... yes. Brynwyrren we... we love you. We would never hurt you. If this is not... not what you want... we would never force it upon you.”

Slowly, Brynwyrren stood up. “And what will you do? If I go?”

Isleif shook her head. “We... we don’t know. Wander. See the world with these new eyes.”

“Enslave people?”

Isleif smiled, a little sadly. “Some people deserve it. Some people... want it. Sometimes it’s simply what is called for. Our...” she touched the slickness atop her head, “this... it wants us to. But we are not Mistress. We are Isleif. We want... different things.”

Brynwyrren gasped. “Isleif, your... your shell...”

Isleif’s hands rose again to the still-sticky surface of the creature that had joined with her. “What? What of it?”

Brynwyrren shook her head, eyes wide. “It’s changing.”

“We cannot see ourselves,” Isleif said. “May we see through your eyes?”

Brynwyrren froze. Then slowly, she nodded. “Y-yes. Because you asked.”

She felt Isleif slip into her mind, not practiced like Mistress, nor eager like Shaliri-Dominne, nor roughly like Gwynn-Dominne, nor subtle like Lyrr-Dominne. Isleif’s mind felt... solicitous. As though she were entering Brynwyrren’s mind determined to do no harm, and came treading lightly.

Isleif looked at herself through Brynwyrren’s eyes. She saw a haggard woman, dirty, hard-traveled, and on top of her head covering it from nose to ears to the back of her head, was a glistening gray shell.

Gray.

And it was still darkening.

* * *

Greth sat up in the tree and listened as the strangers approached.

Two women, with horses. Talking as though they were safely surrounded by their clansmen on the way to a feast, rather than traveling unprotected through woods filled with wolves and bandits.

“We’re not really sure that’s fair, just grabbing the deer from afar like that and breaking its neck,” one said.

“Look,” the other woman replied, “you try aiming a bow without the use of your eyes. You wanted fresh meat for dinner, we have fresh meat for dinner.”

“Maybe next time you could, we don’t know, hurl the arrow at it? At least that would be sporting.”

Nattering twats, the both of them. Greth shifted on the tree limb. He looked through the forest at Nathar, who nodded back at him.

The women would be in sight in a moment. Greth had his bow ready but it would be stupid to shoot women, they might have good value as slaves—and of course they had immediate value for his cock. It had been weeks since the last time they’d had a woman in the camp.

If there were just two of these idiot travelers—and it sounded like there were—he and Nathar could slake their needs, possibly two or three times, before the rest of the band got any. But if they tried to catch the women by themselves and the women got away, Theirgen would likely cut off both of their nuts. And Theirgen would surely find out, Nathar never could keep a secret.

How had they come so far unmolested without a man? Maybe there was a man, at the rear, being quiet. Women did love to prattle. If there was a man, he might need killing, and that would mean that Nathar and Greth should wait until they could get the rest of the gang. Didn’t want the women escaping during the fight.

Well, in a moment Greth would see exactly what they were dealing with.

There. A woman, walking into view, leading a horse. Kyurren, by her clothing. Although she had on some sort of strange black headscarf or veil—but it was shiny, like black wax. A helmet? What was it?

The woman was leading a horse, across the back of which was slung a neatly cleaned buck. There were also rolled sleeping mats and a bow and saddlebags—clearly these women had been traveling for some way.

Hm. Probably a man with them, then.

As she drew closer, Greth could see that the hair which emerged from underneath the strange black headpiece was blond, almost white. A Norreni, then? But her clothing was loomed, definitely southern make. Perhaps she’d gotten it through trade.

Now the second woman came into view, leading a second horse. She was of a similar build and wore similar clothes, including the glossy black headpiece. But the hair that erupted in a burst of curls below it was Thyryn red.

Perhaps they were members of some religious order. Greth had heard of such things. Old Maethwyth had talked about them, back when he was alive.

And that was it. No man followed along behind them, just the two women and their horses.

It would be a simple matter to slide out of the tree and circle around to cut off their retreat. The horses were saddled but laden, impossible to leap on and ride away. Nathar was looking at him; he signaled in handsign and Nathar grinned, signaled back, and slipped down out of his tree.

“So have you decided yet?” the lead woman asked, totally unaware of the danger she was in.

“Decided what?” replied the other, and now Greth could hear the Thyryn accent in her voice.

“Where we’re going. Did you want to stop at Abyrfyrd? Free some slaves, maybe make a few others? Or are we heading straight for Pecuin Hold and gruesome revenge?”

“Hmmm. Gruesome revenge does sound like a lot of fun, but we could also use someone to rub my feet and make my bed. And lick my pussy.”

“What, we’re not enough for you?”

“You’re wonderful, our love, but you can’t lick ours while we’re licking yours... okay actually you can, but not while in the position we’re thinking of—”

Nathar rose out of a bush just in front of the women, grinning. Greth slipped up silently and prepared to grab the red-headed woman from behind.

What should have happened was that the women should have stopped, startled; Greth would have grabbed the one in back, knocked her to the ground, taken the horse, and then taken the horse from the woman in front while Nathar distracted her. If either of the women had run, they could have chased them and brought them down. Once Greth had the horses, he would tie them up to a tree and then both Nathar and Greth would get down to some seriously satisfying rape, applying beatings as necessary.

What happened instead was:

Nathar rose up into the air. A moment later, Greth found himself doing the same, then tumbling around through the air until he dangled helplessly next to Nathar, held up by nothing.

The two women grinned up at them. From this close, the black waxy coverings seemed... sinister; like black candle wax melted down atop their heads.

“Witches,” Nathar whimpered, his voice cold with fear.

“Oh yes,” the red-headed one said. “The very worst kind. We’ve been watching you two with our evil magic for a good quarter league. We wondered whether you’d try for the ambush. But let’s have a look, then, and really see what we’ve caught here...”

Greth felt a pressure on his forehead and then the witch was inside his mind! He felt her rummaging around, reading all his secret thoughts, and he wanted to panic but instead he found his vision going dark and then he slept.

* * *

Lowland Thyr was beautiful in early summer. Butterflies danced at the forest’s edge, flickering in and out of the shade of the emerald green trees.

Two riders emerged from the forest and paused, looking over the curves of the hills, heaping green pillows creased by a rock-strewn brook that wound down the grassy meadow’s middle.

“’Evil Magic’,” Isleif said. “That was pretty funny.”

“It is, though, isn’t it? We’re sure that, Mistr- er, Carol can explain what we do, and how we do it. But to anyone else? Magic.”

“Fair enough.”

They clapped light heels to their horses and started out into the sunshine; it glinted brightly off of the black gloss covering their heads.

Behind them came two men. One carried a dressed buck over his shoulders, the other was draped with saddlebags and sleeping gear. They both had vacant expressions on their faces, their eyes glassy, their mouths slightly open. Mutely, they walked behind the horses.

“We’re going to have to go back and talk to her,” Isleif said.

“Yes. Among other things, we need to learn how to make a proper drudge. We had no idea how much idiots like these two would need it.”

“There’s quite a lot we need to learn.”

“True. But... we’re not entirely sure we want to see her again. We’re still kind of angry. She did kidnap us and turn us into this.”

Isleif chuckled. “And you’re complaining about that now?”

Brynwyrren stretched her arms out. “Well, no, but it was forced upon us, wasn’t it? And it’s not like she gave any of the others any choices. Did Gwynn deserve that? Did Seif?”

“No. But still. We should go back and talk with her. We need to.”

We wonder if it will be talking, that we’ll do.

Well, we expect there will be some fucking. Probably a lot of it.

Brynwyrren’s brow furrowed. What we meant was there would be mind-speaking. We’re not sure we’ve forgiven her enough for sex.

She’s pretty persuasive. And pretty sexual.

You still want her, don’t you?

Sorry, love, she’s attractive.

... True. We wonder what being joined will mean, when we meet her again.

We’re not sure. Only Carol knows how we joined should act amongst ourselves.

“How we should act?” Brynwyrren said aloud. “We should act however we want!” she bellowed. “Whatever world she came from is gone—this world is ours. It will be what we make of it. Ice and Fire. You and us. Our world. We will shape it!” She waved a hand and grass erupted in a whirlwind around her, spiralling into the sky.

Isleif smiled and did not respond.

They rode down through the high grass to the brook. If the rising clouds of insects bothered the men trudging along behind them, they gave no sign of it.

At the creek, the women stopped to let the horses drink. Water ran across smooth stones of all hues, red and grey and gold and green. One of the men raised his head and looked around, intelligence glinting for a moment in his eyes, before they glazed over again and his head drooped to his chest.

“It’s a pretty country you’re from,” Isleif said.

“It is. We’re glad you’re here with us.”

“We are too.” Isleif reached out with her mind, touched the water, felt it flowing by. “In the cave...” she hesitated. “In the cave, we were... so afraid... you’d leave us.”

“We thought about it. We wanted to. What you had become, what you had in your belly... But... we would have rather died with you, than lived without.” Brynwyrren smiled and touched her head. “And this is not so terrible as death.”

“No, not this.”

They waited while the horses, and then the men, drank their fill. A globule of water lifted from the river and floated over to hover in front of Brynwyrren’s face; she puckered up and sucked it into her cheeks.

Were you worried, love, that we would submit? That we would not become this, that we would instead become your Dominne?

Isleif smiled. Never. My Fire, submitting? It never even crossed our mind. We knew when you agreed, exactly what you would become.

Brynwyrren laughed, startling her horse, which raised a dripping muzzle to look at her.

“So,” Isleif said, “Abyrfyrd, or Pecuin Hold? Or back to your clan?”

Brynwyrren swallowed. “Hmm. We are greatly looking forward to watching old Laird Brekeith stumble around in his own guts, trying to scream but lacking a mouth. We’ve wanted that for a long time. But we could use a bath, and a real bed, and—no offense, love—food that has been cooked in a pot on a hearth or in an oven, rather than over a campfire. Let’s go to Abyrfyrd.”

“Abyrfyrd it is, then,” Isleif replied, turning her horse’s head and pointing it down the valley.

“This should be fun,” Brynwyrren said, suddenly grinning. “That town of slave-mongers has no idea they’re about to be set upon by Ice and Fire.”

She let out a whoop and slapped the rump of her horse; startled, it bolted, galloping off through the waving grass.

Isleif grinned and clapped her heels and set her horse to galloping after.

Behind them, the men stumbled forward as best they could in the billowing dust.

* * *

End ‘Lens’