Date: Tue, 14 Apr 1998 14:15:40 -0700
From: The Bacchanalian <thebacchanalian@usa.net>
Subject: "Estivation" (Chapter III of The Histories of the Seven Spheres)

A Note on Responses:  If responses to this story warrant it; another story
set in the same world may be forthcoming.  However, stories cannot exist in
a vacuum!  If you liked the story and would like to see more like it, to
have to write the author and tell he or she what you thought of it.

A Note on Continuity:  The sequence of stories in this series (The Histories
of the Seven Spheres) thus far is "Infiltration," then "Bifurcation," and
then this story, "Estivation."  There will likely be more stories
forthcoming in this series.  If you have a direction you want to see it go
in, please send me an e-mail and let me know.

The Usual Warning:  This story contains images of graphic sex between males.
 It may be illegal in your state or country to view such materials, often
based upon your age.  Please proceed only if you are legally permitted and
desire to view such materials.  You have been warned.

"Estivation"
written by the Bacchanalian
-04/14/98-

The Histories of the Seven Spheres - chapter III

 The sun beat down on the ramparts of the mighty stronghold, and the
cloudless sky gave a visibility therefrom of hundreds of kilometers.  It was
an elven stronghold, built by their master artisans and hewn from the very
living stone of the mountain itself.  It could almost have blended into the
gray rock face, but it was not designed to be inconspicuous, it was designed
to be imposing and mighty, a pinnacle of rock hanging from the side of the
mountain and overlooking the lush valley below.  It was a watchful guardian,
casting its shadow over the trees and streams, and blocking the mountain
road with its great iron gates.  None could pass without the permission of
the those who held the fort.
 But the elves did not hold the fort.  They had once: they had built it,
maintained it, defended it, and ultimately lost it.  But now another force
lurked behind its stone walls, ate in its halls and slept in its beds.  It
had come like a demon in the night, marching into the valley, and come
daybreak, the stone fort of Ibistethlin had been besieged.  
 Of course, this was not any siege.  It was an orcish blockade, and few
survived those.  But this fort was no ordinary fort either:  it was
Ibistethlin, the shining star of the western front, which held the roads and
guarded the pass against enemy intrusion.  No siege could lay low the gates
of Ibistethlin, not even the ravages of the famed orcish army.  Not even
such an army under the most skilled commander would have broken such a
siege.
 And indeed, the siege was not broken.  The fort was surrendered, the elves
and scant human healers within taken prisoner and locked away in the
dungeons, and the orcs admitted into the courtyards that had never seen
their pale green visages before.  It was a glorious day for the orcish army,
for this battalion and for all of the nation.  And yet it seemed almost
hollow, for they has stormed the keep, or even starved its defenders from
the walls, but they had been invited in by a surrender, the gates thrown
open and the elves submissively capitulating.  It was vaguely unsatisfying.
 But soon this vague feeling of unrest faded away, giving way to the
accolades which went along with the capture of such an important fortress. 
The siege had been anticipated to last many moths, and thus the conquerors
had the opportunity to avail themselves of the difference in time for
recreation and relaxation from the continuing campaign.  It was a welcome
change, and would no doubt benefit the battalion as a whole once they were
all rested and prepared once more to march on.  But there were several
months still in which they could merely laze about, or go wandering, or
whatever they pleased.  And this sort of freedom was both rare and valuable
in the orcish armies.
 The summer months were just beginning as the orcish inhabiters set up camp
within the fort.  The officers commandeered the rooms in the fort, leaving
the infantrymen and other such soldiers to fend for themselves in the
courtyards, halls, and numerous other commons of the stronghold.  There was
more than enough room for all, although in a some cases space was a bit
tight.  But many orcs elected to take vacation from the rest during this
time, leaving an abundance of space and allowing everyone to enjoy their
stay far more.
 There was quite enough food in the fort itself, and the supply lines soon
caught up with the army, and with that the set up was complete.  They
received shipments of food every two weeks or so, which would keep them
quite sated throughout the lazy days of the summer.  The elvish armies were
detained on the other side of the county, fighting lycin invasions (rather
unsuccessfully) and there were enough lycin nearby that the elves would
surely find in them a more dangerous enemy to attack.  So there was no
anticipation of any attack on the captured fort.
 The prisoners were by and large treated fairly well (for prisoners)--they
were fed reasonably often, not maltreated (well, not as much as usual,
perhaps) and in general left to their own devices.  The gaolmasters' staff
was greatly reduced, thereby freeing more orcs up to depart from the fort. 
In the end, of the thirty-thousand men in the battalion which had entered
the fort, perhaps only half, about fifteen-thousand were left after a few
weeks; the rest would return at the end of the summer.  But the fort was
quiet and lazy, and those therein were most definitively on vacation.

*

Of course, for those normally accustomed to the ride of command and the
ongoing sense of accomplishment of war, the enforced sabbatical over the
long summer months was nothing short of a disaster.  Nevertheless, troop
morale was not something to be scoffed at nor taken lightly, and those who
might otherwise have protested the commander's decision to stay the summer
wisely kept their mouths shut.  
 However, few could--or would--guess that the commander who had so
resolutely stood when giving those orders wanted to be moving on as ardently
as the next orc.  But he had not acted rashly, insensibly, or even from a
desire to raise troop morale, as so many others had supposed.  He knew what
few else did:  that the lycin-elvish conflict was escalating.
 The orcish campaign was both simple and deadly:  to sweep around both the
east and west sides of the elvish holdings in the Duranon Vales and Owynne,
and then swiftly press in fro either side, dividing the elvish defense
forces and crushing any resistance.  It had worked in the past, for whatever
strategical or magical benefits the elves might have had, the orcs had what
ultimately won the day:  sheer force of numbers.  Other troops might have
been better trained or better equipped, but when there were five orcs
bearing down on you, it did not matter how many swords you had.  More to the
point, orcs were sturdy, powerful killing machines.  They could fight with a
hand or foot forcibly amputated, and without weapons they were nearly as
deadly as with.  So, although orcs certainly had their disadvantages as an
armed force, they were by no means an army to be discounted lightly.
 So the plan had seemed sure to work:  unless the elves devoted huge
portions of their own defense force to the keeping of the Vales, and no one
had any reasonable anticipation of that. The elves needed to keep at least a
modicum of armed presence elsewhere in their lands, lest other races seize
on the total lack of defense and pour in.  No, certainly the orcs would be
able to seize the northern lands, and, ore importantly, the gateway fortress
of Ibistethlin.  
 Now, the fort had been seized, but the northern lands remained unwon and
unoccupied by orcish armies.  The simple plan of the orcish strategists had
been rudely derailed by the appearance of a presence unanticipated in the
planning.  The lycin, who had for long (in retrospect, far too long)
festered quietly in the taiga and mountains of their lands, suddenly swarmed
down from them  and into the richly populated agricultural breadbasket of
the Owynne Basin and the Bootstrap Plains beyond.  Beyond that, they had not
yet advanced, nor were they anticipated to.  However, this surprise assault
had thrown the eastern front into disarray.  Before the orcish forces could
even arrive, the area had been overrun by lycin, who were apparently quite
adept at eliminating resistance and taking the elvish fortresses alike.  The
orcs had for long had a tacit armistice with the lycin, simply because
neither side ever had had any particular grievance with the other.  But now
the orcs found themselves in the unenviable position of being in competition
with the lycin for lands.  But rather than risk aggression with the lycin,
the eastern front had pulled back, leaving the western battalion of to press
forward and complete their goal:  the seizure of Ibistethlin.
 Which had been accomplished.  But the plans beyond that were predicated
upon the possession of all of the northern lands, so that the back of the
advancing front would be protected against attack.  From the Duranon Vales
the western battalion was to press southward into the Heliaspan Delta at the
mouth of the 'Elia river, and to take possession of this rich agricultural
lands, well defensible if both Ibistethlin and the eastern plateau of Patak
rising southward of the Owynne Basin were held.  But without the eastern
armies moving town to take the plateau, the delta was unassailable, as
armies of defense could come down from the high ground of the tablelands and
crush the orcs against the sea.  It would be disastrous to press forward
until Patak was in their hands.  And it was not, nor did there seem to be
any chance of it happening so long as the lycin were in the way.
 Of course, there was no use in attacking the lycin either, or trying to
march through their lands.  As much as they had informally at peace for many
many years, neither side would have any compunction about responding to
aggression in the most decisive of ways.  And it would be futile to try to
fight a battle on two fronts with both the lycin and the elves.  So there
was nothing to do except sit in the fort and hope that somehow the eastern
battalion would manage to mind a different route to Patak--although that
seemed near impossible, given the sheer faces of the mountains to its
leeward (east) side.  So even though this sabbatical was now only scheduled
to continue through the summer, the commander and various other high-ranking
officials knew that it would very likely last much longer.  

*

Commander Rajenique stood firmly under the noonday sun, arms clasped stiffly
behind him.  The sun was high above as he stood on the edges of the parapet,
gazing down over the valley below.  His armor (polished as always) glowed
golden in sun, scattering a million tiny reflections of light all around. 
He stood proud and strong, and he knew that the fort was his, and reveled in
it.  The fort was powerful, holding the pass, overlooking the lush green
valley below.  A river ran beneath the fort, and cascaded from the rock
ledge on which the keep sat down a white-frothed face of stone and into a
pool far below.  He could see the misty fog leaping into the air where the
water splashed against the rocks or poured into pool.  The whole bottom of
the valley wallowed in the omnipresent fog, white and milky, swirling all
around and obscuring the ground beneath, billowing in waves down the valley
and dispersing at the end where the wind seized it and dashed it all about
in its rough clutches.
 Ibistethlin.  Named for (as he was told) the foggy valley it overlooked,
called the Tower in the Clouds in the Elvish.  He was normally not one to
appreciate such distinctions of language and nomenclature, but somehow,
staring down from the lofty heights of the tallest tower of the keep, he
almost felt as though he were floating in the clouds, looking down through
them to the valley below, to the ground far below.  It was well-named.  It
connoted a sense of grandeur and majesty, of power and exaltation.  The orcs
would not rename it, as they did so many of their other conquests.  It would
be translated into the Piruto and left as that.   Fyrrekarr it would be
called, then, once the orcs had left it behind another prize of the war. 
But as much as he disliked the elvish names, he found himself inescapably
drawn to that of the fort.  It was somehow tied up with the fort itself,
connected in some way that he could not fathom.  Perhaps, for once, the name
would not even be translated.  Ibistethlin.  It was the right name.
 Such thoughts might be considered almost heretical.  It was dogmatic that
all elvish things must be perverted or changed to destroy their original
nature.  Some would claim it was strategical reasons:  to dishearten their
enemy, to make the newly captured citadels fully orcish.  But in reality,
this custom dated back far longer than anyone could remember.  It was as old
as their antagonism with elves, which any theologian would quickly remind
one stretched back to the creation of the world and the races thereon.  The
elves were unmitigatedly evil; they were a blot on the face of the earth and
needed to be removed.  None could truly object to this estimation, for the
elves were a stain, something which had no use but to sully the quality of
the globe.  The orcs had historically fought with many other races and
nations, but none were so completely antithetical to the precepts of freedom
and decency as the elves.  The elves did not deserve to live, and the earth
must be cleansed of them entirely.  It was a gift to all the nations of the
world, to remove this blight from among them. 
 It was almost a jihad, a holy war against that which was evil.  No one had
called it; it had gone on for all of eternity, for the elves had been for
all eternity.  And they would eventually be destroyed.  Ever orc in every
generation knew of their evil, and every orc did his part to annihilate it. 
But it was a great task, for ancient evils such as the elves were not easily
uprooted.  They had many arms, many allies, many assets and gifts from dark
powers that they would not hesitate to use against the crusading orc armies.
 
 All that was elvish along the way must be destroyed.  But forts were too
valuable to demolished and rebuilt, so they were merely renamed to symbolize
their capture and conversion from the elves' use to the orcs'.  It was among
the most sacred of doctrines that a fort such as this be made orcish.  It
could not remain Ibistethlin, of course.  That was just wishful thinking. 
But perhaps he could imagine it that way--as a castle in the flight mists of
the vale, standing above the flighty whims of orcs and elves below.  If only
he could stand gazing out over the mundanity of the world forever!
 But the sun crescendoed and shone its brightest, then began to sink and
drop below the far distant horizon.  The air grew cold and hard, the mists
shone red and yellow in light of the setting sun, and began to seep away
under the influence of the rising night.  The tower still stood tall in the
darkness, but the mists were invisible, gone from below him.  He could hear
the roaring of the waterfall, could feel the faint moisture on his dappled
skin, but the sight was gone.  What ken he had gained from his lofty perch
was stolen by the encroaching night.  
 He stood long staring into the darkness, trying to see the mists.  But they
were not there for him, and finally he stepped down from the parapet and
began to walk down the long staircase, back down into the depths of the
fort.
 The orcish fort.

*

If only to rid himself of the virtually sacrilegious thoughts of the night
before, the commander slept late the next morning.  It was not his practice
to indulge in such things, even during vacation, but he thought that perhaps
his temporary weakness was due to a lack of sleep and frustration of the
orcs' designs on conquest.  Anyone could suffer a momentary failing; it was
only how one dealt with it that mattered.  And he would deal with it.  There
was much time ahead of him, in which his mind might go astray, and he was
determined not to allow that to happen.  It would not.  The tall tower from
whim he had spied something... something wrong, he would not visit again. 
It would be boarded up.  No one would venture there, not he nor anyone else.
 It was dangerous.  This entire fort was dangerous, suffused with the stuff
of elves and their demons.  It would pervert his being; it would take from
him his purity.
 Not that he believed in such stuff.  There were many who did, many powerful
and great who did, and but they were not he, and had never infused in him a
connection with the true scales of the world.  He was alone, unwatched by
any judge and unprotected by any supernatural aegis.  He was alone, and he
liked it that way.  If he were to be watched, then that would make him
subservient to the watcher, under this watcher's control.  And he was under
no control but his own.  And that was the way he liked it.
 But there was definitely something to be said for keeping away from such
things as might make him unduly sympathetic to the enemy.  And in the
interest of prudence, he thought it best to avoid such things.  If only he
could simply leave the fort behind and march on, march on and crush the
elves.  That had been the plan.
 He had sent communiques back to the last strategic post asking for new
orders, hoping that he would be instructed to move on and carry out the
original battle plan.  That the orcs had triumphantly found some way to move
into Patak without disturbing the lycin.  That the command had decided even
that Patak was not necessary.  Even then he would not want to wait, he would
move straight-away out.  This fortress was not healthy for him.  It was
confining and unorcish.  
 But there was little to be done.  He, certainly, could not take a vacation;
he would spend the summer here within these same stone walls and perhaps in
the valley below.  But he did not like the feeling of the mist any more, and
did not relish the thought of venturing out into the billowing droves of it
that floated serenely in the valley below...
 He put the image firmly from his head.  He did not need them tormenting him
all day.  Perhaps he would take another look around the fort later; see if
there was anything he had missed.  It would kill another day.  And then
there would be another, and another, and another... they would go on and on.
 There was nothing.  Nothing in this accursed place.  He wanted to do
something, to go somewhere.  But it was not to be.
 Angrily rising from bed, he nearly made it to the door before remembering
to put clothes and armor on.  In an exceptionally foul mood, he stormed out
of the room to begin what would undoubtedly be one of the worst summers of
his life.

*    *    *

Within a few minutes, the omnipresent Guerru had found him.  How he managed
to do so, Rajenique could not fathom.  Guerru, clad as usual in his forest
green coat, lumbered down the hall to find him staring out one of the narrow
windows at the precipitous drop below.
 "Sir," said Guerru as he approached from Rajenique's right flank, if only
to signal his approach.
 "Yes, Fifth?" Rajenique sounded almost as irritable as he felt, and Guerru
flinched slightly.
 "Warcaptain Mirkhath sent me to find you," replied Guerru quickly.  "It
seems that we've received word of a party of lycin coming to the fort."
 "Lycin?" asked Rajenique, turning around abruptly.  "From Langerhans or
from elsewhere?"
 "Although I do not know for certain," said the adjutant carefully, "I seem
to recall that Mirkhath did say something about Langerhans."  Rajenique
scowled.
 "Do you know when they are supposed to arrive?"
 "I believe sometime tonight.  However, you would no doubt be better served
by speaking with the warcaptain himself."
 "So noted," said Rajenique brusquely.  He had no intentions of getting into
any discussion with Mirkhath over the possible implications of the lycin
delegation.  They would come, he would deal with them, and they would be
sent on their way once more.  It was quite simple.  There was a short pause
as Guerru waited for further information, and Rajenique finally said:
 "Why don't you go and find the warcaptain and tell him that I will
personally deal with the delegation of lycin.  He needn't worry any further
about it."  Guerru nodded curtly and hurried off in the opposite direction
down the hall.  Sighing, Rajenique quickly headed in the opposite direction,
hoping to get away from Guerru for at least a short while.  It wasn't as
though Guerru wasn't a perfectly amiable sort of orc to be around... it was
just... whatever.  Familiarity breeds contempt.  And at the moment Rajenique
had quite enough contempt for life to go around.
 He wandered aimlessly for a short while down the all-but-deserted halls,
earning a quick nod when he passed the other officers whose quarters were on
this level.  The hall turned this way and that, here rising, here
descending.  Finally, he came to a stout wooden door, which opened to reveal
a flight of stairs going down.  Still without any particular purpose in
mind, he walked thoughtfully down the stone steps as they wound around the
central post.  A few other wooden doors passed by, but he paid no attention
to them.  He was lost in thought about his musings before, on the tower,
which he could not seem to put from his mind, no matter how hard he tried to
think of something else.  He didn't like such questions, but his mind posed
them anyhow, and it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore them. 
Still, for the time being, he was simply not going to deal with it.
 He was halted abruptly by a wooden door, only here the stairs descended no
further.  He pushed open the door, which creaking loudly as he did so.  The
hallways beyond was dark and lamplit, clearly belowground by the fetid
breath of air which wafted through the dark portal.  But this passage was as
good as any, and he pressed through, arms clasped tightly behind his back,
eyes darting back and forth to see what day beyond.
 Only more passage, apparently, it was dark and rocky, and poorly hewn: 
uncommon for elven fortresses, and all the more so for such a one as
Ibistethlin (Fyrrekarr!).  In any case, it was odd, especially seeing as how
the hall was dimly lighted despite the absence of any torches of any other
thing which might have shed the light. It simply seemed to suffuse the hall,
radiating from the air itself.  His boots clicked imperiously on the crooked
flagstones as he proceeded down the hall, though which way he was actually
heading he did not know.  Wooden doors passed by in on both sides now, but
he showed no particular interest in them.  This was a part of the fortress
which he had not visited before.  He knew that all elvish fortresses had
extensive tunnel systems below them (he had in fact availed himself of one
such system to great advantage) but he had not even begun to guess at the
length of tunnels which were hidden beneath the towers of Ibistethlin
(whatever).  
 A few more turns, many more wooden doors, an suddenly fiery red light burst
into the dull yellow glow of the hall.  One more corner, and then he emerged
into a large, oblong room.  Several orcs sat in rickety wooden chairs,
playing with something on a table between them, and another trio were
chatting in the far corner.  Several arches led from the room, one sporting
a spiral staircase behinds it, the others apparently leading only to more
tunnels.  Torch flames danced and leapt in brackets set at regular intervals
around the outside of the chamber.  For a moment, all was quiet, and then
suddenly one of the trio glanced his way and saw him standing silently in
the archway by which he had just entered.  Springing quickly to his feet,
the gaolmaster nodded briskly and asked:
 "Sir?"  The other four took his signal and stood as well, all five sets of
eyes on him.  He suddenly felt out of place.
 "Nothing.  Carry on.  I was just taking a quick survey of the lower
levels."  A few nods, and all sat down once more.  There was still an air of
tension in the room, and Rajenique departed as quickly as possible by
another of the arched exits.
 He knew when to make quick exits.

*

The corridor which he had so hastily chosen seemed, under the critical
scrutiny of retrospection, to have not been the best of choices.  It was
lonely and deserted, small and rocky, the gleam of the infrequent torches
(the soft yellow light was gone, replaced with the harsh glare of red-orange
brands) doing little to alleviate the palpable darkness of the seemingly
long-neglected passageway.  There were many wooden doors similar to the ones
that he had passed earlier, but they were dusty and had clearly been left
unopened for decades, centuries even.  He had no idea how long ago these
ancient tunnels were constructed, but he would not have been surprised if
this wing had not been used since.
 Another fork in the road, and he arbitrarily chose to go right, heading
down the passage which was, at least, sloping upwards once more.  He did not
relish the idea of descending unchecked into the depths of the earth without
guide or idea whither he went.  Another torch passed by as he slowly
ascended, wooden doors still marking the walls.  The passage had been
continuing in a relatively straight direction for the last little while, and
he could see no indications ahead of any turns.  
 A few minutes later, he had in fact encountered a turn, and seemed now to
be heading back roughly in the direction he came, though at somewhat of a
diagonal.  It seemed to be descending slightly once more, but at this point,
Rajenique relished even less the prospect of wandering back the way he came
and having to backtrack all the way up to the corridor from which he had
begun his intrepid little adventure.  So he was determined to see the
passage through, at least to its next fork, where perhaps he might take a
slightly less monotonous path.  
 But before another fork manifested itself, the passage itself widened into
a small room, lit again by torches.  A single orc sat in the single chair in
the corner, and water droplets condensed on the high-vaulted ceiling above
and drip-dropped in a steady pattern into the puddles below.  A couple of
other paths led out of the room, but they were dark and uncertain, and he
could but scarcely see the light of torches down their length.  Returning
the way from which he had come was looking increasingly promising.  
 But before he could do an about face and exit via the same door he had
entered, or at last peer down the corridors to the left and right, the orc
who had been reclining lazily as he entered sprung to his feet, nodding as
curtly as the previous one he had encountered.  But this one stayed silent,
waiting for the commander to say something.
 "At ease," snapped Rajenique, still quite irritated.  The orc fumbled to
reply, apparently vacillating between sitting down once more and simply
standing slightly less formally.  He eventually decided on the latter,
because his shoulders slumped and his hands unclasped from behind his back. 
But he was still silent.  From behind him, Rajenique could see a game of
bones left half-finished on the table.  He strode over, looking past the
stranger to the game beyond.  The stack was barely touched, and the tableau
had scarcely a bone left on it.  This player was either very good at
bones--or very lucky.  And as it seemed hardly sporting to fix a solitaire
game, Rajenique was forced to conclude the former.  Only a scattering of the
blue-tinged bones sat in a small grid at the top of the oblong desk, and the
stack was quite numerous enough that they would no doubt be removed in short
order as well.  The graveyard was well-populated, and the bones were stacked
according to color and then ranking.  It was a very organized setup.  One
worthy of himself, in fact, he thought briefly to himself.  He was quite the
bones enthusiast, and enjoyed tournaments and competitive gaming,  But he
often found himself practicing in solitaire, like this fellow here, who had
no doubt been down here for far too long and needed some pastime.  The
commander could hardly fault him:  being a gaolmaster, despite the material
perks, was among the most boring of vocations when it came to stationing in
forts.  The conditioners were the only ones who ever even had contact with
the prisoners, and they were notoriously few.  This was probably just a poor
soul who had volunteered to be a gaolmaster because it had seemed fun. 
Though he was not too young, now that Rajenique looked more closely at him. 
He must have been involved in something before service in the battalions. 
Rajenique was satisfied.
 "Name and rank."
 "Gaolmaster eighth rank Herrar," replied the orc, tensing slightly as he
was finally addressed.
 "Well then, Herrar," said Rajenique glibly.  "Care for a game of bones?"

*    *    *

The first game had been definitively won by Rajenique, and the second as
well, and third he had lost--though only after insisting that Herrar not let
him win again.  The fourth time had ended in a draw as Rajenique's red
screamer subdued Herrar's blue spy, and the fifth game (had they really
played that many?) was a definitely victory for the gaolmaster, as the red
corps of winged hordes swept down to ravage the commander's remaining green
selectmen.  The sixth game--Rajenique had insisted, to break the tie--was
still in progress, though it was looking as though the commander was to
emerge victorious.
 "I'll advance my yellow and blue infrantrymen to your sappers," said
Rajenique, grinning.  "They are taken and my wall is left intact."  Herrar
did not look dismayed at all.  He darted a hand forward and maneuvered a
small bone (it looked like one of those surrounding the eye, or perhaps from
the ear) in lovely crimson tones onto another red one.
 "While your infantrymen capture my sappers, my red diplomat converts your
red spring court.  Your yellow infantrymen, brigadiers, and berserkers are
mine!"  He pushed the named pieces to one side.  The commander chewed his
lip nervously, then smiled again.
 "If my yellow infantrymen defect, then my blue infantrymen unit and cavalry
call a breach of honor."  He reached out and took the yellow-hued bone that
represented the infantrymen.  "I am afraid that they are forced to kill
themselves in dismay."  Herrar grimaced.
 "A breach of honor!  You must have a orator in court to declare that!" he
protested.
 "Ah, but I have the masked stranger in your blue court, under the auspices
of the poor.  He, in fact, is a diplomat in disguise!"  Herrar swore, then
snatched up the masked stranger.
 "I eject him from the court with an official censure.  Then, my yellow
brigadiers advance your summer court."  Rajenique flicked the offending
brigadiers to the side.
 "My summer court is protected by the cavalier of valor.  He smites your
brigadiers, and all of your other yellow troops are routed in fear."  He
removed all of the yellow pieces from the board.  Continuing, he said:  "Now
that your winter court is no longer occupied by your royal archers, I lay
siege to it with my blue and green artilleries."
 "I advance them with my guerrilla troops."   He laid a green bone on the
table, neatly across the artillery.  "Your artillery is occupied defending
against my attack."
 "You have violated our treat of ceremonial warfare," intoned Rajenique. 
"Your autumn court is dismissed by the enraged king, for violating the terms
of its own treaty.  Now, I advance my guerrilla troops to yours.  They are
both annihilated."  He removed both bones from the table.  "And, without
your guerrillas harassing them, my artillery's siege is successful and your
winter court is taken."
 "Dammit!" said Herrar. But the commander went on:
 "Now that I hold both your spring, winter and autumn courts, I execute a
hostile rebellion in the summer court with my ousted masked stranger."  He
laid the bone on the skull fragment that represented the summer court and
declared:
 "Your courts are all lost and your pieces scattered.  You have lost."
 "Good game," said Herrar graciously.  "That was a clever gambit at the end,
with the treat of ceremonial warfare.  I haven't seen ever seen anyone use
its breaking like that."
 "I'm only an amateur boneplayer, " said Rajenique, affecting modesty and
failing miserably.
 "You play like an expert," said Herrar, although the commander did not know
whether the comment was truthful or just sycophantry.  Herrar was still
standing--of course, the commander had gotten the only seat.
 "How long has it been?" asked Rajenique, suddenly realizing how long they
had been playing.
 "About three hours, I would imagine," said Herrar, thinking for a moment. 
"My replacement should be here in a few more hours.  It was very pleasant
playing bones with you, commander."
 "I'm glad that you think so," said Rajenique.  Guerru was probably turning
the place upside down looking for him.  It would be quiet, but by evening
everyone would know that Guerru had been looking.  But Guerru was an idiot. 
Let him look.  "I'm really am," he continued quickly, "because now you are
going to suck me off."

*

"Sir?" asked Herrar.
 "You heard me, eighth."
 "But, sir," stammered the gaolmaster.  "That's, that's--"
 "Immoral?  Certainly.  but this won't be the first time that you've done
something immoral, will it?"
 "I've never done anything like that before, sir, no," said Herrar.
 "Think, eighth, think!  Anything immoral!  You mean to tell me that you
have never done anything immoral in your entire life?"
 "I don't recall anything, sir."
 "Then you have not lived.  I'm educating you."  
 "Sir,--"
 "Stop being so disagreeable, man!" said Enriko.  "Haven't you ever
wondered, at least?"
 "No, not really."
 "Then I suggest you start wondering very quickly."  Enriko reached down and
his hand slipped under the hem of his chain skirt, clinking slightly as he
fumbled underneath.  In a moment, there was a loud snapping sound, and then
a metallic clank as the huge jockstrap fell to the ground.  It rolled across
the floor and came to rest against the wall just adjacent.  Herrar's eyes
followed it nervously, as he stared at it as it rested complacently against
the ancient stone tiling.  There was a faint glint on it, where dark precum
had leaked onto its rough interior.  It caught the firelight, and made the
slimy coating seem almost like blood.  
 "Eighth, your attention please."  Herrar jerked his head back suddenly, and
saw that Enriko was staring at him with a smile across his wide lips.  But
the cock was still thankfully not visible.
 "Since you have never sucked anyone off before, I will not expect much from
you.  However, there are two things which you must remember.  One, the penis
is a very delicate organ, so be very careful not to bite down.  Second, the
more tongue, the better."  He looked away briefly, and then back.  "I think
that's just about it.  On your knees, eighth."  Herrar hesitated for a
moment, and Enriko leaned forward, shoving his face into the intimidated
gaolmaster's.
 "That was an order, eighth."  Herrar dropped to his knees, still looking up
at Enriko's face above.  There was a long pause.
 "What are you waiting for," asked Enriko finally, "an act of god?"
 "What do you want me to do?" asked Herrar warily.  He looked rather
timorous.
 "Put your lips around my cock, and suck it.  Now."  He kicked the kneeling
orc for good measure.  Herrar hesitated again for a moment, but realizing
that he had little choice in the matter, leaned forward.  He could smell
Enriko's scent very strongly:  no doubt the commander was releasing
pheromones by the gallon.  Enriko stood very still as Herrar inched up to
him.  Very slowly, Herrar lifted the hem of the chain skirt, and the linen
vestments underneath.  It was dim, but even in that light, Herrar could now
clearly se Enriko's cock, hanging limply, free of the loincloth which hung
from one side of his hip, carefully tied to insure that it did not fall.  
 Herrar stuck his head forward, and now it was beneath the folds of the
skirt.  He could feel the pressure of the tiny chain links on his head, and
of the heavy linen cloth pressing down on his bare head.  The dark penis
hung right before him now, quivering slightly in the darkness.  Closing his
eyes, Herrar darted his head forward, opened his mouth, and took the organ
into it.

*

 It was easy to fit the seventeen  centimeters or so of the soft member into
his mouth.  He could feel it resting on his long tongue, and it flopped to
the side as he moved the tongue to free it.  Hesitantly, he moved his tongue
along its length, feeling the tiny spines prick it ever so gently as it slid
past.  He did this a few times, but very tentatively, afraid to touch the
member too roughly.
 "Hard!" said Enriko suddenly, growling.  "Suck it, don't clean it!"  Herrar
tried to do as the commander wished, but he did not quite understand the
idea of sucking.  The commander swore and snarled again, and Herrar tried
once more.
 Within ten minutes, Herrar had finally gotten used to what was expected of
him.  His pursed lips slid cleanly and easily over the saliva-slick length
of the cock, and his tongue slipped around it and massaged it roughly in the
mouth.  He ran it by his serrated cuspids and carnassials, feeling the
commander shudder and moan under the onslaught.  Slowly, the cock grew in
his mouth.
 The commander shuddered and grabbed the kneeling Herrar by the back,
hoisting him off the ground with a great grunt of exertion.  Still sucking
hard, Herrar was lifted briefly through the air, and then suddenly he heard
a tingling of bones as he was thrown down onto the table which had so
recently been used to play.  Out of the corner of his vision, he could see
pieces falling to the floor, and lumps under his back told him that there
were still pieces on the table.  The set would be ruined; but it wasn't a
very valuable set in any case.  The commander, still standing, quickly
launched himself onto the table, straddling the supine gaolmaster, and
reinserted his cock between Herrar's waiting lips.  
 He could not longer fit all of it in; it had grown to nearly thirty
centimeters.  His tongue darted in an out of his mouth, wetting the part
that did not penetrate, and he continued to slide back and forth on the
member.  Enriko moaned once more, and then he felt heavy hands at his back. 
The penis swelled more, and he could feel the bulb of it tickling the roof
of his mouth; the foreskin was pulled back entirely to expose the huge red
head.  Ten centimeters hung out of his mouth, exposed to the cold air of the
dungeon.  Enriko growled and suddenly the hands at is back pushed him in,
and he felt the monstrous cock sliding further in, past the roof of his
mouth and into the throat beyond.  He began to gag, but the hands at his
back did not allow him to move back.  All thirty centimeters were in his
mouth now, much of it in his throat.  He could scarcely breathe around the
gargantuan member, but he managed, and slowly the gag reflex abated.  He did
his best to move his mouth around the cock, but it was difficult with his
mouth so full. 
 The cock was at complete erection, stiff and huge and long, and Enriko
groaned in ecstasy as he felt the familiar surge of power in his loins.  A
moment later, his cock spasmed, and Herrar felt a burningly hot liquid
flowing down his throat.  He could not taste it; it was being ejaculated
into the throat itself, but he could feel its warmth sliding down his
esophagus.  It was an almost pleasant feeling, and Enriko gripped him even
harder now, thrusting his cock down the gaolmaster's throat.
 And then suddenly there a million tiny pinpricks of pain.  Herrar felt the
spines on the cock rising inside him, all poking into the flesh.  He could
not speak, could not yell, as he felt them dig into the tender flesh of his
throat.  He was being pressed down onto the table, held down by the
commander, as the red-hot needles dug into his flesh.  He could still feel
the cock spasming and ejecting semen into his throat, but now all that
mattered was the burning pain, the pain which swelled before him.  It was
like a blanket; his throat burned, he could not get any air.  White dots
swam before his eyes, and from far away, as if infinitely distant, he heard
a voice.
 "Time to go now.  Thanks for playing with me.  And remember:  we've all
done something immoral, haven't we?"  Then the pain multiplied; he could
vaguely feel the needles ascending, ripping and rending the flesh of his
throat.  There was an explosive popping sound, and a rushing of air, but he
still could not breath.  He could scarcely feel the pain any more now, and
he could not see at all, for all there was was whiteness, whiteness
spreading all around him, and his head briefly spiked with pain one last
time, and then there was nothing...
 Enriko stood back for a few minutes, making sure that Herrar was dead.  It
was not too difficult to figure out, seeing as how there was a gaping hole
in the gaolmaster's throat where the orc's spines had ripped it open, but
Enriko was not in any great hurry.  He retrieved the jockstrap from the
wall, carefully stashing it in his suit of armor, and tucking his
still-erect cock into his loincloth.  Blood was pooling on the table now,
and dripping onto the floor.  He smoothed out his linens and made sure that
his chain skirt was in good order, then walked back to the body.
 Herrar's eyes stared straight up, looking at nothingness.  The table was
quite smeared in blood, as was Enriko's cock (although that evidence was
carefully tucked away).  He thought for a moment as to what to do with the
body, and quickly came to a conclusion.  Snatching up one of the torches
from its wall bracket, he touched it for a short while to the body, which
yielded to crackling flames with great reticence, as if reluctant to leave
the mortal coil.  But slowly the red flames crept up its length, and soon
smoke filled the room, along with the sickening nidor of burning flesh.  He
waited a short while, until the body was mostly consumed, and then he ran
off down the hall from which he had come, hurrying off to report the tragedy
of the loyal gaolmaster's death to the guards in the last chamber.  Behind
him the fire raged for a short while longer and slowly died, leaving behind
the charred remains of the bones and a few blackened remnants of the game of
bones which the two had so recently been playing.  The blood was caked onto
the table, so much so that one could scarcely see the single piece to escape
the fire's ravages, buried under a thick layer of blood.
 The red commander.

*    *    *

By midafternoon, Rajenique had finished going over the scene of the incident
with the coterie of guards that he had acquired the moment that he had
mentioned the mishap.  There was very little left by the time they all
returned to the room, just some smoldering bones and the congealed blood all
over the table and on the floor.  It was not a pretty sight, though it was
far better than many of the things which the average orc infantryman sees in
his career.  What was more arresting was the sheer enigmatic nature of the
scene.  How, reasoned the bystanders, could this poor soul possibly have
been both so grievously injured to have let loose the amount of blood which
caked the table, and then have been utterly incinerated by fire.  It seemed
almost too terrible.
 Rajenique's armor, of course, was streaked with blood, but he explained
that he had tried to pull the burning orc away, only to find that his throat
had already been slit.  How had the throat been slit?  Rajenique did not
know.  Perhaps a prisoner had escaped?
 This idea sent tremors running through the entirety of the gaolmaster's
crew, and every available gaolmaster in the fort was mobilized to do a
complete search of the tunnels and account for the whereabouts of every
prisoner.  Each person was catalogued and their cell marked down, so that
future escapes would be impossible.  When, by midafternoon, no prisoner had
materialized, Rajenique imperiously decreed that "he must have escaped from
the fort," and laid the blame at the foot of the gaolmaster first, who sent
the fault down the line of subordinates, until it was scarcely recognizable
who, if anyone, had in fact done anything wrong.  The actual fault in the
incident was sufficiently diluted that no one (at least by official
standards) had done anything wrong, but everyone was sufficiently
embarrassed at one of their own having been killed by an escaping prisoner
that no one wanted to revisit the matter.
 And, of course, no one would ever think that the commander had actually
been involved.  In fact, had he not been dutifully conducting a survey of
the underground passages, the body might not have been found until the end
of the day when the watch changed.  Others asked why gaolmaster eight rank
Herrar had even been assigned to the deserted junction in the first
place--especially alone.  Clearly, replied their opponents, it was an
important intersection, for it had been in the path of an escaping prisoner.
 It was correct to have orcs stationed at every turn; the fault was in that
only one guard had been stationed there.  Administration declared that so
many orcs had been granted leave that there were not enough to comprise the
normal duty pairs, and at this most feel silent lest their leave be revoked.
 And Rajenique said that the gaolmaster first rank should have done a better
job, no matter how few people he had.  The gaolmaster, already mortified by
the incident, only mumbled some sort of apology, and then launched into a
tirade about how he needed more people.  The commander promised to look into
the matter personally to see if leaves could be shortened, and the
gaolmaster stormed off, dissatisfied and ready to cast about his anger
everywhere.  Virtually everyone in the fort was affected by the incident.
 Of course, no one autopsied the body either.  It was clearly dead, and the
commander said that he had had his throat slit, and the body had clearly
been burned.  It wasn't as though there was foul play involved.  Moreover,
the commander had demanded that a heroes funeral be arranged posthaste, to
commemorate the loyal solider who had given his life in the line of duty.
 Certainly, thought Rajenique silently as he watched the funeral in the
courtyard, noting was more revered than dying in the line of duty.  He had
given to Herrar what he would never have secured himself:  honor.  While
many perhaps speculated about how he had been taken off guard, none could
deny him the respect that was due his fallen self.  Perhaps he had done the
man a favor.  Perhaps not.  At any rate, what was past was past now, and
there was little else to do but watch the bones slowly wither under the
influence of the dark glamour which consumed them.  No one would forget
Herrar now; he had become a piece of history.  His name would not be
mentioned in the account of the taking of the fort, but every orc stationed
there would remember him.
 Perhaps he had done the gaolmaster eighth a favor after all.

*

Guerru, of course, had found the commander directly after he had reported
the incident.  Mirkhath descended to look into it, and Guerru ran back and
forth between them, relaying messages.  By the time the funeral was over and
Rajenique had returned to his rooms, Guerru was exhausted, and a pale
semblance of his former self.  Rajenique was pleased at the change.
 "Commander," puffed Guerru as he finally stumbled into the room.  "The
warcaptain says that everything is fine down with the gaolmaster, and you
need not worry."
 "Good," said Rajenique.  "Anything else?"
 "Not from warcaptain Mirkhath, sir.  However, there are several other
things--"
 "How important?"
 "You said that you would schedule an appointment with the conscriptmaster,
to discuss the possible shortening of leaves.  I would suggest perhaps
tomorrow at--"
 "Not important.  Schedule it sometime next week.  Next?"  Guerru scribbled
something, and the commander lay down on the heavily quilted bed.  It was
twilight already, and getting cold. The blood smeared all around his loins
was dried and congealed, and very unpleasant to feel.  He wanted to wash and
change, and sleep.
 "You were supposed to receive a brief from informations today, but with the
funeral and all, everyone was a bit too busy.  When..."
 "Next week," muttered Rajenique.
 "As I understand it, this material is supposed to be fairly important,"
said Guerru quickly.
 "When can Warcaptain second Dhermik meet?"
 "Tomorrow would be good," said Guerru.
 "Fine," growled the commander.
 "Then there's the matter of pay:  you need to decide what to do with the
pay for those orcs on extended leave."
 "I'll discuss it with the conscriptmaster when I meet with him..."  Guerru
opened his mouth.  "...next week."  Guerru nodded and scribbled something
else down on the dog-eared pad of papers.  
 "Is there anything else?" asked Rajenique after a long silence.
 "Just one more thing," said Guerru.  "According to current reports"--he
shuffled through a mass of papers tied to the ratty pad--"the lycin
delegation should be hear within the hour.  Where do you want to meet with
them?"  The commander groaned.  He had completely forgotten about that.
 "Do I have to meet with them?  Couldn't we just send someone else?"
 "You told the warcaptain this morning that you would deal with it
yourself."
 "Can't I change my mind?"
 "I could go down and tell the warcaptain that he needs to deal with it
after all, but I doubt that he would be pleased, and I think that in this
case--"
 "All right, I understand.  Within the hour?"
 "They've been sighted at the base of the valley.  They'll probably be here
in far less than that."  Rajenique did a quick calculation in his head.  He
wouldn't even have time to change.  Perhaps...
 "Perhaps they wouldn't mind waiting?"  he asked aloud, almost rhetorically.
 "I don't think it's a good idea to keep lycin waiting, commander, if I may
say so.  We're not on the best of terms with them, and they have been known
to become... agitated easily."
 "I see."  The commander's voice was flat and dangerously quiet.  "Perhaps
you could entertain them for a short while, fifth."
 "With all due respect, sir, I would not want to put in the position of
explaining to them why they are only meeting with a pitiful ombudsman." 
Rajenique nodded thoughtfully.
 "Do you know if there are any higher-ranking officers available?  First or
seconds?"  Guerru did not even shuffle through his voluminous load of
documents.
 "The warcaptain and the gaolmaster I know are both indisposed.  The
conscriptmaster could conceivably be roused, but I doubt he would prove to
be a good receptionist.  Warcaptains second Dhermik and Anatolle are both
negotiating as we speak with the gaolmasters seconds as well, trying to
resolve the shortage of personnel.  Warcaptain second Matok and Drillmaster
first Orethu are on leave, and Drillmaster second Jedrak was sent with the
last embassy back to Command to speak on your behalf.  If you recall."
 "There isn't a single high-ranking officer available except for me?" asked
Rajenique incredulously.
 "You run a tight fort, sir."  Guerru restrained the urge to smile.  The
commander only growled irritably.  "You'll probably want to leave soon in
order to greet them when they arrive, commander."
 "Yes, I probably will."  Rajenique was seething.  "Get out; I need to
recollect myself before I go downstairs."
 "Absolutely, sir."  Guerru walked quickly out of the door, and waited until
he was nearly all the way down the hall outside before bursting into sudden
laughter.  

*

By his calculation, he had about five minutes before he would have to leave.
 No time at all really.  It had been a rather hectic day.  No doubt the next
day would be better.  Hadn't he just been wishing for a more active
schedule?  Less recreation, more action?  It just went to show that getting
what you wish for won't always satisfy.  
 He fished about in the pile of laundry in the corner, looking for something
he had dropped there the other day.  He kept on meaning to call for someone
to take away the sullied clothes and wash them, but there had been so many
things to distract him.  So the pile just grew, and his stock of clean
linens and the like diminished.  Perhaps later tonight he could find someone
to do it.  
 Finally, he found what he was looking for.  His ceremonial sword had been
haphazardly tossed in the pile the other day as he came back from yet
another idle tour around the fort.  He had decided to carry a real sword, if
only because the thought of dragging around the gem-encrusted one just irked
him.  It seemed a bit too ostentatious, silly.  Wearing the armor was bad
enough; he didn't need to carry around a sword which probably was worth more
than his own sorry hide.
 But now, for a delicate diplomatic situation, he decided that ostentation
was perfectly acceptable.  Besides, the lycin didn't even use swords, so
they wouldn't care one way or the other.  Rather savage things, when one
thought about it.  Then again, no one really knew all that much about lycin
civilization:  people didn't exactly go on pleasure trips into their lands. 
People who did go did not return.  This tended to dissuade more from
following that path.
 Formal contact had not been established with the lycin for over a decade;
likely his visit to their fort on the way to Ibistethlin had been the first
contact since.  And now a delegation!  It was rather strange, seeing as how
no formal overtures had been all that time.  Perhaps the newly launches
offensives of both the orcs and lycin had convinces the latter than it was
in their best interest to coordinate with the orcs.  Perhaps... perhaps the
lycin could even be convinced to allow the orcish army to march (quickly!)
through their territory so that the campaign could be continued.  Suddenly,
the meeting took on a far greater importance than merely seeing a few lycin.
 This was an opportunity to forward the entire war effort!  It was
conceivable that he could remove the impasse which had so stymied Command
and his counterpart on the eastern front.  He could single-handedly solve
the entire problem that had arisen.  How clever that would make him look!
 He would be acclaimed as the one who had won the war, the one who had
brought to bear the full force of the orcish horde against the elves!  All
pretense of sympathy with the plight of the beleaguered elves fell away at
the thought of leading the charge which firmly trounced them.  Whosoever
might lead the charge against that great enemy would gain adulation and
praise from all sides.  And he might now lead that charge, he might if he
were to solve the problem.  Command would certainly allow him to move
onward, so press forward, down and into the delta.  He would be the one to
lead the attacks on the pitiful elvish tons of the fertile lands, and he
could crush their defenses, take them all prisoner, and march they and their
misbegotten treasures back to the homeland.  He would!  He would!
 With visions of grandeur dancing wildly in his head, Rajenique exited the
room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

*    *    *

The commander strode down into the gateroom, still caught in his dreams of
glory.  But quickly, his attention returned to reality, where all five
members of the staff of the gateroom were quite busy.
 The keep of Ibistethlin had a great many defensive features, but one were
as devastating to the attacking army as the sheer face of the cliff which
dropped down directly before the rocky walls.  There was no path winding up
this face, and no apparent way to gain access to the wall above, which
indeed did not even have a gate in it, to allow access even if one were to
breach the cliff face safely.  It was a truly unassailable setup, with one
minor problem:  if one indeed wished to admit a visitor, then how did one
enter the fort?
 The secret was buried in the cliff itself.  A massive shaft had been bored
in the very rock of the cliff, descending the fifty meters down the ground
below.  It was smooth on the sides, and perfectly straight:  how this had
been accomplished none knew.  But it was essential to its proper
functioning, for hanging in the shaft was a wide platform of sturdy wood,
completely filling the shaft.  It was suspended by eight braided ropes, all
of which snaked up the dark tube to the gateroom far above.  By means of a
complicated system of winches and gears, the ropes could be lowered or
raised in unison, thus lowering or raising the platform correspondingly.  It
could not move very quickly, for the platform was unstable, and quick
movements might upset whomever was on it.  It took about two minutes to get
from top to bottom or visa versa, which was singularly annoying, alleviated
only by the fact that it was rare that anyone actually needed to leave the
fort from the valley side.  When they had first taken the fort, though, the
elevator had been in use twenty-four hours a day for four days before the
entire battalion could slowly be raised, even accounting for those who had
departed immediately on leave.  It was an unwieldy apparatus, but it
presented the most effective defensive mechanism which any of the orcish
conquerors had even seen.
 But it required a great deal of work to operate properly.  Even as he
watched, the five orcs darted from levers on one side of the room to the
other.  The gears in the ceiling turned and stopped, turned and stopped
again, ropes twisted and moved through pulleys and wheels, crankshafts and
winches moved to and fro and levers were thrown, wheels rotated, and pistons
thrown.  It was a constant cacophony of action, and this was only to cause
the lift to descend.  When it was coming up, the process was even more
detailed, as the apparatus had to support the entire weight of the occupants
of the lift besides merely raising it.  On the way down, gravity was an
ally; on the way up, an enemy.
 Rajenique stood for a minute, waiting for the lift to reach bottom.  All of
the soldiers in the room were grunts; this duty was among the most
distasteful and excruciating.  No doubt everyone here had fallen on the
wrong side of some low-ranking superior, who had spitefully assigned them
here.  It was rare for there to be a shortage of such misfits, and so the
gateroom was generally populated by the dregs of orcish society.  
 "Is the delegation here?"
 "They're just coming up the end of the valley now, sir.  We're sending down
the lift to greet them."  The one who answered was no less in command than
any of the rest, but had merely taken the initiative to answer the
commander's question before anyone else.  Still, the commander liked
initiative.
 "Name and rank, soldier, and CO," demanded Rajenique.
 "Infantryman fourth Ruhambra, under the direct command of Warcaptain sixth
Salis.  Sir."  Although the infantryman did not stand at attention, he had
god reason not to, for he was speaking as he tightened a massive gearlock. 
Finishing this, he dashed over the master levers for speed control and
adjusted them downward.
 "The lift was descending too quickly," he appended of his shoulder to the
commander, almost as an afterthought.  He was already dashing over to the
gear again to unlock it and allow the lift to continue downwards once more.
 The commander waited in silence as the five orcs sprinted around the room. 
Finally, with a thump that could be heard dimly even there at the top of the
passage, the lift hit bottom, and the gears, screws, levels, wheels, and
ropes came to a sudden halt, hanging motionless in the air.  There was a
long pause.  Four or five minutes passed, and the gatekeepers availed
themselves of the opportunity to sit down in the sparse wooden chairs that
were heaped in one corner.  Ruhambra remained standing, and looked as though
he was going to say something to the commander.  But then he turned away,
studying one of the gearlocks intently.  
 After a short while, a bell in the corner of the room began to ring wildly.
 The five gatekeepers leaped up and back to the gears.  For another minute
or two, the commander watched as they repeated the process in reverse, the
ropes winching up, the gears turning backwards, and the pulleys straining
under the weight of the lift and its occupants.  Rajenique stepped out of
the door to watch the shaft outside.
 After a few minutes, the commander could see the heads of his visitors
appearing over the brink, and then the entire lift rose into view.  With a
ponderous clanking sound, it stopped just at the level of the stone floor,
and Rajenique could hear the scrape of the metal bolts that shot out from
underneath to secure the lift in place.  The delegation had arrived.

*    *    *

The point man immediately stepped forward as the lift came to a halt,
striding toward Rajenique with purpose.  The other two, standing just
behind, followed dutifully.  
 "Commander," the leader said.  "How good of you to see us on such short
notice."
 "Jet Pyritt," replied Rajenique genially.  "It's good of you to come." 
There was a pause, and then the commander continued:  "If you'll just follow
me, he can all be seated."  The three lycin walked just behind him in
silence as he led the way down the intricately carved walls of the hall. 
There were frescos of great elvish heroes, murals of the legendary tales of
folklore, etchings of the sayings and idioms of the most revered of the
elvish philosophers.  Rajenique made a note to himself to have it stripped. 
It was only a very short way to the door that he led them through, a stout
oaken affair with iron bands and a small doorknocker in the shape of a
lion's head.  But Rajenique did not knock; he merely entered.  
 The room inside was large and capacious, and held a long narrow table down
the center.  The light from torches set along the sides of the room threw
dancing red and orange lights all around, and the wooden chairs seemed to
almost gleam in the moving pattern of darkness and light.  Rajenique
proffered to the chairs, but the jet shrugged and gestured that he would
rather stay standing.  Rajenique did the same.
 "So, why have you come all this way to see us?" asked Rajenique, a little
of his own curiosity mixed in with the political question.
 "You made quite an impression on use the last time you stopped by our fort,
commander.  We though it only fair to do the same.  And besides, your
accommodations are so much more... extravagant."  The lycin's eyes swept up
to the ceiling, upon which a colorful mural of the elvish court was painted.
 Rajenique made another note to himself.
 "We didn't design the fort," replied Rajenique.  "We just captured it."
 "Of course.  But we still wanted to pay a visit to our new friends." 
Rajenique's ears perked up.  New friends?
 "We, of course, welcome you to our humble abode... as friends."
 "Thank you, commander.  That is most gracious."
 "I am afraid that I cannot offer you anything to eat.  We do, you know,
have rather strict rules regarding the treatment of prisoners."
 "Yes, I recall such rules," replied the jet.  "Really rather barbaric."
 "Well, like the fort, I didn't write them," said the commander. "But I
still have to follow them."
 "I understand all too well.  Besides, I have left some foodstuffs below. 
We will not be staying the night, and have a long road back to our lands."
 "I see," said Rajenique.  "In that case, I would not want to detain you any
longer than absolutely necessary.  Let's get right down to business shall
we?"
 "Commander, I could not agree more."

*

The business which the lycin had come about took about three hours to
conclude, and by the end of it, Rajenique was feeling very pleased indeed
with himself.  He had negotiated for a possible advance into the flanks of
the lycin-captured elvish territories, and exchange of ambassadors, and
broached the possibility of a formal mutual defense treaty.  He had probably
set forward the orc-lycin relations by centuries.  But as the jet had
pointed out, they had to begin their journey back that night, and Rajenique
did not want to keep them late.  So after three hours, he finally declared
that he was very satisfied and would look forward to meeting with them in
the future.  Perhaps, he even mentioned, he could visit them once more next
time.  The jet seemed in fine spirits, and affirmed that such a visit would
be eagerly awaited.  It had been a most productive evening.  Rajenique
offered to accompany them out, and the four of them stood on the lift as it
slowly descended down the shaft.
 A minute later, the cave at the bottom began to come into view below them,
and a moment later, with a loud thumping sound, the bottom of the lift
struck bottom and halted.  There was a short wait while the platform settled
itself, and then the three lycin disembarked.  A short way off, in the
darkness of the cave, Rajenique could see another lycin waiting, and dimly
behind him the commander could see the faint shapes of humanoids--no doubt
the foodstuffs to which the jet referred.  
 "Once more," called Rajenique.  "Thank you for this opportunity."  He
raised one hand and was about to ring the bell, when Pyritt spoke.
 "Wait just a moment, please.  We have something for you."  Rajenique
stepped of the lift and walked over to where Pyritt gestured.  The lycin in
the darkness stepped forward, and Rajenique was surprised to see that he
recognized him:  it was Kaziji.  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of
his stomach, and then Pyritt spoke once more.
 "I see that the two of you have already met."  He leered evilly at
Rajenique, who looked visibly perturbed.  "Really, commander, did you
honestly think that one of my men would fail to report something like that?"
 The orc said nothing.  "Do not worry:  I'm not here to pass judgment."
 "Then why did you come?" asked Rajenique, feeling angry at the lycin
suddenly.
 "To arrange diplomatic exchange," replied Pyritt briefly.  "And that we
have accomplished."
 "Then why bring him?" growled the orc, gesturing vaguely at Kaziji.
 "Because we wanted to show you that you cannot merely fuck our soldiers and
get away with it.  There are rules, you know."  The commander was suddenly
aware of the two lycin guards beside him.  His mind raced, trying to judge
how far it was back to the lift, and whether the bell could be rung and the
lift ascend before the lycin could catch him.
 "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.  It's your choice." 
Rajenique was about to dash, when Pyritt stepped right in front of him,
interposing himself between the orc and the lift.  "What will it be,
commander?"  Rajenique only growled in response.
 "I had hoped that you would be more civilized about this.  But I can see
that orcs still have a certain barbarity about them."  The two lycin on
either side of Rajenique grabbed hold of his arms suddenly.  They grip was
like an iron vice, and even as he struggled, Rajenique knew that there would
be no escape.
 "Take him outside," said the jet.  Rajenique was dragged along, feet
scraping against the floor, by the two brawny guards who held him on either
side.  Kaziji stepped just behind, next to Pyritt, and two talked quickly in
the high-pitched yelps that constituted the old lycin tongue.  Rajenique
could not understand it, and suffered himself to be dragged along.  
 In a moment, he saw the great rock gate of the cave pass above him, carved
in intricate runes and words.  He had never given much though to what it
said, but now he looked up at the dark stone arch.  He could only see the
letters obliquely, but they were darkly etched into the rock, clearly
visible even from his perspective.  They read:  "Welcome, traveler, to
Ibistethlin, flighty home of the divine roc.  Let all who are friendly to
those within these gates pass unhindered and in joy, and let he who is an
enemy perish under their rocky gaze."  Rajenique swallowed at the words, and
made a mental note to himself to remove the etching.
 "Here," came Pyritt's voice suddenly.  The orc looked down and saw dark
earth beneath him, rich and heavy from the tropical rainfall here and the
river's touch.  The mist was all around, though he could not see it, for it
was dark, and his skin was clammy and damp.  It was cold.  They were on the
edges of the great jungle that covered the base of the valley, and the mist
was all around hovering in every nook and cranny of the trees.  
 The two guards suddenly let the orc fall, and he landed on his knees, which
grew immediately cold from the wet ground.  They still held his arms out,
spread-eagled, but now he kneeled toward the forest, staring out the
abjectly dark depths of its leafy entanglements.  He could hear more speech
behind him, and then Pyritt said:
 "Prepare him."  At once, hands fumbled at his armor, but only for a moment,
expertly finding the clasps and unhooking them.  Within a moment the great
plates of his armor were removed, and dropped haphazardly to the side.  The
hands returned, only now they tore, and his gray linens fell asunder beneath
their claws, the shreds of the garb falling useless to the ground.  He was
clad now only in loin cloth and boots, and finally the hands retreated,
returning to hold his arms.  He head footsteps crunching in the dark earth
behind him, very soft but ominous.  He felt a hand slip beneath the back of
his loincloth, and rip it off as surely as his other clothing had been torn.
 He could feel the chill wind on his member hanging loosely, shriveled from
the cold; his testicles had shrunk and retreated into his body.  There was
dried blood still smeared all about his loins, and is cock crackled slightly
as it swung gently in the wind.  
 The he felt harsh breath on his back, and a sibilant voice whispered: 
"What can I say:  I've always wanted to fuck an orc, and I'm glad that it's
you, you buggerer."  With the hissing condemnation echoing in his ears, he
felt a sudden pressure at his ass.  Just like every orc, he had a small
asshole, and the bulb which pressed up against it was clearly too large. 
But, he knew already that would not stop this retribution.  There was a long
pause, during which the only sound that could be heard was the whistling of
the wind, and then the cock surged into the hole.

*

Enriko had known pain before, pain greater than most men or orcs would ever
feel, but this pain, this most exquisite pain was somehow greater than
anything he had experienced before.  It was ripping out is insides, tearing
at the sides, bloodying the hole already.  There was no resistance from him;
he knew better than that, and the lycin behind him was too powerful in any
case.  He could feel the power in the furry body which pressed against him,
feel it in the cock, feel it in the very words which has been hissed just a
moment before:  this was a powerful creature.  There was no sensation of the
cock within him, though:  the pain was too all-encompassing, it blotted out
anything else. 
 But he did not scream, did not whimper, did not cry, did not even grimace. 
He shuddered stoically under the onslaught, screaming inside with the awful
pain, but not even cracking a frown to indulge his tormentors.  He bore the
red-hot lance of pain, staying steady under its inexorable onslaught.
 Another few moments passed, and still the cock surged onwards.  The pain
flared again and the shaft rushed and tore past new depths of his ass, his
entire body seemed to be afire, and he felt his reserves of restraint
seeping away under the pain.  He was sinking into the pain, falling, falling
fast, and soon not even all his willpower could prevent him from... from...
 And then finally the cock stopped; he could feel the shaggy testicles
nestled up against his butt.  His ass still burned, but he knew that it had
gone as far as it could go; that this would be the worst of it.  New resolve
swelled with him, even as the cock slid out of his ass and plunged in once
more.  He rode the cock, bucked his ass beneath it to meet it.  It could not
beat him; could not subdue his spirit.  He would triumph.
 His participation only seemed to make his assailant more angry, for now the
cock surged in an out with an almost manic rhythm, scarcely staying in for a
moment before it emerged once more.  Dark ichor was expelled with every
outward pull, spilling onto the ground below, running down his legs and
coating the long length of the cock.  But he did not flinch, did not move to
show his discomfort, only thrust his ass backward onto the raging cock. 
They would not exact their vengeance from him.
 Minutes passed, and his store of energy began to wane.  His bucks became
less frenzied, his flailing less enthusiastic, and he began to flag under
the unceasing attack.  More minutes passed, and he slumped, slumped from
exhausting, and yet still the lycin cock pounded in his asshole, driving in
and out like a piston.  He was too tired to even stand, and he fell forward,
his two guards bending down to keep their hold on him.  This seemed to
encourage the lycin even more, who increased his rhythm to recklessness,
pounding himself onto the prostrate orc, throwing his entire body against
him.  He could feel the full weight of the lycin pounding onto him, although
his ass had lot all feeling some time ago.  He was pressed into the loam as
the lycin climbed on top of him, still battering his body mercilessly.  The
earth was right before his nostrils, and he could smell it all around him. 
It was damp and wet, but still the rich scent of loam filled him up. 
Everything seemed very distant now, the clamminess of his skin seemed almost
far away, and the pressure on top of him and in him were all gone.  It was
only the loam now, the dark earth, the dark earth which stretched down,
down, far down into the ground.  That was where the bodies went, where the
worms gnawed at their flesh and rats ate their bones.  Deep down in the dark
earth.  Deep down, down in the darkness, down where none could find you, and
none could terrorize you.

*    *    *

Rajenique woke to brightness shining in his face.  There was soft light on
him, and the equally soft touch of blankets all around. His eyes blinked
open, and a stone ceiling floated into view.  His head slowly swiveled back
and forth, and he saw quickly that he was elevated off the floor, on a
wicker table.  All around the room there were other such wicker tables, and
at the sides there were long counters, bearing all manner of unguents and
medicines.
 He was in the infirmary.  It was only the work of a quick shout to summon a
medic (an orcish medic), who hastily hurried over.
 "What happened to me?" growled Rajenique.
 "Don't you remember?" asked the medic rhetorically.  "You were showing out
the delegation, and there was an accident with the lift.  Two of the lycin
brought you back here to be treated."
 "The lycin?" asked Rajenique incredulously.
 "Yes, sir.  You were completely bloodied; crushed by the lift.  For some
reason, the bell was rung to come up and then right down again... I suppose
that you were standing under it when it came down.  The lycin dragged you
out and brought you here; if it weren't for them you'd be dead right now." 
If it weren't for them, thought the commander, I wouldn't be here right now
at all.  But he said nothing.
 "How long have I been out?"
 "Several weeks, sir.  You were injured severely.  You probably won't be
healed for another few weeks, and that's only because of the poultices that
the lycin provided.  We didn't think you were going to pull through, but one
of them had some unguents that he claimed would heal you completely."
 "Have they?"
 "Even miracles need time, sir.  Both of your legs were completely
shattered, as was most of your upper body.  Your head thankfully, must have
been outside the platform.  With this poultice, you'll eventually regain the
ability to walk,  and even to fight.  There shouldn't be much permanent
damage at all."
 "How much longer have I to convalesce?"
 "At least a month longer; both of your legs are still in very bad shape. 
But they're slowly healing.  It's really quite amazing."
 "Which of the lycin was it that supplied you with this wonderful stuff?"
asked Rajenique, a though suddenly occurring to him.
 "The ambassador, of course.  The other three left shortly after the
accident."
 "The ambassador?" asked Rajenique incredulously.
 "Yes, I understand that you arranged to have a permanent ambassador travel
with us to represent the lycin people.  I hear that we might be able to move
out by the end of the summer."  Rajenique looked even more surprised.
 "And who, praytell, is this ambassador?"
 "Ambassador Kaziji, of course.  You selected him yourself."

*    *    *

Rajenique recovered by the end of the summer, and indeed his discussions
with the lycin proved to be instrumental in the establishment of formal
diplomatic relations and opening of dialogues between the two races later
that summer.  He was awarded several medals for his heroism in capturing
Ibistethlin (Fyrrekarr) and his work in establishing ties with the lycin. 
Ambassador Kaziji continued to be an ambassador, ratified by both his people
and by the commander himself.  He proved to be quite an asset around the
fort, although there was a strange pattern of missing prisoners which
developed once he arrived.  By this time, the gaolmaster had troops
searching the entire underground tunnel system to look for hidden entrances
and exits, and were finding new rooms every day, so it seemed highly
plausible that they were escaping into the depths of subterranean maze.  And
it was this highly plausible story that went down on paper.  
 The fort was quiet that summer, hot and lazy in the long summer days.  It
was a really a vacation from war, and Rajenique spent most of it in the
infirmary, recovering from his accident.  But he would recover, and he would
go on to lead his troops out of Ibistethlin once the summer was over. The
sun  would be beating down on the ramparts of the mighty stronghold when
they left, and Rajenique would think back briefly on the summer days there. 
It would be autumn by the time they finally departed:  autumn, a new season
and a time of change.