Finally finished with this next chapter! Of course it'd be similar to the previous one, being so long that I had to split it into two... Oh well. I'll try not to do that with the remaining ones. These next two chapters together were my favorite to write thus far, and though the first one's got less butt abuse content than usual the next will more than make up for it, I can assure you. ;)
Enjoy, and expect the next chapter up shortly!
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Seat of the Lindworm Prince
by Skaea
Contains: */M and */F Hotbuns with some tickling. Mildly NSFW; contains nudity.
Word Count: 5,164
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Chapter 4: Plan Of Attack
The rising sun heralded the start of another week in the kingdom of Wyrmwood. For most of the people it was as uneventful as ever, with those in need wandering the streets and generally trying to scrape a living. Perhaps it would be appropriate to bring up the old saying: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride”. It was a common expression the townspeople used to try and keep the envy of their peers for the nobility from overtaking them, but all the same, if wishes really were horses then there would have been a veritable stampede of mounted equines advancing upon the castle, their angry riders bearing torches and pitchforks aimed at one person in particular. The divide between the rich and the poor couldn’t have been more stark, and it was clear that this was the doing of a certain spoiled prince, one who had ruled over everyone, even his own mother, by virtue of his rage and authority alone.
For all who lived within the borders of the kingdom, that was the status quo, and it seemed that they would all live unhappily ever after — until his brother had been freed from his curse.
Within just a few months, Erland had shown himself to be as kind as Osmond was cruel, never letting his clumsiness and constant self-inflicted humiliation keep him down for long. He had left the kingdom at the mercy of his brother for too long, and he knew he needed to make it up to his own people. And now that Oili the spore hag had provided both a surety and some timely advice, it was up to him to prove that his tyrant of a sibling was not the omnipotent, righteous untouchable he thought himself to be.
The morning after Oili had been told off by Osmond and retaliated as expected, the blond prince exited the treasury room in a state of absolute fury. Someone had relieved the room of a collection of documents he had no intention of showing to anyone, not even his own family. And given that they had presumably removed all evidence of their presence in the room via some sort of magical means, it had to be Oili’s doing. Said expunging of their activity had included placing all the mousetraps back in their original places — as well as leaving them primed, so that almost as soon as he’d entered the room, he’d gotten the toes of one of his bare feet caught in one, stepped in another, lost his balance, and backed straight into his own potted cactus.
The worst part was that the queen of the kingdom had summoned him and his brother to the throne room for a short meeting first thing this morning. He had gotten fully dressed for the occasion save for his boots, but alas, his snow-white, perfectly smoothed breech pants were of no protection against those insidious thorns, at least two dozen of which were now embedded deeply in the flesh of his rump, visible to all who glanced at him as they passed him by.
His staffers were NEVER going to let him live this down.
With no choice but to slip his boots on without sitting down to lace them, Osmond cursed his inability to complete his impeccable good looks as he limped into the throne room, where a still-drowsy Erland was waiting. Ingrid was seated in the throne in the middle, and had saved a seat for her boyfriend, but to do that she’d had to place Sormr the zaltys in it. The magical snake had bitten Erland on the bottom several times in self-defense when he’d forgotten to remove her from the cushion before sitting (in his defense, he was still quite sleepy), and now the elder prince also had to remain standing, seeing as Sormr had stubbornly refused to budge. Even with his rage burning deep in his heart, Osmond couldn’t help but smile maliciously at the hole in Erland’s trousers.
Standing before the pedestal where the thrones were placed were two elderly women, Queen Erika and her fungal ally of twenty years. Oili regarded Osmond with her beady black eyes, and then with a tap of her staff against the floor, caused his laces to tie themselves rather tightly, constricting his ankles.
“Turn around, Osmond,” the witch said in a low, threatening voice.
Osmond wanted to run her through with his sword, but upon seeing his mother’s death glare, he promptly complied. Naturally, everyone in the room burst out laughing, leaving him red-faced with anger and embarrassment — but that was nothing compared to what happened next.
A magical force, no doubt of Oili’s doing, suddenly tugged at every single thorn stuck in Osmond’s buttocks, ripping all of them out simultaneously and with tremendous force.
SHRIPPPPPP!
“YEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCHHHH!!!”
The crowd of nobles erupted into side-splitting laughter that could be heard from outside the castle. In fact, everyone except Erland, Ingrid, Sormr, Erika, Oili, and the ever-attentive Destin was in total hysterics, and even then, the royal couple was smiling. For with the removal of all those thorns, the seat of his trousers was also torn away, revealing undershorts with bright red polka dots for all to see.
Osmond had to remain still the entire time Oili’s magic healed his punctured butt cheeks and fixed his clothing, but he made a mental note to throw every single one of them in the dungeons as soon as Erika and Oili were gone.
The aged queen raised a hand for everyone to quiet down, and as Osmond turned to face her, struggling not to outright explode. Erland too was watching her intently.
“Oili and I will be making a trip to our bordering kingdoms,” said Erika, “along with our most trusted guards and diplomats. Our neighbors have been sending us warnings and even threats regarding potential invasion of their territory, and we need them to understand that we have no interest in conquering them. No one knows why the other kingdoms would make such claims, but some of my staffers have told me that there have been rumors of war efforts within the kingdom being redoubled with the intent of subjugating all of the peninsula upon which our kingdom is seated.”
Whispers and murmurs could be heard from most of the crowd. Osmond decided at that point to have the entirety of the castle staff jailed as well, and to hire more loyal replacements in their stead.
“Until I return,” Erika continued, “I entrust the kingdom to both of my children.”
“WHAT?!” Osmond shouted suddenly.
Oili tapped her staff to the floor again, the torches on the walls flaring up as though in warning. Osmond was forced to shut up immediately.
“The royal family is expected to remain in charge of the people while we’re away, and you two are the most appropriate for the job,” said Oili, her two raven familiars eyeing each brother in turn. “I would help, but I need to accompany the queen on her journey to make sure she is safe from harm.”
Erland opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, knowing that Oili was by far the best choice for protecting his mother in case things went south.
“In the meantime,” Erika said sternly, “I expect you two to behave yourselves. I do not wish to come back to a civil war in the grounds of my own beloved kingdom, not with a pending crisis on our hands. I’ve already lost one member of my family — it will do us no good for us to lose any more.”
The blond prince began spluttering with confused indignation, but Erika glared at him. “Mind your tongue, dearest Osmond. There will be no arguing against this, and especially no disobedience. This isn’t just about my feelings towards you, but also about our people. For how long do you think it will be before they decide they’ve had enough? Of you, or of us?”
The nobles muttered collectively in agreement.
“There will be no more words today,” said Erika. “We must get going — we must reach our first stop before sundown. If you two wish to tear the kingdom apart with your squabbling, go ahead. But do not complain to me if it destroys us all.”
With that, she turned and strode out of the room, with Oili in her wake. The nobles all began clamoring after her, though some had their attentions turned towards the younger royals, too.
Osmond wanted to imprison everyone in the room for humiliating him, but with Erland in his vicinity he would have to get past him, and that was exactly the opposite of what his mother wanted. If she heard them fighting even before she left the kingdom, he’d be in serious trouble. He could be deposed, or worse… She might bring him with her.
So instead he left the room, not even bothering to say anything to anyone. All he could do was double down on training his army in preparation for his campaign, and hope things didn’t go any more pear-shaped than they’d already been.
Erland, for his part, went after his mother once he was out of the room, with Ingrid in tow and cradling a less than happy Sormr. As soon as he met her, just as she was about to enter the pumpkin-shaped carriage to take her out of the kingdom, they instantly shared a loving embrace.
“Be safe, mother,” said the prince.
“Same to you, my son,” replied Erika. There was a long pause before she asked, “Do you think our plan is going to work?”
“Probably has a 99 percent chance of blowing up in our faces and getting all of us hanged,” Sormr grumbled, earning a finger-flick on the back of her scaly head from a less-than-amused Ingrid.
“We’ll bank on the 1-percent chance that it doesn’t,” said Erland, the skin on his hands starting to itch ever so slightly. “Osmond may have far too much power for his own good, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s predictable. In particular, he wants people to know that they can’t do anything to hurt him. That he shouldn’t even BE hurt. So if people fear the consequences of lashing out against him…”
“They’d be too scared to try it,” finished Ingrid.
“So, if you show him that he ISN’T the be-all, end-all voice of authority,” Erika mused, “does that mean the public will overcome their fear of him and see him for who he really is?”
“Why do you think I cursed him in the first place?” asked Oili.
“Don’t forget us, master,” added Thought the raven. His counterpart Memory cawed in agreement.
“You two helped, I’ll give you that,” Oili amended. “But Erland insulted me because he thought he was the center of his world and that I was no longer needed. The curse will only lift once he realizes how wrong he is in both respects.”
“So he’ll be unable to sit comfortably for a very long time,” said Ingrid.
Erland snorted, his nostrils smoking. Then he glanced at his mother. “I know you don’t want me to wound my brother, but—”
“I would sooner die than let anyone take his life, you above all. I am the mother of both of you, after all.” Erika gave him a stern look. “But if you can inconvenience him to the point where he breaks and lets slip his true nature… Do it. Do it for me, for my kingdom… but most of all, for the childhood you never had.”
Erland wiped a tear from his eye. “I promise, in the name of God and all that is holy, that I will not act against Osmond with the intent to kill. But as for defending myself or others from his cruelty through non-lethal means… I won’t hesitate. Not now, not ever.”
Erika beamed, her smile sending warmth through all present. “That’s my boy,” she said, blinking back tears of her own.
The group hug shared by the four of them, recorded for posterity by the scribe waiting in the carriage, would be immortalized in an oil painting that would hang in the Wyrmwood castle galleries for decades to come.
**********
It was close to noon when Erland and Ingrid (with Sormr once again draped around the young woman’s neck) decided to set out again, following Osmond towards the training grounds for the soldiers of the kingdom. These training grounds were basically synonymous with the castle gardens, such was their vast and sumptuous nature, including fruit orchards, arrays of flowers of every size and color, carriage-sized topiaries shaped like dragons of all kinds, and a grove of trees at the farthest reaches of the garden that simulated the forests surrounding the kingdom. At the center of it all was a perfectly manicured lawn spanning half a dozen acres, with rolling hills and flat expanses of flawless green. There was not a weed in sight, and separating it and the other more civilized parts of the gardens from the glades beyond was the U-shaped curve of a flowing river fed by culverts and aqueducts diverted from the Gudenå itself miles away, the channels of its waters cutting through the city in such a straight, neat manner before resuming a more natural course in the gardens that the northern sector of the kingdom was divided cleanly in half by the line of blue.
Instead of a carriage costing a fifth of the kingdom like Osmond had taken, Erland and Ingrid had decided to travel on a simpler wooden wagon, the kind used by the townspeople to haul supplies and groceries. The royal stablehand, Jorunn, was playing the role of coachmaster, for she was the only one capable of safely holding the reins for the creature pulling the cart — who also happened to be the only unicorn in the entire kingdom.
The gentle clip-clop of golden cloven hooves could be heard over the quiet, barely perceptible squeaking of lubricated cart wheels as they made their way to the gardens, for such was the smoothness of the roads leading there. It was quite clear why there was not a bump or crack in sight, the road itself having been paved with cobble polished as smooth as glass.
“Remind me again why we’re heading to the training grounds specifically?” asked Jorunn. “You could’ve just taken the picnic to the country outside the kingdom instead.”
Erland glanced back at their cargo. Aside from the requisite cloth (big enough to serve as a blanket for a king-sized bed, of course), there were baskets full of every delicacy imaginable, a dozen decanters containing the sweetest, finest wines, the requisite tableware for an entire palace banquet, and multiple sets of spare clothes for Erland along with the laundry supplies to match.
“The gardens are a little closer to home, though.” the prince replied. “I haven’t gotten to visit them very much since I moved in, and anyway I figured the court soldiers deserved something special. As do you and Atgeir.”
Jorunn blushed a little, unable to help feeling quite flattered. But then her face fell. “It was only a matter of time before I took Atgeir out grazing again, sure, but isn’t Osmond there as well?”
“Is there a problem with that?” asked Sormr. The snort from one upset unicorn told her all she needed to know.
“You heard what Jorunn said earlier about Osmond,” replied Erland. “She and Atgeir HATE him, sure, but they’re scared shitless of him, too. He abuses them with impunity, and thinks that everyone is too scared to take him to task because of his position.”
“You two are the only two people I know who don’t have that fear,” said Jorunn. The annoyed neighing from her horned companion made her add, “Well, the only two WE know.”
“You’re already on our side, Jorunn,” said Ingrid. “What’s stopping you from turning the tables on him?”
“If only it were that easy. How can you convince anyone else to cause trouble for him if we’re all so scared of being punished? Until you came along, he was the only figure of authority, and his iron fist was the be-all, end-all solution to everything. Like a cat resolving arguments between mice, I suppose.”
Ingrid thought about this for a few moments. She’d heard the story once or twice as a child — the rodents had tried to discuss their quarrel with the cat for advice, but ended up getting eaten. “But to continue the analogy,” she mused, “there’s now a good chance that the mice will finally be able to put a bell around the cat’s neck and show the world that he’s too dangerous to be trusted. They needed someone to do the honors, and that someone is sitting next to me right now.” She gave Erland a knowing glance.
“Getting someone to figuratively bell the cat is one thing, and we’ve gotten that far at least,” said Erland, stroking his chin. “But putting that plan into action is another matter. That’s where this little scheme comes in.”
“The picnic is part of the scheme?”
“In a sense, yes. The food isn’t for just us two, we plan to feed the soldiers as well. Osmond routinely starves them to make them more desperate—”
“Of course.”
“So we’re basically buying their good graces. It may seem like a bribe, true, but Osmond doesn’t exactly play fair, either. If we can get enough people to side with us, they won’t agree with his war effort and his plans will be set back, if not thwarted altogether.”
“That’s cute and all, but how do we demoralize Osmond?” asked Sormr. “Surely he’d be vigilant enough to keep an eye out for any attempts to turn his people against him.”
There was an awkward pause. “I honestly haven’t thought of that,” Erland replied in an apologetic tone. “But we’ll figure something out when we get there. I hope.”
The cart lurched to a halt. Ingrid was about to ask why they were stopping when Jorunn said, “It’s just Atgeir picking up a thistle. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
The unicorn munched contentedly as though she couldn’t care less about the world around her, but in truth her equine ears were listening to their conversation intently. She was smart enough to understand the King’s English (even if she couldn’t speak it), smart enough to pick up the gist of the discussion, and certainly smart enough to know that Osmond wasn’t wanted. Not by her, and not by anyone else.
“Thistles? Really?” asked Ingrid, still feeling a little annoyed at the hindrance.
“Don’t be quick to judge,” Jorunn replied in a slightly apologetic tone. “The preferences of those outside the castle can’t be more different than those of its residents — you two of all people would know that. And for Atgeir’s taste, a bitter, prickly flower like the one she’s having now would sate her more than even the most lavish royal banquet.”
The unicorn whinnied in agreement, tossing her horned head, before swallowing her snack and continuing their journey.
Erland caught a glimpse of Atgeir’s horn and shivered a little, scooching his bottom a little further back than usual so it was pressed against the back rest of his cart seat. The majestic animal had jabbed said bottom at top speed a mere week ago, and it was a miracle that she hadn’t made a kebab of it with her face…
A thought occurred to him just then, making him sit up straighter. “Say, Jorunn… I remember you once told me that the horn of a unicorn can’t hurt a virgin, is that correct?”
The stable-hand giggled nervously. “In her defense, she tried. I only managed to calm her down enough to slip on a bridle after I got her to charge horn-first into a tree. But yes, even if the horn hits straight-on it won’t be able to pierce even the skin. It’d be like a pencil hitting a steel plate point-first — it’d just glance off no matter how sharp it is. Not that it wouldn’t hurt, though…” She scooched her own rump a little further back in her seat, remembering that first encounter and more specifically the beautiful forest creature sticking her horn right between her rounded buttocks at thirty miles an hour.
Sormr reared her head, her mouth agape as she realized where this conversation was going. “Another question: has Osmond gotten laid? Ever?”
Ingrid was about to smack the snake again, but then she stared first at Erland and then at Jorunn, her dark eyes widening.
“No, he hasn’t, at least as far as I know.” Jorunn shrugged. “I mean, he MIGHT have been courted by any number of girls when he was younger, but once he reached the age when he was expected to marry, his attitude had gotten so bad that all the maidens in the kingdom were too scared to even get near him.”
“But has he tried to, you know…” Erland struggled to find the words. “…get himself someone of interest? Y’know, with a particularly strong glass of wine and a bouquet of love-potion-laced flowers?”
A collective shudder went through every female present, both human and otherwise.
“Yes, a number of other nobles have been known to take measures like that,” said Sormr. “I’ve overheard several groups of dukes and aristocrats bragging about the number of ladies they got into bed with them at the monthly soirees. It’s just sickening.”
“He did try, once, with a friend of mine,” Jorunn replied, staring off into space. “That was four years ago, at a party we attended. She saw all the warning signs that he was drunk and trying to force himself on her, told him she didn’t drink, and when he wouldn’t take no for an answer she kicked him in the groin and threw the contents of his wine goblet all over his priceless Chinese silk jacket. She had to flee to a neighboring kingdom that very evening to avoid his wrath, and has never bothered coming back since. Word from the rest of the castle staff is that Osmond basically swore to celibacy after that little fiasco. So, technically speaking, he’s a virgin by choice — and thank God for that.”
Jorunn’s expression was clearly traumatized, and the royal couple couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. As soon as Osmond was deposed, Erland told himself, he’d appoint the poor girl as the personal groomswoman for the prized Knabstrupper horses that pulled the carriage used by his mother.
Atgeir’s whicker snapped everyone back to reality, and in the ensuing silence (save for the noise of her hooves and the wagon wheels, of course) one could almost hear the gears turning in Erland’s handsome head. Within seconds, the prince was done processing all the information he had received over the past three minutes, and then he looked at Ingrid and Sormr with the most puckish grin on his face. “Say, ladies… Are all of you thinking what I’m thinking?”
**********
Osmond was finding it very difficult to sit comfortably, and for the first time in his entire life he actually regretted having imported something from somewhere overseas. But more than that, he was furious. Furious that his position as the absolute monarch of Wyrmwood was about to be undermined, furious that he was being upstaged by his own brother, and above all, furious that not a single soul in the kingdom took his desires seriously. His own soldiers had been less than enthusiastic about his plans for peninsula-wide subjugation, no matter how many times he had assured them that it was for the unity of the various kingdoms and the greater security of all concerned.
It was selfish, the officials had told him. Selfish and short-sighted and reckless. Forcefully assimilating the other kingdoms would lead to them hating Wyrmwood forevermore, and possibly turning against the kingdom and tearing it and its forces apart. More than that, amassing the needed personnel for a task this big would result in thousands of people being taken from their homes and families, and so much currency being drained from every source of income in the kingdom that they’d go bankrupt and end up starving and freezing to death in the next winter. Whatever he was planning was, all in all, a suicide mission.
He didn’t care. He was going to be king in a few years, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, not without facing his authoritative rage. And if nobody was going to willingly obey him… he’d have to MAKE them obey him.
So here he was, sitting in a crude, barbarian-edition wooden chair, which lacked a seat bottom; only a soft silken cloth hastily nailed in place was available as a substitute. He had to keep his legs planted on the grass to make sure he didn’t topple over, and whenever he stood up to take the bullwhip he’d bought with him to any soldier caught with even a toe out of step, he’d have to return to his seat very slowly and gently once he was done. The otherwise armor-clad soldiers had all been forced to cut holes in the seats of their trousers, leaving their bare bottoms on full display — both to humiliate them into subservience and to avoid the formality of pulling their pants down when lashings were warranted (which was far more often than anyone deemed comfortable, seeing as every single guard, archer, knight, and squire that afternoon received a rawhide spanking at least once).
The spoiled prince had entertained himself during last week’s training session by giving each and every one of the trainees a personal rapier, and then asking them to shoulder arms in neat rows, turn to each side, and carve a perfect cross sign on the buttock of the person in front of them. For the right turn, the right cheek, and for the left turn, the left one. The shallow cuts from the sharpened sword tips elicited numerous screams of pain, all of which were punished by further lashings from Osmond and his bodyguards — whom he himself lashed if they didn’t do the honors. That was plenty of fun, and based on discussions with his guards, it seemed like he’d try it again today.
No one wanted to say it out loud, but everyone in the entire park was in silent agreement that whatever had happened to Osmond this morning, it couldn’t have been good.
Unbeknownst to the blond prince, however, things were about to change for the worse. Much, much worse. It all started when a cloth was unfurled and laid out on the peak of a small grassy hill near the south side of the garden. Said cloth had, in fact, been decorated with a comprehensive map of said garden, complete with labels for all the different areas available to visit. It was also enchanted to be entirely spill-proof, so if you upended a glass of wine onto it, the wine wouldn’t soak in and leave a stain, but rather puddled and flowed like if the liquid had fallen on a laminated floor.
With the food baskets and decanters in place, Erland, Ingrid, and their assorted company (apparently, quite a few of the castle staffers had had the same idea of picnicking in the gardens as the royal couple — suggested of course BY said couple) began placing tiny biscuits and crackers topped with various cheeses, fruits, deli meat slices, and vegetable shavings upon various places on the map, denoting who was where. The crystal wine goblets were kept out of the way in case someone knocked them over and ruined the demonstration — and a lot farther from Erland in particular than from anyone else.
As noted by various staff members, royal gardeners, and internal informants, Osmond usually made his rounds in a routine way during training sessions, starting from the center lot. He’d “instruct” his soldiers on proper formation marching and armament exercises until 2 PM, with his back to the hedges of priceless ruby-colored roses bordering the southern sector. Just behind the roses was the royal apiary, which he usually kept a healthy distance away from, though thanks to Oili’s curse he was now stationed on the far south side of the hedge. Once the “death march” was complete, he would cross the river to the wooded northern half of the garden, and it would be until 4 PM that he would oversee the daily hunt, firing practice, and rigorous hand to hand combat training. The rest of the afternoon, of course, was devoted to forcing the soldiers to clean up the entire garden and make sure it was utterly spotless by the time they left, like they weren’t even there.
Because the lot in front of Osmond was out in the open, in order to get the jump on his brother, Erland would have to sneak through the western sector and, if possible, slip through the apiary to kick off the plan without getting caught. He’d have enough trouble doing that fully clothed, but he’d have to doff his duds before transforming, which meant he’d be going in naked. Not the most dignified entrance, but now was not the time to fuss over appearances. Supplies to the soldiers had to be delivered by pack animal due to the lack of roads, so Jorunn and the other stable-hands would volunteer to bring them in, thus enabling them to slip the cornerstone of their scheme, who was currently cropping weeds a safe distance from any of the lads’ and ladies’ bottoms, into the training grounds. Ideally they’d have Atgeir volunteer as the quarry for the hunt of the day as well, if she was up for the task after 4 PM, but substituting her for the typical boar or deer would be tough. Unicorns were pricey animals due to being nigh impossible to catch, so why kill one for its horn when you can sell it live? Regardless, if any opportunity cropped up to take Osmond down a notch or five, those present and in on the plan shouldn’t hesitate to take it.
“EEEEYOOOOOWWWWW! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!! OOOUUUUUUUCHHHH!!! AIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! EEEEEYYAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!!!”
The distant sound of at least half a dozen grown men screaming in pain came from the central lawn, bringing everyone to full attention. Erland in particular made to get to his feet, slipped on a misplaced pate, and ended up toppling face-first into a meat pie and sending the contents of its basket splattering all over his clothing.
There was a brief bout of laughter at Erland’s expense from everyone present. But the commotion from the training grounds continued in total ignorance of the pratfall, causing the hysterics to die down quickly.
At that precise moment, a single thought radiated through the minds of every man, woman, child, and creature in the presence of the Lindworm Prince, including the prince himself:
It’s go time.
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