Huntsman I: Princess

Huntsman

Volume I:
Princess

Leona D. Reish

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This book contains graphic sexual
content, including
the following:

Dark Elf maids
sexually serving officers at leisure.

A beast trap used
as dangling bondage.

Hogtying
& gagging trapped captive.

Sensual
rough sex including oral and on all fours by a fire.

Princess

Nobility; not always a thing one is born into. In the frigid Northlands, actions and strength amidst the merciless winter speak louder than any words. The softer races would consider the place a barren waste, a cursed land in the shadows of the Dragon’s Teeth Mountains. They would be mistaken, but in the Northlands, blood inherited the will to persevere.

“Ho! We only have an hour of light, get it moving! Yo
u can all rest when you’re dead!” Bellowed a towering man, his face seemingly chiselled from dulled stone, dashed with a neatly trimmed beard of a rustic brown and framed with ragged hair of the same tone. Ice-blue eyes, near the same shade of grey that the world around him held observed the men hauling the rickety cage wagons sternly.

Within them, f
eral Blackguard Hounds snarled. The growls they gave a low, steady rumble of a tone. The man’s cold eyes met the blood-red glower of one of the beasts as he passed the otherwise steel-walled barricade. The dim glimmer of intelligence burned in those eyes, and the guttural tone that backed the glower said it was no farce.

He knew bet
ter than to underestimate any beast of the wild, but these – these seemed a wicked thing of dark magic as much as Mother Nature. That only meant you were doubly careful about it. That caution and respect had gotten him far in life.

“Come on, we’re on city grounds so split the damn convoy for time
. You let night fall before they’re stabled and it’s your lives on the line.” He shouted, the only response coming from the caged hounds seeming to interpret his words as promise of fresh game. They had already cost him, but these hunts always did. Every one that joined in them knew of the risks and worth to the Northlands, as much security to the natural wilds as worth to the people.

The front wagons pulled away under half-hearted jeers and shouts
in reply. They knew the risks too, but they were just as exhausted as he was. Darkfall didn’t much care for wellbeing or preference, however. The brief hours of light would fall when they pleased, allowing the Hounds to empower and rejuvenate by the chill darkness of night.

Grabbing its wooden frame
, the heavy man pulled himself up into the third wagon, enclosed with a canopy. Inside, the visceral copper scent of blood and gore assaulted him, making him grimace and frown over at the far smaller, thinner woman shrouded at the back of the wagon with a small ball of light above her hand.

“They are stable, H
untsman, as much as they can be. The road is calm, and so they are not in danger. I am doing what I can to ensure that remains true.” The woman spoke, a willowy and aged tone full of depth and wisdom, punctuated with a derisive sniff. The ‘Huntsman’ looked the collection of marred and wounded bodies over, nodding solemnly.

“See that you do, Madame Elf. Goddess
bless you.” He offered in a quieted voice full of respect, turning to drop from the wagon. Ebony eyes glistened from behind the mask as the elven woman raised her head, silvery tips of hair spilling from the cowl and a hint of darkened skin, an ashen hint of deep purple, near black under the shadowing.

“And you, Huntsman. Goddess bless and protect us all.” She replied, her tone fading to whisper as she returned to the ball of magic dancing in her hand.
Within it, she could see far and wide, of things beyond the borders of the realm. Watching over the men required little of her, the magic required to sustain them came simply from drawing the energy of miracles in their presence, and so she scried. The further afield, the less visible, yet the distance left her with a feeling of unrest akin to a seeing cloud of smoke on the horizon.

Far and away, across a body of water, something of the land made the elven woman’s skin crawl more than it usually did.
Sarandin Isle had never been a good, wholesome place, and recent years had seen it descend into madness. Perhaps that was all she saw, the twisting convulsions of chaos. There was nothing more than a sickly feeling to garner from it, and so turned away from the cursed island. It was leagues away, across land, mountain and sea. Only those before her, wounded in battle with the Blackguard Hounds truly mattered in this moment. Even though the hounds were ‘docile’ in daylight, they had taken a small raiding party to hunt and secure. The beasts were invaluable monstrosities when captured that would otherwise ravage the countryside if left unchecked. The convoy rattled on.

“They’re back! The Royal Hunt has succeeded once again!” A watchman called
, from one of the first spotting towers. There had been scouts in the woods, so many new to the title that the Huntsman had wanted to call them down for being too clumsy about their business. This was not the time for judging and inspection, however.

The procession to greet them was as vivid as ever, full with people whom did not see the Blackguard for the threat they were. People secure in thanks
to the sacrifices of others. The Huntsman grimaced and twisted his mouth, shrugging and fixing his mantle – the fur of a grey mountain bear – and continued with the convoy, ignoring the cheers, howls and screams when a hound bellowed an echoing bark to the noisy bystanders. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the distant mountain range, and so the beasts grew restless, seeming to agree the crowds were made of soft-skinned fools.

“Quicken about your business, get them
to the pens before light falls behind the peaks.” The Huntsman called, waving the men ahead before disengaging from the procession that rolled through city streets. His business among them was now done, and there was much else to do. First of all, the man could use a meal. The Huntsman travelled alone through cobble roads, stairwells and through alleyways to finally reach the Castle proper gates.

Much like
the capital to the south, the whole of the northern city was a fortress, impressing the wildlife and would-be criminals with high walls across the city border. The grand centrepiece to that bastion of safety was Olvang castle. Majestic in size and apparel, it bore the multi-faceted banners of the Northland draped from every wall.

On that banner was a crest segmented into four
sections, each with their own symbol. The upper right and lower left backed with a bold yellow bearing the winged hunter’s claw in the upper, the bared fist of stoic perseverance in the lower. The opposing segments showed the dark of night, embossed with the lowered head of the prowling wolf in the lower and midnight moon in the upper.

“Blessing to you, Huntsman. You fared well this day?” The first gate guard shouted down, signalling to have the door opened. The tall
Huntsman groaned to himself and shrugged the heavy cloak on his shoulders slightly.

“I am alive. By Her grace may the rest of the men say the same. Dusk is setting already, we took too much time in this hunt but the wilds have been restless.” He
shouted back, shaking his head. It was an ill omen, as all knew it to be. The Northlands had bared the storm’s call before, cherished mother nature’s challenge. It was no easy thing, but for them to grow restless was not always in preparation for the long colds.

“Pray Mother that is all you intend to test us with
.” The Huntsman muttered more to himself while waiting for one to come down and open the damned door. As was with any castle or home, there were a number of entry points large and small, and he had no interest in the grand procession of the largest drawbridges. Castle Olvang was his home as much as any guardsmen or servant, offering him freedom to move through the halls as he saw fit.

Within was every bit as extravagant as without, presenting halls lit by luminous globes of light on metal stands along walls of polished oak. Petite elven servants dotted those halls
going about their tasks in livery of midnight blue overlain with a pallid yellow near white around the cuffs and sleeves for the men, the hem of the dress and gloves for the women.

It was their task to see the globes of light remain
ed stable, among innumerable other things. Moving through the halls on a glistening marble floor with a powerful quickness to his stride, the Huntsman paid none of them a second thought. Elven kind was very good at going unseen, an ideal trait for servants that could not bear the cold of the Northlands the way its native kin did. All who sought shelter received purpose, and the everlasting winter would see them perish if they did not rise to it.

The Huntsman
continued down adjacent corridors, weaving his way through the maze of a fort with a knowing step. Visitors from afar thought it madness or wickedness of elves that the castle had been constructed so, but they were given to appreciate the method behind it before their stay was done. No guest was able to simply wander off and venture on his or her own accord without getting lost. It reduced the chance of spies and subterfuge when each guest required a serving escort.

That
dependency itself taught the outlanders that they were not wholly above depending on the other races. Humbling and educating alike. Confronting a tall wooden door barred with iron rivets, the Huntsman did not slow, but simply reached out to lift the door’s latch and slammed his shoulder into the wood of it. The frame rattled and whined before pealing open on screeching hinges. More a problem of weight than oiling, such heavy-set doors had a way of stopping thoughts of subtlety, too. Inside, a raucous crowd of cheers and laughter met the Huntsman.

“Hoi, Mikhael! Old Man Midnight granted you another night
, I see!” A man called from inside, waving a hand over the crowd as many in the room turned to the Huntsman who filled the quarters with a stoic presence from the door. Mikhael – as a familiar face addressed the Huntsman – barked a sharp laugh as he pulled off his cloak, removing several inches of fur and bulk from his shoulders.

“Hah,
so he has, and no thanks to you, Knight-Commander. Flaming children you send will kill themselves with the weight of their own swords.” He grouched, taking a flagon from the nearest standing maid. Many of the elven servants around the tavern were firmly seating in the lap of a far larger man, their uniforms unbuttoned and in ruffled messes to leave perky little breasts on show for groping hands and eager mouths that wanted something more than the flagons and meals they were serving.

A few
others were only visible from the heeled boots sticking out from under a table. Mikhael had no interest in serving girls tonight, and moved to sit opposite the Knight-Commander who had thrown up his hands in deference.

“Truth, they won’t learn to run if
the Old Man does not chase them. Was it not the same for us?” He asked, grinning a jagged and angular smile over the brim of his mug. The half-dressed elven waif he was ‘entertaining’ took her chance to scurry off, and neither man paid her any mind.

“Hah, don’t remind me.
Aside, that wasn’t the Old Man but your flaming Mother, bless her.”

“And yours.” The Commander retorted, raising his mug and laughing fondly to the memory
of the things boys did to end up in trouble. Mikhael shook his head and took a long draw from the heady flagon of mead, the sort of thing to warm the heart.

“Nay, I hear you
, truth. I would not release them so soon if I could, but you must know Her Majesty is restless.” The Knight-Commander imparted, his voice low and steady with seriousness enough to make the Huntsman tense and look around the room. The man opposite him clapped a quick laugh and took another drink, waving a hand dismissively.

“Speak freely, you needn’t worry the
scullions, and it’s naught but rumour the men know. Majesty does not fear our elven kin up on Dragon’s Teeth, at least not yet.” The man waived, his words growing dark and low in thought.

“
Not yet openly, but she may. This is pushing to prepare the solstice, then? I would rather it not cost men but it would cost us all should we show weakness to it.” Mikhael gave, frowning and cracking a nut from the bowl between them in his hands. The Knight-Commander simply nodded in agreement. Whatever the Queen was planning or playing, the men held assured that their continued strength and struggle against Mother Nature was at heart.