Seat of the Lindworm Prince
by Skaea
Contains: */M and */F Hotbuns with some tickling. Mildly NSFW; contains nudity.
Word Count: 8,347
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Chapter 5: Case in Point
For the first time that day, Osmond was laughing. The antics of his soldiers were too much fun, even if he was supposed to shape them into the perfect soldiers; if anything they made better play pieces for him, like a child with a set of dolls. He’d long since given up on getting the trainees not to scream when slashed and poked by each others’ swords, since that was very much inevitable, but the practice of whipping them each time they cried out was still kept because it was fun to get someone to make someone else suffer. Cowards and naysayers, the whole lot of them. He’d make true heroes out some of them before long, he just knew it, but the rest he kept around simply because he liked to mess with them.
What he didn’t know was that at this exact point in time, a brown-haired nobleman clad in only his undershorts was making his way through the apiary. One advantage of the curse was that Osmond had learned the hard way to keep a very safe distance from the royal beehives, since after the incident with the cactus this morning, he certainly didn’t want a swarm of angry bees assaulting his assets. He was already sore enough having to deal with Oili forcibly removing all those spines. Erland, however, was faced with a problem: how could he transform without being noticed? His dragon form was massive, and if he were to set off any of the beehives, he’d be instantly spotted, and with the element of surprise ruined he wouldn’t be able to give Osmond the scare of his life. His skin, being extremely sensitive, would stand no chance against thorns and bee stings, and he was quite sure he’d get a fair share of at least one type of pain before long.
About his only option, then, was to climb one of the trees the hives were attached to, which looked if anything like woven egg-shaped structures made of straw, similar to skeps used elsewhere, suspended from the sturdier branches of almost every tree he passed by. They WOULD have been placed on the ground if only the trees weren’t packed so close together, so room had to be made for the footpaths through the area, but transforming on the ground would scare the bees into attacking. If he could just get up above where the hives were, he’d be relatively safe.
Erland gulped. His last attempt at climbing something had ended with a jousting lance somewhere uncomfortable. But it was the only safe way to get clear of any potential hazards that could ruin his little scheme.
“Well,” he said with a sigh of defeat, “here goes nothing.”
If Osmond weren’t so focused on ordering his guards to administer the latest round of lashings, he’d have noticed the movement in the corner of his eye coming from his own elder brother by a few hours climbing the tallest tree in the apiary he could find. Of course, no one would expect the prince of Wyrmwood to climb a tree with only his undershorts on…
Miraculously, he managed to make it safely to one of the higher branches sturdy enough to hold him. Once he was sure he wouldn’t slip off, he whistled quietly. A flutter of wings later, and a small brown kestrel alighted on a branch next to his. As it turned out, one of the staffers in on the plan was a falconer, and he’d trained his birds to relay messages to staffers they recognized by face and voice with little rolled slips of parchment. Sure enough, tied to its leg was a one such roll, and a tiny feather quill and vial.
Sitting up on the branch, Erland undid the tie and got to work — the little piece of scrap parchment wasn’t too large, but he did manage to write the words “Asshole on trap, we are go” before running out of room. The bird waited patiently for him to finish tying the bundle back together, but just as he was done affixing it back to its foot, he felt his crotch slip on the bark of the branch…
“Waaaagh!” he cried, rolling around on the branch until he was hanging upside down from it by his arms and legs like a tree sloth. The startled kestrel flew off to who knew where, the noise causing Osmond to turn his head.
Erland was suddenly keenly aware of the straw-woven beehive below him, but there was no time to avoid it. He let go of the branch, before falling onto the one the hive was attached to, rolling off of it, and landing face-down in the rosebushes.
CRUNCH! “AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!”
Osmond was about to get off the chair and investigate the ungodly noise coming from the apiary, but then he felt something brush against his boot. He looked down — and screamed in horror. “SNAAAAAAAAAKE!”
When Osmond lifted his feet to kick Sormr off, the trap was sprung. The chair had been put together in an intentionally shoddy manner and then provided by a member of the castle refurbishment crew who’d been visited by Erland earlier that morning. Too much weight was now placed on the silken fabric and as such, his rump tore through and he seemed to be sucked into the chair until his armpits and knees were jammed against the frame. So his bottom ended up dangling a few inches from the grass, leaving him to yell and kick and flail his arms about uselessly.
“Don’t just stand there! Get rid of the snake!” he cried to one of his guards, a handsome twenty-something with mousy brown hair and a tiny goatee. “And investigate the apiary while you’re at it!”
Sormr of course was fast enough to have escaped into the thorns, which meant that the guard couldn’t catch her, but the fact that there was now a loud buzzing and unusual noises like a wounded animal from the rosebushes was indeed intriguing.
When Erland had landed face-down in the bushes, he’d had to push his bottom upwards to try and sit up to pull the thorns off his chest, stomach, and arms (the latter of which he’d shielded his face with, thank goodness). However, the string harness of the beehive had slipped off the tiny twig it had been looped around and fallen directly onto the prince’s bum at the precise moment when it had thrust out of the rosebush. His jiggling honey-soaked backside was now stuck in the middle of a swarm of angry bees, and what followed left little to the imagination.
BZZT! ZIP! SHING! POINK! ZOT! BZZ! PING!
“YEEEEOOOOWWWWW! OUCH! OWWW! OOH! GAAIEEEE! AAAAGH! YEEEEEEEEEEK!”
Despite the urge to get up and run from the angry swarm, Erland knew he had to remain where he was, for if he fled he’d be surely spotted. This meant that despite his suffering he had to power through the bees’ constant stinging to get within range of his very stuck brother. But now the guard was approaching, and he’d be discovered within seconds…
There was no more time for plotting. He had to take action right now. He had to make sure his kingdom’s soldiers wouldn’t suffer. He couldn’t stand seeing them being treated like slaves and attack animals, and now that he had seen Osmond’s behavior towards them first-hand, he wouldn’t back down from protecting his people anymore.
And not a single bee sting was keeping him from achieving that goal…
His rage at the mistreatment of the Wyrmwood army flared within his heart like a blazing wildfire. His screams became snarls and roars, the thorns being forced out of his skin with loud pinging noises by the scales growing from underneath — even the beehive was popped off his rear, its residents flying up in alarm. He felt his underwear being reduced to shreds but he didn’t care. It was now or never.
The guard screamed as the bees, unable to sting their original target anymore, discovered someone else upon which to vent their frustration at having their home destroyed. Shielding his face, he turned and ran — unaware that his bare bottom was now being presented to the incensed insects.
ZING! ZZT! POINK!
“YEEEEEAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGH! BEEEEEEEEEEES!!!”
Osmond was wondering why the guard was running past him with a swarm of bees in tow, screaming in terror and clutching his reddened, welt-marked bare bottom. And then one of the bees broke off from the swarm, flew under him, and…
ZIP!
“YEEEEEEOOOOOUUUUCH!”
Osmond struggled to free himself, for he knew that one bee heralded hundreds more. But that was the least of his problems mere seconds later. The bee flew off to join the rest of the swarm as fast as it could — not because its point had been made, but because it had been scared off by a pair of massive green eyes with slits for pupils opening up in the bushes.
A scaly crocodilian head as long as a man was tall, red in color with orange neck frills and a crown of fearsome horns, rose from the foliage directly behind him. “Yoo-hoo~,” Erland cooed sardonically, his voice a deep bass reptilian hiss, the pain of the stings and thorns forgotten. “Remember me, bro-ther?”
If the guards weren’t so terrified of Osmond, they’d never let him live down the fact that he screamed like a little girl. “D-D-D-DRAGOOOOONNNNN!!!”
“Not such a confident despot in the face of real danger, aren’t you?” Erland said in reply, the flexible corners of his mouth raised in a smile, before his long forked tongue flicked out and brushed uncomfortably against his brother’s bottom, testing its sensitivity (and causing Osmond to emit another girly scream). “I still remember when I so graciously entertained your hunting companions after you tried to brag to them about capturing me for the sake of the kingdom. Or perhaps I should remind you of that fateful day?”
“GUARDS, GIVE ME A SWORD!” Osmond was screaming in genuine panic. “AND GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I HAVE YOU FLOGGED!!”
The guards, however, had never seen an actual dragon up close before. And even if it was their beloved prince hidden in the rosebushes, his scales matching the hue of their jewel-like flowers, a fifty-foot-long lindworm with jaws large enough to devour a grown man in two bites wouldn’t be rightly feared without reason. Not one footsoldier moved forward to aid the shrieking blond prince, some were shaking so hard their armor was rattling, and Erland could see that at least one now had a yellow stain on the front of his white linen breeches.
The lindworm flinched a little at his brother’s threat towards his lackeys, but that was all the impetus he needed. “I see your army only obeys you because they’re scared you’d hurt them. Well, let me show you how they feel, front and center!”
He drew back his head, inhaling deeply, and Osmond’s screams reached a new high pitch as he saw his guards actually backing away from where he was trapped. “NOOOOO! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
FWOOOOOOOOOOSH!
“EEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!”
The stream of flames that had shot forth from Erland’s mouth had engulfed Osmond’s backside in a blistering inferno.
It was only a brief spurt of flame that time, so there wasn’t any serious damage to the skin on Osmond’s bottom, but the seat of his pants was reduced to ash, leaving his already tattered polka-dot undershorts behind. Had it kept up for just a little longer, his underwear would have been ruined as well. But Erland wasn’t done yet, it seemed.
Osmond screamed and hopped about in his chair, trying to pull himself free. However, this ended up causing him to topple forward and end up hitting the grass with a little thump, his torso nearly parallel to the ground with his deliciously jiggling bottom directly in front of the dragon’s snout.
Erland couldn’t help but let out a snort of laughter, releasing two little tongues of flame that briefly licked against each of his brother’s lower cheeks, leaving a pair of blackened scorch marks.
“YAAAAAARGH! GET ME OUT! GET ME OUTTTTTT!!!” Osmond wiggled his arms and legs, trying to pull himself loose, but to no avail.
“Awwww, feeling a little stuck?” asked Erland. “Here, allow me to help you out with that…”
He inhaled deeply once again, preparing to exhale a stream of dragon breath as hot as a bolt of lightning directly onto the very center of Osmond’s backside. The spoiled prince realized this far too late and screamed at his highest pitch yet. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
FWOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!
“AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!”
To his credit, Osmond had at least been smart enough to anticipate that something would go wrong in proximity to intense heat, and so he had applied enchanted fireproof ointment onto his bottom before slipping his underwear on. Sadly for him, not only did Erland’s fire breath blow a massive hole in his shorts, but it also literally bought the salve to a searing boil as well, since it wouldn’t evaporate even at such high temperatures. So while his ass was spared from the flamethrower blast that reduced all four legs of his wooden chair to ash and smoke, every inch of skin upon it instantly turned beet-red and flared up with excruciating little blisters.
The fire blast had only lasted several seconds, but to Osmond it seemed like forever. Once Erland had shut his mouth, he regarded his brother with an amused look in his reptilian green eyes — for the edges of the hole in Osmond’s underwear were still on fire.
“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH! PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUUUUTTTTTT!!!” Osmond wailed, continuing to struggle impotently.
“If you need a clear shot at your target, dear soldiers, here it is,” said Erland, his tail coming forward to turn the chair and present Osmond’s tortured and now bare-faced rump to the entirety of the royal army.
The laughter that erupted from everyone present could be heard all over the gardens.
“I’LL KILL YOU, BROTHER!” Osmond screamed at the top of his voice. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU-EEEEK!!!”
One of the squires, out of pity, had just doused the spoiled tyrant’s flaming underwear with a bucket of ice-cold water.
“You know,” said Erland, his eyes narrowed as he stared down his suddenly much smaller sibling, “if you had a lick of common sense, maybe you’d give your soldiers more breaks between training sessions along with, oh, more basic human needs? You know, victuals, hydration, and maybe more reasonable hours of sleep while you’re at it. Some of our squires have told me you’ve apparently been working them far past the stroke of midnight and long into the early morning.”
“I’LL HANG THEM! I’LL HANG THEM ALL!!” Osmond screamed in absolute rage over his current indignity.
“Ah, but they’re perfectly good squires, and I doubt wasting their growing talent would be a good idea. Unless you seriously intend to sic them on our neighboring territories in total ignorance of the fact that they’d be physically and emotionally unfit for the job?”
“YOUUUU—!!” Osmond tried to reach for his brother with both hands, but he was too far away and too large to strangle. “WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE, YOU ATTENTION-WHORING PSYCHOPATHIC OVERSIZED SHIT-LOG, I’LL—”
There was a loud whinnying noise from somewhere in the distance that made both of them go silent. Erland lifted his head up a little to see a blinding white, beautiful four-legged animal with a golden horn and hooves, rearing and bucking as though out of control, its handler seemingly struggling to keep it from getting loose.
Osmond tried to turn his head around to look at the source of the noise, but couldn’t twist his neck far enough. “W-what is happening?!”
“Oooh, bad luck,” Erland replied with a shit-eating grin on his scale-encrusted face. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but unicorns get very, very angry at the sight of an asshole.”
“UNICORNS?!?” Osmond’s voice was utterly terrified. Several hundred feet behind him, the exotic creature pawed a cloven, golden hoof, lowering her head and brandishing a ramrod-straight, yard-long, and wickedly sharp horn which, aside from its color, resembled the tusk of a narwhal.
“What? I just couldn’t say no when Jorunn asked if she could bring Atgeir out to visit the gardens. Perhaps I should’ve warned them that you were here, too.” Erland feigned guilt while saying this, but nodded his great head so slightly towards Jorunn and Atgeir that only they could interpret the signal: Do it.
With an insincere “Oops~”, Jorunn released the lead affixed to the unicorn’s bridle. Atgeir’s path was swiftly cleared of knights and squires, and even Erland slid aside as she aimed her horn directly at Osmond’s exposed, tightly puckered, and blister-ringed anal sphincter. Even as she broke into a trot, then a canter, and then into a top-speed gallop, the tip of her horn flew as straight and true as an arrow from a bow.
The blond prince only had an instant to let out a scream of pure, abject terror before she struck home.
SHINNK!
“EEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!!!”
Atgeir skidded to a stop, breaking through the priceless rosebushes and carelessly trampling flowers to mush, Osmond actually stuck upon her horn as though he were outright impaled. Said horn was, as Erland had predicted, incapable of penetrating his skin and flesh — but had nonetheless shoved itself forcefully into his virgin rectum, stretching it out quite painfully and going so far in that it drove its lethally sharp point deep into the sensitive membranes within his bowels, like an unsharpened pencil being thrust into a sheet of stretched rubber.
That analogy was pretty much the best one Erland could come up with, and in any case, even he joined in the widespread simultaneous cringe shared by everyone in view of the phantasmagoric spectacle.
The unicorn shook her head a few times, trying to get rid of the vile creature she’d stuck her horn into, and then finally succeeded, flinging him over her back and then bucking in a horse-like fashion. Osmond went screaming through the air with a hoofprint on each buttock, and skidded a good five feet across the lawn, his face and uniform picking up stains of grass pigment and mud.
The thunderous noise of hooves cutting into the turf as Atgeir turned for a second run caused him to scream and flail once more. “HELP! SAVE ME FROM THIS AWFUL BEAST, I COMMAND IT!!!”
Atgeir, of course, was not impressed by the insult, and charged again without hesitation.
FWING!
“AAAAAARRRRRRRRGHHHHH!!!”
Before he knew it, Atgeir had thrust her horn under his bottom, actually managing to score a white line along his exposed taint with its tip, and hurled him airborne once more, towards the very thorny rosebushes. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
CRUNCH!
Thankfully, Osmond didn’t land in the thorns, his path blocked by an old, dead tree which still remained standing simply because one of the straw-woven beehives was hanging from it — no one had wanted to get near it for obvious reasons. Had the prince hit a live tree he would’ve ended up getting a cracked skull and a time-out at the infirmary, but as it was he went right through the decayed wood with a terrible cracking crash. His head, hands, and feet stuck out from one side of the tree, and his tortured rear, with its angry red, blistered cheeks spread so wide that his nether regions were visible to the whole world, emerged from the other, surrounded by the collapsing frame of his dillapidated chair.
Osmond was stranded face-up, which gave him full view of the beehive dangling from the branch above him, a few of its residents flying about above him, for Atgeir, following a request earlier relayed to her from Erland by Jorunn, had flung him in the direction of the apiary. “GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!” he screamed, but everyone else was laughing too much now to even think of obeying. Despite a rocky start, Erland’s gambit was paying off beautifully.
The snorting and pawing noises before him told Osmond that Atgeir was about to make one final attempt on his singed and skewered seat, the tip of her terrifying horn now aimed a mere inch below his asshole. There was nothing he could do but scream once again before she let out a furious neigh and charged a third time, years of abuse and mockery at his heinous hands and especially the remembered pain of hundreds of pulled-out silvery mane and tail hairs making the blood in her veins boil with rage, contempt, and just, righteous vengeance.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
SHINNK!
“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!”
If it was any consolation, the impact actually thrust Osmond out of the cramped confines of his chair and through the tree trunk as well, sending him sprawling on the footpath with his naked, tortured bottom thrust comically upwards. Satisfied at last, Atgeir did a full 180, and only paused to kick some dirt back in his direction before trotting off to rejoin her friend and handler, her bearded snout held high.
Osmond was not left to his misery for long, for the hole he had made in the trunk had not been without consequences — the load of the lifeless branches was too much for what was left of the wood, and with a great creaking followed by a crackling SNAP, the trunk bent and broke, the branches falling towards the screaming, cowering prince.
A terrible crashing noise followed, and when Osmond opened his eyes, he found to his relief that none of the branches had landed on him. But said relief was once again short-lived. For a few moments later, the thin twig holding up the beehive broke, dropping the structure of straw and wax directly onto the prince’s upturned rump.
One doesn’t require a college education to guess what followed.
SPLAT! BZZZZZT! ZIP! ZING! SHNK! BZAP! ZZT!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!”
Satisfied with his handiwork, Erland slithered out of the bushes in full splendor, but instead of rearing up to threaten the group, he lounged with his belly and chin to the ground, relaxed and peaceful. The knights initially regarded the elder prince with fear and suspicion, but upon seeing that he was not making any aggressive moves towards them, the bravest of the lot came forward, and reached out to stroke his crimson scales. He made no movement even as they started petting, and then hugging him, even when quite a few more people joined in to congratulate their potential savior.
“I apologize for my conduct towards your trainer,” Erland said finally, “but I saw how he was treating you and couldn’t stand by. And I’m aware of the other things he’s done to you soldiers, so I want you all to know that the south side of the main lawn has refreshments waiting for all of you. If you still wish to obey Osmond’s command—”
Everyone erupted into joyous cheers and swarmed him en masse, burying him in hugs of gratitude without caring for order, poise, or form. And so it was that Erland shepherded all of them towards the picnic where his fellow stewards — and his future wife — were waiting to serve them.
Osmond, for his part, continued running for his life, angry bees stinging his honey-soaked buttocks nonstop even has he burst out of the rosebushes and tore like a madman across the lawn behind the vacating crowd, screaming in pain, embarrassment, and stark terror. So frantic was he to escape that he didn’t even stop to glare at his draconic brother, let alone scream death threats as he otherwise would’ve.
“Look on the bright side, brother,” Erland called after him. “At least you’re out of the chair!”
*****
Almost two hours later, Osmond stumbled out of the infirmary nearest to the royal gardens with white-hot fury raging in his heart. How dare he. How fucking DARE he. His brother had turned his army against him in one swift motion, and he was so enraged at this turn of events that he wanted to grab his bullwhip and give a hundred lashings to the bare bottom of every single person in the garden that day. But with Erland present, he’d be roasted like a pig on a spit within a fraction of a second.
Perhaps a slightly more subtle approach was needed to get his army back. And if that failed, well… He’d heard of whispers from a quite different infirmary much closer to home that warranted investigation.
Osmond’s bottom had been healed back to perfect condition with enough potions for an eigth of the kingdom (he’d threatened to have the nurses burned at the stake if they protested), and he’d changed into a new set of legwear, so his self-righteous confidence was at least partially restored. It was too late to return to the weapons exercises, though, and firing practice was already underway if the time of day was any indication. Of course, the center lot was being reserved for the gunners to brush up their skeet shooting, and given the day he was having, he was taking no chances. So it was that he made his way to the forested area on the east side of the garden. A clearing the size of the castle courtyard was situated not far from the river, and set upon the neatly arranged row of trees at its edge was a series of bullseyes which were peppered with holes from countless volleys of practice arrows. Many more were being punched into the painted wood on this day, but the difference was that with full bellies and high spirits, the archers were striking much closer to the centers of their targets than normal.
Confused but impressed by their improvement, Osmond decided not to boss them around until a shot or two went wild, which was inevitable in this kind of sport. The nervous glances by many of the trainees towards him when he arrived however made it more likely that they’d miss.
Osmond himself was looking far more shifty-eyed than usual, though, in no small part because he fully expected a certain huge red serpent to come up behind him and toast him again. But boy, was he in for a surprise.
Out from the forest in the other side of the clearing strode a tall warrior in shining armor of polished stainless steel, with elaborate golden trim, which made loud clanking noises with each confident step. His helmet, which bore a scarlet plume made from the molted tail feathers of an Arabian phoenix, was carried under his arm, which allowed Osmond to recognize that it was Erland under all that armor.
The blond prince strode out casually, drawing everyone’s attention. He gave his brother his best death glare, but the Lindworm Prince was unfazed. His love interest was also hanging on the edge of the clearing, but for some reason she was giggling.
“I see you’ve been taking over for me while I was gone,” Osmond said in a nonchalant air, though Erland could tell from the very slight quiver in his voice that he was murderously angry deep down.
“Well, I couldn’t leave your army to flounder around like a flock of headless chickens after your little accident,” replied Erland. “They seemed quite enthusiastic about having me in charge.”
Osmond reached for his sword, but then he realized that no one had bothered to give him one. So instead he folded his arms and scowled at Erland. “You think you’ve won? You think you’ll win? Remember who sits on the throne, brother, and know thy place, as it should and always will be. Or so help me, I’ll have you turned over to the kingdom across the western sea — I hear they have some very enthusiastic dragonslayers hired there.”
Erland shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, before turning and slapping his bottom. “If they want a piece of my ass, they’re more than welcome to try!”
The gesture would’ve been a simple taunt if not for one very important distinction. The armor he had on him included chest, shoulder, and arm plating along with gauntlets and boots, and his knee, lower leg, and thigh coverings were also present and functional — even a crotch plate was in place. But there was nothing covering his bottom except a new set of undershorts… which sported two large red bullseyes, one over each butt cheek.
Osmond gasped, his eyes wide, and then doubled over laughing. “FFFFBWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! A TARGET ON YOUR ASS? TWO TARGETS?! WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU GOT, BROTHER, A GODDAMN DEATH WISH?!”
Erland shrugged again, making little metallic scraping noises thanks to his armor. “You’ll find out soon enough, Osmond. And trust me, you’ll absolutely love it!”
Osmond wasn’t sure what he was planning, but he wasn’t about to miss it. So he watched as Erland walked back across the clearing to hand his helmet over to Ingrid, in exchange for an apple. Then he walked over to the nearest archer to him and whispered something in his ear, causing his trainee to adopt an expression of shock but then nod nervously. He then passed the message along to everyone in the row of archers — a dozen strong in total, but with others training elsewhere. A few had however decided to join the crowd of spectators in observing what was about to go down at this hour.
Osmond would never have caught it, for it was too quiet for him to hear from this range, but that message was, and the narrative quotes, “Aim for the targets, not the apple.”
Erland strode to the center of the clearing, regarding the archers. “Gentlemen… The most important thing to know about archery is to avoid collateral damage, for even one miscalculation on the battlefield and you could hurt someone you hold dear. So for today’s challenge, this apple here—” he held it up for all to see — “will be your mark. I expect you to knock it off my head. If any of you miss your mark — or worse, disturb a hair on my head if the arrow comes close enough — it will be five lashings to your bottom! Do I make myself clear?”
The archers nodded nervously, but every single one of them knew to obey the order Erland had privately relayed to them rather than the instructions he was delivering now.
“To avoid panicking at the sight of your incoming arrow fire, I will be facing away from you. That way you won’t be hitting my face if you miss, at least.”
Nervous chuckles could be heard among the archers and many of the onlookers.
Erland turned his back to them, and then placed the apple on his head. “Alright, are all of you ready?”
“Yes, sir!” the archers cried in unison.
“Excellent! Now, on my signal… Take aim… FIRE!”
A dozen TWANGs rang out at once, followed by a dozen WHUMPS as the arrows, which all had thin metal heads which lacked barbs of any sort, sank deep into their target.
Or rather, their targets. Both of them. Six per cheek, to be specific.
“YEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCH!” Erland’s scream made Osmond start breaking out in a victory dance on the inside. The archers were still loyal to the younger brother, it seemed!
The reloading was delayed while Ingrid rushed over and started yanking the arrows out of her boyfriend’s ass, one by one. The series of “OUCH!”-es and “YEOW!”-s made the archers cringe and giggle nervously, covering their own bottoms in dread anticipation (even though, as Erland had confided in them beforehand, he wouldn’t follow through with his declared threat).
Once all the arrows were removed and a small amount of wound-healing potion was poured onto his rapidly healing seat, Erland placed the apple back on the crown of his scalp. “Owwwch… Jesus Christ almighty, that hurt. Alright, this time just four of you at a time, to ease my discomfort. Let’s take it from the top…”
TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD!
“EEEEEEEYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!” Two arrows had punctured each of his butt cheeks, actually managing to go through the holes punched in his extremely well-padded underwear. He would swear they’d gone in a little deeper without the resistance from the cotton stuffing.
Erland winced and swore at the top of his lungs, but remained standing. “You blooming IDIOTS don’t seem to get the point! Hit the APPLE! THE APPLE ON MY HEAD!” He knew it hurt to scold them, but that was part of the plan, and he could tell that his brother was giggling uncontrollably by now. “TRY! IT! AGAIN!!”
TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD!
“EEEEEEEYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!”
Four more archers had nailed his bottom. There was an awkward pause as everyone struggled not to bust a gut — even Erland himself.
“The Lindworm Prince of Wyrmwood isn’t very happy heeeeere…” Erland said in a sing-song voice. “Perhaps his handsome, charismatic brother would be able to coach these buffoons a little better?”
Osmond started. “Me? You’re giving the position as the trainer of the royal guard back to me?!”
“It’s only fair — YEOW!” Erland yelped, as Ingrid had swooped in and started pulling a few more red-tipped arrows out of his butt. “You led these soldiers — OUCH! — to training practice — AAARGH! — and started coaching them — AIEEEE! — on the finer arts of war! OWWW! So I figured — GAAAH! — you’d be a better — YEEEK! — choice to teach them! EEYOUUCH!”
“He speaks wisely, Osmond,” added Ingrid. “You’ve been on the throne longer, and have more experience in battle, so it’s only fair that you take over today’s training.”
“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” Osmond snatched the apple from Erland’s head and tried to shove him aside, which was difficult to do given the weight of his brother’s armor. Erland, for his part, simply walked off with Ingrid in tow, deciding to let her pull the remaining arrows out while the next stage of Scheme #2 went into full swing.
Had Osmond not been blinded by his own horribly bruised ego, he would’ve realized that his brother’s machinations had basically just placed his cursed bum in front of a dozen archers with a bone or two to pick with him, and more importantly, he would’ve noticed something off about the next order to come from Erland’s mouth (which would’ve been quite dignified if he wasn’t on his hands and knees with his pincushion of a bottom in Ingrid’s face):
“Light the arrows!”
There was a series of tiny whooshing, crackling noises as the arrows were all set alight by several torch-bearing squires. And then came the creaking noises of the bows being drawn…
Osmond realized his mistake far too late. He tensed his muscles in preparation to run for his life, but Erland’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
“FIRE!”
TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-THMPDD-FWOOOOOOOSH!
“YYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
It was only a matter of seconds before Osmond was half-running, half-limping through the forest, desperately struggling to yank the arrows from his punctured bottom while smoke and flame trailed from his pants.
“HOT HOT HOT HOTTTTT! WATER! GET ME WATER!!!”
The nearest source of water, of course, happened to be the river. Without a second thought, he dove bottom-first into it.
SPLOOSH!
“Ahhh…”
Everyone poked through the trees to watch Osmond’s humiliation. Sopping wet and ignorant of their stifled laughs, he continued pulling arrows from his rear, trying to ignore the agony of the puncture wounds they’d inflicted.
Ingrid, with Sormr draped around her neck, turned to look at her lover, who was nursing a recently pierced pair of buns himself. “You know… I’ve heard some advice passed down through our military over the generations. ‘Never moon an archer, for he will have an easy mark on his hands’. I thought it was just a warning against taunting the powerful when you lack a means of defending yourself, but…”
Erland chuckled darkly, rubbing his bum with a gauntlet-clad hand. “I thought it was just a rumor shared amongst the Scots from their war against England. At least I now know it has merit — I just wish it didn’t have to be me who proved that.”
And then Osmond screamed again.
As it turned out, the river was frequently used as a fishing spot by the nobles, and to liven things up it was routinely stocked with northern pike. Some of these fierce, toothy fish grew quite large, and fresh bloody meat on the hook was a frequent means of catching them. Osmond, of course, had grown up far too sheltered to be taught that soaking his bleeding puncture wounds in a pike-infested river was one of the worst ideas in a very long line of bad ideas.
“AIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! GET ‘EM OFF, GET ‘EM OFFFFFFF!!!”
Scrambling out of the water, the spoiled despot hopped around in a small circle, howling in agony with a pair of two-foot-long fishes hanging onto his mangled bottom with jaws full of viciously sharp teeth, one biting down on each buttock. It was excruciating to pry them off, their teeth having sunk deeply into the swollen flesh, but after a lot of screaming and tugging he managed to do the job, tossing them back into the river with fingers bleeding from having to push them down against their fangs.
That was when a loud CRACK filled the air, telling everyone that one of the marksmen had nailed a clay pigeon in mid-air some distance behind him even as he turned back to the river to scream insults at the rest of the assembly. The sharp-edged terracotta shards flew in an arc towards the ground with tremendous speed, with several speeding straight at his wounded behind, too quick for him to realize it let alone try to dodge.
WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK!
“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!”
Howling in pain once more, he toppled head-over-heels back into the river, which began to churn with an entire shoal of enthusiastic pike.
CHOMP! SNAP! CRUNCH!
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCHHHH!!! HEEEEELLLLLPPPPP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”
That did it. Everyone who had gathered to watch the floundering Osmond erupted into a hurricane of laughs, the howls of hysterics spreading like wildfire throughout the entire crowd. The laughter was interspersed with cheers, all directed at one particular noble whose plan had bought about such a beautifully hilarious outcome.
And then a thought occurred to him. Without a second thought, he got down on one knee, and motioned for one of the squires to pass him a small cardboard box. He lifted the lid, and Ingrid gasped in shock; the laughter of everyone present died down a second later, the only sounds now being the splashing and shrieking of one tormented incumbent despot.
It was a ring shaped like a tiny coiling sea serpent, made of 24-carat gold and shaped in miniscule detail, complete with fish-like scales the size of pinpricks. Its finned head was turned upwards, and held in its fanged mouth was a polished ruby the size of a person’s thumbnail; smaller rubies also served as its eyes and formed a row of spikes around its back all the way around and down to its tail.
“I’d ask a certain question aloud, as per formalities, but, well… What would be the point?” asked Erland. “I think you can guess what that question is already.”
Ingrid blinked back tears, her hands pressed to her mouth. And then she let out a high-pitched squeal that made the magical snake draped around her neck flinch a little. “YES!!!”
Next moment, the two of them were embracing each other, their lips locked, and all in the garden save one burst into tumultuous applause. About the only thing louder than the army’s celebration, of course, was a piercing scream of inarticulate rage, along with incredible pain, echoing into the midsummer sky.
*****
Pixies.
She had been bested by FUCKING PIXIES.
She’d never be able to live this down, not for a hundred lifetimes. Possibly not ever.
In hindsight, she should’ve known that the forest was protected by arcane magic that would go out of its way to prevent anyone from nudging even a single leaf or pebble out of place, but nobody who had intended to bring Oili to justice had any clue of that, and those who did know were too contemptuous of the high society to warn them. How she’d failed to see it coming when the signs were right in her face was beyond her, but then again she had been confident in her occult power, a fair match for Oili’s own arcane skill.
Until that day.
What she hadn’t realized before the ill-fated encounter was that the little anthropoid insects had magic of their own, and more specifically that they were very good at levitating things to throw at intruders upon their hives with pinpoint accuracy. She’d made the mistake of demanding them to take her to the old toadstool, followed by throwing nearly all of her poisoned daggers to try and knock the hives down once the pixies had put two and two together and swarmed her. The statuesque assassin had felled many, many people of power during her lifetime, but this was a new experience — and she’d certainly been ill-prepared for the blades to stop in mid-air, and then begin flying around her as though they had tiny invisible wings of their own, every single lethal point aimed squarely at her curvaceous bottom. The screaming that had ensued was as unladylike as it was phenomenal.
And now here she was, face-down in a bed in the infirmary at the corner of the room that was the farthest away from any of the windows. It was amazing that she hadn’t been killed outright by her own poisons, but rigorous application of antidotes and wound cream had been carried out almost every other hour. She was, amazingly, expected to make a full recovery, but the humiliation would be branded upon her like a scar for the rest of eternity.
The infirmary doors being flung open jolted the dark-haired, pale-skinned lady out of her thoughts, and a blond prince in a very bad mood strode in before kicking the doors back shut. The slamming noise made the woman flinch, and upon turning her head to see who had entered, she uttered a groan of clear displeasure.
Osmond eyed the prone woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties and looked like the very incarnation of youthful beauty, and then let out a disappointed sigh. “So… Evangeline, is it?” he asked.
“Oh, what NOW?” she muttered, not bothering to disguise her tone which clearly asked for him to go away and don’t bother showing up again.
“I’ve been looking all over for you. I hear you have a few special talents, which you demonstrated for my dear mother and attempted to put to use trying to bring back that mold-ridden wretch of a witch just to please her.”
“She promised a good payment, but said nothing else. She certainly didn’t tell me about the forest being so deadly. If you want me to go back there, find someone else who hasn’t had their arse turned into a pincushion.” She buried her face in her pillow.
Osmond shook his head. “There is no need, seeing as the deed has been done. But I might be able to pay you double if you could do me one small favor.”
She pushed her upper body off the bed with one of her arms, pushing her long raven-colored locks aside with the other to stare him down with eyes colored like polished amethyst. “And what might that be?”
“My brother, Prince Erland, has disgraced me in front of my own army. He turned my own soldiers against me, orchestrated multiple attempts on my life, and made me look like a complete piece-of-shit dunce in front of the entire army of Wyrmwood!”
“Huh?” Evangeline’s eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. “This has nothing to do with me unless you drag me into it—”
“Which is what I intend to do, if you’re willing. I want you to find my brother, make sure he has no one to protect him and is in no state to turn… and CUT OUT HIS HEART.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “You want me to WHAT?!”
“Did I fucking stutter, miss? The Lindworm Prince is a threat, a public menace to my precious kingdom. I refuse to let his presence tarnish its reputation, and if I have to use deadly force to remove him from the court, then so be it.”
Horror and disgust spread across the woman’s inhumanly beautiful face. “How can you say that about him? I’ve heard rumors about both of you, that he’s been such a kind and benevolent person to the kingdom and cared for its residents much better than you have. For Heaven’s sake, he even had ME bought here when I could’ve been left out in the woods to die.”
“And your point?” asked Osmond, his fists balled and knuckles white.
“He has done nothing to hurt you except in defense of the kingdom and its citizens, defense from your own cruelty if the whispers of the infirmary staff are any indication,” snarled Evangeline. “And you want me to murder him — this philanthropic, penitent, and perfectly decent person — so you, a cowardly bullying tyrant, can maintain your stranglehold on Wyrmwood like… like Lucifer himself holds sway over all of Hell by way of his infamy alone?!”
If Evangeline had been less caught up in her protests, she’d have noticed Osmond slowly becoming more and more enraged with each word she was saying. The knowledge that even a contract killer had the balls (or from anyone else’s standpoint, common sense) to speak against his thirst for power had just filled him with white-hot hatred for more or less everyone in the kingdom, and certain other whispers from the staff had given him some very important clues that could turn the tables on her here and now. It wasn’t until he’d strode up to the wheeled bed and started pushing it across the room that she realized that he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“What are you doing?!” she asked, glancing at the windows, which all had closed curtains at the moment.
He stopped as soon as the bed was in front of the nearest window, and then strode up to bed and pulled the sheet off her entire lower body, revealing her to be completely naked under the covers. “I’ve heard rumors, Evangeline. Rumors of who you really are. And I want to see now if they have any basis in fact.”
“No, WAIT—” the woman cried in alarm, but Osmond swiftly made his way to the curtain and slipped his fingers between the two sheets of fabric and tugged ever so slightly, pulling back the curtain just barely enough to let a thin strip of golden evening light through the window.
To Evangeline’s horror, he’d positioned the bed just right. The solar ray fell directly upon her exposed bottom. And where her marble-white skin was touched by the light, it suddenly turned bright red, then black, as though a red-hot metal rod had been pressed against both of her rather large, hitherto perfectly smooth, and deliciously rounded buttocks, pale gray smoke and the occasional tongue of flame emanating from the excruciating burns. A horrible sizzling noise like bacon grease in a hot pan filled the room, but it was nothing compared to the absolutely hellish noise that eclipsed it in volume by quite a large margin less than a second later.
“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCHHHHH!!!”
Evangeline’s mouth was open wide in a scream of unspeakable agony, her purple eyes as large and round as teacup saucers and weeping crystalline tears. Her perfect white teeth were visible even in the dim light of the infirmary… including, and especially, a pair of inch-long fangs.
“Well?” Osmond asked with a cruel, narrow-eyed smile of triumph on his face. “Does it hurt?”
“IT BURNS! IT FUCKING BUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRNNNNNSSS! MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!” Evangeline was genuinely convinced at that point that she might perish and be dragged back to the nether world, and in the face of such a threat it was only natural for her to beg for her life — or whatever equivalent she had, anyway.
It was a full minute of searing, torturous pain before Osmond finally released the curtain, cutting off the sunlight and leaving Evangeline to bemoan her badly burnt buns. Smoke that carried the scent of rotting meat still trailed from the blackened scorch marks branded upon her otherwise flawless, marble-white flesh. As she sensed him standing right in front of her face, she looked up with an expression clearly portraying absolute terror — the terror that her true nature had just been discovered by the last person she wanted to know of it.
“Do you see now what happens to those who believe me to be wrong in my ambition?” asked Osmond, leaning down to look her in the eye without a hint of fear. “I’ve dealt with greater threats than you without breaking a sweat. Even my mother is terrified of me, which says a lot knowing how frightening an upset parent can be. But no matter - my own family means nothing to me anymore now that they have demonstrated that even they despise me as a person, and I no longer care how anyone feels about me as long as I have power.”
It was amazing, and utterly terrifying, that this petulant, seemingly foppish young man could make someone a head taller and ten times deadlier than him quake with mortal fear, and even Evangeline herself couldn’t believe that he was capable of doing so. But with her assets and possibly much more of her in a dire state indeed, she was powerless, and they both knew it.
As Osmond spoke his next sentence, he lifted her delicately tapered chin with a single finger, his ear-to-ear grin like that of a wolf that had spotted the juiciest bare bottom it had ever seen. “So if you don’t want me to ‘accidentally’ let slip that there’s a vampire loose in the royal infirmary, you, my dear sweet Evangeline, will shut the fuck up and LISTEN.”
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