The story of the Elf Queen

* * *

The cold well water was refreshing, chasing away the remnants of sleep. He scooped up another batch and washed himself once more, then began to wipe his face. He grinned wryly at his reflection on the surface of the water in the tub. It had been a hell of a week. The panicked return trip to Morgrave would be remembered for the rest of his life. It was scary the first time. They'd been lucky to swaddle those two lovebirds almost at the entrance and get away before the ears raised the alarm. And everyone was always waiting for white-feathered elf arrows to fly out of nowhere. This time everything went fucked up almost immediately, and after the escape from the Forest, they ran away as if death was chasing them. In fact, you could say they were. But it looked like the goddess of luck had smiled on them. To be able to escape from the elven captivity, and even with such a booty, is a clear sign the goddess favors them! It will be necessary today, when everything is over, according to the tradition of adventurers, to throw one full-fledged purse into the waters of Dantra. You could even spare a gold piece or two. To thank Mrs. Fortune in this way. Otherwise, next time, she might turn away and he doesn't want that.

When he had finished his treatment and had his appearance in relative order, he began to get dressed. He had prepared clean and decent clothes that allowed him to enter the Upper City. And he ordered everyone else to clean up and dress decently. He means really decent, not by their standards. It's a very important day, after all. The clients who had left a very generous deposit were notified the very next morning after they arrived in the city that their order had been fulfilled. Yesterday, confirmation came from them that they were ready to pick up their very attractive but capricious goods. And to pay the agreed price. And given the amount of money in question, even an idiot like Lame realized they were very serious people. And that meant you had to go to the meeting with them fully armed.

After he finished dressing and made sure he hadn't forgotten any of his weapons and amulets, not even a couple of the most valuable ones, Strym left his room. Short and Groghe were waiting for him in the corridor of the inn their team had rented for themselves. The halfling looked even smaller and more harmless in the company of a big burly man whose papa's grandfather liked bigger and greener women. A very deceptive look, I must say. Both of them were dressed quite decently, and Groch was shaved, which made his big square jaw with small but still protruding fangs look especially brutal. Especially if you didn't know what pureblood orcs looked like. With a satisfied nod, Strym waved his hand toward the stairs leading down to the basement.

"Let's go. Aren't we forgetting something?"

"We got everything."

"Are the wagons ready?"

"Yeah, since this morning."

"All right. Did you check the place out?"

"Sniff and Whisper went. It's a good place for a meeting like this. There shouldn't be any surprises."

"I hope."

They went down to the basement of the inn. They went down to the basement of the inn, or rather, to the part of it where no outsiders were allowed, which had been deliberately sealed off with an extra wall and a door. A very secure door, with a pair of guards at the door, all armed. As he approached them, Stryme sniffed. There was no smell of booze, no smell of druggies either. Well, he guessed his lectures on "money first, party later" had had an effect. Or maybe it was Draga's presence, sitting on a stool in the corner, weaving some magic trick out of twigs and twigs. The witch was as gloomy as ever, but to Stryme's surprise, she had also made herself look decent. In the sense, that she had obviously washed and combed her hair properly and had even put on a nice closed dress, in which she could easily be mistaken for a well-to-do townswoman. Compared to the witch's usual appearance, this was heaven and earth. After greeting her politely, Stryme asked:

"How's our guest?"

"All right," the witch replied curtly, continuing to weave something.

"All right, then. We'll be moving out soon. We need to get her ready. Back us up."

With a grim look on her face (he wondered if she'd ever smiled in her life?), the witch rose to her feet, tucked her craft into the bag slung over her shoulder, and nodded without a word. Opening the door to the partitioned-off part of the cellar, the key to which only he and the witch had, Stryme stepped inside cautiously. The sharp-eared captive lay on a bed dragged from above, strapped to it with wide leather straps around her wrists and ankles. She still wore the elven magic-suppressing collar around her neck. How to place her safely had taken quite a bit of work. Mostly because she had to be handled with the utmost care, lest gods forbid, she be damaged. It was necessary to clean the place properly, making the prisoner's quarters almost ducal. The floors and walls were washed thoroughly, the room was fumigated to kill all mold and possible insects, and even her bed was made with fresh straw and clean linen, which was changed every day. And really clean and fresh, because if a louse or bedbug bit her, and she was paid one thaler less for it, the guilty party would pay for it with his ribs. This he explained very plainly to his boys.

The hardest part was feeding the captive and what happens afterward. It was scary to leave any of the boys with the long-eared girl. God forbid that one of them would not keep his friend in his pants and would decide to use the beautiful elf, thereby reducing the value of such a valuable commodity. But then help came from where they were not expecting it - from Draga's side. The witch offered her help and took full care of the captive, rightly stating that she would be able to keep her in obedience. Stryme was completely fine with that. As a result, during the time the eared girl had been their guest, she had been practically trouble-free.

As he approached the elf, dressed only in her white shirt (made of real fucking cotton!), Strym grinned predatorily. She looked so damn seductive in it, for the fabric was so thin it hid almost nothing! Slim, fit, long legs, juicy tits. Strym had never had such a girl in his entire life, not even in the expensive brothels he and his boys had visited to celebrate the sale of the last long-eared. If it weren't for the customers' condition... Eh! The answer to his sigh was only a look of cold contempt.

"Good morning, long-eared. I hope you slept well, beautiful. And even if not, don't worry. You'll be sleeping in your new place tomorrow. If you're very lucky. You'll be sleeping on silk sheets."

A satisfied cackle came from the back, and the elf gave him the same cold stare. He squatted down beside the bed and looked at her slender, seductive body again, especially her breasts, her nipples sticking out through the thin fabric of her shirt, and said regretfully:

"You know, darling, I'm truly sorry I couldn't show you the full extent of our hospitality, but your customers made it very clear how much such hospitality would cost me. Unfortunately, no wench, not even a long-eared, eternally young one, is worth that much. All right, well, we should get on the road..."

* * *

A short time later, a trio of covered mule-drawn wagons left the inn and headed toward the coastal warehouses. It was not unusual. Morgrave was a trading city, and there were always people traveling. It took an hour for the three wagons to reach the warehouse, even though it wasn't far. But the narrow and cramped streets did their job, so they had to pass oncoming wagons, swear hoarsely at crossroads, and keep an eye out for any petty thieves who might try to steal something from the wagons. Though, there weren't many of them in the Middle City, not like in the Lower City.

Anyway, upon entering the relatively wide warehouse street, everyone was involuntarily relieved. There were almost identical warehouses on both sides of the street, but the ones on the right side of the street faced the wharves. That made it easier for the logistics of goods. There were a lot of people here, movers, messengers, coachmen arguing, clerks counting something, but there was a relative order to the traffic. No one paid any attention to the three other wagons that had entered the street. As they approached one of the warehouses faced the wharf and located near the end of the street, the wagons stopped at the closed doors. A couple of stout men in simple dockworker's clothes standing at the entrance opened the warehouse gates without asking questions. One of the wagons drove in, and the other two remained at the entrance, blocking it from view. Several stout men got out of them, three of whom looked around and pretended to keep an eye on the goods while the rest went inside. The dockers who had opened the gate exchanged only a few words with the new arrivals and then went somewhere, having closed the warehouse again.

It was spacious enough for a wagon pulled by a couple of humble mules to pull in and even turn around. Only along the walls and up to the ceiling were stacks of sealed crates in single rows. The center of the warehouse was completely unoccupied, from the street gate to the sea gate, lit by a trio of magical lights under the ceiling. Only right in the middle stood a wide table with a couple of chairs. A very convenient place for a meeting where no extra eyes were needed. As soon as the gates of the warehouse closed behind the arrivals, the magical protection was activated, blocking off what was going on inside from the outside world. It was done at a decent level, albeit according to the standard scheme. It was commonplace on a warehouse street, and all the buildings here were protected in one way or another. Jumping off the wagon and absently fumbling in his pocket for his protective and battle amulets, Strym glanced toward Draga. The witch, tense as he was, stood with her eyes closed and her lips moving soundlessly. After a few moments, she relaxed visibly and spoke:

"Clear. Five of them, just like we agreed. I don't sense anything suspicious."

Strym nodded to her, also visibly calmed, and headed toward the center of the warehouse in the company of Short and Groghe. A trio of figures dressed in the discreet clothes of ordinary townspeople moved toward them from the sea gate. Two more remained waiting at the entrance. They looked like ordinary people, but their gait, movements, and the way they held themselves... A fisherman sees a fisherman from afar, as they say. And the fact there were no weapons in their hands made them tense even more. One of them, a man bigger than Groghe, was carrying a small chest in his left hand. Strym stopped at the table, smiled politely, nodded, and said in as confident a voice as he could muster:

"Greetings, honorable men."

The older of the trio, who had stopped on the other side of the table, a not very tall man with a clean-shaven face, short, noticeably graying hair, and cold gray eyes, looked at Strym and his companions with an indifferent, unblinking gaze, lingering only on the grim and collected Draga. Then he spoke in a voice devoid of emotion, turning to Strym:

"Greetings. You were quick. That's unexpected."

"But I suppose this is a pleasant surprise to you?"

Smiling even wider, Strym made a graceful gesture with his left hand. The two boys standing by the wagon carefully brought the captive, wrapped in a thick hooded cloak, closer to the table under the light of the magical lamps. After that, they took it off her, revealing to the buyers a white-haired elf woman, still wearing only a shirt, bound hand and foot, and with a gag in her mouth. The older of the buyers scrutinized the captive, who looked back at him with true elven arrogance and contempt.

"Just like we told you. An elf, and a magical one at that! Appearance is beyond praise, but her temper is a bit stiff. However, some people even enjoy taming such a stubborn mare. We didn't ride her. You can check it out. As soon as I see the money, of course."

The older of the buyers took his eyes off the prisoner and turned to Strym again. They stared into each other's eyes for several seconds. There was a silent tension in the air. Then, with the same indifferent expression on his face, the buyer barely uttered a single word:

"Stan.'

The big assistant behind him, who was larger than even Groghe, stepped forward without saying a word and, with an obvious effort, slowly placed a small chest on the table, which seemed toy-like in his clutches. Opening it, he turned it around to face the sellers. Inside it, in neat columns, separated by thin wooden partitions, were three rows of various large coins. Two rows were of silver, one of gold. Pointing to its contents, the elder said in a voice completely devoid of emotion:

"Half the gold in Morgrave thalers. A quarter in sun worshippers' Orens. Another quarter in Dirakhs of the South. All the coins are full weight, uncircumcised. Half of the silver in Confederate Thalers, each pile from a different Confederate city, but all new, minted after the adoption of a standard. The other half is in sun worshippers' Eagles. All as agreed."

With difficulty tearing his gaze away from such riches, Strym uttered, licking his lips:

"That's correct. Please, you can make sure of the quality of our order."

The boys carefully brought the prisoner to the edge of the table and stood to her side. The boys were visibly nervous, though they tried not to show it. The second of the senior buyer's companions, a thin man with a short beard and shoulder-length brown hair, with an obviously magical hoop on his head, approached the prisoner and took from his belt a small enchanted rod of dark metal covered with geometric carvings. He passed it along the captive from top to toe, asked her to unwrap it, and passed it again several times. The gemstone in his hoop, apparently a blue sapphire, began to glow, as did the eyes of the inspector. The carvings on the wand began to glow with the same light. He drove it especially carefully near the captive's head and crotch. Judging by the look on his face, he was satisfied with the result, put the rod away, and took out a small but very sharp knife from another pocket, with which he carefully pricked the prisoner in the finger on her hand. As soon as a drop of blood touched the blade, a wave of red light traveled across it. Putting the knife away, he pulled out an amulet in the form of a polished metal disk from another pocket. He held it up to his eyes, looked at the symbols on it, and nodded. Then, turning to the older man, he said a single word:

"Clear."

The man nodded to his hefty assistant without a word and slid the money chest to Strym's side with a noticeable effort.

"Short."

Halfling walked over to the table, swore, pulled up a chair, climbed on it with his feet, put a round enchanted glass over his eye, bought for very good money, and began to examine the coins, as well as the chest itself. This took several minutes. Then, taking a small pouch from his pocket, he poured its contents into the chest. The fine gray powder literally enveloped the coins and almost immediately stuck to them, only to dissolve into the air a few moments later with a quiet hiss. There was no effect on the coins themselves, and Short spoke contentedly, turning to Strym:

"All good."

With a relieved exhale, Strym nodded to the boys. Without a word, they stepped away from the prisoner. The big man, who was putting the money on the table, slowly approached the elf and, in one elusive movement, slipped a black cloth bag with a tightening neck over her head. Elfess twitched but almost immediately collapsed and would have fallen to the floor if the big man had not picked her up in his arms and thrown her on his shoulder like a sack of flour. After that, he headed for the exit along with the one who had conducted the inspection. The older man gave Strym and the others another emotionless look and then said in an equally indifferent voice:

"It was a pleasure doing business with you. We will be happy to purchase similar products from you in the future. The prices are known to you."

"Same here."

With a barely perceptible nod of farewell, the older man turned around and followed his aides. Strym and his boys followed suit. Groghe, as the healthiest, picked up the chest of money, and the gang left the warehouse. There was the usual bustle on the warehouse street, and no one paid any attention to the wagons leaving it. The journey back to the inn took almost twice as long, making everyone quietly nervous. It was only when the inn gates closed behind the last of the wagons, and the squad returned to their base, that Strym breathed a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His expensive and decent suit was soaked through, and his heart was racing. The battle amulet was literally imprinted on the inside of his palm, so it took a while to unclench it. The other guys looked the same. He grabbed the flask of wine and took a few greedy sips, ignoring the fact that he was spilling some of it on his clothes.

"Whoo! Holy shit... We did it! Holy shit, we did it! Guys! Let's party!"

He was answered by the joyous roar of half a dozen men, coming away from the wild strain of the day's exertion

* * *

Consciousness returned suddenly, along with a pungent and unpleasant odor that hit the nose. But the darkness didn't go away. Almost immediately, it became clear that the reason was the tight blindfold. She tried to move without success. Even if there were no bandages on her arms and legs, her whole body felt woozy and unresponsive. A rough hand squeezed her jaw, forcing her mouth open, and some tasteless liquid poured down her throat. An attempt to fight back failed. Almost immediately afterward, the only consciousness that had returned was blurred. Thoughts became slow and lazy. Some words came from somewhere in the distance. She seemed to be saying something back. Her tongue moved on its own, her lips moved...

Making sure the elfess had fallen back into a dreamless sleep, the gray-haired man scratched his chin thoughtfully, considering what he had heard from her. Turning to Sten, he asked briefly:

"Sten?"

The big man standing at the door with a battle magic rod in his hands turned to the commander with a grim expression and muttered in a hoarse voice:

"I don't like it, Grey. I wouldn't have believed they could just walk into the Forest. Let alone swaddle one of the pointy-eared ones. Not to mention a sorceress."

"Appearances can be deceiving," the commander said thoughtfully, looking at the elven woman strapped into a chair with armrests.

"Michael?"

The person in charge of the magical part of their small team broke away from his alchemy and amulets, neatly laid out on a small table, and said in a laconic voice:

"No beacons on her. No traces of alchemy in her blood. I don't see any mind-altering effects. Her personal defenses have been successfully suppressed by the alchemy. There's no way she could have resisted the Truth Serum in her condition. She answered all questions honestly."

Hmm. Gray scrutinized the prisoner. It certainly looked suspicious. An experienced sorceress of the Forest Guard, in defiance of orders, had gone off on her own to look for her niece's kidnappers to rescue her. And found them, but she underestimated the kidnappers and got captured. Sounds like a pretty fucking great story. On the other hand, Gray's seen a lot of things in his life. Including a couple of even more fantastic stories that he would never have believed if he hadn't been directly involved. And yet... But on the other hand, three captured sharp-eared creatures, one of them an old mage who had served in the Forest Guard for centuries. And yet...

"We'll wait a couple of days. Do a follow-up check, Michael. Full-scale. Better safe than sorry."

* * *

With a wince, Luaval reached up and unbuckled the thin leather strap that fastened the amulet around his neck, a small metal disk with runes engraved. Then he removed the equally tightly fitting magical hoop from his forehead and massaged his aching temples. It wasn't the worst thing he'd experienced in his long life, but it was still a very unpleasant procedure that required the utmost immobility and preparation. But very effective in certain situations. For example, in such situations, when someone is to be interrogated with extreme prejudice or use of special means. If everything is done correctly, this magical technique allows, unnoticed by the questioner, to answer questions instead of the questioned. Creating the illusion that the answers are honest and sincere. The masters of the Secret Guard did not fail, and the interrogation went as it should. Closing his eyes, the dark elf leaned back in his chair, getting used to the sensations of his body anew. It took a few minutes to completely get rid of the absorbent cotton feeling and regain full mental clarity.

At this time, the noise of a drunken party was coming from the lower floors of the inn, which was in full swing. Let them party while they can. With a grin, Luaval lowered his right hand, reaching into the neckline of the dress of the witch sitting next to him on the floor. Finding her left breast, he gave it a gentle squeeze, playing with the hardened nipple with his index finger. She didn't react but twitched and shuddered again, feeling the snake in her heart. When he had returned to her room the day before, after his interaction with the "captive," his first concern had been to improve the security of her home. Which wasn't easy. No, he could have organized a pretty good defense. But such powerful magic would inevitably attract attention and questions. Like a battle unicorn standing in the stall of a peasant's yard.

So he had to build a defense that didn't look out of line with what was expected in Midtown. Once the room was more or less secure, he ordered the witch to clean herself up, wash herself properly, and get rid of all her hair. Except for the ones on her head. Watching her forced to do all that right in front of him was especially satisfying. It wasn't exactly pleasant to look at her after the water treatment, but at least it wasn't disgusting. After playing with her breasts some more and making sure he was fully recovered, Luaval rose to his feet in one quick predatory movement and stretched. Then he ordered:

"Get up."

Startled, the witch rose to her feet, looking at him apprehensively.

"Did you remember everything I told you?"

"Yes, master!" she hurriedly nodded, feeling the snake move.

Smiling contentedly, the dark elf rubbed her cheek mockingly.

"Good girl. Come here."

With a shudder, she opened her mouth but immediately closed it and followed him to her desk, where her alchemy and witchcraft supplies were spread out.

"Lean on the table. Legs wide."

Biting her lip, the witch obeyed without complaint and closed her eyes. Luaval grinned crookedly behind her. Humans. The dark elf pulled up the hem of her dress, under which she had nothing, and ran his palm over her buttocks. Squeezing the right one a few times, he grinned:

"Get ready. This is gonna hurt."

The witch shuddered again but had no time to say anything when a terrible pain pierced her body. Her mouth fell open, and she arched and would have screamed if her lungs hadn't cramped. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the floor, groping for air with her open mouth like a beached fish. Her body shook violently. She lay on the floor for a few minutes, recovering, and then she sat up with her bare ass on the floor, staring at Luaval with eyes full of horror and incomprehension. The dark elf towering over her said with a scornful sneer:

"What, did you think I was gonna take advantage of your pathetic body? Did you? You think too much of yourself, human. No, I was just further guaranteeing your obedience with a seal."

With those words, Luaval showed the witch on the floor the dark elf artifact seal he'd just branded her with. His kin used to brand their slaves with such seals, usually on their foreheads. To make it immediately obvious whose property they were and to control the slaves more effectively. But in her case, the fact of branding should not be visible. So, she had to choose a different point on the body, although the effectiveness of the seal would be practically unaffected.

"It'll hurt for the first few days. Then you'll get used to it. If you behave yourself, you won't even notice it. Here you go."

Taking a silver ring with a black pearl and a necklace of snake fangs from his pocket, he tossed them to the witch sitting on the floor.

"Wear the ring on. You can take off the necklace at night. Don't forget everything I told you if you want to stay alive. You'll be contacted shortly. Do you understand?"

Lowering her head, the witch said in a suppressed voice:

"Yes, master."

"Good girl."

Turning around, Luaval went to the window and jumped outside. Behind him, Draga picked up the discarded jewelry and climbed onto the bed with her feet. Putting them on, she wrapped her arms around her knees, buried her face in them, and sobbed quietly with impotent anger, fear, and humiliation. The dark elf perched on a nearby rooftop nodded contentedly. The specialists of the Secret Guard had calculated her perfectly, choosing the ideal strategy of behavior with her, taking into account the peculiarities of her personality. In theory, Luaval would not mind sharing a bed with this witch. Her appearance, of course, left much to be desired, but a couple of weeks in the hands of the Masters of Beauty would fix that. Then again, the main thing that attracted him to her was her helplessness, even though she was a pretty good witch. However, a demonstrative rejection instead of the expected coitus was deemed more appropriate at this stage of processing. Okay, for the immediate future, she wasn't his concern but the curator from the Secret Guard. Sivila seemed determined to squeeze the most out of these adventurers. Speaking of her. He has to send the Queen a progress report.

* * *

After the ball of Elf Queen