The Dark Lord's Lady

AN: Hello and thanks for clicking! Let me tell you first off that some might find this a bit of an odd story, so let me know what you think (i.e., review please!). I’m going for a blend of horror, fantasy, erotica and hack-n-slobber (gotta love that term!). I wanted a fantasy a bit different from other stuff I’ve seen, both on the net and in published book form. So here we have a story influenced by Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword, certain Romantic poets, some old fairy tales, the classic Beowulf and the PC games Dungeon Keeper 1&2… just with a little sex thrown in for good measure.

Disclaimer? Whatever, this is a product of my very own warped mind. Sophorim owns everything in this fic. I own Sophorim. Enough said, eh?


The Dark Lord’s Lady

Prologue: Sophorim’s Lonely Hearts Club


Lord Sophorim stood surveying his domain from the balcony of Darkthorn, the highest tower in his castle. When bored, as he’d found himself to be almost constantly these days, he often left his studies and subjects for a few hours to stand on this balcony to think. He’d often found the view inspiring and one which reassured him as well. Reassuring, because everything below him for as far as his sharp eyes could see, still belonged to him despite some of the neighboring Lords’ best efforts. His land, the thick wedge of mountainous valleys cutting across the Elflands, called Saavren’s Scar since ancient times, would ever remain the possession of his line. This morning however, the beautiful view however did nothing for his mood. His elbows resting heavily on the dark granite rail of his balcony, he leaned forward over it to stare down into the mists below his castle, a brooding frown on his face. The same winds stirring those mists below swirled around him, ruffling and lifting his midnight black locks from his shoulders. His attention wandered, although his eyes no longer watched the river his eyes were trained on as his thoughts turned deeper inward.

I am a damned fool, he decided. I have no right to complain about this monotony, rather, I should thank myself for the viciousness with which I drove off my enemies. He could also consider thanking his enemies for having taken his mind off events as they had been, surely something they had not taken into account. There had been no incursions from his neighbors since he had utterly crushed the one following his mother’s death twenty years before. They had thought to catch him unawares as his attachment to the last member of his family was well-known. They had been wrong. He had relished the chance at concentrating on something other than his loss. So, without a whisper of movement since then, his land prospered as his subjects could turn their attention away from war. The crops were decent, tithing was generous and his people’s spirits were raised. For a long time now all was peaceful, which was great for the country, but it left him with nothing to do. Yes, he had thrown himself into his weapons training, even taking up the additional study of new weapons aside from the sword. His mastery of sorcery had only grown over the years and once again, he’d branched out into new subjects. Of course, he could only do as well as natural abilities allowed. He was nowhere near as good a healer as he was a necromancer. So, he felt he should change his focus again, but to what? He turned to inspect his long fingered hand and the signet ring which had been brought back from his father’s last battle, the dilemma which had been plaguing him returning. He needed to find something constructive to do, but whatever hobby that might be remained elusive as ever. He almost wished some neighboring Lord might, in a sudden bout with amnesia, forget the hammer’s blow he had dealt them in his then enraged grief at their intrusion twenty years prior and come at him again. He wanted to lose himself in the clamor and frenzy of battle. He wanted the interaction of interrogation, but his sentries and spies reported no movement. It was decidedly very foolish to wish for battle, seeking it out rather than meeting it when it came. That had been his father’s downfall after all, hadn’t it? At least his father had been good enough to think to leave an heir behind. Regrettably, Sophorim could not say the same.

Well, I suppose there is that ‘finding my consort’ business, he mused. Unfortunately, there were no elf folk other than himself in his land. That was something he could thank his neighbors for. Over thousands of years, the small population had been whittled down. A few hundreds of years before his birth, the last town was obliterated as the unfortunate site of a bloody battle which killed all inhabitants down to the smallest child. The only people he could call his anymore consisted of the goblins, who called him their King, the trolls and dwarves in the mountains and the various species of fairy folk scattered about everywhere. Hunting for a suitable mate was therefore made difficult to say the least. He was the last of his line and no neighboring country would deign to form an alliance through marriage, not that he desired such either. Bitter experience had taught him elf maidens would run from him, shrieking in terror. His lips twisted in amused disgust. He’d heard the rumors. Oh, there had been evil portents the night he was born, they’d said. The neighbors’ goat’s milk curdled in her udder, you say? Why, it must be that evil Lord Sophorim’s new brat. Eight-hundred and thirty-five years later, the rumors still dogged his steps. According to the popular gossip in the lands outside Saavren’s Scar, he was truly monstrous in appearance. Due to a long-running sickness during his childhood, he hadn’t been viewed by the public in his own country until he was a strikingly handsome youth and word of it traveled. Of course by the time he’d appeared to stand by his father and mother, rumor had done its damage. The neighbors and even some of his own people were convinced those striking handsome features were mere glamour. He uncrossed his arms and tucked his windblown hair behind delicately pointed ears. Needless to say, consorts for him were rather thin on the ground.

In the interests of expediency, he’d tried to simply bespell various maidens and once he was done with them, keeping track of them over time to see if his seed had taken hold. It had seemed like the perfect plan, as the spell left the women unaware of what had transpired. However, just as he’d begun to doubt his own potency, it became evident one woman was with child, raising his hopes and causing him to cast aside those embarrassing speculations regarding his virility. Unfortunately once the child was born, his magic revealed no tie to his blood. The father had been someone else and he began to doubt again. His disappointment in that led him to eschew those tactics, as he felt kidnapping was at least more direct. So he’d tried kidnapping a woman after that. The results of that experiment had been… severely undesirable and the memory left a disturbing ache in his chest and bitterness in his mouth. The only positive thing about that hideous experience was that he knew he was capable of fathering children. He wished he could leave it at that, but kidnapping seemed to remain his only option. However, that line of thought had been traveled far too often and it was just as unpleasant now as it had ever been.

He did not look forward again to stealing a woman away, subduing her and getting children on her. Even if he successfully stole a girl away there was no sure way to say she might bear him a child. Anymore, elf blood was famously proving itself thin in the last several centuries. Long ago his mother had pointed out his childhood illness to him as an example. Therefore he felt there was no reason to simply take a girl off the farm, only to see his children sicken and die. That seemed like too much trouble in his opinion. He remembered well his mother’s pained expression whenever the others had been mentioned. He was the only one of his mother’s children to survive infancy. The loss of the other four children had been hard on her, he recalled, but it had always been his secret relief. From what he knew of his father’s children from previous marriages… they were truly vicious and conniving. None of them had lived until his birth due to (successful) assassinations or (unsuccessful) attempts at usurping his father’s place as lord. In light of that, he viewed himself fortunate. Before he’d even wanted his father’s position, the man had died unloved and unmissed, leaving the new Lord Sophorim with a clear path… and a severely diminished family line which consisted only of himself and his mother.

His eyes, looking for distractions for his mind, again traced the Tokarheth River which originated from the mountains upon which his castle was situated. The vale was yet gray with shadows, the sun not quite clear of the mountain peaks just yet. Even so, his sharp eyes picked out the distant forms of woodsmen heading out to the forest for the day far below him. Hm, goblins, he thought dimly. Of all his folk, goblins were the most numerous and as he was beginning to suspect, it was all thanks to their mortal blood. In short, mortals simply bred like rabbits. Why, even those books he owned which mentioned the mortal realm where all humans lived had a tendency to sound fairly scandalized at the sheer weight of numbers the creatures produced.

At that moment, Sophorim felt he could sense the hands of his ancestors trying to yank him off the balcony as punishment for his rather monumental stupidity. His lips minutely twitched as he was suddenly struck with irritation and thought, I am quite possibly the greatest damned fool my line has produced. He’d needed to hunt in lands where his reputation didn’t precede him, right? Back in his grandfather’s day, it was common practice to kidnap mortals for various reasons. As certain texts had claimed, mortals and elves could interbreed very readily. One book in particular had outlined a grim purpose for a child produced from such a union. If he could properly recall, their half elven blood was useful in a few dark spells and even he found the use to which a baby might be put, halfblood or not, extremely distasteful. He felt his oversight could be excused considering he retained such a gruesome image pertaining to mortals. Besides, contact with the mortal world had been broken off even before his own birth. Humans were practically considered creatures of myth in this day and age, after all. Of course, that was entirely due to his father and grandfather’s very strenuous efforts. As far as Sophorim knew, he was the only sorcerer left living after the last scourges his father had inflicted on other countries. No one was left to command the paths between his realm and that of the mortals. No one that was, aside from himself.

Feeling somewhat dense and deserving of all the insults his father had once heaped on him, Sophorim turned away from the sunlight and headed for the shadows of his tower. Surely he’d left the magical tome regarding transference on one of the shelves in the tower…

***

Years later after his surprising idea came to him, Sophorim was ready to test his knowledge and begin his search for a suitable mortal woman. The Realm Gate and Transference spells hadn’t been difficult to find, in fact he had been surprised to discover there were several different variations of each. He’d carefully gone over each one and its requirements, noting which were within his means and capabilities and which were too costly; in time, demonic pacts, or hard-to-find ingredients. At last, there was a space cleared and ready for the gate spell in the room behind him, all the necessary ritual chants having already been performed and the magic waiting to come to life when he said the last phrases, the key to opening the gate.

So at last, he sat on the edge of a worn chair, a nicked and battered pewter bowl filled with pure water set on a low table nestled between his knees. He said the necessary words of power and intoned, “Show me the mortal woman who would happily bear my child.”

Once the surface cleared, Sophorim stared unbelievingly into his scrying bowl for a few still moments. His fingers grazed the bowl’s sides tentatively while he considered his options. Was there room for doubt? It seemed unlikely, for the imp in the bowl might be accused of bloody literal-mindedness, as that was its job, however it could not be accused of being wildly inaccurate, which he found to be rather heartening indeed.

“So suddenly…” he whispered with slight disbelief, “A feast after famine?” There seemed to be a ridiculous number of women pictured in the still surface. He had only expected a few at best and wondered if he hadn’t couched his question correctly.

So many… well, I suppose they are unfamiliar with the Sophorim name, he realized. Not aware of his reputation in the Elflands, these women would only see him for what he was and he knew he was handsome. His hand rose up to tuck a black silken lock behind one pointed ear. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. He snickered as he considered all his enemies who wished for his line to finally perish. They didn’t know his determination and they would never think him capable of following this route.

He caught a glimpse of graying hair and glared at the scrying bowl in accusation and growled, “Would you mind showing only the youthful ones? I realize now that even an older mortal might find me attractive and am truly flattered, but I want one capable of child-bearing as it’s the entire point here.”

Even as the bowl’s surface shimmered and began to clear, he added, “Speaking of which, out of those pictured which ones have no entanglements such as marriage and children?” The bowl cleared and the numbers had been cut by about three-fourths. That was more acceptable, now that so many didn’t crowd the bowl’s surface. Now he could see individuals more clearly and was relieved to see that humans, if these females were any indication, weren’t quite as unappealing as certain books had led him to believe. They were just different than what he was used to seeing and the extreme variations in the species were astonishing. Additionally, so many mortal women would come to him willingly? The very thought of it tempted him with thoughts of acquiring more than one woman! Of course, some were surely unfit for life here and therefore he must ask more questions.

“Which of these would not miss the mortal world?” Ah, that left only ten women, a drastic drop to be sure, but still remained a far higher number than he’d originally expected. His eyes flicked from one woman to another as they each seemed to be occupied with whichever tasks mortals did in their daily life.

Hold on a moment, what’s this? He looked closer, tucking hair behind the other ear as he bent closer to the bowl. She was lovely… and performing her ablutions. He smiled wolfishly as his eyes devoured her. She stood under a spray of water with her eyes closed and chin tilted up, arms crossed over full breasts, her hands scrubbing at her arms. Hair of a particularly rich chestnut shade clung to her shoulders and dripped down her smooth back to a slim waist. He leaned closer, nearly bending double as his nose almost touched the water in the scrying bowl. Somehow, as if sensing his scrutiny she turned around, her large gray-green eyes wide and lips parted in apprehension. For a moment it almost seemed like she was looking into his eyes and he held his breath as he noted her thick long lashes and a slight pout of concern. She blinked a few times and drew her hands over her face, wiping water away and shaking her head slightly. Could she have sensed his gaze on her? He backed off and exhaled, intrigued at the notion. When next he looked, she had turned away again to begin scrubbing her shoulder, facing the shower’s spray. He watched her fingers sliding across her skin and he clamped his hands down on his knees, resisting the thoughtless urge to try to reach through the scrying bowl’s watery surface. He wanted to get up and start issuing commands to ready the castle for her arrival, but he didn’t want to miss a moment of this. It had been too long since his last woman and even then he had never bothered watching a woman perform the simple task of cleaning herself. He was not surprised to find it very arousing.

Desire caught its claws deep in his abdomen as the water coursed in rivulets down her back and over the gentle flare of her hips. He directed the imp to sweep the surface of all images aside from hers, realizing he was being presented with an opportunity for a very thorough and close inspection. Only now… she didn’t seem to be washing anymore, but her hands still moved restlessly over her skin. She bit her lower lip and Sophorim’s eyes widened in shock as he watched her cup her own breasts, running her fingers over her erect nipples. Surely his heart would stop beating at any moment, he wondered as she continued to draw her fingers over her breasts, because it didn’t look like she would stop. When she reached down, the fingers of one hand brushing aside wet curls and sliding over skin flushed a dark pink, she made his decision for him. She is mine, he decided heatedly as she braced her back against the wall and tilted her hips up slightly.

“You’re mine,” he whispered aloud, his gaze continuing to rove up and down her body as her movements sped up. When she threw her head back, wet strands of hair snaking across her neck and shoulders, her lips curled back to let breath hiss out from clenched teeth, he shivered and his grip on the arms of his chair tightened. He could almost imagine the feel of her wet skin sliding against him as he buried himself in her. Sophorim hadn’t considered pleasure in addition to the necessary obligation of procreation, but it was welcome and now achingly anticipated. Even more exciting was the notion that it could all be pleasure given him with her willing participation. He tugged on the crotch of his leather trousers and reflected he was not dressed for this level of arousal. Despite his discomfort, he knew he would not miss this for anything. He had one or two regrets though, as he watched her. She slid down the wall a little, a trail of wet hair following her down, a suddenly rough hand caressing her breast and he wished he might hear the lilting, passionate cries that were surely falling from her lips but alas, the scrying bowl’s imp was only capable of showing images. He reassured himself that soon enough, he would be present and responsible for whatever sounds of joyful abandon she would make from there on. At the moment however, it seemed like almost too much to simply watch the water slide down her now flushed skin, her eyes shut tight against her approaching culmination and her hips thrust out as she rocked and ground herself against her hand. By the time she did reach the height of her pleasure, he was again pressing close to the bowl’s surface so he saw her stiffen suddenly, nearly felt her sharp gasp on his skin and watched her eyes flutter open, nearly pinning him with another suspicious glance. He stared back at her, surprised. Had she sensed his attention? That was the second time she’d done that, therefore she surely must have and yet she still went on to pleasure herself, despite of it. How very intriguing.

Almost daring not to breathe he asked softly, “Will she obey me implicitly as her lord and master?” The beautiful girl in the shower disappeared and was replaced by three women whom he could only assume were left over from the ten he’d gotten after his last question.

“Damn. I guess even I can’t have everything.” Out of a need to be thorough, he studied what was left. Three women, none of whom made him ache with maddened desire like the one in her shower. But unlike her, they would obey him. Any one of them would do, but surely he wouldn’t enjoy himself as much with them. He deserved a challenge and he’d already made his decision, right?

“Back up to the disobedient one,” he drawled with a grin. The water’s surface shimmered again and he smiled wider. She was back and walking out of her bathroom, still gloriously nude. She walked across her bed chamber and tapped a button on a squat black box. He watched delightedly as she began to sway and stomp her feet, still drying her hair. “What’s a little disobedience when I can have that squirming beneath me nightly?” He looked at the bowl rather than what was on its surface and commanded, “Follow her throughout her day.” He reluctantly walked away from the bewitching image thinking of the things which needed done in order to prepare a place for her.