After five long days in the saddle, Prince Vulkan crested a rise to find himself looking down into a gently wooded vale through which ran the ancient, meandering roadway that lead into the Kingdom of Dashane.
As he reconnoitred, his attention was immediately drawn to a small group of armed men surrounding a coach, that had been run off the hard packed dirt track into the shade of some low, spreading trees. Here and there, the bodies of the escorting troopers lay strewn in awkward death postures and from behind the coach came the ringing clangs of sword on sword as the last of the defenders was cornered and slaughtered.
Unhurriedly, Vulkan drew the telescope out of his saddlebag and raised it to his eye. The heretofore-unknown device was only one of the many remarkable accoutrements with which the amazing Malpurgo had supplied him.
From his vantage point he watched as the half dozen surviving attackers began to ransack the vast array of luggage piled high atop the grand looking carriage. Vulkan was about to turn away when he heard the unmistakable, high pitched cry of a lady in fear of her chastity, issue from within the darkened interior of the coach. Another ruffian, presumably the leader, was taking his pleasure with the unknown passenger the prince reasoned.
At the thought of the rape in progress, Vulkan's mighty cock gave a lurch inside his breeches. The enforced celibacy of the past five days suddenly weighed heavily upon him, making his belly feel painfully hollow.
Moving swiftly now that his mind was made up, Vulkan put the looking glass away, slipped his shield on to his left arm, and snatched up one of his short lances in his right hand. He spurred his horse down the hillside, guiding the powerful animal with deft touched of his knees as he slalomed purposefully between the intervening trees.
The robbers were so engrossed in sorting through their booty that they failed to hear Vulkan's lightening fast approach until he was almost on top of them. As the first to realise the danger leapt up, Vulkan veered his mount sharply to the side and crashed the full weight of the stallion into him, sending the man flying through the air to dash himself against one of the huge, iron rimmed coach wheels – instantly snapping his spine. Simultaneously, Vulkan thrust the point of his lance into the next nearest man who was still on his knees, transfixing him to the ground beneath with the sheer force of the strike. As he wheeled around all of the remaining, men were now up on their feet, howling with rage and alarm and casting desperately about for their discarded weapons. However, Vulkan gave then no quarter. He spurred the stallion savagely, bursting in amongst them, his sword flashing in great circles to left and right as he lopped off hands and arms and delivered cleaving blows to heads and shoulders.
The action lasted barely twenty seconds and as he dismounted, the leader of the brigands appeared in the doorway of the coach, a wicked looking dagger clenched between his bared teeth, his fingers desperately trying to drag up and fasten his breeches as he surveyed the amazing carnage.
With casual, unconscious skill, Vulkan drew and threw his heavy dirk in one fluid motion, so that it appeared as if by magic with a solid thud, buried up to the hilt in the bandit's chest. The luckless recipient blew out his final breath in sad grunt of surprise before slowly pitching out on to the grass beneath.
Vulkan clambered up into the coach in time to see the single female occupant drawing her voluminous skirts back down over a pair of extremely shapely thighs. However, not before he had seen the succulent lips of her recently vacated vulva pouting invitingly and glistening with the sheen of the now dead rapist's jism.
"I am in your debt My Lord," the woman gushed somewhat breathlessly, "my cousin, The King, will richly reward you for your valour this day." She quickly finished fluffing her skirts and calmly seated herself on one of the plushly upholstered benches.
Vulkan fought desperately to control his impulses. The unexpected combat had driven him half mad with blood lust. In addition, the sight of the noblewoman's cunt dripping with love juice and the heady smell of sex within the tiny confines of the coach were overpowering to his highly attuned senses.
Reluctantly, he dragged his fierce gaze out of her lap to look at her face for the first time and was powerless to suppress a soft, sough of approval forcing itself from his lips. The woman was nonpareil! A vision of pale skinned, red headed loveliness. Obviously wealthy and impeccably well bred – and what was that she had said about the King?
Vulkan took a lurching step forward as she began to dab at herself from a small, enamelled flask of heavily perfumed oil, in an effort to camouflage the rank sexual fust the unwashed swine had left upon her flesh.
The prince swayed unsteadily as he sought for the necessary incantation that would cool his blood. Muttering under his breath as she, mistaking his behaviour for exhaustion, or worse, injury, leapt up to steady him. The deep valley of her cleavage bulged outward, threatening to escape her fashionably tight bodice as she struggled to hold him up. Vulkan closed his eyes in desperation as the milky white chasm swam before his eyes seeking to envelope and drown him.
"Oh no! are you wounded My Lord?" she gasped, her voice mellifluous despite her recent trial, "please sit down here, beside me, let me tend you."
Vulkan allowed himself to be seated and feigned fatigue whilst he brought his stampeding thoughts under control Thankful that his battle gear concealed the monstrous erection now forcing its inexorable way down his right thigh.
"You, er, mentioned the king, madam," said the prince at last, "would that be Leopold of Dashane by any chance?"
"Why yes it would, Leopold is my cousin," she trilled proudly, "and it will be my pleasure to present you to him at court, his gratitude for saving me from those unspeakable vermin will be boundless I assure you."
She held out her delicate, exquisitely manicured hand to him. "I am on my way to the king's keep from my husband's border lands," she confided, "I am the Countess Jessica; Lady in Waiting to the Princess Lilliphane – the king's beloved sister."
"Prince Vulkan of Janudor," he returned, enjoying the warmth of her soft fingers in his massive palm, "forever at your service My Lady." As reverently as possible he lifted her hand to his lips, resisting the almost overpowering urge to sink his teeth into her pretty, white knuckles.
The countess lowered her eyelids demurely, but not before he had seen the glint of naked desire flicker deep within the beautiful blue orbs. As she withdrew her hand from his, he felt her stroke her long nails against his palm in a gesture of lubricious over-familiarity. It would seem that the lady had not been too distressed at either, her recent ravishment, nor by the subsequent slaughter of her escort and erstwhile malefactors.
It was another two days slow travel to Leopold's keep. Vulkan smiled in contentment, things were beginning to work out nicely.
"As it happens I am on my way to Dashane myself," he said, "to compete in Princess Flamia's joust."
"Ahhh, I see, then you intend to fight for the little princess' hand in marriage."
"Indeed I do."
"Well, Flamia could hardly hope to have a more handsome, or valiant suitor now could she?" purred the countess as she solicitously dabbed the perspiration from Vulkan's overheated brow with her soft kerchief.
Vulkan was stirred by the sound of groaning coming from the wounded outside. He stepped down from the coach, retrieved his dirk from the body of the leader, and set about cutting the throats of those brigands unlucky enough not to have been killed outright. He noted with not a little surprise that the countess had stepped down behind him and that she watched intently at his shoulder as he slaughtered what remained of her attackers, nodding approvingly as the last man gurgled away his final breath.
"Not that one!" she called out quickly as Vulkan hoist a squealing, portly fellow up by the hair and raised his dirk to administer the coup de grace, "that is Henrik, my footman."