Page 42 of Dorchad

“Hold, Kemp,” a low, flat voice called out, and the cart came to a stop. “Why do you drive away from the farms?”

“I go to first visit a friend,” the blacksmith said. “Need I your permission?”

“Our master desires to ken all who dwell in the forest here,” the challenger said. “Give me the name of your friend.”

“You dinnae ken him. Now get out of my way, woodsman, or I shall run you–” The big man’s voice stopped with a liquid gurgle.

Osgan reached into his satchel and took out a heavy pouch. Pouring the glittering contents into his fist, he listened and then braced himself for an attack. Blinding the bespelled woodsmen would prevent them from capturing him, but it would also confirm to their master his presence in the highlands.

The cart rocked back and forth, and then suddenly the horse bolted. Osgan held onto the box beside him as he was heaved up and down by the runaway’s frantic pace. Peeking out, he saw the dead body of the blacksmith sprawled on the driver’s bench, a small axe protruding from the side of his neck. With another glance behind him, which showed only a cloud of dirt and debris, he climbed up onto the bench, prying the reins from the dead man’s grip and yanking on them to slow the horse.

“’Tis over, you fearful nag.” As the cart stopped just before a cliff Osgan jumped down, leading the animal to the edge before releasing the tugs to free it from the cart. “Hold.”

After tethering the reins to a stout tree branch he shoved the dead blacksmith and the cart over the cliff, and then climbed onto the horse’s broad back and patted its neck. “Now I shall take us both to safety, my new friend.”

The sweaty horse shuddered a few times as it slowly made its way through the forest, but by the time it reached their destination it had settled down. He released it before walking up the ridge to a scarred patch of ground where he had long ago faced the immortal dark Fae assassin sent by the queen to murder him. The sight of the place still made bile rise in his throat, but he endured it, for only a short distance away lay the one place where no one could touch him.

I shall rest and heal for a time, and permit my lovers do their best and worst.

To anyone’s eyes it appeared like a grove of ancient trees surrounding a circle of oddly-shaped standing stones carved with enigmatic Pritani designs. Villagers and crofters avoided the place even back when Osgan had been mortal, for legend had it that anyone that went into the circle never came back out. The legend, only partly true, concealed a much darker secret: a hollow that had once been used to imprison mortals as well as heal those injured so they could be used time and again by the dark Fae that wished to hunt them like animals. After something had exposed their misuse of mortals to the Court of Light, the hunters had been forced to move their bloodthirsty sport to Elphyne. Since then the hollow had stood unused and forgotten, until one of Osgan’s lovers had told him of it.

Go inside and sleep for a night, and you shall be healed of any wound. Sleep there for a century, and you shall awaken an immortal.

Walking into the center of the circle, which shimmered as soon as his feet landed on the bare soil there, Osgan entered the hollow. The world around him darkened and faded away as he found himself standing in an underground chamber with walls made of tangled tree roots and a dirt floor. As soon as he sat down and braced his back against the wall, the roots behind him came alive and began to grow over his body. The first time he had crawled into this place he had been dying from the wounds inflicted by Rune during their last battle, but as soon as the roots enveloped him he began to heal.

What he saw around him as the hollow took hold of him changed as well, becoming a place filled with endless gardens and green skies lit by magic rather than a sun.

The former lover who had told him about the place had once served as consort to a dark Fae known as the dullahan. Her monstrous, murderous lover had so enjoyed stalking and killing young, helpless mortals that he would lure them into traps like this one that would keep them alive but hold them captive until he collected them. Rumor had it that the dullahan had been slain by a halfling dark Fae, who had been eternally banished from Elphyne for taking his life. As for the former lover they’d shared, she had fallen victim to a strange curse placed on her shortly after returning to Elphyne, so she had never been able to betray him.

She’d also never known that her mortal lover had been the one to end her.

Osgan lay back in the creeping embrace of the sacred tree roots, which slithered into his garments and wrapped around his body. Almost at once a burning pain seized his cock and baws as the roots spilled their caustic sap onto his injured flesh. He closed his eyes and endured it, for he knew the agony would soon end as it had in the past. A root found the seam of his mouth, and pushed inside as if deeply kissing him.

At once a low, whispering voice spoke inside his head. Reborn mortal, the dark Fae again seek you.

The magic of the hollow came as much from the trees above it as the dark Fae magic that enchanted the place, but Osgan couldn’t remember anything speaking to him before now.

“I came but for healing,” he said as the root slipped from his mouth and instead encircled his neck. “You ken me from long ago.”

Dying you crawled to me, and slept in my embrace for a hundred years. Now you return with the flesh curse eating at you.

That was why he’d fallen ill despite becoming an immortal. It had been the result of a curse, not mortal sickness. “I’m at your mercy.” Was it female or male? “My savior.”

Several of the roots began to bulge and split open, and a glittering shower of green-brown magic fountained up to form the rudimentary shape of a female with enormous breasts and hips. When she smiled at him tiny black beetles scurried into the cracks between her mossy teeth, making his stomach clench. Sensing she wanted him to desire her, he kept his revulsion from showing on his face.

Many have used you, Osgan of the Taezali. You do not desire me any more than the one who helped cast the flesh curse on you.

Tears of self-pity welled up in his eyes. “I may only blame myself and the ailment, my lady.”

She made a sound like a weary sigh, and collapsed back into the split roots, which closed over and retreated as if to return to the soil. Osgan wondered if she would feed on his corpse once he died, and then the roots burst out around him, ripping the garments from his body before pinning him to the soil.

I shall heal you, and you shall pleasure me.

The roots became a swarm of tentacles that swallowed him whole, dragging away the last shreds of his clothing before seeking entrance to his body. A thick, heavy root pushed into his mouth; another plowed into his arse. Smaller, thinner roots penetrated his ears, nostrils and even the corners of his eyes. The very finest root swirled around the stiff length of his shaft before thrusting inside the tiny eye of his cockhead.

Osgan couldn’t move or breathe without experiencing the sensations of being facked a dozen different ways. If he survived this coupling, he would never again consider even the roughest of male lovers as his most brutal.

When I find the cluet, I shall make it give me such ability, that I may fill every hole a lover possesses—and then tear them apart while I do.