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Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles
(Book Fifteen): Pleasure Hive of the

Breeders 1st Edition Amanda Clover &
Jay Aury [Clover
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Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicle
Book Fifteen
Pleasure Hive of the Breeders
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Cover artwork by Deilan12
This book and all its contents are copyright 2019 by Amanda Clover. All
rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for the use of
brief quotations for review purposes.
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work
of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.
Map of the Empire of Istanov
The Chronicle
The time of monsters was said to be at an end.

The rise of the great human empires of Istanov, Heimsvak, and the
desert kingdom of Shaddobar brought the elves to heel and drove the tribes of
orcs, goblins, and stranger monsters to the margins.
The last great monster uprising occurred more than 50 years ago,
when a brave huntress named Penelope Helsdottir prevented the ascension of
a new monster god and formed the Huntresses of Ctharne. These unique
warrior women were dispatched throughout the known world wherever
trouble arose to tame what monsters they could and destroy those that could
not be made into allies.
But within the borders of Istanov, trouble brews. Long years of peace
and prosperity have blinded the Istanov dynasty and the people of this nation
to a new danger. As monsters gather, seemingly heeding the call of a
powerful human leader, will the nobles of Istanov react in time? Or will
overconfidence prove the undoing of an empire?
These are the Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles.
Prey
It was madness to wander the woods of Istanov at night. Even before

the monsters rose from the shadows to crush the realms of men, the darkness
was the domain of things best left undisturbed. The lair of wicked things that
haunted the tales of midwives and nannies. The pages of mage’s tomes and
books that priests bound in iron and chains. And certainly no one dared the
deep forests. Yet Lania had no choice. None at all. For the days no longer
offered safety.
At times, she wondered if there was any chance of safety left in her
world? She doubted it. Aside from being the broodmother of a monster,
enslaved by their seed and dark sorcery, life was but an endless nightmare of
terror and waiting. And to become the breeder of a monster was no life. Not
really. She’d seen the fates of those. How their eyes had emptied as the
monsters and creatures came within them. When the mark of the eye was
burned upon their mons and the women became no more than the eager
slaves of their brutal masters. She’d seen it all from her hiding place in the
cellar while the monsters sacked her town, killing or eating the men, and
claiming the women.
Of the two, Lania knew which fate she would choose.
And yet she’d lived. Survived. Found other survivors and banded
together against a world once familiar, now turned against them. She shivered
in the cold, pulling her cloak closer. Around her moved the rest of the
refugees. There had once been hundreds of them, but that number had been
steadily whittled away. Taken in the night, in raids, in battle. Now, only thirty
remained. Scared. Scattered.
But hopeful. So long as mankind had freedom somewhere, there was
hope. Rumors of the emperor fortified in the capital of Moskov or armies
gathering beyond the borders of Istanov in Heimsvak and the Lesser
Kingdoms. Even Shaddobar. Gods, she imagined standing upon a sun-
warmed deck, sailing across the Great Sea to the deserts of that faraway
kingdom. Where men could be cruel slavers, but they were only men. She
could almost feel that warm sun upon her face…
“Keep moving,” Michaels said. The former knight was the only one
who stood tall. The sword he bore was strapped across his back and over his
cloak. He motioned; his hand just visible in the darkness and wane moonlight
peeking through the trees. They hadn’t dared a torch. Too many things lurked
in the woods. “Come on. We’re nearly at the mines.”
Lania shivered again. Tauven Mur. The mines of the empire.
She remembered her grandfather speaking of those endless tunnels.
From there the wealth of Istanov had flowed like rivers of silver. The empire
had grown fat with fortune, the emperor building himself a throne of that
precious metal.
Until the silver stopped flowing.
Mined out, the dark tunnels were left to the few who still sought to
scrape some of the dredges up. Projects to refurbish the mines were
considered, but by then the war with Heimsvak was in full swing and the
state turned its attention there. The mines and its communities were left to
themselves.
And the stories.
Where silver once flowed, stories took their place. Tales of echoes in
the deep mines. Of sounds and scrapings and whispers. Of strange structures
dug from the raw stone and grip of the earth. Gradually, fewer people left
Tauven Mur. The town’s gates were shut. Their people stopped frequenting
the smaller villages at the foothills of the mountain. Attempts to inquire were
met with barred gates and silence.
But just as news never came from the remote town, word had in a
different way. Michaels had told them that when he’d been a knight, they’d
noticed the beasts had avoided the mines. Never venturing up the wooded
slopes. That perhaps the citizens in their fortified mines had held out against
the monsters until the brutes gave up, turning their attention to other realms,
easier to plunder and rape.
“Or something fouler than they dwells there now,” her grandfather
had said.
None could have denied that. But during the last raid, when their
walls were breached and many of their group carried off, her grandfather had
died. And without his opposition, and lacking any other option, the decision
was made.
They would go to Tauven Mur.
The new growth of forest was amply apparent as they picked their
way among the trees. The foliage wasn’t so thick. Not quite so dark. Through
a break in the canopy they saw the walls that had surrounded the old mining
town. Thick, rain-worn stone without parapets, but stout and mostly intact.
Surely those walls could hold the monsters back. Yet no torches burned along
their length. The gate lay open.
Her heartbeat quickened. She looked to Michaels and saw his jaw
tighten warily. His sword, never far from his hand, was drawn, a tongue of
silver in the night.
They pushed through the gate wordlessly, only the crunch of their
footsteps on the gravel to be heard. The mining town lay before them,
beneath the shadow of the mountain. Homes dark and hollowed with neglect,
the roofs collapsed in many cases. Cranes rose like bony arms reaching for
the sky. The wheel of a mill creaked in the lazy flow of a stream. As they
neared the mountain itself they saw the honeycomb of tunnels which bit into
the rocks like yawning mouths.
They approached a large building backing into the mountain. The old
iron doors opened to Michael’s touch. Moonlight bled inside, revealing tracks
abandoned but for overturned mining carts and the heavy, potbellied shapes
of old forges.
The wind whispered around them. Teased her hair. She brushed it
back, shuddering at the hollow sound it made as it whisked into the mountain.
“Light,” Michaels said.
Some of the refugees eagerly produced their hoarded torches. Their
glow soon crackled, and despite the fear Lania felt strangely comforted by the
glow. Her own cast a circle of orange light about her, illuminating the rocks
of the mountain the building had been built against.
“We go inside,” Michaels said. “Be careful.”
“What?” Lania gasped. “But, the people…”
“Think, Lania. Why would they stay in the town, undefended? They
must have ventured into the mines for safety. We’ll find them there.”
“Michaels…”
“We can’t not go in,” the knight said, staring at the tunnels. “Even if
there were something in there, how could we sleep not knowing what lies
behind us? What could crawl out of there as we slept in the abandoned
town?”
Lania bit her lip, but she had no answer to that. The refugees
clustered together as they followed Michael’s light towards the cavern mouth.
It was warm within the earth. Warmer still the deeper they went. Yet
despite their torches, the dark was suffocating. Every step echoed off the
walls. Every sound seemed amplified back at them. As they walked Lania’s
nose twitched, becoming aware of a strange scent in the air. Something
musky yet… strangely sweet. Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out
just what that scent could be. It was so familiar. Cloying…
“Hold,” Michaels said suddenly.
Lania started from her reverie, stumbling to a halt. The group milled
behind him as the knight took several slow steps forward and kneeled on the
ground. After a moment Lania worked up the courage and approached.
“What is it?”
“Bring your torch closer.”
She did as bid. The flames glowed against the floor, where an odd
substance grew. It had the look of spiderweb if it were made of moss.
Strangely fleshy and thick on the ground. The knight poked it with his sword,
but nothing happened.
“What is it?”
“Some sort of fungus, no doubt. Such things can grow in the dark
and damp.”
“I’ve never seen that kind,” Lania said.
Michaels said nothing, but she saw his jaw again tighten. Gently, she
put her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe… maybe we should go. We can leave
the mines. Go somewhere else…”
“There’s nowhere to go,” Michaels said, and defeat was bitter in his
tone. “We are surrounded by the monster’s territory. So far behind enemy
lines… The empress was bested. The Istanov army crushed. Only Moskov
still stands. And how far is that? How could we reach it without being taken
on the way? And even if we did, what makes you think those walls would
still stand when we arrived?”
“Michaels, I don’t like this…”
The knight stood sharply. “If you do not like it, then turn back.
Become a broodmare for the horde. The only hope for safety lies ahead of us
in the mine.”
He pushed forward into the dark. Lania gave an uncertain look back
at the other refugees, but followed, her torch fluttering like a red banner,
smoke billowing out behind them.
But her worry did not ease. In fact, it grew with each passing
moment. The deeper they went the thicker the strange, organic substance on
the walls became until it couldn’t be ignored. It coated the walls in an almost
pulsating mass. And the scent, at first only tantalizing, had grown thicker.
Stronger until it fairly soaked her to the skin, sending tingling sensitivity
racing through her. Her cheeks were flushed, warm, and to her shame her
nipples were hard against her shirt and her cunny slick against her panties.
She was far from alone. She heard the panting of the women and
grunting of the men in their party. Even Michaels seemed a little hot under
the collar, sweat beading his brow, gleaming in the torchlight. And the air
was so very hot. Like a pulsating steam that breathed across their bodies.
There were other tunnels. Others paths they could follow. Where were they
going? Did they know? Could they find their way out? She stepped forward
to ask Michaels. Reached her hand out to his shoulder again and stopped.
There were eyes in the dark.
Screams erupted from the refugees behind her as things swarmed
from side passages. Michaels stepped back, raising his sword, a cry of alarm
on his lips. A claw scythed. His sword was shattered in two.
Panic struck Lania like a blow. Pure, animal fear. As Michaels went
down in a spray of blood she turned and ran. Torchlight stuttered across the
walls. Screams and bodies and shadows intermingled in the mad struggle.
She caught a glimpse of dark chitin. A rattling sound that shivered down her
spine. She ducked through a tunnel, running, running. Panting. Breathing that
hot, cloying air.
The sounds of battle faded behind her. She kept running, deeper into
the tunnels. Did she know the way back out? She wasn’t sure. She was
scared. Terrified. What was happening? What had happened?
The floor rippled with slimy fronds. She stepped over one and the
soft floor gave way beneath her. She fell with a scream, but not far. She hit
the ground heavily, breath driven from her. But the ground was like a damp
cushion. Yielding.
Her torch clattered away, still burning. For a moment she simply lay
there, gasping, trying to recover herself, even as fear threatened to drown her
in despair. What had attacked them? What had become of the others? She
tried to make sense of that scything blade and those horrible inhuman eyes.
She became aware of a strange sensation teasing along her arms and
legs. Her breath grew deeper. Her vision swam. She felt hot. Feverish. And
that smell. That sickly sweet, thick, pungent smell. It was everywhere. It was
so heavy in the air she could fairly feel it crawl between her clothes, ooze
along her skin, awakening a sweet sensitivity that sang through her.
She tried to rise, but her shaking legs gave in. She fell back against
the wall of the pit, panting, her legs open, her cunt throbbing.
She wasn’t alone.
The torch was burning low, but through its light she saw things
before her. Soft moans and the wet sounds of mating. Women were in the pit
with her. Their stomachs swollen with unholy spawn, their breasts heavy and
dribbling with milk. Their faces were blank, lips parted with ecstasy. Huge,
monstrous things loomed over them, thrusting into them, their dark chitin
gleaming in the weak light. Swollen worm-like things oozed over the ground,
wriggling and wandering this way and that while the women were fucked by
their monstrous mates.
Lania stared, stunned at the monstrous sight. She knew she should be
afraid. Terrified. Yet it wasn’t fear that surged through her. Instead, her
shaking hand moved down, slipping beneath the band of her belt. “Nnn!” she
gasped, hips bucking as she touched her steamy cunt.
Her fingers slowly slid into her molten cunny, stroking herself as she
watched the mating of the women. The strange grubs oozed across the floor,
their slimy paths reeking of that strange scent in the air. Her breathing was
growing ragged. She plunged her fingers into her slick pussy faster, faster.
Her other hand grasped her breast. Oh gods. Oh gods what was she doing?
And yet she couldn’t stop. The pleasure enthralled her. Consumed her.
“Hah… ah… nnnnn!”
She came, her orgasm explosive, powerful. Her juices stained her
pants and panties in a sticky mess. She whimpered, ashamed, yet still so
aroused. She craved more than her fingers.
Something chittered at her shoulder. She turned her head and saw
one of her pursuers. It stood in the light, a horror beyond the monsters of
tales. Tall as a man, hunched forward, two arms ended in scything blades.
Two others in clawed limbs. Dark chitin covered most of it. It had no eyes
she could see, and when its jaw opened it revealed rows of sharp, monstrous
teeth.
And yet, her eyes were drawn down its chitinous body. Down
between its legs, where a semi-translucent ovipositor swelled at the sight of
her fertile form. Her breathing deepened when she saw the pale orbs of eggs
within that breeding pole. Quivering for a host. A womb. The warmth of a
woman to grow.
The monster moved towards her, and Lania didn’t draw back. She
stared into the eyeless face of the monster and parted her legs.
“Yes,” she whimpered. “Please…”
The monster hissed and leaned over her. Its secondary hands reached
out and tore her clothes from her. Lania gasped as the confining fabric was
shredded to nothing, unveiling plush tits and her hot cunt to the open air.
She rolled over onto her hands and knees, panting. A bitch in heat.
She raised her ass, offering herself up to the monster. “Please,” she gasped,
wiggling her bottom enticingly. “Please. Oh gods, please. Fuck me. Fill me.
Do it.”
The monster chittered. It moved over her, every inch of it predatory
perfection. She whimpered as she felt its ovipositor press against her plump
behind. She bit her lip, arching, offering herself up.
And he entered her.
Her eyes felt like they would pop out of her head as his inhuman
shaft filled her slick pussy. She whimpered with every bump of his breeding
stick. Gasped as he at last filled her.
She remained like that, trapped beneath the monster. And then, she
felt the cock within her ripple.
“O-ooooh!” she moaned as the first egg pushed against her pussy
lips. She bit her lip as it strained her tight quim, then gasped as the first egg
entered her. The pale sphere stretched her, her pussy rippling around the orb
as it filled her, deeper, deeper, deeper than anything she had ever known.
When that sphere at last reached her womb, she let out a quivering cry as she
came, an orgasm of sinful delight and unholy pleasure.
Then the second egg pushed against her.
“Ooooooh yessss!” she cried, fisting the floor, arching her back as
the new egg stuffed her tight cunny. Another. Another. Each egg slid down
her tight channel, stroked her sodden pussy, filling her womb one after the
next in an endless stream of purest ecstasy. She came again, crying out, a
whimpering moan of pleasure as her mind sought to come to grips with this
strange sensation. Her stomach began to swell with the eggs, her whimpers
and moans echoing around her. It was too much. Too much sensation. Her
whole body was shuddering with unutterable pleasure.
“Yes! Yes! Mmm! Yess! More! More! More!” Lania wailed as her
mind snapped, unable to bear the weight of her pleasure and the horror of its
truth. She cried out as she came again as the newest egg stuffed her.
At last, the monster hissed and withdrew his ovipositor from her
twitching cunt. Lania rolled over and into a sitting position, resting her back
against the wall of the breeding pit. She panted, cradling her heavy belly,
lumpy with the eggs of the monstrous breeders. She cooed lovingly, stroking
that taut flesh.
She raised her head as she felt something slither against her leg. Two
of the grubs had found her, oozing up. She smiled adoringly and keened as
lipless mouths found her nipples, the two grubs eagerly sucking at her fat
teats. Breasts that would soon enough grow heavy with milk. Milk for the
brood. Milk for the hive.
The torch on the ground sputtered and finally went out, and in the
dark, Lania could only moan.
The Hunt
Pata’s blade made a suitably meaty thunk as she plunged it into the
orc’s skull. The prone monster twitched a few more times and lay still. With
a sigh of effort, the young huntress wiped her brow of the sweat lingering
there and straightened, surveying the battlefield. The corpses of a half dozen
orcs lay scattered about the forest floor, their hulking green frames unmarked
save the slim cut to the throat or a small hole where she’d pierced their dark
hearts. It always amazed her how much monsters underestimated her. To be
sure she didn’t look much like a huntress of Ctharne. She was short and
curvy, but sharp as a whipcord. Her blonde hair framed a pretty face with a
button nose and sparkling blue eyes. The leather armor she wore was bound
with straps and hugged a slim frame with modest breasts but shapely thighs,
outlining her perfectly.
She smirked to herself and drew her sword free. Fetching out a rag
she began to clean the silver blade, a tool specially made for slaying such
horrors that stalked the dark of the world. Every hunter had such a weapon,
though its nature sometimes changed, a sword was the standard. Had been
since Penelope had founded the new order of huntresses after defeating the
god who had cursed Ctharne.
Ah, Penelope. Pata smiled fondly at the memory of that potent
woman. She who had slain a god and saved the world itself. A figure to look
up to for every huntress. A demonstration of what will and a single woman
was capable of.
Pata hummed, finishing cleaning her blade. She lifted it, examining
the silver edge.
A hiss was all the warning she had. Coils wrapped around her legs
and suddenly pulled. The young huntress yelped as she was wrenched off her
feet, her sword falling from her hands to clatter to the ground. Scales shone
as more coils wrapped around her, binding her arms against her sides, but
only rising to her waist, leaving her pert breasts bare.
The owner of those coils rose over her. A lamia of fierce beauty, her
pupils slits, her grin baring fangs. Her hair was long and silky black. Her skin
yellow, her scales diamond patterns of black and orange.
“Ssssilly human,” the serpent woman crooned, bringing the huntress
closer to her piercing eyes, holding Pata’s gaze with their power. “Letting
your guard down. Why, anyone could just come in and… take advantage…”
Pata squeaked as those coils tightened, pushing her tits out further,
squeezing her breath from her. The lamia’s tongue flicked out, forked, tasting
the air and the sweat of her captive. “Mmm. And so much to take advantage
of…”
Pata gasped as the monster’s clever fingers undid the upper buckles
of her shirt, pulling it aside and baring a window to her tits. Pata moaned as
the monster’s hands cupped those firm orbs, her thumbs rubbing a pair of
budding nipples.
“Oh my,” the lamia crooned. “Is she enjoying this? Is the little
huntress… getting off from having her nipples played with? What a ssssinful
little slut you are.”
“S-stop t-teasing me,” Pata gasped, blushing fiercely.
“But you love it so,” the lamia said, her voice a sibilant croon that
wrapped the huntress’s thoughts in teasing whispers. Squeezed her mind
delightfully while those coils squeezed her curvy frame. As the lamia leaned
in, her tongue flicking out against a stiff nipple.
Pata gasped, arched, tensing in those confining scales. She quivered
as that tongue again flicked out, again lashed her quivering nipples.
“Such lovely breasts,” the lamia hissed tenderly. “Such needy tits. Oh
dear. What would the other huntresses say if they knew how… sensitive you
were, little huntress. How needy your pretty little tits are…”
“Ohhhh,” Pata moaned, panting.
The lamia smirked. Leaned in closer. “Shall we have some fun with
them?”
“Fun will have to wait.”
Pata groaned and the lamia stiffened at the new voice. Both turned.
The newcomer was far more toned that Pata but possessed a similar
controlled power in her stance. She wore scattered plate, the steel masking
her vital spots, a sword slung over her shoulder, Heimsvak pistols holstered
at her sides. Her hair was mostly white despite her apparent youth and her
eyes were flecked with gold; telltale signs of a huntress close to the blood.
Her look was fierce, a long scar running down the side of her face and neck.
Another nicking her lip, her brow. Her lip curled at the sight of the other
huntress and the monster, her arms crossed and glare contemptuous.
Pata sighed. “We weren’t really going to do anything, Anda.”
“No. And I’m here to make sure you don’t,” the other huntress said.
She glanced between the two. “Come. Sanna wants us to hurry.”
“Alright. Alright. Xima? Could you let me down?”
The lamia rolled her slitted eyes. “Oh, very well.”
Her coils loosened around Pata, dropping the young huntress to the
ground. She landed cat-like, scooping up her sword and sheathing it.
Again Anda curled her lip and turned, marching sharply away. Pata
rolled her eyes and then gasped as the lamia licked her neck.
“We’ll have our fun later,” the monster promised.
Pata giggled and swatted away the monster, who deftly ducked from
the blow, smirking. Pata strode after the others, grinning at the lamia. Many
huntresses bound monsters to their service. The mark of servitude was one of
the newest tools that Penelope Helsdottir had brought to the order upon re-
establishing it. A means with which a huntress could make a servant of a
monster, binding its will to their own. Of course, it was often a risky
prospect. If the monster’s will was too strong, or the huntress to entrapped in
pleasure, the mark ran the risk of backfiring, turning the huntress into the
monster’s slave for all her days. Though frowned upon by some huntresses,
the most successful bonds were mutual, with a huntress and her bound
monster accepting an almost equal arrangement.
Pata still remembered the day she had claimed Xima for her own. A
battle in a desert temple deep in Shaddobar. She’d bested the predator who
had been raiding passing caravans for years. Xima had been known as the
Viper of the Sands at the time. Pata had fought the lamia in close combat, but
hadn’t been able to kill the voluptuous serpent woman. Instead, she’d found a
far better purpose. With pleasure she had broken the lamia, enthralling the
creature as her own.
Xima didn’t hold a grudge, but since then the lamia had made it a
point to remind Pata that she was a master of seduction, teasing the huntress
whenever possible. Pata let her, knowing it pleased the lamia, and hardly
complaining about the delights she’d known in the monster’s coils. Even if
her playful relationship did sometimes chafe at Pata’s fellow huntresses.
Light flickered through the woods, and in a moment the trio arrived
in the glow of a fire. Before it sat a particularly buxom, shapely huntress.
Around her was an air of motherly affection, her face warm and soft, but her
gear betrayed her, as did the callouses on her palms. Leathers bound her
ample frame, the hilt of a saber at her side, and her gloves knuckled with
silver brands of banishments.
Pata had once seen the elder huntress destroy a succubus just by
punching the beauty in the face. Her hair was silver and long, tumbling about
her head, but the face that looked up had that ageless beauty that defied
placement. Her eyes were almost pure gold. Sanna was very close to the
blood indeed. Pata thought she might one day become the High Huntress of
Ctharne.
She smiled as the three arrived and gestured. “Sit, sisters.”
Anda took a seat at once, the frowning amazon giving the older
woman a nod of respect. “Huntress Sanna.”
“Just Sanna,” the silver haired woman said, her voice soft. “We have
much to discuss tonight.”
“We’re close, then?” Pata asked.
“We are.”
“I thought that monsters didn’t dare approach the mines,” the lamia
said as she let her coils wind beneath her, settling into them before tugging
Pata onto the scaly cushion possessively.
“Quiet, creature,” Anda spat.
“Peace, sister,” Sanna said. She nodded at the serpent. “Indeed.
Normally they do not. But these orcs were raiders. And that is answer
enough. They were camping, which means they feared to go on, but were
reluctant to leave. Humans passed this way not long ago, and I followed their
tracks after dealing with the orc’s chief. I saw the mountains, and the old road
that once left the mines. We are near.”
“But what is it that’s kept even the Duke from going there?” Pata
asked, snuggling into the softness of the lamia’s coils, ignoring Anda’s glare.
Sanna stared at the ground for a long moment. She stirred the logs of
the fire with a stick, then brought it about and marked the ground with a line.
“The mines are a thing well known in the empire, but only in history as the
source of much of their fortunes. But it has an older history still, my sisters.”
Anda stirred. “Oh?”
“Indeed. Though few know of what the lands that became Istanov
once were, the ruins of Ctharne held many scrolls. Ancient things from
before the ages of man’s rule. When races since forgotten walked the world.
Races such as gnomes.”
“Gnomes?”
“Oh! I heard of this,” Pata said, siting up quickly. “Gnomes were
known to have facilities across the world in the ancient days. They kept to
themselves mostly, and few bothered them. Their mastery of artifice was
unparalleled. Even today, few can match their works. Their pieces are highly
prized!”
“Indeed,” Sanna said with a nod. “Very good, Pata.”
The young huntress blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, sister.”
“And the mines were one of these facilities?” Anda said.
“They were. Once. Before the great cataclysm wrenched apart what
became Istanov. Records from that time are sparse at best. As if something
had sought to have what was done here forgotten.”
Anda frowned. “Strange,” she said. Then shrugged. “But, then, how
do we know of these gnomes and their lair?”
“Because they had created something in it,” Sanna said softly. “A
device which could spell the destruction of any force of magic users in the
world. A shield that nullifies all magic used against it.”
Pata gasped. Even Anda sat up. “They did?”
“Yes,” Sanna said. “The scroll within Ctharne spoke highly of it. But
it was kept a secret from most. For with such a device, mages would be
useless. And there is nothing sorcerers fear more than losing their power.”
“And that’s why the Duke hasn’t gone for the mines?” Pata asked.
“No,” Sanna said, shaking her head. “The order does not believe he
knows of it. Nor did the empire. We suspect instead it has lain secret beneath
the mountain. Possibly until the miners of Istanov delved deep enough and
uncovered the workshop.”
She drew her saber, holding it out, the edge gleaming with the silver
that lined it. “Silver is one of the most potent materials against creatures of
darkness. We believe that the gnomes used it to guard their workshop against
those who would attack them. And when the cataclysm befell these lands, the
worksop was buried.”
“And once Istanov’s miners took the silver, the workshop was
without defence,” Pata finished.
Xima hissed. “Typical stupid humans,” the monster said.
“But not me, hm?” Pata asked, tilting back her head to have a look at
the lamia looming behind her.
Xima scoffed. “You are the stupidest of all. Tempting a lamia with
your fertile little body.”
Pata giggled as the monster’s coils moved around her, gathering her
against the serpent woman.
“Do you mind?’ Anda said sharply.
“It’s alright,” Sanna said. “We near the end. Pata? Please do try and
focus.”
Blushing again, Pata squirmed out of the coils of her seducer. “I’m
listening, sister.”
“Good. Now, this shield we believe remains within the buried
workshop. But we do not believe the Duke knows of it. If he did, he surely
would have seized it by now. But the huntresses can no longer leave such a
treasure alone. Should the Duke discover it, nothing could stop his advance
across the world.”
“And if we have it,” Anda said, finishing the thought. “We could use
it against him.”
“Precisely,” Sanna said.
The four were silent, absorbing this idea and the implication of it. At
last, Anda shook herself. “Do we know what guards the mines? I’ve heard
tales of the town and the village…”
Sanna shook her head. “We do not. It may be a defense built by the
gnomes, or a monster powerful enough to ignore the Duke’s call to war, and
one he has no desire to try and best. Regardless, we cannot hope for such a
situation to remain. Above all else we must recover the shield and return it to
Ctharne. No matter the cost.”
Pata shivered, a foreboding chill passing through her. She caught
Sanna looking her way.
“I am glad you understand the importance of this mission,” the
huntress said, then smiled again. “But it will be okay, sisters. We are
huntresses of Ctharne. We are prepared to see it through.”
She rose, stretching, her ample breasts pushed out with a creak of
leather. “But we have talked late, and the battle has worn us out. We must
rest.”
“I will take watch,” Pata quickly said. “Xima and I aren’t so tired.”
Anda scoffed and stood. “Hardly. I will take the watch. I doubt how
much ‘watching’ you and your pet monster will do anyway.”
Pata puffed up her cheeks in indignation. Xima hissed at the scarred
woman.
“Enough,” Sanna interrupted. “If Anda wishes to keep watch, she
may. We all need our rest. Tomorrow promises to bring fresh danger.”
Still flushed with annoyance, Pata nonetheless nodded. “As you say,
sister.”
Anda gave the elder huntress a short bow and turned. She found a tall
tree and deftly climbed into the upper branches, her back resting against the
trunk, her eyes turned out to the dark forest, senses keened to the sounds of
interruption.
Pata watched the other huntress take roost, then fetched out her pack
and unrolled her bedding, Sanna following suit. As the pair bedded down,
Pata knew the watch would be a quiet one. Bristly as a porcupine though
Anda was, the huntress knew her business. Not to mention the stench of the
dead orcs would ward away most creatures, and those it didn’t would be the
sort that would give ample warning of their approach.
She heard the soft susurrating as Xima wound her way around her,
the lamia gathering up the young huntress, resting Pata’s head against the
pillow of her soft breasts. “Now,” the serpent purred. “Where were we?”
“Xima,” Pata sighed, squirming. “Really?”
“You know. Some women would beg to have a serpent as lovely as
myself seek to mate with them. They would throw themselves on their knees
and beg for a lick of my attention, and my tongue. And yet you deny yourself
the opportunity to experience such pleasure out of hand? Pata. Frankly, I am
beyond offended.”
Pata giggled as the lamia’s forked tongue tickled her neck. “Someone
has a high opinion of herself.”
“Don’t say that as if I’m wrong.”
“Mmm,” Pata moaned as the coils slithered around her, teasing down
the bedroll, baring Pata’s ample curves once more. Without the leather straps
which normally garbed her, she was entirely helpless against the smooth
scales stroking her sensitive flesh. “X-Xima…”
“If you want to rest, my pretty slut,” the lamia crooned, her hands
sliding down Pata’s front, grasping the girl’s full breasts, grinning at the gasp
escaping the huntress, “then you will have to satisfy me. And I am so very
hard to satisfy, as you well know. Hmm?”
Pata whimpered as those teasing fingers found her hardened nipples,
pinching them between two fingers, rubbing them delightfully. Pata wriggled
in the coils of the serpent, only serving to further bind herself in those silky
confines. She gasped as she felt something teasing her bum. She couldn’t see,
but she knew well enough that sensation.
Lamias came in many sorts and kinds, and Xima was among the
strangest she had known. From the deserts of Shaddobar the serpent woman
had been found, and Pata had been beyond surprised when the serpent
woman had first claimed the huntress’s fertile curves. How that slit had
opened among her scales, and that wedged, reptilian cock had emerged.
Pata was panting as she felt that spear of cockmeat rub against her
once more, teasing against her ass cheeks, slickening that tender seam with
oily pre. She whimpered, quivering in the silken stroking of the serpent’s
coils. “Ooooh Xima…”
“Mmm. I knew this would remind you of your true place, my slut.
Such a lusty young huntress. So eager to be claimed by a monster. Shall I
fuck you, my slut? Shall I make you scream?”
“C-can’t scream. Others… resting…”
“Hmm. Too true. Well then, I fear you’ll have to satisfy me before I
can fuck that pretty little cunt of yours.”
Pata knew what the lamia meant. Her heart quickened as the coils
moved around her, turning her about, bringing her lower. Soon enough she
was face to face with the serpent woman’s cock, the blue spear of flesh
throbbing for her attention. Body trapped in the confines of the lamia’s coils,
Pata could only move her head, and she opened her mouth, and took that
reptilian shaft between her soft lips.
“Mmmnnnn,” Xima moaned as Pata began to suck, head bobbing,
the strange, exotic spiciness of the monster’s shaft dancing on her taste buds.
Xima seethed with pleasure, “Oh yesssss. Ssssuck me, my ssssilly slut. Oh
yessss. Very good. Such a wanton… mmm… whore…”
Pata flushed at the lamia’s demeaning words, even as they excited
her more. Pata didn’t know what it was about her that made her so eager to
taste the lusts of monsters. And yet, somehow, it made her one of the best
among the huntresses. Her eagerness for pleasure, to provide it, to serve,
allowed her to take and bind monsters that would break the wills of other
huntresses. Those who sought to dominate the beasts they preyed upon. But
not Pata. No. She adored to serve. Delighted to be fucked and used. And that
made her more than ready to pleasure Xima. Pata hollowed her cheeks,
bobbing faster. Faster. More eager for the taste of the lamia’s essence.
Hungry for it. Oh she wanted that cum. She wanted it so bad.
“Oh yes. Yes! I’m close, my slut. My pretty huntress bitch. Oh gods.
Yes. Yes! Sssss! MNnnnn!”
The lamia hissed in delight, her cum spurting into the huntress’s
mouth. Pata moaned, unable to move, trapped, forced to swallow every spurt
of the monster’s seed.
Finally, with a gasp, Xima undulating, her cock popped free of Pata’s
lips, a thin strand of saliva connecting her to that blue shaft.
“Oh dear,” Xima crooned, her coils tightening, shifting, drawing Pata
once more upward, the monster’s cock sliding between the huntress’s breasts,
along her slim stomach. “I’m afraid you didn’t do quite enough, slut. I’m still
so hard and so. Fucking. Horny. However are we going to rectify this?”
Pata gasped as she felt the lamia’s cock tease her pussy, her cunt
slick and eager for a taste of the monster’s manhood. “O-oooh X-Xima…”
“Mmm? Do you like it, slut? Do you like getting fucked by a
monster?”
“Oh yesssss.”
Xima hissed in amusement. “Well, it just so happens I like fucking a
bitch of a huntress. How well it all works out.”
Her coils tightened.
Her cock slid inside Pata.
And she was in heaven.
“Ooooomphhhh!” Pata moaned, quivering in delight as that slick
shaft filled her rippling depths.
“Not so loud,” Xima purred as she pushed Pata’s head between her
plush tits, smothering the huntress’s moans of pleasure, feeling the heat of
her flush. Xima’s eyes fluttered in delight, teasing upward.
She met the eyes of Anda in the tree, the scarred huntress watching
the scene play out on the forest floor. Xima’s smirk widened, holding Anda’s
gaze as her coils quickened, thrusting more eagerly into her huntress slut.
Feeling Pata’s hot breath against her chest as she claimed the woman’s tight
cunt, feeling it ripple around her inhuman cock.
“Oooh yesss! My slut. Take it. Take my cock. Oh gods yes. I’m
gonna cum. Gonna fill you up, Pata. Are you ready? Is my huntress slut ready
to get stuffed with her mistress’s cum?”
“Mmm!”
“Good… ah… Nnnn!”
Xima threw back her head, baring her fangs as she came, her
reptilian cum pumping into Pata’s hungry cunny. “Yessss! Take it, slut! Take
my seed! Take my cum! Mmmnnn!”
The lamia felt Pata tighten her cunt tightening around the thrusting
shaft. Pata moaned into the lamia’s breasts, her orgasm surging through her
like white fire. Surrendering to the cum pumping into her cunt, her sensitive
breasts rubbed so wonderfully against the lamia’s scales.
Xima let out a heavy breath, relaxing her coils around the huntress.
Pata squirmed happily, letting out a soft sigh as the lamia’s reptilian cock
softened within her, withdrawing into Xima’s pelvic slit.
“Mmm. Not bad, slut,” Xima breathed, petting the blonde’s hair. “I
might just have to keep you.”
“Oh,” Pata giggled, nuzzling the serpent’s breasts. “If you insist.”
Xima hissed in amusement, her serpentine body wrapping around the
huntress happily. She stole another glance at the tree, but Anda had since
looked away. Xima smirked, letting her eye slide shut as she slowly drifted
away, contently wrapped around Pata, who soon joined her in an easy sleep.
The Mines
In the light of day, the walls of Tauven Mur were no more inviting
than they were at night. The ragged barrier of dark stone filled the divide
between the cliffs that nestled the town in a bulging line. Silence hung heavy
and forbidding over the city, filling the air with a hollow emptiness that
grated on Pata uncomfortably. She had known abandoned cities and towns
before in her work as a huntress, but Tauven Mur held a discomfort unlike
those abandoned ruins.
The others could feel it as well. Sanna had her saber in hand, the
buxom huntress scanning the buildings through deceptively lidded eyes.
Anda had drawn both her muskets and cocked the hammers back, the sound
clicking in the stillness uncomfortably.
“This place is cursed,” Xima said, the soft hiss of her scales on the
worn cobblestones seeping through the stillness.
“Spread out,” Sanna said. “The tracks of the refugees led here.
Perhaps some remain.”
“I doubt that,” Anda said before stalking away.
Pata nodded and moved off, shadowed by Xima. She slowly drew
her heavy sword, holding it at ease as she moved through the empty homes.
Windows stared down at her from rudely bricked dwellings. The whole place
had a cobbled together feeling that only made its abandonment more
pronounced.
She stopped halfway down an avenue and crouched, planting her
sword into the ground to steady herself. The dirt path she stood on didn’t
keep tracks long, but she could just make out the scuffing caused by many
feet, all the more evident for the lack of traffic long before. She lifted her
head, tracking the route of the road, spotting ahead a heavy stone building
nestled against the mountain.
“Gotcha,” Pata murmured, rising. She moved up the path and
towards the building. Heavy doors had been opened long before, letting the
daylight bleed through into a vast place. Mining carts lay on their sides or on
the tracks. The heavy, squat metal shapes of great forges took up a far wall in
dark, fat shapes. The air was faintly musty, a scent that tingled faintly on her
tongue in an uncomfortable way.
“What is that?” the huntress mused.
“Pata!”
The lamia’s hissing cry broke the stillness. Pata turned, the corner of
her eye catching something lunge for her from an abandoned forge. She
moved with all the grace of her training, her sword coming up, slicing a silver
arc. It caught the lunging creature, shearing it in half. Green ichor splattered
across the ground, the thing falling to the ground in two halves.
Pata remained, poised, blade ready for anything more. After a
moment of silence she slowly brought her blade to a more at rest position.
“Fetch the others, Xima.”
Xima was quick. Within five minutes the other two huntresses
arrived. Anda drew back at the sight of the black thing on the ground. Sanna,
however, had no such qualms. She frowned and knelt before the fallen
creature, turning it over with the tip of her saber. Black chitin ran over its
form, its spidery limbs curling up with death. It had no face, but did sport a
round, sucking mouth filled with teeth.
“What is it?” Pata asked the older huntress.
“Anorax,” Sanna said grimly.
“Anorax?” Anda said. “Never heard of it.”
“Little surprise. They are a creature long thought extinct,” Sanna
said. She prodded the lower half of the creature, and Pata grimaced as a pale
ovipositor slipped free, the rear of the creature thick with pale eggs. “A hive
monster, they used to find abandoned places and set up their lairs. Birthing
hordes of their hideous kin. Always based around a queen, but their race
found that the wombs of women could be used to accelerate their breeding.”
Anda shuddered. “Monsters,” she spat.
“Indeed. They have three stages. A grub form who exude an
intoxicating miasma. One which instills in a woman an intoxicating need for
breeding. What Pata slew was the second stage. Their beetle-like form. These
may mate with women as well but are easy to slay. Their only strength is in
their swarming. And the third…”
“Third?”
Sanna nodded. “The third is a combat species. Huge with raking
claws and scything blades. Their purpose is to guard the nest. And, if
necessary, seize new prey from beyond so the hive can feed as well as fetch
new breeders.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Anda.
Sanna’s gaze remained focused down into the darkness of the tunnel,
lips drawn in a tight line. “This explains much. Their queens refuse to bow to
another. One of them would never serve the Duke of Ashes.”
“But the magic nullifier is down there?” Anda said.
“It is. So, we must venture into their nest.”
The elder huntress dug into her belt and fetched out three phials.
“Here,” she said, handing two to the other huntresses. “These will aid us in
seeing in the dark beneath the earth. Pata was quick with her blade, but its
death may have warned the rest. We dare not wait.”
Pata drank the potion, grimacing at its bitter taste. “Are we ready for
this?” she asked.
“We never know until it’s too late,” Sanna said. “Now, let’s go. And
be on your guard. We walk into the belly of the beast.”
Pata readied her blade and Anda her pistols. As one, the group
moved forward, and into the darkness of the mine.
Beneath the Earth

Sanna took the lead, the elder huntress accustomed to the role. The
potion did its work quickly, her eyes adjusting to the pitch darkness beneath
the earth, still dim, but she saw the world as if it were wrapped in twilight.
She held her saber at the ready, her hair tingling across her skin as she
focused on the path ahead. She could feel the air grow warmer. Her nose
twitched as she scented the miasma of the anorax. The sickly-sweet smell.
Even knowing what it was and could do, she couldn’t help but feel its sordid
influence tease along her body. Warm her chest and tingle in her thick
nipples. Gods. She could feel a faint dampness. Was she lactating again? It
had been so long…
She remembered her children well. How could she not? After all, it
had been for the huntresses of Ctharne that she had allowed herself to be
bred.
Gods but she remembered those days. The strangeness of the
creatures. When Penelope and her sister had retaken the isle, many of the
women saved had already been taken by the monsters of the isle. Filled with
their foul spawn. From them, many of the creatures that now roamed Ctharne
had spread. Some of their offspring, it was even rumored, had been inducted
as huntresses. Those who had enough of a human guise to pass through the
world, yet carried some markers and strengths of their inhuman sires. Such
was one of the huntress’s most closely guarded secrets.
Sanna’s own young had been among them. Many times had she
descended into the dungeons where creatures had been kept. Monsters whose
spawn could yet be used. How she had shed her gown and stepped within
reach of the shackles. Her fertile form, full breasts and ample hips had
tempted those brutes beyond their normal bloodlust. Inspiring in them a more
sordid hunger. How she’d gasped as their rude hands had gripped her.
Groped her. Kneaded her full breasts and their milky bounty. Forced her to
her knees, and claimed her.
She shivered. The many strange cocks she’d taken. Gertlings and
orcs and far stranger still. Her ample curves bred. Her stomach swelling with
the spawn of savage creatures. Every huntress knew such pleasure. For it was
their means. Their weapons against the creatures. Desire was but another tool
in their arsenals, and a reason man could never wield the sort of power they
did.
Sanna licked her lips. Two damp spots had begun to form against her
shirt. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing.
And never saw the pit until she stepped into it.
She gave a sharp cry as she fell, the world suddenly vanishing
beneath her.
“Sanna!” Pata cried in shock. Anda cursed.
Training saved her. She reacted faster than humanly possible. She
spun and kicked off the side of the wall. She tumbled through the air, hitting
the ground, but the momentum of the descent was broken, and she rolled onto
her back with a gasp.
Pain lanced through her shoulder. She winced, grabbing it. Sprained.
A small price to pay.
“Sanna! Are you alright!”
Sanna looked up. She hadn’t realized how far she’d gone. The echoes
of Pata’s cries died slowly, and Sanna raised her free hand and made a quick
sign.
Safe.
Anda leaned over the ledge and signed back. Rescue?
Sanna looked at the walls of the tunnel she’d fallen down. Too far for
any rope they carried. She moved her hand quickly. No. Continue task. Meet
up.
Anda nodded. Her face vanished, no doubt to speak to Pata. Sanna
sighed and looked about her. She seemed to have fallen down to a lower
tunnel. How low she couldn’t say. She may have hit bedrock here.
And the scent was far stronger now.
It wafted like an almost physical thing. Thick and pungent. She felt it
stick to her like humidity, which made her realize just how terribly hot it was
down there. She felt sweat prickle down her back, between her breasts and
the gentle curves of her plush bottom. She wiped her face and chose to move
forward. If she intended to meet with the other two, she’d need to go that
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All this time the castaways lay off, waiting to see the last of the
burning ship.
Suddenly Jim sprang to his feet, shouting excitedly,
"She's going! she's going!"
Slowly the Ocmulgee lifted her stern into the air; her weather-worn
rudder rose dripping from the ocean; then her keel showed, foot by
foot, draped with long streamers of seaweed, as if with a shroud.
She gave a heavy lurch forward, a plunge, and was gone, leaving
nothing but a swirling eddy of tossing white water.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] "Goodbye" (Samoan).
CHAPTER IV
"THE OPEN BOAT"
Morning broke and showed the whaleboat floating a mere speck
upon the heaving blue of the Pacific.
At daylight they hoisted the lugsail, and steered north-east before a
fresh south-westerly breeze, heading for Pitcairn Island.
Jack, with pencil and paper, worked out his dead reckoning, and
calculated the distance to the island; but his great hope was being
picked up by a passing vessel, as he was so uncertain about his
longitude.
Having got his position to the best of his ability, he arranged a scale
and regular allowance of food and water, which he personally served
out, the others trusting themselves entirely to his judgment.
The whaleboat darted swiftly and buoyantly over the long swell,
making good northing, and all hands were in cheerful spirits.
Lobu, who seemed quiet enough again, was allowed to have his
hands free; but one ankle was padlocked to a thwart, whilst all
weapons were removed from within his reach.
He sat silent and meditative in the bottom of the boat, gazing intently
at his little black tiki which Tari, with kindly forethought, had removed
from the ill-fated Ocmulgee.
Aft sat Jack, the steering-oar in his hand, a boat's compass between
his feet, whilst Broncho and Jim reclined at their ease against the
stroke thwart, and Tari slumbered peacefully at full length in the
bows.
Four days passed thus peacefully, and then the good south-west
wind slackened, wavered, and finally died away, leaving the
whaleboat floating motionless on the long, never-ceasing Pacific
swell.
The sun shone fiercely with an eye-wearying glare; a thickness of
steamy mist gathered and obscured the horizon. The atmosphere
was heavy and suffocating, with a moist heat; the sky was a pale
sickly blue, and the deep stillness grew oppressive and aroused a
feeling of depression and apprehension.
The castaways lay silent. Not a breath stirred the air; everything
seemed motionless with the exception of the long, stately swell of
the restless ocean.
Suddenly the universal quiet was broken. Over the water came the
quaint wild cry of a Mother Carey's chicken, and two or three of
these small flitters were perceived hovering around.
"Mebbe there's some island hereabouts with them birds so handy,"
suggested Broncho, aroused out of his lethargy by the queer note.
"I'm afraid not," replied Jack. "I don't like to hear a Mother Carey's
chicken give tongue, though; it generally means a long spell of calm
weather."
"Why, oughtn't we to pick up the south-east trades directly?" inquired
Jim.
"Never can tell nowadays; we may have more than we want of the
doldrums. The current seems to be setting us to the westward, also."
"It certainly is some lackin' in wind," muttered Broncho sleepily, as he
stretched himself in the shade of the sail for a snooze.
The drowsy afternoon passed slowly. Forward the two Islanders
slept peacefully; Jim nodded, curled up against the rover's knees;
and the latter sat idly handling the steering-oar, puffing meditatively
at his pipe. Only the wild cry of the restless harbingers of calm broke
the stillness.
Occasionally a flight of startled flying-fish burst forth from beneath
the shadow of the whaleboat, and, skipping along the surface,
presently plunged out of sight again with tiny splashes.
Once a line of porpoises passed, leaping forth each in turn with
steady regularity, their polished black bodies gleaming as they
curved in and out.
Slowly the sun approached the horizon and the darkness crept over
the east. Still not a breath of air moved.
Two long scorching days passed, and still they lay becalmed. Even
the swell had subsided, and the ocean resembled a vast sheet of
quivering glass. Things began to look serious.
The water was running low. Jack had had to cut down the
allowances to half a pint per diem, and the dread torment of thirst
was beginning to take hold of them.
The close heat was becoming unbearable, and the air stifling with
the damp steaminess of a hothouse.
The castaways lay panting, and though dry and parched within,
without they streamed with moisture.
The three whites in their shirt-sleeves, and with ducks or dungarees
rolled up to their knees, were tanned as dark as the Kanakas, and
their hard-worked muscles strained beneath the shrinking skin,
giving their arms and legs the yellow gloss of burnished copper.
Jim tried to whistle for a breeze, but his tongue was too swollen from
want of water, and the undaunted boy gave it up with a careless
laugh.
"My penny whistle wants oiling," he said.
"I reckons we all want lubricatin' some," observed Broncho. "I
shudders when I thinks of all the nosepaint I've put into my system
so careless an' easy, without the remotest idees of what you-alls call
economy or thrift."
"Don't talk about it," grunted Jack, with a queer grin. "I'm thinking of
all the fresh-water baths I've had."
Undismayed, they joked lightly in the face of a terrible death, though
each word was a stab in the throat and their voices grew huskier and
weaker every minute.
"Speakin' o' baths," pursued Broncho, "I callate I'll take a swim right
here. Mebbe the liquid is due to ooze through my hide an' lay the
dust some, even if it ain't deep enough to drown a mosquito."
Jack silently pointed over the quarter to where the long fin of a shark
was visible, almost motionless in the water.
"Third day he's been there," muttered the boy, with an irrepressible
shudder.
"Soaking one's clothes is a small relief. Let's fill one of the empty
breakers," proposed Jack.
"Shower baths! That's a jimdandy idee," said the cowpuncher
approvingly.
They were soon scattering salt water over each other, and after this
they found some small comfort by keeping their clothes wet.
The following night Lobu broke loose from his padlock, and springing
to his feet with a blood-curdling yell, dived overboard, and started
swimming up the shining wake of the moonlight.
"Out oars and after him!" cried Jack, springing to the stroke thwart
and shipping the long, pliant ash-stick.
Tari ran the other oar out, and before Broncho had struggled clumsily
to his feet, the two were pulling strongly after the madman.
"Sit down, you two," called Jack calmly. "We'll catch him."
But even as he spoke there rang out a wild shriek, and the next
moment the boat was floating over a swirl of troubled water, which
gradually grew still again; but the white sheen of the moonlight was
mingled with the red of poor Lobu's blood.
"The shark!" gasped Jim in horror, and broke into the wild, sobbing
laughter of hysteria, which shook his poor little frame in sudden pitiful
jerks.
Jack bent down and tenderly lifted the boy on to the thwart alongside
him, and putting his strong arm round him, held the twitching hands
in a grip of iron.
Ha! ha! ha! ran the wild hoarse laughter, echoing through the still
tropical night, and followed abruptly by long, choking sobs, which
burst broken and husky from the dried-up throat.
The big brown eyes grew glassy with a fixed, unconscious stare; the
laughter died down into whispered chuckling horrible to hear; foam
gathered on the lips, which bared clenched teeth, and the whole
small body shook as if with ague.
"Water, quick!" cried the rover.
"Him de las'!" said Tari quietly, as he handed across a pannikin half
full of muddy fluid.
The breaker was empty.
"It may save the boy's life—he's not as strong as us men," pleaded
Jack. "It's only his wonderful pluck that's kept him up as long as this;
if his nerves go, he's done. We're strong; we can pull through, but
the boy can't. May I give it him—it's his last chance?"
"Why, you durned old chipmunk," broke in Broncho half angrily,
"d'you think Tari and I are sech low-down, ornery cattle as to up an'
jump Jim's claim that-away."
"No dam fear! Oh hellee, no," jerked out the heroic Kanaka,
vehemently in his turn.
"Thank you, boys," returned Jack; "I didn't mean to insult you."
"Put it in the diskyard," spoke forth Broncho, with one of his
expressive poker slang expressions.
Tari remained silent, gazing, with his handsome but disfigured
features full of pity and concern, as Jack, forcing open the clenched
teeth, slowly trickled the precious water down the unconscious boy's
blackened throat.
The effect was instantly perceptible. With a deep sigh and a
relaxation of his rigid limbs, Jim rallied, and consciousness crept into
his haggard eyes.
"Where am I?" he stuttered faintly.
"It's all right, old son," declared Broncho cheerily. "You just lie quiet
an' slumber some."
Jim looked wonderingly round at the three faces, and then a wave of
remembrance swept over him.
"Poor Lobu!" he murmured.
"Lucky Lobu!" said Jack to himself, thinking of the slow, suffering
death from thirst which probably awaited them.
"Now, Jim," he continued aloud, "you've got to turn in. It's your watch
below."
"We'll all be on watch below soon, I suppose," said the boy slowly, in
a low tone.
"Me tink rain to-mollah!" suddenly put in Tari. The Kanaka knew well
that the sky never looked more settled and less like rain, but with
kindly nature he tried to instil hope.
Broncho, sitting in the stern, looked at the Marquesan and slowly
lowered his left eyelid.
"You bet Tari's right. I sorter feels somehow as if we're goin' to have
a regular deluge. These here tropical downfalls is that swift an'
powerful, they're liable to swamp the boat a whole lot," he remarked,
with the quiver of a smile.
Jim lay back on the blankets, but his nerves had been too shaken for
sleep; and, as Jack watched the boy's wide-open, feverish eyes,
staring vacantly at the brilliant lamps of heaven, he shook his head
sadly. Then, determined to prevent the boy from pondering on their
gloomy future, he began to relate the story of the heavens in a low,
husky voice; and so successful was he with his old legends, that for
the greater part of the night he had Jim and Broncho listening with
eager attention, wholly oblivious of their desperate position as they
searched the skies for a particular constellation, and then drank in
Jack's half-forgotten classic yarns.
The sun rose, a great red ball, into the unhealthy blue of the
heavens, and found the castaways nearer their end.
All through that baking day Jim rambled in the realms of fancy,
speaking so thickly in his sufferings that the disjointed, wandering
sentences could not be understood.
Tari lay motionless and resigned. Jack and Broncho conversed
occasionally upon their position with slow, difficult words.
Though a certain amount of salt junk and hard-tack still remained,
Jack did not attempt to serve it out, as suffering from thirst as they
were, it would have been impossible to swallow any solid.
Towards sundown, after a long silence during which even the
babbled mutterings of the poor boy had been inaudible, Broncho,
lying in the bottom of the boat, croaked out to Jack, who sat stubborn
and erect in the sternsheets, his emaciated hand still gripping the
useless steering-oar:
"Say, old son, the deal's near finished. Jim's about through, an' I'm
feelin' pretty near the 'Adios!' myself. I guess our last chip will be
raked in before maunin'. So long, if my senses jump the track an' go
stampedin' off in the night."
"Die hard, Broncho!" was all the other replied, but he shut a pair of
swollen lips with a snap of determination, and his eyes shone with
the bravery of his spirit.
Then, letting go of the steering-oar, he took the sheath-knife from his
belt, and slowly cut a notch in the stock of his revolver, which was
still slung at his hip as he had hurriedly slipped it on when leaving
the barque.
"This makes the eighth day," he muttered.
"Bite on the bullet, Broncho. We're not beaten yet," he said aloud;
and called to the Kanaka, "How you, Tari?"
"Dam fine."
But the weakness of the voice gave the lie to the brave words.
Of the castaways, Jack seemed to be the strongest. Whether it was
due to his indomitable spirit or his wonderful endurance, he certainly
bore up better than the others.
Rising slowly and somewhat unsteadily to his feet, he peered round
the shining horizon; then, dipping a pannikin over the side, he began
pouring the refreshing liquid over the three prone forms—first
soaking Jim and Broncho as they lay together amidships, and then
crawling forward and performing the like service on Tari.
"T'ank you, my pleni" whispered the tender-hearted Marquesan,
pressing his cracked lips to the rover's hand.
Jack's eyes grew very bright at the warm proof of affection.
"Tiakapo, Tari," he said softly in the Gilbert dialect, gripping the
Kanaka's brown fist.
He did not like to say goodbye, but he felt that this was the last time
his strength would allow him to come forward.
"Moee-moee ariana!" ("Go to sleep by-and-by!"), said Tari meaningly
in Tahitian, and then very softly he muttered the Samoan goodbye,
"To fa!"
The sun set in a blaze of colour, and darkness rushed upon them.
Soon the lamps of heaven began to sparkle forth in all their brilliancy,
and Jove's great binnacle-light, the silver moon, appeared above the
horizon.
With the exception of poor Jim, who babbled hoarsely with but small
intervals of silence, the occupants of the boat lay motionless, quiet
and still, breathing with difficulty through their blackened, dried-up
throats.
Jack alone still sat erect, grasping the oar.
During the earlier part of the night, Broncho, unable to withstand the
temptation any longer, had surreptitiously been dipping a finger over
the side and then sucking it.
Then for some time he lay still in the bottom of the boat by the side
of the unconscious boy, too weak and exhausted to raise himself.
Suddenly, about midnight, he sprang to his feet, shouting with
delirium, and caused the boat to rock violently.
Jack staggered up and grasped hold of the madman, fearing that he
would fall overboard, and Tari made a gallant attempt to crawl aft
from his position in the bows, but fell back overcome by sheer
weakness.
"Steady, old man, steady!" called the rover, in his thick, hoarse voice.
"Lemme go, lemme go!" shrieked the madman, "an' I shorely
devastates this hold-up a whole lot. He's a size too small for game
like me"; and hurling Jack to one side, he drew his revolver and
plumped all six shots at an imaginary foe, whom he seemed to see
out on the placid waters of the great Pacific.
"Ah, I reckon I perforates his innards some that time," he continued,
and broke into a horrible, blood-freezing chuckle.
Then, as suddenly as he had broken out, the cowpuncher became
quiet again, and, seating himself on the midship thwart, idly started
to twiddle his empty six-shooter round his forefinger, whilst Jack
watched him with anxious eyes.
Presently he moved again, and crouched down cautiously in the
bottom of the boat, taking infinite care to keep under the shelter of
the boat's side, as if fearing an attack of some sort from the sea.
Then, clutching Jack by the arm, he pointed out to starboard with his
cocked revolver.
"The Apaches, Jack!" he whispered, "the Apaches!"
"They're only squaws and papooses," said Jack quietly, wishing to
humour him.
"Squaws an' papooses? Air you locoed? Why, they're all bucks an'
out on the war-path! Chucks! thar's nothin' peaceful about them
redskins; they're painted for war an' is shore out for blood."
"Perhaps you're right, Broncho," returned Jack, in his weak voice.
"We'll lie low below these rocks," pointing to the boat's side. "They'll
go right by us if we lie quiet."
"That's the only play, I allow," assented the cowpuncher as he lay
motionless alongside Jim. "Though if they hit our trail," he continued,
indicating the path of the moon, "which our tracks is easy for a
twelve-moon babe to read, they won't give no notice, but just jump in
with war-whoops and bullets toomultuous, which same deal is mighty
likely to relieve us of our scalps complete."
Then he relapsed into silence, concentrating all his attention upon
the imaginary Apaches, as he crouched in supposed concealment
beside Jim, the empty revolver in his hand.
So the night wore on. Jim rambled with husky whispers as he tossed
restlessly, unheeded by the light-headed cowpuncher, who
occasionally communed with himself in a hoarse undertone.
"Thar's that ha'r-brained shorthorn Derringer Jack juttin' his chunky
body over the skyline. Some gents ain't got the savvy of a pra'rie-
dog, but I always allowed Jack had sense enough to come in out o'
the wet, though he's some prone to overplay his hand by prancin'
into trouble too gay an' heedless."
A grim smile crossed the face of the rolling-stone as he listened.
For a few minutes Broncho remained silent, then broke out again
oracularly with the single sentence,
"Let every gent skin his own eel!"
Then all of a sudden he thought he was out on the plains again,
vainly trying to stop a cattle-stampede.
"Turn that muley, Texas; throw a gun in his face! Hey, you point-men,
what in hell'r you doin'? Hold 'em, can't you? Now, Larry, stop actin'
smart like a fool-kid. Jump in an' hustle. This here's the hell of a run!
Ride, boys, an' drift 'em together!"
Broncho was back again, the hard-working foreman of a trail outfit.
"Jimminy! here's a mesquite thicket!" he went on, and bending his
head low between his shoulders, he clasped the thwart with both
arms; for a second he remained thus, and then rambled on:
"This here star-faced sorrel is shore burnin' the earth, he's that
speedy. Whar's that chuck wagon, I wonder? The herd's some
scattered. Dick's down! Poor old Dick! The old passel of 'em right
over him—nothin' left but blood an' mush, same as that Bee County
Texan last fall. That's shore a raw deal for a cowman."
Again he was silent, then shouted wildly,
"Rowel an' quirt, boys, rowel an' quirt!"
Suddenly Tari's hoarse voice broke in from forward:
"Big rain come soon!"
The Kanaka was right. A large black cloud was coming swiftly up
astern, which had not been noticed by Jack, taken up as he was by
Broncho's ravings.
Hastily Jack and Tari with weak, desperate efforts managed to
spread a sail to catch the precious fluid.
Jack gently pushed Broncho to one side, but this roused the
madman's ire.
"If you reckons I allows a pullet like you to come man-handlin' me,
you're shore saddlin' the wrong hoss. No deadbeat ain't goin' to
come pawin' this longhorn 'less he's organised for war instanter——"
"Only me, Broncho! Don't you know Derringer Jack?" broke in that
worthy sadly.
The delirious man stared wildly.
"Jack!" he muttered. "Why, it's Jack!" Then, overcome by the growing
weakness, he sank back in the bottom of the boat, but he never took
his haggard eyes from the rover.
The tropical squall approached rapidly; the stars faded away before
it, as it climbed the heavens; then, with a burst of wind, the rain fell
upon the boat's crew and lashed the calm sea into white as it
pounded all around them.
In a moment all hands were soaked, and Jack and Tari, refreshed
and wonderfully strengthened, were soon busy pouring the life-giving
liquid down the parched throats of the two delirious ones.
When day broke the boat was running northward before a light
breeze, and both the boy and Broncho had recovered their senses
again. The water-breakers had all been filled, and a small quantity of
beef and biscuit served out by Jack. A renewed cheerfulness
prevailed, and a hopeful confidence that they would win through
animated all.
Broncho, on being told of his night's behaviour, was very disgusted
with himself.
"The way I conducts myself was shore scandalous," he remarked
with keen self-reproach, "not to say low an' ornery. I'm plumb
'umiliated with my outrageous goin's on. Whyever didn't you down
me, Jack? A man as weakens that-away an' goes locoed when
things merely seems a bit rocky ain't worthy to live," and he gave a
long grunt of contempt.
"Why, this here piccannine, Jim," he went on, "has more sense an
puts me to shame. He ain't that pifflin' an' foolish as to go shootin' up
spectres, not to speak of scarin' the whole outfit with delusions about
Apaches an' cattle stampedes."
And Broncho relapsed into silence. He was indeed sore about his
short spell of delirium, which he considered as a sign of want of grit
on his part, and nothing the others could say seemed to comfort him.
Presently, as Jack notched his revolver for another day, the
cowpuncher observed with keen irony against himself:
"Put away your weepon, Jack, or I'm liable to emit a screech at the
sight tharof, and drop off into a swound, like a female I meets up with
in Dodge one time, when I, aimin' to be polite, pulls out my six-
shooter an' hands it to her, thinkin' mebbe she'd like to overhaul it
like them towerist folks does, an' perhaps try a shot at the telegraph
post in front of the Long Branch Saloon, which same post is that full
o' lead I wonders it remains erect."
As the sun approached the meridian the light breeze died away,
burnt up by the fierce heat of the tropical rays.
The sail was spread and lashed to four upright oars as an awning,
and beneath its grateful shade the four castaways dozed through the
afternoon.
After the scanty evening meal, still very weak and worn, though
much revived and strengthened, Tari, Broncho, and Jim lay down on
the blankets which covered the floorboards, and, protected from the
glare of the moon by the sail, fell into a deep, heavy sleep, whilst
Jack sat in his usual position in the sternsheets. For some time he
lost himself in dismal reverie, and gave himself up to that deep
melancholy which seemed to attack his courage at times, and
brought that look of weary hopelessness to his face, so strangely at
variance with the whole tenor of his nature. Often had his observant
friend, the cowboy, noticed these fits of sadness in his friend, and
wondered what was the cause of them. Some time in his past the
rolling-stone had been badly knocked over, argued Broncho, and the
wound was still unhealed; it was the only explanation he could
imagine to account for this awful depression which weighed upon his
friend.
However, whatever it was which weighed so heavily upon the rover's
mind, it was presently overcome by a drowsiness born of lack of
sleep. His gloomy reflections merged into dreams, his head dropped
back against the gunwale, and, in a position in which only a sailor
could, he slept.
But, alas! his face lay outside the protection of the sail, and the full
strength of the moonbeams fell upon his closed eyelids.
CHAPTER V
"THE SPELL OF THE MOON"
Dawn broke, and the sun rose into the windless sky and turned the
vast blue of the ocean into a glittering sheen, which it hurt the eyes
to look upon.
Of the sleepers, Tari was the first to rouse himself, and as he gained
his feet and took an eager glance round the horizon, Broncho and
Jim awoke, but Jack slept on.
"Don't wake him," said Broncho in a low tone. "Rest is shore needful
to Jack after the way I disturbs his slumbers lately with my rediclous,
rannikaboo idees on the subjects of holdups an' Apaches."
So Jack was allowed to remain huddled up on the after-thwart in the
uncomfortable position in which he had fallen asleep.
Broncho served out the rations, and whilst they munched their hard-
tack Jack stirred and opened his eyes.
"Awake, are you, old son?" remarked the cowpuncher heartily;
"you've had a jimdandy sleep. Here's your chuck all ready for you,"
and he passed over Jack's allowance.
"By Jove! It's dark!" exclaimed the latter; "but why are you fellows
having your chow in the middle of the night?"
"Middle of the night——" began Broncho, and then stopped, a look
of consternation in his eyes.
"My God! he's off his head!" whispered Jim.
"Never seen such a dark night," went on Jack. "Can't see a yard!"
Then, as he felt the warm rays of the sun on his face, "Why, what's
happened? Where are you all?"
Slowly the terrible truth broke upon him. For a long minute no one
spoke, whilst Jack fought with all his courage and strength of will
against an overpowering desire to give way and break down.
This last calamity, coming on top of all the late trials, threatened to
overcome his iron nerves, which, sorely tried and weakened by
anxiety and privation, were strained to their utmost.
In silence he sat, shaking all over as if with ague, the others
watching him with fixed, blank, expressionless eyes, as if
hypnotised.
Not a muscle moved amongst the three onlookers of this cruel
struggle.
No sound was heard but the lapping of the water against the boat's
side and the creaking of the steer-oar in its crutch, jerked by the
fierce grip of Jack's shaking right hand.
Presently he spoke, slowly and deliberately, pronouncing each word
with care in the great effort to keep his voice steady.
"Boys, I'm blind, stone-blind!"
"Hell!" ejaculated Broncho, with a long breath, and there was a world
of feeling in the utterance of that one word.
Suddenly Jim broke down and burst into long, deep sobs, which
shook his little body fiercely as they tore themselves forth.
Then Tari, the poor savage, sprang forward, and kneeling at the blind
man's feet, seized his hand, patting and caressing it.
"You no mind, Jack. Me your pleni, me your dog, my eyes good, see
dam long way. Me see for you, me look eberywhere, all-e-way you
want; tell you what Tari see, then you no want eyes."
"It's all right, boys," said Jack cheerfully, the sound of Jim's sobs and
Tari's low pleading acting like a tonic on his manhood. "It's all right. I
guess I'm moon-struck, that's all; it's my own fault—I fell asleep in
the full glare of the moon. Don't you worry, boys, it'll pass off in a few
days."
"Ain't thar no remedy for this here malady?" inquired Broncho. "It's a
cinch we-alls ain't goin' to allow this here dissolute moon to deal
sech a low-flung play without coppering his bet. He ain't goin' to bluff
us on sech a debased an' dark-evolvin' deal without bein' raised to
the limit. I propose we-alls has a powwow as to how to euchre his
little game."
"There's no remedy that I ever heard of," said Jack meditatively, in a
low, quiet voice.
"Every disease leaves a trail, an' it's by scoutin' along that trail that
we-alls hits the remedy," declared Broncho. "Mebbe your eyes is
some painful, Jack?"
"Only a very slight throbbing."
"Can you locate this here throbbin'?"
"Seems to be along my eyebrows."
"What for of a play would it be if we-alls ropes an' ties down these
throbbin's you mentions with a bandage o' sorts?"
"Might try a cold-water bandage," returned Jack doubtfully, "though
I'm afraid only time will cure me."
"As to cold water, that's some difficult to round up, bein' most scarce
as ice on this range. Why, this here ocean's as warm as new cow's
milk."
"How about a hot-water bandage?" put in Jim, who was listening
eagerly to the cowboy's proposals.
"Why, thar you euchre me again, son. We-alls can't light a camp-fire
to heat a billy in this here boat; it's liable to bust the bottom out o'
her."
Eventually Broncho, tearing off some strips from a flannel shirt,
dipped them over the side till they were well soaked, and then bound
them X-fashion across Jack's eyebrows.
"It's a poor hand," muttered the cowboy, "but we plays it for all it's
worth."
Jack was made to lie down on the blankets under the awning, and all
three vied with each other to make him as comfortable as possible.
The blindness made the strong man feel as helpless as a child.
Jack's captaincy was over and he became a passenger in the boat,
whilst Broncho took his place.
The cowboy, seated in the sternsheets, talked without ceasing in the
desire to keep Jack from brooding. He recalled cunningly many a
mirth-provoking experience which the two had gone through together
in the past, and again and again he had his audience laughing
uproariously at some quaint yarn. Even Tari, who understood very
little of Broncho's queer cowboy and poker slang, joined in with a
will.
"Do you mind how that tenderfoot Britisher downs Texas out with the
U-bar outfit last fall, Jack?"
The cowpuncher stopped and smiled meditatively.
"Yes," he went on, addressing himself to the Kanaka, "Britishers is
shore oncertain in their play a whole lot. As I daresay you-all notes,
Tari, they mostly acts contrary to all idees o' wisdom, an' yet wins
through on the game, an' it's a mighty difficult proposeetion to locate
their play or cinch on to their system.
"Jack's British an' so's Jim; but they've trailed around that wide-
spread through diff'rent countries that thar ain't much o' the Old
Country paint an' varnish left on 'em. It all don' get rubbed off.
"I meets up with a pretty hefty mob o' Britishers, moseyin' 'round one
way an' another. Some's green an' juicy, an' that tender you'd think
they didn't oughter ha' left their mammy's apron-strings. But them
shorthorns don' never pan out jest how you-alls imagines. They
interdooces new idees into the play. It ain't all bluff, neither, an' as
they accoomilates wisdom an' absorbs the many an' variegated
systems in which life is played, they frequent emerges tharfrom as
hard as granite and as knowin' an' crafty as a she-grizzly.
"When I paws back in my mem'ry I rec'llects quite a corralful o'
strange plays these here British shorthorns makes.
"One I minds spechul; he's no more'n a kid, his eye-teeth bein'
hardly growed. It's San Antonio whar he butts in on the scenery,
w'arin' dude clo'es an' lookin' that soft and innocent I'm mighty
dubious 'bout his not meltin' into a cawpse 'less he pulls his freight
for milder climes. But I notes a clean-strain look in his eye, kinder
open an' free like'n eagle's, which same eye gives me a faint surmise
as how he ain't so tender and lamblike as he appears.
"I runs agin this here shorthorn first, a-takin' a pasear in his dude
clo'es. Next I meets up with him over a faro game, an' I sees he has
the fever on him shore 'nuff; his eyes is a-glitterin' an' his jaw
clenched like he's desp'rate. He shore loses a heap, an' I notes his
war-bags a-saggin' in and in, till presently they is plumb empty an'
devoid of contents entire. Then he r'ars up on his hind-laigs, gives a
laugh 'most like a wolf-howl, an' vamooses.
"'Bout an hour later he swarms in on the scenery again, but he's a
mighty dissolute lookin' hobo now. His dude clo'es is gone—I
reckons he's done pawned 'em—an' he's a-caperin' 'round in a p'ar
o' overalls, nought but squares o' variegated colours wi' patchin', an'
a shirt which is 'most all ventilation. He's bar'-foot an' bar'-headed.
"Wall, this here youthful scarecrow wanders kinder thoughtful up to
the kyard-sharp who deals the faro game which roped in his dinero,
an' slammin' down a twenty-dollar gold-touch, allows he'll cut kyards
for it.
"That 'ere kyard-sharp kinder smiles slow an' satisfied, like a wolf wi'
a strayed calf or a b'ar wi' honey, an' then cold-decks him some
careless an' easy.
"But the boy cinches on to his play; his eyes sparkle, an' he cuts
loose some loud an' fierce:
"'You're a damned cheat!'
"The faro-sharp ain't fretted none. He jest pulls his Colt an' p'ints it
'cross the layout, sayin' sorter glacial-like:
"'Do you-alls savvy the meanin' o' that word. Mebbe bein' some
recent an' ignorant o' manners, you don't.' He pauses an' takes a
chew slow an' delib'rate, his gun still p'inting in a line wi' that British
infant's breastbone; then he resoomes, frownin' f'rocious an' grittin'
his teeth: 'Wall, I aims to larn you. Car'less words is the downfall o'
many, an' has to be c'rrected, or are liable to breed trouble. That
word you-alls uses means "Death" in Texas.'
"But the boy, who I can see is some fretted an' impatient, breaks in
here with his queer coyote laugh; then, flingin' himself forward over
the layout, he rams his forehead plumb up agin the cold muzzle o'
that Colt, and warbles out soft an' sweet like he's some pleased wi'
himself:
"'I say you're a d——d cheat!'
"Great snakes an' creepin' reptiles! But it were a nervy play to make!
"The silence is that thick you-alls could pick it up an' chew it, an' you
could hear the flies walkin' about! We mavericks who has the front
stalls even cinches on to our breath an' corrals it in our innards, till
we're as distended an' blown out as a dead steer in a coullee.
"An' the shorthorn shore bluffs this frothy kyard-sharp clean an' easy.
For a moment he looks kinder dubious an' mystified; then he lowers
his gun, kaufs up the Britisher's double-eagle, an' chucks it over to
him, a-sayin':
"'Here's y'r dinero, an' I'm advisin' you, stranger, to pull your freight
an' git. You-alls is too d——d tough for Texas."
Broncho stopped, and then broke into a yarn which he told with
much droll solemnity, ending up with:
"This here's meant to be humourous. Mebbe it ain't, but it's allers
had humour cinched on to it an' it's got to be a custom, so I allows
we'll have to let it go at that, bein' as it's tagged an' labelled that-
away, though I shore reckons it's mighty grim an' doleful as a funny
play, and it more often has me winkin' water than throwin' off
onrestrained guffaws."
It was a gallant fight, this of the plucky cowboy, desperately pitting
old yarns and jokes against the present blackness; but through all
the laughter his serious, anxious eyes kept watching his blind
shipmate with an almost pitiful look.

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Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles

(Book Fifteen): Pleasure Hive of the

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Thirteen):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Twelve):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Four):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Eleven):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Nine):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Seven):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Eighteen):

Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles (Book Seventeen):

The time of monsters was said to be at an end.

It was madness to wander the woods of Istanov at night. Even before

Beneath the Earth

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