Welcome back to Rune of Blood. This story contains themes of violence and dubious consent.

In chapter one, we met Tansy Bellwether, an unfortunate halfling woman. While being pumped out by her drunken father to a traveling sorceress and her knight companion, her farm was invaded by an orcish raiding party.

Now we jump to the main Orcish army, where a half-orc soldier is about to find his fate tied up with Tansy’s….

Standhurn was broken.

It would not be apparent, at first, to someone who did not know the fortress as well as Tarask did. Not from a distance, at any rate. If you had not seen the proud standards waving high from the battlements, you might not notice their absence. Once the silver tree of the Elven Emperor of the golden trees had flown, high and proud in the mountain wind. A score of more colorful banners representing human knightly houses had waved just a little lower. All of them, as it were, a message to the orcish tribes of the mountains beyond- No further.

Now, the standards were gone. Their replacements were the ragged tribal emblems of the Orcish army- usually tall ashen spears adorned by crude constructions of fur and cloth. Often there was a skull atop them- sometimes of a treasured ancestor, sometimes of a hated enemy. The hundred tribes that made up of the Iron Horde each had their own customs regarding their battle standards.

Yet the tribes had set all differences aside, buried longstanding grudges, revived ancient alliances, and come together to do the unthinkable. They had broken Standhurn. Even now, their raiding parties and scouts were pouring out into the green, fertile country below. The land of the halfings and the human Duchy of Foryck were already aflame. And no doubt many humans and halflings of both sexes were feeling the touch of rough orcish hands….

Tarask walked up the road towards the fortress, his iron-shod feed crunching the gravel. His sword swayed at his hip, and his battered helmet rested in the crook of his elbow. Both of these items had been recently looted from the corpse of a knight. Orcish soldiers passed Tarask, going the other way down to the sprawling war camp in the valley. Many were equipped, like himself, in oddments of stolen human gear. Not stolen, Tarask reminded himself, as he passed the troops, nodding or growling in greeting. Reclaimed, more like. The iron for all of it was mined in our mountains, by orcish slaves. It belongs to us by natural justice.

Tarask’s own looted gear fitted him much better than that of his comrades. He saw one burly warrior, nearly nine feet tall and a yard across at the shoulders, wearing a shining breastplate that didn’t even cover his nipples. But Tarask, was, after all, only a half-orc. He was tall, by human standards, and covered in rippling light-green muscle that any athlete would envy. He had two small tusks on the side of his usually-grinning mouth, and jet black hair, cut short on top with two neatly trimmed sideburns.

Some of the Orcish soldiers gave him odd, half-hostile looks as they passed. Many of them were suspicious of half-breeds. It was understandable, if unfortunate. Tarask had to work and fight twice as hard to earn the respect of his comrades. His intimate knowledge of Standhurn, where he had lived the first eighteen years of his life, had helped in that regard. He had been a sort of half-slave, working his way up from stable boy to squire to soldier. The Iron Horde might never have taken the fort without his knowledge of Standhurn’s secrets.

But not all the warriors passing down the gravel road looked at Tarask. Most of them looked behind him, following the chain held casually in his light-green hand. The chain pulled at the ring around the neck of a naked, weeping elven woman.

Her pale white skin was caked from dust from the road. Her heavy, shapely breasts bounced with each step. Her perfect, innocent heart shaped face was twisted into a mask of fear and humiliation. Tears ran out of her crystal blue eyes, flowing onto the leather strap that held the iron ball gag tight in her mouth. Her silver-blonde hair was tousled and wild, revealing one petite and sharp ear.

The passing orcish warriors jeered and growled as the the elf-woman stumbled on the rocky path, her chain jerking her forward. Tarask kept his chin high, a proud smile spreading from tusk to tusk on his face.

Two of Tarask’s soldiers followed behind the prisoner. Gix, a thick-thighed female goblin, pricked the elven woman’s shapely ass with her spear far more than was necessary to keep the elf-woman moving. Joy was in her beady red eyes and a smile showed her rows of pointed teeth. Ruk, walking beside her, was a scarred and seasoned orcish warrior who had escaped from the mines to join the Iron Horde. He watched the elven prisoner with a flat, wary expression, and warned away any other soldiers who got too close to the prisoner with a silent glare.

They came at last to the splintered gates of the fortress. A gang of sentries stood about the ruins kastamonu escort of the gate. Their sergeant, a gray-skinned orc woman who overtopped Tarask by a head looked them over, until her dark eyes locked on their elven prisoner.

“Captain Tarask reporting. We have a special prisoner, as you see, with orders to bring her to the general.”

The seargeant nodded without taking her hungry eyes off of the elf. “Aye, go on through. But you’ll need to leave the ‘special prisoner’ with me and my boys. We’ll have to check her over. Thoroughly.” Her gang of gaurds, standing nearby, grunted and giggled.

“That won’t be happening, sergeant.” Tarask looked back at her with an even stare, dropping his hand casually to his sword hilt. “This one’s important. You’ll have to amuse yourself with the other women from the castle.”

“Oh, we have.” The orc woman smiled. “And some of the men too. But all we captured was ugly soldiers and a few rough-handed laundrywomen. Nothing like this.” She took a step towards the prisoner, rubbing her gray hands together and running her tounge over the base of her broken left tusk. “Come now, half-breed, we’ll hand her back over when we’ve had our fun. And we’ll be gentle, won’t we boys?” This elicited another round of feral grunts form the gate guards, all of whom were edging towards the elf woman, drawn as if by a lodenstone.

“That’s Captain half-breed to you, Seargeant.” Tarrask said, flashing the silver rank pin on his collar at her. He took a step toward her, looking up at that proud, snarling face. “This isn’t the old days anymore. We don’t squabble over plunder. This isn’t some piece of looted meat, this is the elven commander’s wife, and she has a special purpose to serve. So I suggest you behave like a soldier and follow orders. And if you want to go the other way- try it. Let’s see how it works out for you.”

The seargeant cocked her head, flipping her her jet-black mohawk from one side to the other and finally took her eyes off the naked elven woman. She considered Tarask for a long moment.

“To be hanged for disobeying orders… some might say that’s a small price to pay for tasting such a peach.” Her face took on a broken smile. “But as you say, Captain half-breed. Carry on.”

The huge orc woman took a half step aside, close enough that she could give the prisoner a hearty snack on her plump, pale ass as she passed.

The gateyard was crowded. Rust-brown bloodstains were still visible here and there on the pale flagstones, when a gap in the tumultuous crowd revealed the ground long enough to see them. One troop of orcish soldiers were loading carts with looted armor and weapons. Another was leading a gang of prisoners, naked and chained like the elf-woman, across the yard. They made a much less appetizing sight then Tarrask’s prize. Some of the human soldiers were wounded and struggling to march. All had the dead eyed, blank stare of the utterly defeated. Their pathetic little human pricks, shriveled with cold and shame, waggled uselessly between their legs.

Under the shadow of the donjon, a line of pillories had been set up. Each one contained a naked human woman, bound up and contorted into a variety of uncomfortable positions. Each one of women was in the process of being ruthlessly fucked by horde soldiers, while others queued up behind to await their turn.

Tarrask recognized one of them. A sandy haired, freckled woman that had been a kitchen maid when he still lived in the castle. Chana? Chella? He idly searched his mind for her name. She had been a sprightly cruel eyed girl, who had frequently teased him and called him ‘half-orc filth’ among other epithets. Her now plump and fleshy form was being abused by three goblin soildiers. They had her on her back, her flabby arms suspended and twisted painfully in the wooden pillory to achieve the position. One was digging his little claws into her soft thighs while he pumped away furiously. The second was straddling her chest, sliding his disproportionally large green cock between her tits. The third was standing over her head stroking himself, grunting and squealing as he neared climax.

The kitchen maid’s eyes were half closed, rolled back into her head with irresistible pleasure despite her pain and humiliation. Tarask knew that look well. Some trick of the humanoid brain made human and elven women turn into lust-filled,brain broken whores when goblinoid hands seized them. The elves had always endeavored to keep the shameful truth a secret. Doubtless it was one of the reasons they worked so hard to keep the orcs and goblins oppressed. They could not stand that, however much disgust they showed Orcs at a distance, somewhere deep in their ancestral brains all human and elven women craved their cocks with a fierce hunger. The laundry maid’s screams of pleasure testified to this fact.

But when the ravaged woman she saw on the prisoner, her face twisted with pain and sorrow. “My lady Alara…” kayseri escort the woman whimpered, the moment before ropes of thick, reeking goblin cum blasted onto her face. Gix, enraptured by the sight of her brethren and their fun, hooted encouragement.

At the bound woman’s shout, other eyes around the crowded yard began to turn on Tarrask’s prisoner. Dark whispers and curses passed through the chained line of human soldiers. “The lady duchess- thought she got away safe- bastards, savage monsters- how dare they…” Tarrask gave the lady’s chain an unnesecasry jerk, making her stumble on the stones. He drank in the offended gasps and bitter whispers of the soldiers like wine.

Get a good look, you human bastards, He thought. Not just you. Not just your wives and daughters, either. But your sacred elven puppet masters too. You worship them, revere them, serve them- meanwhile the elves look on you with as much disgust and contempt as you do Orcs. Well, we’re going to make all of you drink the bitter cup that you have served my people for a thousand years- human and elf alike.

General Kur was seated on an ornately carved chair, with his feet up on the immaculate, Ebonwood desk when Tarrask entered with the prisoner and his soldiers. They were in a chamber high up in the Star Tower, which up until recently had been the Duke’s office.

The duke himself was tied to a chair in the corner of the room, nodding in and out of consciousness. His fine silk clothing was torn and soiled, and his platinum hair was caked with blood. Duke Ch’ithevya Timreiel, nephew of the Emperor himself, commander of Standhurn, whose word was law in this part of the world, was as battered as his fortress.

General Kur stood up as Tarask and his train came in, shifting his bulky, muscular frame out the fancy elven chair. He returned Tarrask’s clenched fist salute. The general was old, for an Orc. His wild mane of hair and impressive beard, which nearly reached his barrel-belly, was gray and black in equal parts. Between his two broken tusks he had a wide, friendly smile.

“Captain Tarask, my lad.” He said, looking behind him to the naked and chained duchess and whistled. “Your mission was successful, I see.”

“As was yours, General.” Tarrask said, gripping the old orc’s forearm with strength as the general did the same to his. “Congratulations on the capture of this fortress.”

“We couldn’t have done it without your information about the secret posterns, lad.” The general said. “We still haven’t been able to get the password to the Duke’s safe, however.” He gestured across the room to black iron safe set into the far wall. The forest tapestry that had once covered it lay crumpled on the floor beside it. Several strange black soot marks marred the walls and floors next to it.

Tarask felt a jerk on the chain. The elf woman was trying to go to her battered husband, straining against the collar and choking herself like a foolish dog. The duke, tied to his chair, was weeping crystal tears as he strained to get to her. Gix gave the woman a sharp kick to the back of the knee, driving the woman to her knees on the cold stone floor just out of reach from

The duke.

“He’s a tough bastard, for an elf.” The general said. “We haven’t been able to break him yet. We’ve tried forcing the safe too, but it has some powerful wards. I’ve lost two men already.” He gestured towards the scorch marks. “But I’m hoping you and your prisoner will be able to solve that problem.”

“Give me an hour, general.” Tarrask said. “And I’ll have that safe opened.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it, Captain. Come see me in the great hall when you’re done. This day of victory was along in coming. We shall drink to those who brought it about, and those who we lost.”

Tarask removed his scavenged armor, setting each piece upon the desk. “Take the bitch’s gag off, Gix. I want the duke to hear her scream.” He said over his shoulder. The goblin woman unfastened the leather belt around the elf-woman’s face, and her sobs and little whimpers filled the room. Tarask rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and stepped behind the duchess, straddling her legs, and placed a gentle hand upon her hair, stroking it idly and pressing the outline of his rapidly hardening cock against her pointed ear.

“I’ll tell you nothing, you thrice-cursed half-breed bastard. You faithless traitor. Be damned and leave us in peace.” The elven duke slurred at Tarask, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Ruk, if you would.” Tarask said. The big orc soldier stepped forward and slammed his fist into the elf-lord’s face. The duke’s neck whipped backwards and his chair rocked backward before slamming down again.

“That was just a little love tap. Ruk can hit much, much harder. me on that. So spare me the insults if you value your remaining teeth.”

“Your foul brethren…” the duke began, before a coughing fit interrupted him, and he spat red blood onto kıbrıs escort the floor. “They have already done worse to me than that. I will not aid you, savage. Bastard. Traitor. Here you were given a roof, a place at table….”

“Aye. So I was.” Tarask said, when the prisoner had recovered enough from Ruk’s next punch to hear him. “Slaves are always fed and housed. Else they would die, and be no use to their masters.”

“Better for all of us, for the empire, if I had let you starve.” The duke growled. “Do you know what you have done, by letting these monsters into civilized lands? How many will suffer and die as a-“

Tarrask cut him off with a hearty, bitter laugh.

“You will not lecture me on morality, you elven parasite.” Tarask said. He reached down, and yanked the duchess to her feet by the hair. Idly, one of his olive green hands began to fondle her perfect, plump juicy left breast. The elven woman went quiet and stiff, still besides a shiver that coursed through her svelte body. “You, who keep the secrets of immortality back from all others, so that your women may have the springy tits of twenty-year olds well into their fourth century. You, who spend human lives as arrow fodder to keep the orc-folk oppressed. You, who slew your daughter with your own hands because she had the temerity to fall in love with an orphaned half-orc slave soldier?”

“Ch’ithevya?” The duchess said in a small, trembling voice. “What is he talking about?”

“My daughter… fell from the Star Tower in a thunderstorm…” the duke said, his voice breaking.

“That is the last lie you will say in this room, Duke.” Tarask said. “I see by her reaction you had not even told your wife.” Tarrask’s powerful hand gripped one the elven woman’s erect, perfectly shaped nipples and twisted slightly. The duchess moaned and shuddered, arcing her elegant ivory back. Tarask pressed himself against her, letting her feel the press of his cock against her springy ass, letting the drunkenness and stupor of the orc fever take over her mind.

“You took your daughter from me. So I claim the Lady Alara, your wife; as we’re-gild. I’m doing to fuck her over and over again, and you’re going to listen to her moan and scream in pleasure. And it will only stop when that safe is open.”

The duke struggled against his bonds and cursed Tarask foully- but his wife was already softening, melting under the half-orc’s touch. Tarask could feel her shame fighting against her lust as it overcame her. He ran his hands up and down her body as she whimpered softly. Her skin was smooth as glass and soft as flower petals. Tarask felt the curve of her hips, the pleasant half-plumpness of her thighs, the delicate place at the base of her neck…

The duke shut his eyes and tried to turn away. Tarask clucked his tounge.

“That won’t do, my lord. You’re going to miss all the fun. Gix, if you please.”

The goblin woman stepped behind the bound elven duke and put her little green hands to his face. She dug her claws into his cheek and forehead, spreading the skin so he could not close his eyes. The grotesque mask of impotent anger that his face became made Tarask chuckle.

He shoved the duchess to the floor in front of him. She crumpled, already willing and pliant like metal infused with the heat of the forge fire. Tarask unfastened his breeches and his heavy slab of a cock pushed it’s way out into her face. The elf woman cringed away; but Tarrask knew she was fighting with herself now, not with him. He took his veiny olive green cock in his hand and slapped it against her cheek a few times.

“Knock knock, My lady. You have a visitor!” Gix jeered from her place behind the duke. “Do you see how big it is, Elf? Do you think she’ll even be able to take it? Not if she’s only had your little thing to practice on.”

The duke was turning beet-red as tears streamed down his face. Tarask knew that the elven race was immune to the ills such as apoplexy and calenture which cut human lives short- but it almost looked like the Duke might be the first of his people to do it.

With slow and almost gentle movements, Tarask slid his hands over the duchess’s braids and turned her perfect, sharp elven face towards his pulsing cock. She followed his guiding touch like a half wild mare, willing, but with a hint of reckless stubbornness. Yet her red lips spread wide, stretching to their utmost to fit over his bulbous, barbarous cock-head.

“Not fighting back much, is she?” Gix snarled into the Duke’s ear. “I think she likes it. And who could blame the lucky girl?” The goblin woman was growing excited herself, rubbing her thighs against the back of the chair and rocking back and forth a little as she held the Duke’s eyes open. Tarask reminded himself to make sure that was taken care of- if goblin females grew aroused without being satisfied, they were wont to grow troublesome and half-feral.

“Ugkl…ugghhhkl….uHhhhhggk..” the duchess moaned as the juicy Orc cock invaded her mouth a little further… a little further. She looked up at Tarask’s muscled olive green form above her with the reverence she usually saved for statues of the gods. Then she cast her at eyes at her husband, and there was shame and shamelessness there swirled together. Those eyes asked forgiveness for what was happening as well as what was to come, and could now be stopped.