Futanari Legends: The Frozen Queen (Book 2: Astrid) (4 page)

“She was with us on the ridge,” the sergeant adds, speaking the truth because that is where I joined up with them and started my deception. “And she was with me in the advance team before the lead unit burned from the mage’s fire. We watched it happen from the hills.”

And a lie, I was not with him then. My invention, placed in his mind. I was with the mage, Astrid. By her side as she flung the fireball. In her carelessness she killed forty of them in the flick of her wrist, and throughout this deception I have felt the sting of the deaths of those men time and time again from my supposed friends and allies.

Lives lost senselessly.

Yes, these men are Imperials, and they dress as bandits to chase these two women, but death brings its own set of complications. Especially death in that scale by magic, and by one hand. Words will be told, and a hunt shall begin for this mage. The fact she is a Sister of Gundir shall not protect her from the rage of forty families and the secret sects of assassins loyal to the Empire.

I always believed there were better ways to twist events to one’s liking. Through magic yes, but violence has a tendency to return to its sender. Ill blood seeks more of the same.

“Do you know any of the men who died, girl?” Keller says, keeping his knuckle under my chin and his thumb close to my lips. He stares in my eyes, his own dark and foreboding. He is trying to pressure me through an indifferent look, to make me flinch, or to make me back away.

This man is used to liars and reading people.

Like myself. And also like myself.

Only he works with the clergy and the flocks of worshipers, and I raucous and drunk crowds in bars. He is used to sins and liars, and I encourage them in both.

We are closer in occupation than you think, priest.

“I did not,” I say, straining to hold my silent notes, and trying my best to talk in a normal and non-bardic tone of voice. “I am a hunter from the Mist Valley, attached to-”

“I know who you are,” Keller says, “and my, what a beautiful voice. How did you come upon so sweet a tone?”

“Choir to the Church of the Empire,” I say, another lie, but with the truth twisted in there, and no magic to back it up. Mist Valley does have an Imperial church, built to convert the ones who still worshiped the Northern Gods, and hated by many of the old families there. The Mist Valley church did have a beautiful choir, and I just
could
have grown up a part of it. Part of lying is knowing what could be, and becoming a plausible part of it.

Before you’re found out.

“My,” he says, smiling, “a devoted one so sweet. Sing for me.”

Without magic? This shall hurt.

The archers, the Captain, the soldiers around us, and my sergeant fall quiet. Keller smiles, letting my chin goes as his eyes turn expectant and impatient at the same time.

“Go ahead,” he says.

I try my best to forget most everything I know.

My voice is soft and soothing. “God-King of ours. The light of our world. Shine above us with your glor-i-ous fire.” I hold my magic, my song dead from mystical notes, but my voice as practiced as ever. Holding my magic inside feels like holding in a shaken bottle of ale, and the cork straining to pop off and explode. I must stay my magic, to not let one note slip, for if I do, my ruse and everything is exposed to him.

He will sense the magic of my words.

“We pray ev-er-y day to you, our God-King Am-a-rus. Light our world with your glory and fire. Bring to us the judgment of your light. Raise the souls of-”

Fredricka, Mother of All Song, and Mother of the Northern Gods, please hold my magic in silence. It is said she invented music when she sung to her children, the younger gods. This pleased the God-Father Othin so much he gave the gift of music to the mortals of the world.

“Stop,” Keller says, smiling. “Very nicely done. I must go to this Mist Valley and commend them for training their choir so marvelously. I shall even mention you.”

And I shall not be there when you do.

Not many of those who never set foot inside these hated temples would know that song. I knew it as a part of my bardic training. While many in my class scoffed at having to learn the songs of the Southern conquerors, I dove in and paid attention to the unique melodies and rhythms of the songs of the Southern religion of the God-King. Every word and note gave a tiny bit of reverence and magic power back to this man through faith. The collected mana of millions gives this immoral man the power with which he rules.

Yes, I probably gave him a couple drops of myself just now. A small sacrifice, and having paid attention in class back then probably saved my life right now.

Take your mana, God-King.

Keller turns away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to turn and walk away.

“One moment.” He turns and wraps his arm around me. He pulls me close, like I know him, his muscles powerful and gripping.

“Come with me, huntress Icebow, to the tent of the Captain and I. We have a young priestess there as well who would love to hear such beautiful songs about our God-King. We wish your company and the magic which flows from your melodies. I’m sure the priestess would be thrilled by those sweet lips as well.”

Magic? I cringe. Had he heard something? I was so very careful! My mind goes over every word said, every note sang as my heart races. I smile at him and nod.

A priestess? I have never saw here before in my infiltration of these Imperials. Though I spent my time with the scouts, and a short time at that. She could have been traveling with the main group, and there still are Imperials arriving.

Who else could be with them? This is getting more risky every moment I spend here. I certainly do not have time to socialize and sing songs.

That is the first time I ever had
that
thought. As a bard, the concept of being alone and a recluse is alien to me.

Small sacrifices I suppose. Best to be pleasant. I silently curse my sweetness of voice and looks. Full of breast and sweet of song as they would say back in the Bard’s College, and destined to break a million hearts. It is much too easy to like me.

I know I am not leaving this place easily.

Or soon.

Chapter 4:

Reins

“Fuck you, dragon.”

I felt the beast growl between my legs. We had been quiet on this flight, but I grow bored with my arrogant steed. I slip my hands between his scales, and let my fingernails rake the soft flesh underneath. I poke him so he can feel a little pain. My blood red lips smile as my pure-white skin radiates in the unbridled sun.

“I should kill you for such words.” He growls a low throaty growl as the world sails beneath us. “Whore.”

I laugh.

Few would say such words to a dragon.

The black leather dress around me shines in the light, cut up both legs, my thigh-high boots gripping onto the beast’s sides. Underneath my skirt, black leather panties cover my crotch as I grind my hips against the beast’s shiny red-black scales. His scales slide across my legs, against the leather covering my sex and aroused cock, and deep into my ass. I grip his scales with the cheeks of my ass as I keep riding him, and we fly high above the world.

I smile. “Fuck you dragon, and all of your kind.”

But I can.

“Bitch!” The beast under me screams, and plunges towards the ground in a dizzying dive. “Die, venomous bitch!”

And he wants to play?

Perfect.

Let’s play.

The muscles tensing in his back and into my crotch send a shiver down my spine. I feel my white-skinned cock pop free of my leather panties as we sail towards white-capped mountains and jagged peaks. The front of my rune-covered black leather skirt covers my hardening cock, but fuck me, the air is cold up here.

We spin as we head towards the ground and I laugh, my long red hair whipping in the wind.

What do I have to fear? I am a Darklord, a mistress of death. I am also a cock-cursed Sister of Gundir, a bitch-child of the gods cursed with the body of a goddess and the cock of a well-hung man. Like every other ‘Sister’ I have a pussy…and a cock. A hermaphrodite bitch-daughter of goddess Gundir, ‘mother’ to us all.

And then, I was corrupted, taken in by practitioners of dark magic when I was very young, the very color leeched out of my skin by wickedness, my body never dying and consumed by this inborn hatred of life.

And a cock defines my unlife. The very tool for bringing life, of the act of fucking and planting seeds, consumes me with its ungodly desires. Every moment it throbs, and every moment it wishes to be satiated like some screaming whelp. It pounds, it throbs, and it sends me into lustful throes I cannot control. My teacher, the bone-wrought arch-lich Skeldor, told me the answer was simple.

Cut my cock off.

I refused.

A cock without a cunt is half a woman.

Liches are such jealous assholes. His cock probably dried up and fell off centuries ago.

So I suffer with this curse born of my mother’s heritage, a she-male bitch with a legacy is to strike us blind with lust and the fever of our loins. Fuck my life, fuck my curse, fuck my magic, and most importantly, fuck this dragon.

Will I die if we hit the ground? Well, my body will be pulverized and a pile of mash, but I will not die. Only suffer for eternity as a pile of broken bone and goo until I take spirit form. The dragon? Quite dead, instantly in fact. A small consolation for my hatred of this beast, but a shared fate in our current situation.

Unlike that of which we seek. A key, perhaps, to the gods themselves. To their power? Perhaps. My Orcs trudge endlessly on the ground towards this place, towards that of which we seek. The dragon and I can fly, together, and perhaps only for a few moments longer.

Allies by circumstance, but wickedness shall cut deeply when what we seek comes into grasp. I know not to trust any of them too much.

We stand ordered together by a mission of convenience by an axis of evil. All who hate the gods, ante up your worst and most hateful. For this is the beginning of the end for those who call themselves our better.

Die, hated gods, die cruel slave masters, and die those who blind history into senseless hatred and death.

Gods.

The world shall be better off without you.

And yet, we still fall from the sky. Some moments are meant to be treasured for the few seconds we experience them, often in the moments before we die, or the moment right before we wished we died.

I grip his back tighter with my thighs, and grind my wet cunt against his scales, feeling my leather panties slide to the side. The slippery scales slide against my labia, parting my folds and pinching them as the scales contract, my pussy’s juices slicking up the beast’s back.

“Whore!” He screams as the wind whips past us, and the ground spins around us. “Fucking human whore, do not fuck my back you shameless slut!”

“Fuck you!” I laugh. “Fuck you and the egg from which you hatched. Fuck your beast mother whore and the shit-covered draft horse who fucked her, dragon!”

He screams, and fire trails from his mouth in our death spiral towards a snow-capped mountain which comes precariously into view. We trail fire as we burst through thin clouds towards our final resting place.

Hatred is good. It is all I know. I hate this life and this world. I was born into a world that does not care, nor does it have room for someone like me.

The mere sight of me is enough to condemn me.

I am sure it is the same for others.

It doesn’t matter which god they worship, as they are all the same. Those who profess the most love with their words often hide the most hatred in their hearts.

My cock is so hard. I grind my cunt harder into the beast. I feel pre-cum ooze from the end of my cock as I fuck his back harder, my mind unlocking the deepest dark magics from the Darklord’s past.

I did not choose this life, it was chosen for me a long time ago. Do I regret it?

I have never known anything else.

The bitch-queen of un-life, servant of dark masters, eon after eon of wallowing amongst the sexless undead. Skeletons, zombies, and liches, who’s genitals dried up, rotted away, and dropped off millennia before I ever arrived, and who’s lifeless eyes see me with suspicion. That I may strut about sporting an erection, so turned on by death and my wickedness that somehow this organ of flesh, of life, is a weakness.

Fuck them.

My cock is my strength.

For I am Darklord Magni, Mistress of Undeath.

The only love I know is for hate.

I grip the beast’s scales tighter, my fingernails drawing blood under his scales, and my loins grinding harder into the dragon’s back. The ground spins towards us as I snake black tendrils of magic around the beast’s neck, and I feel his entire scaled body shiver as I catch the next breath in his throat.

I strangle the beast with tendrils of black magic as we fall towards the earth.

“You may be more ancient than I, and you may have seen this world when it was born, dragon,” I say, twisting my magic tighter, feeling his choking gasps in my loins, “but your arrogance and pride are your weakness, stupid beast.”

He chokes harder, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, his entire body convulsing under me. I slide towards his head, my legs wrapped tightly around his gasping neck, my black magic tendrils squeezing the life out of his choking throat. I lean close to his ear, and my blood red lips curl into a sinister smile.

“Who holds the reigns, beast?”

Smoke trails out of the corners of his mouth, around the proud and vicious fangs, his body too weak to snap back at me. His eyes roll back into his head, but I know he is watching me.

“I hold them.”

The ground spins in front of us, ice-white peaks of jagged stone. It may be too late, that the beast may not have enough room to fly.

If this is how it is to be, it shall be.

He nods weakly, and I wait a moment to release him.

His wings catch the air and we soar, pulling up moments before impact as we soar away into the blue sky, frozen peaks jagged with icy stone sailing by below.