The Saxon Ch. 01
Posted: August 28th, 2011 | Author: Jeffrey | Filed under: Hardcore Stories | Tags: Hardcore, Story |Frankish steel carved through chain and muscle and bone, flashing brilliant and crimson, wielded in the masterful hands of the Saxon warlord. His blood throbbed in his ear drums, no scream nor cry did register, only his own deafening pulse. Brutal and precise was the great war maker, cutting through armor and flesh, his blade a blur in the midst of the conflict. Foe after foe met him and their weapons clashed, all finding a terrible end at the massive man’s blade. Limbs and fingers and chunks of hot flesh lay all about, still quivering with life, soaking the emerald grass and feeding to black soil beneath. The counter attack had failed and the defenders scrambled back to the protection of their siege worn motte and bailey hill fort, not daring to look back, not daring to gaze on the hero Sighard.
Sighard panted, his breathing somewhat obstructed by the tight chain veil that obscured and protected his face under his eye framing helm. He pierced his sword into the blood slick ground with a low grunt, clasping both hands on the pommel and leaning all of his massive weight against the gory blade. The warlord looked about to see more than a score of men that lay dead or dying at the base of the hill, his eyes casting upward to see those who had retreated were manning the wood post walls of the fort. After much labored breathing his pulse slowed down and eventually the words of his captain reached his ears. Sighard turned to see that Wuffa was screaming at him, his red hair damp and sticking to his forehead, his face alive and animated with concern.
“We must reform Sighard,” Wuffa called out, looking frantically for recognition in his warlord’s eyes, nearly hidden behind the blood splattered chain veil.
Sighard nodded and lifted his colossal sword over his shoulder with a grunt, striding in long, slow steps over the hacked corpses that littered the field. The warlord was adorned from the top of his head to his knees in chain shirts and skirting, all covered in a royal blue cloak, with fine leather breeches and boots. On his belt and back he carried all that a noble Saxon warrior should carry: sword, dagger, axe and shield. He glimmered in the summer afternoon sun, a mountainous man, covered in blue and crimson, steel shining, his polished bracers nearly blinding. The warlord and Wuffa reached the tree line near the fort and knelt with his company.
Wuffa panted and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow with a grimy bare hand as they rested in the shade, a much shorter man than Sighard, but broad and meaty. Sighard looked over at his captain as he too puffed and blew; his entire company was winded and covered in blood, their eyes showing their exhaustion.
“My lord,” Wuffa bellowed between breaths, “we can not win this day, let us rest and hold them in siege one more night…,” he gasped, “surely some will die in the night and we can overtake them by force with the morning sun.”
Sighard thought on his captains words for a moment, then pulled of his helm and coif, so his men could see and hear him clearly, his closely cut brown hair soaked in sweat. He took his time to choose his words, looking for the fortitude in the eyes of each of his closest men.
“No… we attack now… catch your breath and be ready… look,” he motioned up the hill to the fortress, “see how they can not even muster the will to harass us with arrows and force our retreat? They are defeated, they are broken, they have not the will to win… and not a one will live to sleep this night… every one of them will feast in the hall of the All-father … tonight.”
Without another word Sighard replaced his veil and helm and stood, moaning as his back ached and his legs burned. Sweat poured down into his eyes and he groaned, digging his filthy fingers into his eye frames and wiping it away. With both hands he wrenched his sword free from the black earth where it had been planted. He looked to his captain and the company of a few dozen warriors of a local noble that were scattered along the tree line, still bent and wheezing. Sighard rested his sword across his immense shoulders and strode down the line, bellowing out to them to be ready.
“The siege is over, they are broken! The siege is over, they are broken! Who will end this right now? Who will put the burning in their lungs and soreness in their back away and tear down this fortress?” he called out, wanting this to be over, needing this to be over. He had seen broken men before and he knew his own would have the look of defeat if they tarried a moment longer.
Sighard and his closest formed up a wedge and the rest followed suit. Evenly, slowly, the formation started forward, up the hill, to the front gate. The terror in the air was electric, all about was death and dying, the prospect of an end to this conflict sweet and terrible. Sighard raised his sword high and looked on the defenders; they trembled at the top of the wooden towers, some insignificant few arrows were launched into the formation with little effect. Sighard broke into a charge and the company slammed into the charred and weakened gate, hacking and pounding and shouting until it splintered and they poured into the first courtyard. Here battle was engaged as the defenders found it in them to put up a fight. Hammer and axe and sword and spear were employed on both sides, flesh being torn, throats ripped open, bellies emptied of their bowels, and limbs hacked off in jagged, dangling messes.
Through the din and confusion Sighard charged forward, standing nearly a foot higher than the next largest man, he was seen by all, a great encouragement to some, a terror to others. He reaped and harvested men in wide, arching slashes of his sword, sending them flying in all directions, splitting open their helms and hacking away chunks of their jaws and shoulders. The company of the great warlord was quickened by his success and they charged up the narrow passage to the main courtyard, letting out cries of victory. Bone and metal and fire and blood were left in their wake, along with the groans of the doomed.
Sighard was first into the main compound and his eyes went directly to the main house of the fortress, with its tall spire and wide doors. His men were close behind, dispatching what pitiful resistance was left. The Saxon warlord strode surely to the doors of the wooden hold, a clenched sneer on his face behind his veil of chain. With one bash of his pommel both doors fell in and light and dust swirled in the dank entry way. His closest captains rushed in beside him and they found the king of this defeated tribe and his dozen oversized huscarls.
Bearing fine, broad axes and well crafted chain shirts, the captains and nobles of the king advanced through the hall. As they approached the line of Sighard and his warriors they began to twirl their axes, making a spinning wall of thunderous blades, yells echoing through the soaring rafters. At this sight the company of the Saxon warlord fell back several paces toward the door, the weight and speed of the advancing blades dampening their will, so many were already bloodied and broken. Sighard would have none of this retreat and raised his sword over his head with both hands, stepping forward in a mighty stride and bringing his blade down across the brow of an axe wielder, crushing in his skull, his axe flying wildly from his grip and burying itself into the foot of the huscarl beside him. Sighard roared and swung his blade into the twirling axes, the power of his ancient sword slicing through axe handle and blade alike. His company gloried in the mastery of their leader and swelled forward with spear and sword, lancing the enemy to the walls of their own feasting hall and cutting down what was left of them, the defeated gurgle of acid and blood reverberating through the hall.
Sighard, the great Saxon warlord, stepped slowly over the carnage he had created and found the king of this soon to be forgotten tribe sitting in his throne at the head of his feasting table. The old king looked up at the giant hero and clutched his sword tight to his chest with both hands, his eyes casting down to the floor. Sighard stepped to the side of this man, angling his sword cautiously, and looked upon him for a moment, bent and defeated, he made no sorrow; he merely gripped his sword tight and bent his neck forward.
Without a word or any pretense, the king was dead, his head separated from his body in one blow, the great sword of Sighard buried in the table before the headless king. A ribbon of crimson sprayed and splattered across the hall and painted the walls of this overpowered peoples one last time. The head of the table, the head of the tribe, the head of the king, all gone in an instant.
Sighard removed his helm and coif and held them under his arm, stepping softly to the dead king and removing his rings and jewelry. He turned to see his captains already relieving the huscarls of their chain and possessions. No victory cries, no celebrating, merely looting of the defeated. Bile rose in the Saxon warlord’s throat and he walked silently past his men, sliding the treasure of the king into a pouch on his hip. Outside the scene was much the same, warriors harvesting the dead in every conceivable manner, taking weapons and rings and armor. Those soldiers of the noble for whom he fought were celebrating, preparing a courier on horseback to carry the news of victory to their lord. Sighard plodded slowly through the wrecked wooden fortress, looking on the bodies of those who would surely be in Valhalla this night, smiling to himself, though none would see, satisfied that these would soon be in the arms of valkyries.
As the Saxon warlord reached the now broken and shattered entry way to the motte and bailey, the warriors of the noble congratulated the war maker with calls of victory and honor. Sighard acknowledged them and softly patted the pouch at his belt and thought on his honor. He found his way back to the tree line, to he and his men’s horses. Weary and with sweat soaking his undergarments, he knelt and wiped his immense weapon on the bright green grass, making a sickly color as the blood was smeared away. Once the sword was sufficiently clean he sheathed it and removed his belt, packing his weapons on the horse, freeing him of some weight. With a grunt he pulled himself up upon his gray warhorse and urged him forward. He watched and waited as his captains returned and did as he, also loading up the spoils they had gathered. Sighard circled about them, seeing no delight in their eyes as the local warriors had shown. He again patted his pouch and grimaced.
The ride back to their camp in the land of Alric was slow and agonizing to their weary bodies. Long after the sun had set they rode under the guidance of the moon and eventually found their camp beyond the village and fortress of Alric, he that had hired the company to finish off his competition for land. Sighard’s eyes found the hall on the hill inside Alric’s hold, it was illuminated and much noise bellowed down to were they sat, filthy and broken. He dismounted as did his men and before long a great fire was burning and they had watered and fed their horses, unpacked them and stowed their treasure in their tents. It was nearly midnight and the company was exhausted.
Sighard looked over to speak to Wuffa, both their faces lined and sooty. “See how they celebrate? A landed lord and his men?”
Wuffa replied with his gruff, broken voice, his throat bearing scars of battles long before, saying, “You have at least been a part of that life in your father’s lands, what of us poor common bastards? Hmm? Perhaps he will send someone down to spit in our eyes and kick us in our sleep. Let ‘em rot, as long as we are paid.”
Wuffa smiled to his warlord and laughed at his own words, plopping down on a log before the fire and trying to lift his heavy chain shirt from his shoulders. Sighard looked on his friend and thought on his words, truly, he could have stayed in the lands of his father and been party to that manner of celebration quit regularly. His eyes looked back to the hall and he spat on the ground. The Saxon warlord did as Wuffa and the rest and removed his armor and peeled off his stinking clothes. He sat before the fire nude and plunged a sponge into a wooden pail, bringing it out and sopping it over his body. His eyes once more found the hall and he scowled as he heard the lilting voices of women.
Wuffa abruptly shot straight up and grabbed for his spear, his eyes wild and keen. He stepped to the mud road they camped beside, still nude and dripping, and listened. His ears pricked up and he closed his eyes.
“Someone’s coming,” he whispered and Sighard took up his sword, the rest of his dozen men following likewise. “On horseback… at least two horses,” Wuffa murmured.
Soon enough the horses plodded to his camp and stopped. The company of Sighard was ready to tear down the riders when they saw it was the captain of Alric. He and his companion’s horses were laden down with saddle bags and crates. Hengist, Alric’s captain, dismounted and made very short work of stacking these sacks and boxes on the ground before the fire, paying little notice to the warriors who stood naked and armed, watching his labor so keenly.
“Alric pays you what you asked, take this treasure and be gone from these land’s by dawn… mercenaries,” Hengist sneered, his voice high and condescending. He slipped his foot into his stirrup and made to mount but his other foot was caught on something. He turned to see Sighard’s twisted, filthy, scowling visage, his hand gripping Hengist’s foot in his huge paw.
“You will tell your Master… dog… that we will leave when we choose… and that we demand meat and beer and slave women this night… he will honor us,” Sighard spat out, seething and angry, crushing Hengist’s ankle in his powerful grip.
Hengist let out a groan and bit his tongue as Sighard twisted and gripped his ankle. Sighard eventually let go, accentuating on last twist and the dog messenger galloped off with his younger companions. Wuffa came to stand by Sighard and whistled long and low. No word was spoken, but Sighard knew his men were nearly dead with exhaustion and would not be able to stand another fight. His temper had moved his tongue again and he would pay the consequences. He would not be dishonored, not after all of he and his company’s sacrifice.
Wuffa sat back down before the fire as did Sighard, both of them dressing, pulling on their heavy stinking armor, his company following suit. There they waited long in the firelight, their faces drawn in and turned down, no complaint was made, their broken and shredded hands gripping their spears and swords, awaiting fresh men to come down and attempt to cut them to pieces. However, none feared defeat with Sighard in their company, not with such a hero. In his mind the Saxon warlord cursed himself and Wuffa could see in his eyes that he had great regret.
“No time for that,” Wuffa joked with a forced smile, “we have a battle to fight.”
With that the sounds of hooves slopping in mud came soft and then loud. The company rose and awaited the fray.
“Do you hear that,” Wuffa whispered to Sighard, “a wagon… you hear the axle creaking? Wood on wood?”
Wuffa’s ears were true and Alric had conceded to honor Sighard and his company, for fear his own house would be cut and burned and erased from memory as that of his rivals. Peasant men unloaded a barrel of beer and a deer still on the spit which it was roasted, placing it above Sighard’s fire to keep it warm. Slave women, narrow and thin, joined the company and made quick work of tapping the keg and pouring out the spirits to the conquerors. The slave women were lusty and boisterous, sitting on the laps of their masters for the night, feeding them slivers of succulent meat, pouring beer down their throats and clutching at their root’s that still hung bare. Sighard held a slave on each knee, a slight, fair skinned blonde girl and a raven haired, almond eyed, plump bottomed beauty. He ate and drank from their delicate hands until his belly was over full and his root stood out at their continued touch. The sounds of the celebration grew to a wild din as the slave girls danced about the fire, peeling off their thin white, ragged garments and displaying themselves to the warriors.
Sighard stood from his seat on the log and put his hand on the waist of each of the slaves that had attended him with meat and beer. With a firm grip he guided them into his tent and lay back on his cot, one leg propped on the bed and the other foot on the floor so that his still naked manhood dangled free from his hard body. He stroked at his root and smiled knowingly on the sharp featured wenches. Both of the lithe slave girls knelt on the cool grassy floor of the tent and lay their heads on his hard thighs, their eyes fixed on the uncommonly large cock that twitched and dribbled pre cum before them. They explored his chiseled body with soft hands as they blew and kissed his belly, the war hero having also a lusty hero’s body. Soft fingers drew across rippled muscle and bulging veins, up his arms and down his chest.
The darker haired girl leaned in and planted a soft kiss to the velvety sheath of skin on his root while the other watched, her mouth watering, eyes glazed. Following suit, the fair haired girl planted a line of gently kisses from his base to the tip, her little pink tongue flicking out to gather his leaking juices. The slaves giggled at one another as each took turns gently rolling the skin of his cock up and down over the head, amazed at the heft and girth they caressed.
Sighard was not pleased with their shyness to his need and urged them on, placing his hand on the nape of their necks under their hair and pulling them tight to his body.
“You, stroke my root, and you, make love to my sack,” he commanded, now sitting up and gripping them tight in his paws.
The slave girls complied eagerly as his sandpapery hands held them firmly in place. The lighter haired girl bent her neck in, leaning under him, and closed her plump lips on his sack, nursing one of his testicles as a babe feeding, her tongue slipping from her lips to tease his flesh, her throat purring a low moan that reverberated through his prostate. The darker haired slave was pulled into his cock roughly and she nuzzled it at first, cooing softly and feeling it swell and warm against her cheek, her large, dark eyes looking into his as she showed her affection to her hero. Soon enough he was ready to use this slave properly and had her by her hair, piercing her lips with his now erect cock, pre cum dribbling down her chin and into the hair of the other girl. Sighard guided her rhythm, her lips stretching over his root deliciously, his veins throbbing in her little mouth. He used her soft, warm lips and pink tongue, savoring the feel of her hair in his fingers, slowly grinding his hips, letting her know his appreciation with his own purrs. His sack was wet and warm and still being caressed by the loving mouth of his fair haired slave.
With a grunt Sighard pushed away the light haired girl and gripped the dark haired slave by the back of her neck and forehead. His need was now fierce and the slave girls saw the lion’s fire in his eyes, they readied themselves for the hero’s vigorous use. They looked up at him with anticipation and fear, their pussy’s moistening, their scent beginning to reach their hero’s nostrils. He stood now, the dark haired girls neck pinned in place by both hands, his plump cock held in her swollen lips, so hard and hot, as though she held an overcooked kielbasa deep into her mouth. The dark haired girl looked up at him with wide, startled eyes and obediently placed her hands behind her back, clasping her wrists together and arching back as to offer him her throat. Sighard grimaced and thrust his hips so that his root jammed into the back of her gullet, causing her to gag and sputter, but he did not relent, his cock driving deeper into her throat. The dark haired girl gurgled and cried out repeatedly as he abused her throat, jamming his root mercilessly and forcing tears to well in her eyes, causing spittle to drool down her chin and onto her breasts. The light haired girl watched and bit her lower lip, her eyes curious, her fingers slowly working her own sex. Sighard took notice of her and pulled his cock from the dark haired slave’s lips, jamming it then into the others, gripping her in the same fashion, pinning her head in place so he could piston his cock into her gagging and sputtering neck. He used her vigorously, the spongy head straining to drive deeper into her throat, watching the girl blink away sparkling tears that ran warmly down her narrow cheeks.
Sensing the heightening of your desire, Jeanne removed her hand. She replaced it with her hot mouth and slipped two fingers inside your cunt to massage the inner walls as she sucked your turgid clit into her mouth.
As you began to moan and tremble under her ministrations, she knelt between your legs and rotated your body to one side. She placed one of your legs between her own and the other over her shoulder. The puffy lips of her pussy nearly touched yours.
Jeanne told you to use both hands and spread the lips of your flowing pussy. You complied as she did the same. With your two pussies spread wide, you could see her erect clit protruding like a small cock. As her cunt made contact with your open pussy, a sensation of almost unbearable heat consumed you.
As she rotated her hard clit against the slickness of your pussy, her clit seemed to slip past yours and into your vagina.
While the pleasure of a long cock sliding into your passage was absent, the heat of the girl=s wet pussy was compensation enough.
Jeanne, after a few moments, stopped the gyration of her shapely ass and pressed her cunt harder to yours. You could feel the throb of her long hard clit pulsating inside you as well as the throbbing of your own.
With your pussies locked together in passionate embrace and throbbing in unison, Jeanne leaned forward to fondle and suckle your breasts. The sensation was overwhelming and you began to thrust upward into the slick heat of the girl=s sweet pussy.
The trembling of your building organism was apparent to Jeanne. With an almost vicious thrust, she slammed her pelvis into yours and quickly moved to spread her legs over your face while capturing your clit in her hot mouth.
You eagerly took her long clit into your mouth and greedily sucked the juices spurting from it. Jeanne was simultaneously returning the favor.
The two of you had been lost in lust for each other and now lay side by side. Rod had been watching the steamy scene and had again became aroused. His long cock was now hard and, as he languidly stroked it, exhibited a drop of pre cum at it=s opening.
“We can”t waste that,” Jeanne said, and with a flick of her tongue licked away the evidence of his rising passion.
Jeanne looked at you with her smoldering green eyes and said, “Baby, I never did see Rod just fuck you. Do you feel up to it?”
Looking at Rod”s hard cock and the gleam in the beautiful girl”s eyes, you gave her a passionate kiss and said, “Sweetheart, for you, I”ll let him fuck me senseless. Come on Big Boy, fuck my brains out for this girl.”