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Chapter V

Whenever the voices came, they felt like worms crawling through his brain and chest, coiled around a sense of dread and ecstasy. Dread that they would tell his father things, things that would make father furious with him. Ecstasy, because of the rewards he would feel in his heart when he did as the voices asked, begged, cajoled.

Sometimes, though, the voices demanded too many things, so many he could not possibly complete them all, and then the voices would scream at him, filling his mind without benefit of using ears he could cover against the ringing, stinging deluge of suffering. They would flood him with screams of his worthlessness, shiftlessness. Worst of all, they would do it in father's booming, rumbling voice.

There were only three cures for the voices. He could do their bidding though they would always come up with another thing later, and often their bidding led to father being angry in person. Secondly, he could find a woman and cut her until the voices quieted, replaced by her shrieks of fear and begging for mercy and final, ringing silence. Thirdly, he could do as he did now.

The lithe little feline clenched his claws into the chain mail skirt in front of him, feeling the smooth, cold texture of dry steel against his fingerpads as the soldier grunted and slammed his thick-furred balls into the tiger's chin, gagging him deliciously with the burning, throbbing, pointed spike of flesh the movement shoved down the tiger's throat.

His throat fluttered on the red, throbbing cock, as he rolled his eyes up to the wolf soldier. He had his head tilted back, his paws wrapped in the tiger's long, silky, well-loved hair, and was straining, the near-painful anticipation of an explosive orgasm written all over his face.

As he grinned around his throatful, the tiger wriggled his hips, twitching them to and fro as his tail danced, before being snatched by a rough, armored paw. The bear railing him grunted and thrusted, his thick blunt shaft drawing a gurgled squawk of pleasure from the impaled tiger and a muted, sullen silence from the voices.

His grin broadened as his eyes slid fluidly to the bodyguard. The lion was stoic, his golden brown eyes staring straight ahead like a stone-carved sentinel, ignoring the soldiers using his charge like a cheap street whore in the way bodyguards did; seeing nothing, but watching everything. The veteran warrior looked unruffled, pristine, his armor polished to a mirror-fine gloss, his footpaws spread in readiness for battle at any moment.

The tiger arched his hips and clamped down, playing his practiced muscles along the bear's thick, turgid cock, drawing a strangled sound from the creature's throat as it gripped him, steel plate gauntlets digging harshly into his slender hips as the bear gave one last thrust and began blasting his insides full of the stickiness that always seemed to disgust the voices into silence.

The garrison knew the drill by now. A reluctant-looking wolf was pulling on heavy blackened-chain gauntlets as his patrol partner helped tie his padded gambeson into place so that they could get his chain on without chafing him. His pants were open, leather ties hanging to the sides, a startled-looking young girl whore from the streets working over his reddened cock with her lips and fingers, while shooting disbelieving looks at the debauched tiger arching and swallowing the sergeant's cock to the balls.

The girl's jaw ached, and her ears buzzed with the echoed grunting and slapping of flesh. By pure habit, she lifted a delicate paw and wrapped it around the wolf's base, feeling the soft, supple skin of his sheathe bunched up under her fingers and gathered at the base of a half-grown knot. The girl dove forward, swallowing repeatedly to avoid choking as the hard tip scraped her throat.

The wolf she was suckling sucked in a breath, hard, and grabbed her jaw hard, digging armored fingers into the joint to force it open. She choked, gagging as his twitching tip drizzled the back of her throat with a spurt of liquid, before she was thrown clear of his dick with a shove that sent her sprawling. As she looked up, surprised, she saw the wolf with a strained, squinted expression, his fingers clamped tight on the thick tube running under his cock, squeezing off the unexpected release she'd pulled out of him.

"Damnit, girl, you want me to die?"

She goggled at him, as the bear she'd seen fucking the duke's younger sun pulled his sodden cock free with a disquieting slurping sound, and waddled off to clean his cum-dripping shaft, looking somehow relieved in a fashion that had nothing to do with emptying his pendulous balls.

The wolf she'd been suckling stood, gripping himself by the base, and gave her one last glare as he strode over to the duke's son, grabbing roughly at a bruised spot on the youth's hip. The lithe creature wriggled, purring around the cock in its mouth and all along its back as the tail lashed, like a flag glorying in pain, before being grabbed by the wolf as it maneuvered itself, then pried the young adult's pucker open with his tip and slid smoothly inside the cum-dripping passage.

Another soldier, the one who'd assisted with the draw-strings of the wolf now fucking Toryen Casso waved her over, and the girl approached him, kneeling down to undo his breeches. She half-expected to be shoved away again, and was cringing despite the paw that fell to her headfur and stroked at her pointed lupine ears, as she dove in and took his tip between her lips, tasting of musk and soap.

"Sorry girl, the young lord doesn't like it when his favorites spill in anyone else." As he spoke, his paw stroked her ear, trailing gently along the outer shell. This one had no armor, and was slighter than the other soldiers she'd seen crawling all over the young lordling.

The girl perked her ears in his fingers, wagging her tail hesitantly. The kind words gave her a tingle, a warm feeling of worth she got nowhere else, and it led her to lean into her work, placing both paws on the gentle-voiced wolf's thighs as she slurped at his cock, teasing the wet red shaft from his sheath and traced the veined length with her tongue.

"Only reason you're here is to get some of them ready for him. He doesn't care they don't like boys."

She furrowed her brows at him, confusion written on her face. The lord was frightening her, acting so far outside his station as to be scandalous, and scandal often led to silencings, when peasants were involved.

Behind her, the soldier slammed his hips forcefully against the tiger's, grunting as his knot popped in, and she heard the young lord give a cock-gurgling yowl, feral as a jungle cat, as he released all over the floor beneath him.

She tuned him out, keeping to the task at hand, a cold shiver running up her spine as she noted the sorry look she was getting from the receiver of her ministrations.

The soldier had lied to her, not wanting to fill her last hours before Toryen got around to her with dread. It wouldn't save her, so putting her through the fear would be pointlessly cruel.

With a grunt of relief he emptied his balls into her throat, stroking her ears with his paws as he softly cursed under his breath. He hoped it wouldn't be his last time too. Rumors from the road were ill, and the messenger they'd sent on to the keep hadn't spurred any action from the Duke.

Unconsciousness clung to her, like a mother cradling its child, shielding her from all the hurt and suffering and tears and pain, cocooned in a gossamer web of black. For a time she snuggled into it, lost in that comfortable dark dream, in which she was whole and small and loved and warm as a mother's arms.

In time, her dream changed, shifting like glassy sand in the relentless wind of desert night. She felt a sense of parchedness, a prickle in her throat and eyes and lips, the dryness of the dying.

Through her mind's eye, she saw the high, dry, hilly country of her birth, so far from the lands she'd come to as to be unthinkable for most. Months she had traveled, and she remembered now every bump, scrape, and scratch. She recalled in vivid tactile detail every deprivation of the road, every loneliness of spirit, and recalled the pain of knowing she deserved every test, for having left her people behind.

She remembered meeting another fur along the road, dirty and disheveled in battered armor, but smiling brightly and polite all the same. She remembered her disguise, how she'd strapped her breasts down with spare cloth and worn oversized garments that made her look like a child in order to hide her luckily slender hips. When she offered to help him out of his damaged armor, he'd happily agreed, and when they'd been set upon by Torian footsoldiers, she had acquitted herself well with her walking staff and then borrowed sword.

The handsome young lion had, after they'd finally driven the enemy off, thanked her for her assistance and given her the grandest opportunity; he hired her as his bodyguard, armed and armored her, and in time she came to discover he was the traveling Prince Callian, journeying the continent to learn of it before a crown could pin his head to the Scaled Throne of Darath.

An ache, felt deep in her chest, joined the tightness she hadn't until then realized she had been feeling. Her eyes felt hot, dry, stinging, and her lungs constricted, empty of air, her whole gut clenched with restrained sobs. She had loved him for his fairness, his kindness, his non-judgmental nature, and as much as anything else for his willingness to help her become what she had wished to be without thinking less of her for trying.

She awoke to the sensation of hot tears slipping into the bandages around her eyes, her body too leaden to lift a paw and brush at them. For a few moments, she had forgotten how badly injured she was, and the circumstances she was in. With a jolt, accompanied by a searing wave of nauseating pain and a sudden gasp, images of a maddened wolf and a slender, pretty priest doing battle in the rain reminded her.

Cel's vision was filled with explosions and stars, as the waves of agony roiling through her body slowly began to recede. She sucked in deep breaths, as deep as her body would allow. A change in the light and the rustle of a dry blanket told her someone was standing above her, but in a panic-riddled moment she realized she could not see.

A gentle paw touched her face, as she felt a presence settle next to her, the edges of a rough-spun woolen blanket touching her shoulder, as someone said soft words to her, words she knew but could put no image or sense to, until searing flashes of pain had ceased to pour through her body, leaving her in a numbed ache like a fire felt through layers of cloth.

Her lips sparked with prickling, as something was pressed to them, and she forced her muzzle open with the most effort it had ever taken, to bare her teeth and remind Royval of what had happened to his precious, beloved prick, or to remind evil little Toryen that he'd yet to manage a scream for mercy from her, something she suspected was the only reason he'd not gone too far and cut her throat yet.

Instead of the expected press of insistent flesh, or a belting across the teeth with a wooden club, a delicious cooling sensation spread over her battered gums and cheeks, pooling in her mouth and over her bitten, swollen tongue.

Finally, the voice spoke words that made sense, in a sotto voce near a whisper, soothing in a way that might normally raise her hackles, but in that moment made her want to cry with relief.

"Easy, easy friend. Its just water. I boiled it, its good to drink."

She managed, slow as a glacier, to give the slightest nod, before forcing her throat to remember what it was to swallow. The bruising pain there, dull and cold, reminded her in a vivid flash of young Toryen, naked and turgid-cocked, laughing and screaming as he held her by the throat, shaking her such that her skull was bouncing off the torture table he'd chosen to fuck her on.

Cel's swollen, sliced lip tried to turn up at the edge in a smirk, as soothing moisture flowed past it and into her maw. If there was any child, it would not be his. Somehow, the younger of the brothers had not been able to finish in her, not in the dozen times he'd tried. She hadn't screamed for him, except in rage, and she could still see in his face the frustration, the impotence, the inability to take his pleasure without it.

The voice intruded on her thoughts again, pushing back the dreamy floating that lingered around the edge of her consciousness.

"You have a serious fever and...Er..."

The hesitation preceded a shifting of the cloth, the shushing of wool being pushed about as her benefactor moved slightly in discomfort.

"Your wounds. They're quite severe. The infections will be bad."

He moved the water skin from her lips as she swallowed a third time, and she heard him moving again. Behind the unseen friend, she heard a fire crackling, and as she concentrated on breathing and forcing the pain away, Cel's back told her she was rested atop a sheeted straw mattress.

No agent of Duke Casso, then.

His voice sounded pained, tight and pinched, as if he were on the verge of tears, and she winced inwardly at the thought. Whoever this was, he was so upset by what had been done to her that it felt as if he were taking the torture on himself. Cel tried to speak, to come up with harsh words to steal his sympathy for her, but her body was still too ruined for it, her tongue too swollen and bitten, her throat too raw.

"Oh! My manners, ah...I'm Brother Timid, of the Finders. You are Sir...Um. Atarasi, Atarasi...Sir Kalos? Sir Raihon?"

She started, and it sent ripples of pain through her again, as her muscles tightened. The thought she'd had was blasted from her mind for a few seconds, until her exhausted nerves died away again. How could he tell where she was from, in her current state? As the priest went on, he spoke over a dozen common Atarasi names, though her homeland was months of travel away.

The ache in her head was growing, as she strained in the attempt to guess at this man and his agenda. She could not be sure this wasn't some form of ploy, though something beneath her fevered paranoia told her that she was overthinking, that the torments she had suffered were wreaking havoc on her judgment.

"Sir Kalas, Sir Terman, Sir Cel," the priest continued, his tail swishing in enjoyment at what felt to him like a game, as he carefully unwrapped bandages from the largely insensate knight, as she twitched and trembled in fever-sweats despite the heat of a cheerfully blazing fireplace not twenty feet from them..

She shifted slightly at that last name, her lips parting, cracking and beginning to bleed again as she tried to speak. Timid put a blessedly, finally dry paw to her lip, brushing it shut with the gentleness he'd have for touching a baby's down fur, though the motion made him clutch the dry blanket he'd swapped for, to keep from letting it fall and reveal his nudity beneath it.

"Shh, don't speak, your lips are cut. Sir Cel then. I'm going to have to unbind you, these bandages are muddy and will make your infections worse. This...I'm afraid it's going to hurt. I'm sorry."

Cel's lips twitched again, ignoring the priest's admonishment as she managed to force a few words, whispers slipping past the constriction in her throat as minnows through cracks in a dam.

"Pain...Is nothing..."

Timid hid his grimace, shifting the blind he'd placed over her bloodied eyes as he reached for the glistening-sharp knife he'd found in the kitchens. His eyes then trailed over the other supplies he'd found; heavy thread, sewing needles, honey, spider webs he'd stolen from their rightful denizens; he hoped it would be enough to save her. He closed his eyes, and reminded himself to have faith, that the vision would not be for nothing.

Cel gave a grunting, choked sound of pain as he pulled a bandage away from her face as carefully as he could, taking torn skin and clotted blood with it. Timid put a paw to a miraculously un-shredded strip of her cheek in gentle apology, as he prepared himself with prayer to battle what would be a grave fight to keep his stomach and remember his training.