“The Briar and the Wytch”
Phillip was alone in a pitch dark cell.
He wondered why he had been spared and for what grim purpose the Darque had kept him alive.
He tried to think of a way to escape, but his thoughts kept racing back to his Damaris.
Phillip remembered her precious laughter when he attacked her ticklish ribs. He smiled in the dark as he recalled her mischievous grin as she dug her nails into his flesh making him wiggle and beg before her.
These were good thoughts.
Good thoughts to die with, Phillip brooded.
He frowned and then shook his head from side to side in disagreement with this line of thought.
He lived. And while there was life, there was hope.
He heard footsteps approach his cell and he stood ready for anything that would cross the threshold of his cell.
Phillip only prayed that Garvis had taken care of Damaris and kept her safely away from the path of the Darque.
Deep down though, he knew that “safely away” was not her nature.
He just hoped she fared better than he at this point and prayed for an opportunity for escape.
* * * * *
Damaris watched the Wytch sitting on a moss covered rock at the center of a clearing and frowned.
She had entered the Briar Forest hours before. Her mare would not follow and Damaris would find little use for a horse in a forest that changed constantly. Its briar ridden paths were hardly adequate for a woman to tread, much less a steed. She wore riding boots and a heavy cloak with a thick skirt below to protect her from the briar. So she bid the mare farewell and ventured into the darkness of the forest.
She had chosen well where to hide her metal. And although she was lost in the forest with no notion whatsoever as to where the exit lay, she knew where her metal was and once she had it, the cursed forest could not hold her back.
The Wytch was a new resident of the Briar Forest. She was not there when Damaris hid her metal five years prior. The haunted wood suffered no fools and anyone with enough sense would steer clear of the dark corners of the forest.
Even a Wytch should know better.
The Wytch leaned on a gnarled cane and her thin bony hands seemed crippled with age and arthritis. She was no simple old woman, though. Damaris stood upwind and she could tell by the woman's scent that she was a Wytch.
“Hail, revered lady,” Damaris greeted trying to be polite. “I wish to pass in peace. I bear you no ill will.”
The crone's body was twisted with age and even the act of speaking seemed to be done with great effort. She took a few painful steps closer and her bent over body seemed to protest with every step.
“You bear no ill will,” the crone crackled, “but you would not hesitate to twist that nasty dagger in your boot into my breast if it would further your interests. Imagine me, an old, defenseless woman, a threat to one so young and vibrant!”
“You are not what you appear,” Damaris said cautiously.
“Nor are you,” the Wytch replied. “You have no fear of the Briar Forest and you conceal your true nature from me. You come with purpose. You come with intent.”
Damaris frowned. This was worse than she had hoped.
“My business is of no concern of yours,” Damaris said drawing nearer. Fleeing was not an option. Of that she was certain.
“Ah, but it is my concern,” the crone explained. “I am cursed to wander this forest. The briar obey my every command, but they also act as my jailer. They will not allow me to leave the forest. And if they do not let me leave, why should I allow anyone else to leave?”
Damaris felt her senses scream in alarm.
“I cannot see you plainly,” the old woman said. “My eyes remain young while the rest of my body is old and wasted, yet I cannot see you for what you are.”
The Wytch's eyes were young, Damaris realized casting a glimpse at the deep green eyes. There were not tired and wasted like the rest of her body.
“I will pass. I will do my business. And I will leave,” Damaris announced as she took a step forward.
“So you say,” the Wytch whispered.
The briar came to life and the thorny vines shot out at her wrapping themselves around her ankles and trying to make Damaris lose her balance.
Like lightning, Damaris reached for the dagger in her boot and slashed away at the briar. She could cut them away but each vine was replaced by another two and soon she was standing wrapped neatly in vines that let her breathe but little more.
The crone drew nearer.
She reached in between the briar and placed her hand against Damaris's ribcage that was covered by blouse and cloak. The Wytch made a quick jab in between her ribs and Damaris felt the tickling sensation swell up within and despite all her efforts she could not contain a sudden burst of laughter.
As always, her laughter was clear and pleasant and almost of musical quality.
“I knew it,” the crone said smiling to herself. “An Angel. A real Angel. You have no wings, but I have no doubt. You seek the cursed thing that lies hidden in this forest and cannot be touched by one such as I.”
“Yes,” Damaris replied. “Help me recover my metal and I will free you from the Briar Forest.”
“Nay,” the crone said. “My body is as much a prison as the forest. You can help me though. Lady Abarrach is known to favor Angels. She'd free me of my curse. For a price.”
Damaris shuddered at the mention of the name of the Demon Lady Abarrach. She was high in the hierarchy of the Demon Lords and an enemy of the Darque, but she was evil in her own manner and if the crone had means to summon her, then all was lost.
“I can call her,” the Wytch said. “I know the verses. But we must wait until the full moon, for only then may the Demon Lady be summoned from her plane of existence.”
“The full moon is still three days away,” Damaris mentioned desperately. “With every day that passes, my lover's life becomes more and more imperiled.”
“Yes, a shame,” the crone said. “You are far too bright a woman to keep imprisoned in the briar. You'd find a way to escape if I allow it.”
“You will release me?” Damaris asked confused trying to read the Wytch.
“Yes,” the crone said as their eyes met.
Damaris realized the Wytch's intent too late.
Her gaze was trapped by the Wytch's young green eyes. They entered her mind and seized her will.
Held in the Wytch's sway she could only wait to see how the crone exercised her will upon her.
“When you awake it will be to welcome Lady Abarrach,” the Wytch said.
Damaris felt suddenly sleepy.
“No,” she protested shaking her head. “I cannot sleep. I need to rescue Phillip.”
“This slumber is soothing and dreamless,” the Wytch said gently.
“I will not sleep,” Damaris pledged as her eyes grew heavy and she could not resist yawning long and wide. “I must not sleep.”
“Ah, but you have no choice,” the crone said. “Your metal might have protected you, but without it, you are vulnerable. Your will is mine and my will is that you sleep for three days hence.”
Damaris used all her remaining will to remain awake. Every time her eyes closed she needed supreme mental effort to force them open again. Finally, she could no longer open them as the sleep spell made a final assault on her consciousness.
The thorny briar released her and the last thing she heard before sinking to the ground was the crone's soft chuckle.
She did not remember having touched the ground.
* * * * *
The Wytch was wrong.
Damaris did dream.
She dreamed of Phillip perched at the top of a hill alone.
His comrades had left him. Not because of cowardice, but because he ordered them to retreat. Down below him were the Trollan legions of the Darque. They were monstrous and hulking creatures covered in dark black fur and possessing terrible claws and fangs that were of cold black iron. Their hides were thick and neither arrows nor blades could penetrate them.
He had sent his men away because they would not make a difference in the battle.
Phillip however could make that difference his comrades needed in order escape.
As the Trolls rushed the hill, Phillip shot arrows with deadly precision. His uncanny aim would hit his enemies through the eye and leave them dead in their tracks. One shot, one kill. He could hit a running squirrel through the eye at 100 yards. The Trolls were actually an easy shot.
Dozens of enemies lay at the base of the hill and now the Trolls huddled for cover while they decided what to do.
Phillip beamed. His comrades were safe. At least he had been able to buy them time. They had left their quivers and Phillip was convinced he could take perhaps a hundred enemies before they finished with him.
Just as the next wave of attackers prepared to assault Phillip's position, a strange greenish mist rose up the hill with the gentle breeze.
Phillip tried to dissipate the mist but it lingered despite his efforts.
The Trolls regrouped and started once again up the hill trying to shield their eyes from Phillip's deadly aim.
As he took aim, he felt the mist whisper to his ear in a clearly feminine voice.
“Miss,” it said plainly.
Phillip's shot went wide. He brushed away the mist once again and drew a fresh arrow in his bow. Now the mist tickled his ear as he made the shot. Phillip reacted violently and again, the arrow bounced harmlessly off a Troll's hide.
“Ticklish?” the mist asked sensually.
“No, now keep away,” Phillip demanded not knowing what the mist was but realizing that the Trolls were gaining confidence and beginning to advance faster than he could hope to stop them.
“Liar,” the mist said. “The Darque hates lies and liars must be punished.”
The mist slipped into Phillip's shirt and it attacked his ribs and under arms.
Phillip dropped the bow and fell to the ground immediately as he reacted to the tickling. He laughed heartily despite himself. The mist raced around his shirt like a squirrel tickling all his worst places.
He was soon surrounded by the hulking forms of the Trolls. They did not attack him but were quick to break the bow and throw the arrows down the side of the hill.
A young woman cloaked in a black robe forced her way through the ranks and stood over Phillip.
“He's no threat anymore,” she said in the same voice as the mist.
“How long until he dies?” one of the Trolls asked her.
“He won't die of this,” she replied. “At least not yet. As for how long, well, how long can you hold your breath?”
The Troll thought intently but the question was beyond his meager intellect.
“Not very long,” the woman said concluding for him. “But we can help things along.”
She leaned over and she dug her nails into Phillip's sides. His laughter went up a pitch.
“He is a deliciously ticklish one,” she mentioned more to herself than to the Trolls. “I smell one of the Covenant on him. That makes him all the more precious. I wish his mate could see me now.”
Damaris felt hate and anger rush through her being. Phillip was hers and hers alone. His laughter was hers.
The woman left Phillip tickled beyond himself. She tickled with skill dodging Phillip's desperate flailing and always managing to raise the tickling a notch. Phillip begged and sobbed between laughter and finally he lay on the ground weak as a newborn kitten.
“We'll have fun with him yet,” the woman promised.
She said strange words and a small crow appeared at her shoulder cawing loudly.
“Find his mate, pet,” she commanded. “And when you do, as she sleeps, whisper this to her in her dreams. Poison her soul with despair and jealousy. Let her know that her lover is now mine and her imagination cannot phantom the torments I will put him through.”
“Go!” she said clapping as the crow obeyed.
* * * * *
When she awoke, Damaris could see a crow fading away through the Briar Forest on its way back to its mistress.
She cursed the crow and her heart ached for Phillip's predicament, but she had problems of her own.
The powerful briar stretched her out spread eagle and a good four feet off the ground. She could not move.
The full moon was rising and it lit up the clearing in a silver and eerie light.
“We need to wait for the zenith,” the Wytch mentioned. “We have a little time. We have not made introductions yet. My name is Gertrude.”
“I am Damaris,” she answered seeing no sense in keeping her name from the Wytch.
“Of the Covenant?” Gertrude asked.
“Just Damaris,” she stated.
Gertrude chuckled. “I understand. I used to serve the Darque, but they banished me and cursed me. I was banished for lust, I imagine you have broken with your kin for love of your man.”
“My love of Phillip is none of your concern,” Damaris said vehemently.
Gertrude shrugged. “Love and lust are similar,” she said. “They both make you do things against your better judgment. ”
“My love for Phillip is lasting, your lust is transitory,” Damaris countered, not liking the comparison the Wytch was drawing.
“My lust is lasting, dear Damaris,” Gertrude chuckled. “My body was withered away with age in the hope that it might temper my lust. But it only makes my obsession stronger. Does not your dwindling hope of saving your lover only make your love stronger? I overheard the crow whispering at your ear. Your lover's fate makes even my blood boil.
“We are not so different, you and I,” she added.
“The moon approaches its zenith,” Damaris said angrily grinding her teeth tightly. “Do what you must.”
Gertrude turned away.
She chanted words that Damaris could not understand. She wished she could cover her ears and block out the foul words that Gertrude uttered.
A ring of fire erupted around the clearing as Gertrude's chanting became more and more intense. The smell of brimstone that was ever so faint on the Wytch became intense and acrid. From the edge of the ring of fire a tall and lithe figure crossed.
It was a woman. She was tall and clad in black leather. She wore a dark crimson cape over her shoulders. Her face was covered by a mask decorated with many feathers. It covered her eyes and her nose. Her eyes could not bee seen, but her mouth, thin and expressive, frowned deeply.
“Who dares summon Lady Abarrach of the Damned?” she shouted.
“I dare, my lady,” Gertrude said evenly. “I summoned you here to offer tribute and ask for your favor.”
The Demon's frown deepened.
“You tear me away from my plane where I revel in lust and laughter. Your tribute must be generous and according to protocol or I will take you back to my plane and you will regret ever having uttered my name.”
“Free me of my curse and I promise that I will exceed your expectations,” Gertrude promised.
“I never give my favor without first receiving tribute. But your curse is so weak and pathetic and in addition it is placed upon you by the Darque who I loathe. Any any improvement on you appearance is worth the exception.”
The Demon uttered a few words and waved a hand absentmindedly. Gertrude instantly began to transform herself. She grew taller, her back and her fingers straightened, her white hair darkened and became a raven black color. Her wrinkled and spotted skin became a creamy white while her muscles filled and her curves became pronounced and alluring.
Gertrude smiled. Her body was young once more.
“You cannot escape the ring of fire,” the Demon stated. “Give me your tribute and pray you earn your safe passage.”
“The tribute requires the Laughter of an Angel,” Gertrude said producing a glass ball from her robes. It hovered over Damaris's mouth in expectation.
Damaris knew that the tribute for Lady Abarrach was a coin paid in laughter for she was a demon fascinated with lust and laughter. She would do all in her power to not satisfy the desires of these two evil beings.
“I am skilled in the Trance of Tranquility,” Damaris declared bravely. “I will not laugh for you or this Demon Spawn.”
Gertrude chuckled once more. “The Trance of Tranquility is a myth,” she said as she slowly unbuttoned Damaris's blouse revealing her white flesh below. “I've broken Archangels of the Covenant who professed that they were masters of the Trance of Tranquility.”
Damaris ignored her.
“I'll prove it to you,” Gertrude said as she began to touch Damaris's torso.
Damaris tried to maintain her composure and keep her mind still as Gertrude touched her.
“I've seen them like you trying to resist the sensations,” Gertrude said as she concentrated on arousing her victim. “I take my time and do what I do best.”
Damaris felt her skin grow warm as Gertrude caressed her body with an expert touch. Her nipples stood erect through her blouse and her breathing became deeper and more accelerated.
“You see, you fail already,” Gertrude said as she continued. “It starts with an involuntary reaction you cannot contain. That is the chink in the armor.”
Damaris felt herself becoming aroused against her will. She continued to focus as her masters has taught her, but it was not working.
“Laugh Damaris,” Gertrude said as she cruelly drew her now long and sharp nails over Damaris's tender underarms.
The reaction was instantaneous. Damaris's body began to buckle with violent abandon. The briar held her in place and efforts to contain her laughter failed. She laughed hard and loudly and she could not resist the sensations.
The Demon Lady's attention was instantly captured.
“Laughter of an Angel,” Lady Abarrach said. “So perfect, so innocent and yet so sensual.”
The ball of glass glowed as the laughter seemed to be drawn to it as a magnet.
Gertrude turned to Lady Abarrach and sent the globe to her hand. She held it to her ear and listened to Damaris's laughter trapped inside. She smiled. “So Laughter of an Angel. But that is simple to produce.”
“Next is a Tear of an Angel,” Gertrude said confidently.
“Truly not a minor requirement,” Lady Abarrach said, “from one who cannot shed a tear for sorrow.”
“But she can shed tears,” the Wytch said.
“I'll never shed a tear for you,” Damaris said. “I've never shed a tear in my life and my life spans centuries.”
Both Wytch and Demon Lady smiled and exchanged knowing glances.
“There are ways,” Gertrude said.
Damaris felt a chill.
“Your noble lover has probably tickled you beyond your limits,” Gertrude said, “but not to tears, I imagine. You need my skills to accomplish that.”
Damaris narrowed her eyes. “What skills?”
“You shall see,” Gertrude promised releasing Damaris from her briar bondage. She fell to the ground. She did not bother to stand or run for the circle of flame kept her trapped and at the mercy of her captors.
Gertrude smiled and her pretty face became wider and elongated and her body began thinner and more cylindrical. Her clothes shriveled away and she became a narrow pillar of flesh. She continued to transform and her eyes took a more reptilian aspect while her body became like that of a snake.
She seemed to be one of those notorious constrictor serpents Damaris had heard of inhabiting the jungles of the Southlands. She shuddered at the thought of the reptilian wrapping around her and choking the life out of her.
But she was surprised still more when the serpent began to spout a feathery hide and she knew then that this was no normal creature of the Southlands. This creature of lively orange and blue feathers was a mythical creature.
It was nothing less than a Plumed Serpent. Damaris had never seen one, but she knew that they were capable of defeating even Angels of the highest order.
Its wide lidless eyes were still Gertrude's intense green and they stared at Damaris hypnotically.
Damaris tried to step away but she found that she could not break the gaze. She sat helplessly on the ground with her legs outstretched before her and her arms motionless at her sides. Her senses screamed for her to escape. That she should escape the Plumed the Serpent, the Demon Lady, the circle of fire and the cursed wood. But her body would not obey. She could only watch the serpent slither closer and closer.
The Plumed Serpent approached but did not break its gaze. Instead of wrapping around Damaris as a normal serpent would, the Serpent sent its tail first towards Damaris maintaining it's steady stare.
The Briar has cut way most of her clothes, but her boots were still intact. The tail of the Plumed Serpent wrapped firmly around her ankles pulling the boots tightly together and then proceeded up and around Damaris's legs.
It was not until the top of her boots and touched with its magical plumed coat the back of her bare knee that she felt an electrifying and exhilarating sensation on her skin. She would laugh, but she could not and she felt all the ticklish feeling swell in her chest. She could not break the Wytch's gaze and it commanded her to be still no matter what.
The Plumed Serpent wrapped around her knees and advanced slowly up her thighs. It was a favorite game of hers and Phillip's to see how much they could each resist some soft subtle tickling before exploding into laughter. Neither was especially good at it, but the sensation of resisting was almost the same, except the tickling was not subtle and the there was not release through laughter.
“Hush, hush,” Gertrude said soothingly. “There is relief. You need only shed a tear. A single tear.”
Damaris's resolve grew and she continued to hold out as the tail cunningly moved between her legs brushing her thighs and then tracing between her buttocks before beginning to wrap around her waist.
Tears now swelled in her eyes, tears of repressed laughter, tears of desperation that could only be extracted in this manner. But she would not let the tears loose.
The tail now inched under her breasts tickling all her body simultaneously as it continued its steady advance. But now, instead of wrapping her arms tightly to her side, the serpent crept under her arms, teasing the more sensitive under arms. Involuntarily her arms went up above her and her ticklishness soaring to levels never experienced before. The tears streamed down her cheeks and these were collected by a floating globes similar to the one that had collected her first laughter.
“Now for the kill,” Gertrude said. In one single move she turned her gaze away and with the serpent's teeth tore Damaris's right boot to shreds. The trance on Damaris was broken, but her fate was sealed. She could not move and the feathered body continued its torturous way tickling her shoulders and neck as the Plumed Serpent tore her boot to shreds with its teeth and then stung her bare foot with her forked tongue.
It was said to be venomous, but it was not certain if it caused death or only more sensitivity to the tickling.
Damaris burst out into helpless and desperate laughter. She could not laugh enough. The serpent now tickled her bare foot with its forked tongue while Damaris struggled valiantly as her body shook wildly. The feathered tail wrapped around her face and tickled her ears and nose before blinding her by covering her eyes.
The serpent had wrapped all around Damaris and like a constrictor she did not show mercy. She tickled and listened to the muffled laughter slowly fade until it was silent.
Lady Abarrach applauded.
“That was the finest tickling, I have seen in decades,” she said admiringly. “Is she dead? If she lives, I shall have her. I must.”
Gertrude released Damaris and her limp form remained motionless on the ground.
“Well, is she dead?” Lady Abarrach asked impatiently.
“It depends,” Gertrude answered returning to her human form.
“On what does it depend?” the Demon Lady asked.
“On her heart,” the Wytch answered. “Most don't survive.”
“A shame, but I'll at least have you to toy with,” Lady Abarrach said.
“I think not,” Gertrude said. “Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel, that is the fee for the favor of Lady Abarrach. I demand safe passage! Return to you plane of existence and leave us.”
Lady Abarrach smiled.
“The fee is Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel and last, but certainly not least, Feather of an Angel,” Lady Abarrach said counting each off with her fingers. “Certainly you have found an Angel, but alas one without wings.”
“That cannot be,” Gertrude said nervously.
“A Demon does not lie,” Lady Abarrach said angrily. “So you will join me then on my plane of existence and you will live out your days serving me.”
“I would rather die,” Gertrude said as she prepared a powerful spell.
“That can be arranged,” the Demon said before disappearing.
Gertrude hesitated.
She suddenly felt sharp long nails dig into her ribs with amazing speed.
Lady Abarrach had moved like lightning and she tickled quickly and effectively making her scream at the top of her lungs.
“A screamer,” Lady Abarrach said. “Wytches usually are...”
Gertrude was on the ground rolling back and forth trying to free herself.
“There is no escape from Lady Abarrach,” she said. “I might even tickle you to death if it so pleases me.”
“Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel,” Damaris whispered in weak voice. “And Feather of an Angel.”
She had emptied her satchel of feathers and presented the long white and mysterious feather that was her own.
“That is the fee for the favor of Lady Abarrach,” Damaris said holding out the feather. “Take your tribute and begone.”
Lady Abarrach's face turned red under her mask and her mouth twisted with anger.
“You'll regret this,” she said as she received the feather from Damaris.
“Begone!” Damaris commanded.
Lady Abarrach and the circle of fire disappeared and Gertrude and Damaris were left only in the clearing under the light of the full moon.
“I've saved your life,” Damaris stated. “I call upon the Tradition of Blood Debt.”
“No Angel has ever called upon Blood Debt,” Gertrude cried. “It is used only among Demons and Wytches.”
“This will be a first then,” Damaris said. “You will serve me until said time you have paid back your Blood Debt. Help me rescue Phillip and I will release you from the Blood Debt.”
“Very well. A debt is a debt,” Gertrude said. “What shall we do now?”
“We retrieve my metal,” Damaris answered. “Then we head south.”
“Which way South?” the Wytch asked.
“South as the crow flies.”
NEXT: Who's Afraid of the Darque?
Phillip was alone in a pitch dark cell.
He wondered why he had been spared and for what grim purpose the Darque had kept him alive.
He tried to think of a way to escape, but his thoughts kept racing back to his Damaris.
Phillip remembered her precious laughter when he attacked her ticklish ribs. He smiled in the dark as he recalled her mischievous grin as she dug her nails into his flesh making him wiggle and beg before her.
These were good thoughts.
Good thoughts to die with, Phillip brooded.
He frowned and then shook his head from side to side in disagreement with this line of thought.
He lived. And while there was life, there was hope.
He heard footsteps approach his cell and he stood ready for anything that would cross the threshold of his cell.
Phillip only prayed that Garvis had taken care of Damaris and kept her safely away from the path of the Darque.
Deep down though, he knew that “safely away” was not her nature.
He just hoped she fared better than he at this point and prayed for an opportunity for escape.
* * * * *
Damaris watched the Wytch sitting on a moss covered rock at the center of a clearing and frowned.
She had entered the Briar Forest hours before. Her mare would not follow and Damaris would find little use for a horse in a forest that changed constantly. Its briar ridden paths were hardly adequate for a woman to tread, much less a steed. She wore riding boots and a heavy cloak with a thick skirt below to protect her from the briar. So she bid the mare farewell and ventured into the darkness of the forest.
She had chosen well where to hide her metal. And although she was lost in the forest with no notion whatsoever as to where the exit lay, she knew where her metal was and once she had it, the cursed forest could not hold her back.
The Wytch was a new resident of the Briar Forest. She was not there when Damaris hid her metal five years prior. The haunted wood suffered no fools and anyone with enough sense would steer clear of the dark corners of the forest.
Even a Wytch should know better.
The Wytch leaned on a gnarled cane and her thin bony hands seemed crippled with age and arthritis. She was no simple old woman, though. Damaris stood upwind and she could tell by the woman's scent that she was a Wytch.
“Hail, revered lady,” Damaris greeted trying to be polite. “I wish to pass in peace. I bear you no ill will.”
The crone's body was twisted with age and even the act of speaking seemed to be done with great effort. She took a few painful steps closer and her bent over body seemed to protest with every step.
“You bear no ill will,” the crone crackled, “but you would not hesitate to twist that nasty dagger in your boot into my breast if it would further your interests. Imagine me, an old, defenseless woman, a threat to one so young and vibrant!”
“You are not what you appear,” Damaris said cautiously.
“Nor are you,” the Wytch replied. “You have no fear of the Briar Forest and you conceal your true nature from me. You come with purpose. You come with intent.”
Damaris frowned. This was worse than she had hoped.
“My business is of no concern of yours,” Damaris said drawing nearer. Fleeing was not an option. Of that she was certain.
“Ah, but it is my concern,” the crone explained. “I am cursed to wander this forest. The briar obey my every command, but they also act as my jailer. They will not allow me to leave the forest. And if they do not let me leave, why should I allow anyone else to leave?”
Damaris felt her senses scream in alarm.
“I cannot see you plainly,” the old woman said. “My eyes remain young while the rest of my body is old and wasted, yet I cannot see you for what you are.”
The Wytch's eyes were young, Damaris realized casting a glimpse at the deep green eyes. There were not tired and wasted like the rest of her body.
“I will pass. I will do my business. And I will leave,” Damaris announced as she took a step forward.
“So you say,” the Wytch whispered.
The briar came to life and the thorny vines shot out at her wrapping themselves around her ankles and trying to make Damaris lose her balance.
Like lightning, Damaris reached for the dagger in her boot and slashed away at the briar. She could cut them away but each vine was replaced by another two and soon she was standing wrapped neatly in vines that let her breathe but little more.
The crone drew nearer.
She reached in between the briar and placed her hand against Damaris's ribcage that was covered by blouse and cloak. The Wytch made a quick jab in between her ribs and Damaris felt the tickling sensation swell up within and despite all her efforts she could not contain a sudden burst of laughter.
As always, her laughter was clear and pleasant and almost of musical quality.
“I knew it,” the crone said smiling to herself. “An Angel. A real Angel. You have no wings, but I have no doubt. You seek the cursed thing that lies hidden in this forest and cannot be touched by one such as I.”
“Yes,” Damaris replied. “Help me recover my metal and I will free you from the Briar Forest.”
“Nay,” the crone said. “My body is as much a prison as the forest. You can help me though. Lady Abarrach is known to favor Angels. She'd free me of my curse. For a price.”
Damaris shuddered at the mention of the name of the Demon Lady Abarrach. She was high in the hierarchy of the Demon Lords and an enemy of the Darque, but she was evil in her own manner and if the crone had means to summon her, then all was lost.
“I can call her,” the Wytch said. “I know the verses. But we must wait until the full moon, for only then may the Demon Lady be summoned from her plane of existence.”
“The full moon is still three days away,” Damaris mentioned desperately. “With every day that passes, my lover's life becomes more and more imperiled.”
“Yes, a shame,” the crone said. “You are far too bright a woman to keep imprisoned in the briar. You'd find a way to escape if I allow it.”
“You will release me?” Damaris asked confused trying to read the Wytch.
“Yes,” the crone said as their eyes met.
Damaris realized the Wytch's intent too late.
Her gaze was trapped by the Wytch's young green eyes. They entered her mind and seized her will.
Held in the Wytch's sway she could only wait to see how the crone exercised her will upon her.
“When you awake it will be to welcome Lady Abarrach,” the Wytch said.
Damaris felt suddenly sleepy.
“No,” she protested shaking her head. “I cannot sleep. I need to rescue Phillip.”
“This slumber is soothing and dreamless,” the Wytch said gently.
“I will not sleep,” Damaris pledged as her eyes grew heavy and she could not resist yawning long and wide. “I must not sleep.”
“Ah, but you have no choice,” the crone said. “Your metal might have protected you, but without it, you are vulnerable. Your will is mine and my will is that you sleep for three days hence.”
Damaris used all her remaining will to remain awake. Every time her eyes closed she needed supreme mental effort to force them open again. Finally, she could no longer open them as the sleep spell made a final assault on her consciousness.
The thorny briar released her and the last thing she heard before sinking to the ground was the crone's soft chuckle.
She did not remember having touched the ground.
* * * * *
The Wytch was wrong.
Damaris did dream.
She dreamed of Phillip perched at the top of a hill alone.
His comrades had left him. Not because of cowardice, but because he ordered them to retreat. Down below him were the Trollan legions of the Darque. They were monstrous and hulking creatures covered in dark black fur and possessing terrible claws and fangs that were of cold black iron. Their hides were thick and neither arrows nor blades could penetrate them.
He had sent his men away because they would not make a difference in the battle.
Phillip however could make that difference his comrades needed in order escape.
As the Trolls rushed the hill, Phillip shot arrows with deadly precision. His uncanny aim would hit his enemies through the eye and leave them dead in their tracks. One shot, one kill. He could hit a running squirrel through the eye at 100 yards. The Trolls were actually an easy shot.
Dozens of enemies lay at the base of the hill and now the Trolls huddled for cover while they decided what to do.
Phillip beamed. His comrades were safe. At least he had been able to buy them time. They had left their quivers and Phillip was convinced he could take perhaps a hundred enemies before they finished with him.
Just as the next wave of attackers prepared to assault Phillip's position, a strange greenish mist rose up the hill with the gentle breeze.
Phillip tried to dissipate the mist but it lingered despite his efforts.
The Trolls regrouped and started once again up the hill trying to shield their eyes from Phillip's deadly aim.
As he took aim, he felt the mist whisper to his ear in a clearly feminine voice.
“Miss,” it said plainly.
Phillip's shot went wide. He brushed away the mist once again and drew a fresh arrow in his bow. Now the mist tickled his ear as he made the shot. Phillip reacted violently and again, the arrow bounced harmlessly off a Troll's hide.
“Ticklish?” the mist asked sensually.
“No, now keep away,” Phillip demanded not knowing what the mist was but realizing that the Trolls were gaining confidence and beginning to advance faster than he could hope to stop them.
“Liar,” the mist said. “The Darque hates lies and liars must be punished.”
The mist slipped into Phillip's shirt and it attacked his ribs and under arms.
Phillip dropped the bow and fell to the ground immediately as he reacted to the tickling. He laughed heartily despite himself. The mist raced around his shirt like a squirrel tickling all his worst places.
He was soon surrounded by the hulking forms of the Trolls. They did not attack him but were quick to break the bow and throw the arrows down the side of the hill.
A young woman cloaked in a black robe forced her way through the ranks and stood over Phillip.
“He's no threat anymore,” she said in the same voice as the mist.
“How long until he dies?” one of the Trolls asked her.
“He won't die of this,” she replied. “At least not yet. As for how long, well, how long can you hold your breath?”
The Troll thought intently but the question was beyond his meager intellect.
“Not very long,” the woman said concluding for him. “But we can help things along.”
She leaned over and she dug her nails into Phillip's sides. His laughter went up a pitch.
“He is a deliciously ticklish one,” she mentioned more to herself than to the Trolls. “I smell one of the Covenant on him. That makes him all the more precious. I wish his mate could see me now.”
Damaris felt hate and anger rush through her being. Phillip was hers and hers alone. His laughter was hers.
The woman left Phillip tickled beyond himself. She tickled with skill dodging Phillip's desperate flailing and always managing to raise the tickling a notch. Phillip begged and sobbed between laughter and finally he lay on the ground weak as a newborn kitten.
“We'll have fun with him yet,” the woman promised.
She said strange words and a small crow appeared at her shoulder cawing loudly.
“Find his mate, pet,” she commanded. “And when you do, as she sleeps, whisper this to her in her dreams. Poison her soul with despair and jealousy. Let her know that her lover is now mine and her imagination cannot phantom the torments I will put him through.”
“Go!” she said clapping as the crow obeyed.
* * * * *
When she awoke, Damaris could see a crow fading away through the Briar Forest on its way back to its mistress.
She cursed the crow and her heart ached for Phillip's predicament, but she had problems of her own.
The powerful briar stretched her out spread eagle and a good four feet off the ground. She could not move.
The full moon was rising and it lit up the clearing in a silver and eerie light.
“We need to wait for the zenith,” the Wytch mentioned. “We have a little time. We have not made introductions yet. My name is Gertrude.”
“I am Damaris,” she answered seeing no sense in keeping her name from the Wytch.
“Of the Covenant?” Gertrude asked.
“Just Damaris,” she stated.
Gertrude chuckled. “I understand. I used to serve the Darque, but they banished me and cursed me. I was banished for lust, I imagine you have broken with your kin for love of your man.”
“My love of Phillip is none of your concern,” Damaris said vehemently.
Gertrude shrugged. “Love and lust are similar,” she said. “They both make you do things against your better judgment. ”
“My love for Phillip is lasting, your lust is transitory,” Damaris countered, not liking the comparison the Wytch was drawing.
“My lust is lasting, dear Damaris,” Gertrude chuckled. “My body was withered away with age in the hope that it might temper my lust. But it only makes my obsession stronger. Does not your dwindling hope of saving your lover only make your love stronger? I overheard the crow whispering at your ear. Your lover's fate makes even my blood boil.
“We are not so different, you and I,” she added.
“The moon approaches its zenith,” Damaris said angrily grinding her teeth tightly. “Do what you must.”
Gertrude turned away.
She chanted words that Damaris could not understand. She wished she could cover her ears and block out the foul words that Gertrude uttered.
A ring of fire erupted around the clearing as Gertrude's chanting became more and more intense. The smell of brimstone that was ever so faint on the Wytch became intense and acrid. From the edge of the ring of fire a tall and lithe figure crossed.
It was a woman. She was tall and clad in black leather. She wore a dark crimson cape over her shoulders. Her face was covered by a mask decorated with many feathers. It covered her eyes and her nose. Her eyes could not bee seen, but her mouth, thin and expressive, frowned deeply.
“Who dares summon Lady Abarrach of the Damned?” she shouted.
“I dare, my lady,” Gertrude said evenly. “I summoned you here to offer tribute and ask for your favor.”
The Demon's frown deepened.
“You tear me away from my plane where I revel in lust and laughter. Your tribute must be generous and according to protocol or I will take you back to my plane and you will regret ever having uttered my name.”
“Free me of my curse and I promise that I will exceed your expectations,” Gertrude promised.
“I never give my favor without first receiving tribute. But your curse is so weak and pathetic and in addition it is placed upon you by the Darque who I loathe. Any any improvement on you appearance is worth the exception.”
The Demon uttered a few words and waved a hand absentmindedly. Gertrude instantly began to transform herself. She grew taller, her back and her fingers straightened, her white hair darkened and became a raven black color. Her wrinkled and spotted skin became a creamy white while her muscles filled and her curves became pronounced and alluring.
Gertrude smiled. Her body was young once more.
“You cannot escape the ring of fire,” the Demon stated. “Give me your tribute and pray you earn your safe passage.”
“The tribute requires the Laughter of an Angel,” Gertrude said producing a glass ball from her robes. It hovered over Damaris's mouth in expectation.
Damaris knew that the tribute for Lady Abarrach was a coin paid in laughter for she was a demon fascinated with lust and laughter. She would do all in her power to not satisfy the desires of these two evil beings.
“I am skilled in the Trance of Tranquility,” Damaris declared bravely. “I will not laugh for you or this Demon Spawn.”
Gertrude chuckled once more. “The Trance of Tranquility is a myth,” she said as she slowly unbuttoned Damaris's blouse revealing her white flesh below. “I've broken Archangels of the Covenant who professed that they were masters of the Trance of Tranquility.”
Damaris ignored her.
“I'll prove it to you,” Gertrude said as she began to touch Damaris's torso.
Damaris tried to maintain her composure and keep her mind still as Gertrude touched her.
“I've seen them like you trying to resist the sensations,” Gertrude said as she concentrated on arousing her victim. “I take my time and do what I do best.”
Damaris felt her skin grow warm as Gertrude caressed her body with an expert touch. Her nipples stood erect through her blouse and her breathing became deeper and more accelerated.
“You see, you fail already,” Gertrude said as she continued. “It starts with an involuntary reaction you cannot contain. That is the chink in the armor.”
Damaris felt herself becoming aroused against her will. She continued to focus as her masters has taught her, but it was not working.
“Laugh Damaris,” Gertrude said as she cruelly drew her now long and sharp nails over Damaris's tender underarms.
The reaction was instantaneous. Damaris's body began to buckle with violent abandon. The briar held her in place and efforts to contain her laughter failed. She laughed hard and loudly and she could not resist the sensations.
The Demon Lady's attention was instantly captured.
“Laughter of an Angel,” Lady Abarrach said. “So perfect, so innocent and yet so sensual.”
The ball of glass glowed as the laughter seemed to be drawn to it as a magnet.
Gertrude turned to Lady Abarrach and sent the globe to her hand. She held it to her ear and listened to Damaris's laughter trapped inside. She smiled. “So Laughter of an Angel. But that is simple to produce.”
“Next is a Tear of an Angel,” Gertrude said confidently.
“Truly not a minor requirement,” Lady Abarrach said, “from one who cannot shed a tear for sorrow.”
“But she can shed tears,” the Wytch said.
“I'll never shed a tear for you,” Damaris said. “I've never shed a tear in my life and my life spans centuries.”
Both Wytch and Demon Lady smiled and exchanged knowing glances.
“There are ways,” Gertrude said.
Damaris felt a chill.
“Your noble lover has probably tickled you beyond your limits,” Gertrude said, “but not to tears, I imagine. You need my skills to accomplish that.”
Damaris narrowed her eyes. “What skills?”
“You shall see,” Gertrude promised releasing Damaris from her briar bondage. She fell to the ground. She did not bother to stand or run for the circle of flame kept her trapped and at the mercy of her captors.
Gertrude smiled and her pretty face became wider and elongated and her body began thinner and more cylindrical. Her clothes shriveled away and she became a narrow pillar of flesh. She continued to transform and her eyes took a more reptilian aspect while her body became like that of a snake.
She seemed to be one of those notorious constrictor serpents Damaris had heard of inhabiting the jungles of the Southlands. She shuddered at the thought of the reptilian wrapping around her and choking the life out of her.
But she was surprised still more when the serpent began to spout a feathery hide and she knew then that this was no normal creature of the Southlands. This creature of lively orange and blue feathers was a mythical creature.
It was nothing less than a Plumed Serpent. Damaris had never seen one, but she knew that they were capable of defeating even Angels of the highest order.
Its wide lidless eyes were still Gertrude's intense green and they stared at Damaris hypnotically.
Damaris tried to step away but she found that she could not break the gaze. She sat helplessly on the ground with her legs outstretched before her and her arms motionless at her sides. Her senses screamed for her to escape. That she should escape the Plumed the Serpent, the Demon Lady, the circle of fire and the cursed wood. But her body would not obey. She could only watch the serpent slither closer and closer.
The Plumed Serpent approached but did not break its gaze. Instead of wrapping around Damaris as a normal serpent would, the Serpent sent its tail first towards Damaris maintaining it's steady stare.
The Briar has cut way most of her clothes, but her boots were still intact. The tail of the Plumed Serpent wrapped firmly around her ankles pulling the boots tightly together and then proceeded up and around Damaris's legs.
It was not until the top of her boots and touched with its magical plumed coat the back of her bare knee that she felt an electrifying and exhilarating sensation on her skin. She would laugh, but she could not and she felt all the ticklish feeling swell in her chest. She could not break the Wytch's gaze and it commanded her to be still no matter what.
The Plumed Serpent wrapped around her knees and advanced slowly up her thighs. It was a favorite game of hers and Phillip's to see how much they could each resist some soft subtle tickling before exploding into laughter. Neither was especially good at it, but the sensation of resisting was almost the same, except the tickling was not subtle and the there was not release through laughter.
“Hush, hush,” Gertrude said soothingly. “There is relief. You need only shed a tear. A single tear.”
Damaris's resolve grew and she continued to hold out as the tail cunningly moved between her legs brushing her thighs and then tracing between her buttocks before beginning to wrap around her waist.
Tears now swelled in her eyes, tears of repressed laughter, tears of desperation that could only be extracted in this manner. But she would not let the tears loose.
The tail now inched under her breasts tickling all her body simultaneously as it continued its steady advance. But now, instead of wrapping her arms tightly to her side, the serpent crept under her arms, teasing the more sensitive under arms. Involuntarily her arms went up above her and her ticklishness soaring to levels never experienced before. The tears streamed down her cheeks and these were collected by a floating globes similar to the one that had collected her first laughter.
“Now for the kill,” Gertrude said. In one single move she turned her gaze away and with the serpent's teeth tore Damaris's right boot to shreds. The trance on Damaris was broken, but her fate was sealed. She could not move and the feathered body continued its torturous way tickling her shoulders and neck as the Plumed Serpent tore her boot to shreds with its teeth and then stung her bare foot with her forked tongue.
It was said to be venomous, but it was not certain if it caused death or only more sensitivity to the tickling.
Damaris burst out into helpless and desperate laughter. She could not laugh enough. The serpent now tickled her bare foot with its forked tongue while Damaris struggled valiantly as her body shook wildly. The feathered tail wrapped around her face and tickled her ears and nose before blinding her by covering her eyes.
The serpent had wrapped all around Damaris and like a constrictor she did not show mercy. She tickled and listened to the muffled laughter slowly fade until it was silent.
Lady Abarrach applauded.
“That was the finest tickling, I have seen in decades,” she said admiringly. “Is she dead? If she lives, I shall have her. I must.”
Gertrude released Damaris and her limp form remained motionless on the ground.
“Well, is she dead?” Lady Abarrach asked impatiently.
“It depends,” Gertrude answered returning to her human form.
“On what does it depend?” the Demon Lady asked.
“On her heart,” the Wytch answered. “Most don't survive.”
“A shame, but I'll at least have you to toy with,” Lady Abarrach said.
“I think not,” Gertrude said. “Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel, that is the fee for the favor of Lady Abarrach. I demand safe passage! Return to you plane of existence and leave us.”
Lady Abarrach smiled.
“The fee is Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel and last, but certainly not least, Feather of an Angel,” Lady Abarrach said counting each off with her fingers. “Certainly you have found an Angel, but alas one without wings.”
“That cannot be,” Gertrude said nervously.
“A Demon does not lie,” Lady Abarrach said angrily. “So you will join me then on my plane of existence and you will live out your days serving me.”
“I would rather die,” Gertrude said as she prepared a powerful spell.
“That can be arranged,” the Demon said before disappearing.
Gertrude hesitated.
She suddenly felt sharp long nails dig into her ribs with amazing speed.
Lady Abarrach had moved like lightning and she tickled quickly and effectively making her scream at the top of her lungs.
“A screamer,” Lady Abarrach said. “Wytches usually are...”
Gertrude was on the ground rolling back and forth trying to free herself.
“There is no escape from Lady Abarrach,” she said. “I might even tickle you to death if it so pleases me.”
“Laughter of an Angel, Tear of an Angel,” Damaris whispered in weak voice. “And Feather of an Angel.”
She had emptied her satchel of feathers and presented the long white and mysterious feather that was her own.
“That is the fee for the favor of Lady Abarrach,” Damaris said holding out the feather. “Take your tribute and begone.”
Lady Abarrach's face turned red under her mask and her mouth twisted with anger.
“You'll regret this,” she said as she received the feather from Damaris.
“Begone!” Damaris commanded.
Lady Abarrach and the circle of fire disappeared and Gertrude and Damaris were left only in the clearing under the light of the full moon.
“I've saved your life,” Damaris stated. “I call upon the Tradition of Blood Debt.”
“No Angel has ever called upon Blood Debt,” Gertrude cried. “It is used only among Demons and Wytches.”
“This will be a first then,” Damaris said. “You will serve me until said time you have paid back your Blood Debt. Help me rescue Phillip and I will release you from the Blood Debt.”
“Very well. A debt is a debt,” Gertrude said. “What shall we do now?”
“We retrieve my metal,” Damaris answered. “Then we head south.”
“Which way South?” the Wytch asked.
“South as the crow flies.”
NEXT: Who's Afraid of the Darque?
