Futanari Legends: The Frozen Queen (Book 1: Brenna) (2 page)

In the darkness, nothing.

Was the drakewurm even here?

Something told her it was. It was here all right, somewhere down in this dark cave, waiting. Her eyes adjusted to the scant light, making out the pure gray shapes of the dank walls, twisted roots, and scattered rocks leading down away from the safety of the uncaring world above.

So down she went, losing herself in a cocoon of nightmares and fears, moving through the darkness hopefully like a shadow itself. Though she knew it could see the heat of her flesh, and smell the scent of the living. Any sound betrayed her for miles down here, and it knew.

It knew.

She stepped around a rock, pushing her body close to a chilled wall. For a sword-wielder, space meant life, and the intrusion of a wall to her back limited her options. This was one less way to dodge, one huge problem for bringing a blow to speed, and a weakness her opponent could seize upon. Her father told her to a swordsman, corners were death, and a wall was one step closer to death than she liked.

Dry roots tangled with her hair, and she feared getting too close to the stone. One misstep, one sound, or one scrape of metal to stone would kill her.

For the longest time she sat quiet in this limited life.

And then she heard the deep, throaty, rumbling growl shake the corner next to her body, and it sent terror reverberating through her very soul.

It knew.

She couldn’t control her breathing, yet she had to. She held her breath until spots appeared in her eyes, and her chest ached for air. She let out a breath slowly, and then sucked in the chill air as it burned her lungs. She forced herself to stop, think, and breathe.

Sweat coated the insides of her gloves, and her toes gripped at the leather soles inside her boots. Her muscles tightened like steel chains. She tried to blink away the fear, pressing her cheek against the chill stone, and focusing on the empty space beyond the corner inches from her metal pauldron.

The rasp sound of a giant creature moving like a snake filled the darkness, a thousand scales sliding along the dead stone sending a dry cacophony of scraping hisses through the air. She could hear every heavy drop of its claws against the stone, and the snapping clicks of the beast’s unholy throat.

When it sucked air through its nostrils, she knew. It sounded like the breath of a horse, only deeper and more labored as the beast pulled the air all the way down its long neck. She could hear the hollow echo of the air being drawn down, almost like a horn-player drawing air but making no sound.

It stopped. It was maybe feet from the looming corner near her, but it stopped. She could tell how close it was by the change in the air. A chilling warmth came over her, the air drawing still, and the sounds of scale on terrible scale coming close enough to her ear for her to just know.

It was close.

And it knew.

Chapter 3:

When I Live

There was no better time to die like today, so she ran straight into the face of death itself.

She knew it expected her to stay still and be locked by fear, so she ran out into the darkness, directly across the beast’s vision, and into the darkness beyond. She wondered if she weren’t running straight off a cliff in the gloom, but the dragon’s exploding breath of flame turned a cold cavern into a hellish oven in the moments behind her.

The black and scaled form of the drakewurm slithered and hissed in front of her as the fire died out, and she moved quickly to be somewhere else when the dragon’s maw came.

And came it did, snapping like a giant vise inches from her arm, close enough she could feel the dagger-sized teeth snap together and the stench and rush of vile air from the beast’s maw.

Where its head must be its neck must follow.

She sliced her steely sword downward towards the beast’s neck, catching a cluster of scales in a depressingly ineffective blow. Several scales clattered about as her blade pulled them free, and the vile, corrupted blood spattered across the cave like hot torrents from a stuck pig. No good could come from this thing, no parlay, no mercy, no reasoning, for it was in the beast’s blood to kill, maim, and consume for the sheer pleasure of suffering.

A glancing blow was a fatal clue to my position, so I had to move.

Brenna knew she had to do the least obvious move, so she ducked under the second snap of the beast’s maw, rolling under its jowls with her back to the cold stone, and she came up on her feet on the other side of the angry force of death. She came so close to its throat she lamented not taking a thrust straight up to end this all, but her movement and position were all wrong to make the blow strong and true.

Sometimes winning meant being patient enough to deliver the killing blow at the right time.

And sometimes losing meant waiting too long.

She knew it was all wrong, in the faint light the beast’s body was turned away from her, writhing and snapping as it spent the last few moments seeking out where she went. She knew her dodge purchased a slight moment of time to reposition, but her position was now all wrong. She had rolled so far it gave the beast room to coil and snap, exactly what she didn’t want to give it. The monster had fortune on its side as it turned to face her, as it realized where she was, it would coil up and snap like a mammoth snake, and this would be the end.

A woman’s scream echoed in the cavern.

She was still alive.

Brenna noticed the oddest play of the light in the dim smoke of the cavern air. A reflection, a tiny shift in the light as an eye reflected the dying embers of light hanging in the smoke-filled air. The beast had foolishly looked back. Distracted. A moment, a pause, and a blessed chance to move to get the upper hand.

Brenna felt strange, like something
else
was happening. A truth? The fleeting moments before death? A cold realization hung in the air as the point in time staled before her in solemn and blessed silence. It was as if the world had stopped, as if everything before had been preparing her for this moment, her prior life a simple prologue to her world changing forever. What will be to come will be much greater than this.

Now.

This is when the rest of my life begins.

At this very moment.

Where I shall be is where I was. I shall strike the moment I get there. This was a bet, a wager of my very life on several uncertain things.

The beast must think I had rolled away to his other side, and still be there.

The beast must not see me moving back.

The beast must be readying to strike.

In battle against a stronger foe one can play a losing battle carefully, or go for it all when the time feels right. This is what separates great warriors from the rest, the sense of that perfect moment. It can never be taught, and it can only be honed through placing your life on the line innumerable times.

The dance of death. Perfected only through the taking of lives, in dance after dance.

So we begin again.

Run, duck, dodge - all while swinging my sword. I need to be in a specific place at a specific time heartbeats from this moment. I can feel the beast moving above me in the darkness, while embers and the feeling of death itself hang in the air around me.

In moments this shall be over for one of us.

My feet must plant true, my body must react perfectly, my swing must be pure and powerful. Every movement must be fluid, and perfect without hesitation. The angle, the angle must be right. Every step must be strong, brave without fear. My sword’s path must be clear, and I must push the weapon through space is if it was free from obstruction.

My body is ready, my swing so fast my muscles ache from the strain, and my body is a whirling dervish of spinning death.

This is the moment.

Will I find truth or death?

The instant feel of the blade slicing through the beast’s neck gives me the pleasure of victory, but I must not cease. A wounded opponent is worse than a dead one. I scream to lend my soul to the blow as the blade continues, every fiber of my body knowing a pain I have never felt as I force the blade through the creature’s neck. I push as I would forcing the blow through the trunk of a stalwart tree. This feels like the same challenge, slicing a tree down with a single blow.

It hurts, and my blade meets resistance as I pour myself into the strike, focusing all my rage and life force downward, my arms burning with agony, my back on fire with pain.

Tor god of storms guide my blade and give me thunder.

This is it, as sudden and painful landing the blow was, the end is anticlimactic and hollow as my blade strikes the ground underneath the beast, sparks flying as blade meets stone. The jar compares nothing to slicing the beast’s head off, and I cry in agony as I hear the massive head of the drakewurm roll off into the darkness.

I find truth in death.

I suck air like I had come up from deep under a lake, my lungs burning, my body shaking in protest. Every joint burns, every muscle spent, I kneel next to the decapitated beast in a pool of warm blood soaked in foul magic.

I wonder if dragon slayers absorb the souls of the drakewurms they slay, or if the blood somehow seeps into their bodies. I’m covered in it as I feel the hot and vile syrup drain from the corrupted beast, covered in sticky and black blood, in equal parts anguish and relief.

I stand weakly, my legs shaking under the weight of my rune-covered metal armor, my arm too weak to hold my broadsword. I seek out the source of sobs behind the beast’s body, faint whimpers and cries that draw me towards her.

I hold out my bloody hand when I feel myself come close to her.

“I am here to rescue you, Chloe.”

Chapter 4:

Secrets

I shouldn’t be surprised that the blood does not wash off so easily.

I scrub the intricate runes of my armor, but they never seem to come clean. My breastplate, pauldrons, arm plates, shin guards, and everything else sits in a river as I wash each piece, dry it by the fire, and then cover each one with armorer’s oil when they dry. The metal smells of iron and bitter lubricant, the scent of war and death’s debts taken.

I wear a simple body shirt with no arms, my midriff bare and large breasts firm enough to tent the fabric between them. I like panties, but these too often get sweat-soaked under my armor, so I keep a lucky silk pair on when I fight, covered by a ratty and string hanging pair of tan shorts to cover my round and firm ass.

My hair is wet, slick, black and tied back, as I had just washed it in the river and was letting it dry. I hate getting blood in my hair. I hate it.

The rest of me is as how you would imagine, toned, sleek and powerful muscles under a feminine form many would find attractive. I am not the fat housewife type, but more of a toned and trimmed warrioress built for battle.

“You worship the Goddess Gundir?” Chloe says from behind me.

She must have noticed the long bulge in my shorts.

I nod as I finish washing the last of the blood from my glove. “Aye. I choose to deceive you not, fair maiden. I am a Sister of Gundir, cock-woman, warrior, crossbred chosen of the hermaphrodite god-goddess.” I look into the water at my bloody-curdled expression. “I shall not force myself on you if that is what you worry about. I can control myself around someone so fair.”

And I slip, cursing myself. Chloe was a beautiful young lady, of age and full of curves and a trim, perfect figure. Her hair was brown, done up in a double-braid. Her face expressed classic innocence, with large eyes, an upturned nose, and a pouty pair of lips perfect for slipping-

Stop. I must not get myself any more aroused around her. My cock will stand out a full two hands from my hips and beg for satiation. For I am born of the blood of my Goddess, Gundir, my grandfather the father of gods, Othin, and my grandmother the mother of all elves, Albia. Gundir was born mostly woman, with the exception of a man-sized cock upon her loins, a she-male oddity born of mixed human-elven blood.

The gods loved mother Gundir like a daughter, but her male side showed a passion for war and sport like other boys. Gundir was allowed to take a bride and prosper, being friend to elf and human alike, though it is said a birth like hers among the generations of diluted blood is very rare. Mostly descendants of the goddess were normal of birth, being all man or all woman, but occasionally a child was born just like the goddess herself, with a perfect female form and sporting the large member of a man.

These were the Sisters of Gundir, of which I am one. We are legends in battle, and our blood runs closer to the gods than most mortals. Our numbers are few, but our legends many across the Northlands. Our kind tends to live longer than mortals, but one would never know since we crave battle and danger. We are legends among some, hated and feared among others, and misunderstood by many.

I only wished to lead a normal life.

But my blood wished otherwise.

My cock only wishes for pleasure, so I must keep that beast in check.

I turn to her and give her a smile as I dry my gauntlet and oil the rune-covered metal. I sit across the fire from her and place my armored glove next to the others, and stare into her deep green eyes.

She is perfect in every way, with curves, a trim figure, breasts made for cupping, and a face one could never forget. Her yellow dress and blue shawl do little to conceal her supple body, teasing me with the under-pull of the fabric below her breasts, and a bare leg below the knee I could worship with a tender caress as my hand slid towards her possibly trimmed, or even better yet totally shaved sex.

Stop.

If you sheath your desire you can stop now.

My cock is beating, filling with lust, and tingling as it awakens and begins to grow from inside me. I want her. I lust for her. I wish to take her and make her come and scream my name as I fuck her perky, almost royal body into submission and she grips my back tightly and I-

Stop.

“I do not fear you,” Chloe says, blinking and offering empty hands and a comforting smile as her explanation, “I thank you for saving me. That you are different means no measure for me. I am thankful, and my father will be so as well.”