The Nest of the Necromancer

Chapter Two: Sneak and Spank

Puffer wiped a smear of soot across her forehead, leaving a dark streak that matched her mood. This was the twelfth hovel in three days, and the search was starting to feel pointless.

Following Lace's logic, and for a woman who primarily thought with her fists her logic was often surprisingly sound, they weren't randomly choosing which dwellings to search. Their targets had to meet certain criteria: be north of the cemetery, since that's the direction Amelia's corpse had gone. The house had to belong to a single man, a loner, as Lace was convinced their culprit was a shut-in with a basement full of dark books and darker urges. Finally, the location had to be more or less isolated.

It all sounded good in theory. But there were flaws. First and foremost was the fact that the other two victims had each been seen walking from the cemetery in different directions: one south, another east. How could the corpses be heading to the same place if they were all travelling in different directions?

Lace had been dismissive, pointing out that their witnesses had disagreed on a lot of details and couldn't be relied upon. Besides, the barbaric beauty had said, they didn't have much else to go on.

And so Puffer was out looking for clues again. But as she dug through a chest of moth-eaten linens in yet another drafty shack, all she found was the smell of unwashed wool and failure.

What am I even looking for? she wondered. A receipt for a 'Dark Necromancer Starter Kit'?

She reached down for a small wooden jewelry box inside the chest, hoping for a hidden compartment. Maybe she could at least find an ingredient for poison somewhere. If she found that, especially if it was hidden, that'd be what the experts called a 'clue'. After all everyone agreed the three victims had all died so rapidly after falling ill that they must have been poisoned.

As she fiddled with the box her keen elven ears picked up on footsteps outside the shack. If she hadn't been lost in thought their keenness might have warned her early enough to hide but, alas, Puffer was forever getting lost in her thoughts.

Her heart froze. She knelt there, listening intently, hoping that whoever it was might be just passing by. Then the silence of the shack was broken when the heavy oak door opened.

Sunlight flooded the room, framing a burly, sweat-streaked farmer. He dropped a sack of grain, his eyes widening as they locked onto the half-elf currently burgling his home.

"You," he growled, his voice thick with the local dialect. "The outsider from the boneyard! I saw you at the funeral with that big ox of a companion of yours!"

Puffer froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I can explain! This is about Amelia, we're trying to... what I mean is, I'm looking for..."

"You're looking for the Sheriff is what you're doing," the farmer interrupted, stepping inside and barring the exit with his massive frame. "Breaking and entering? The law in these parts don't take kind to travelers sticking their pointed ears where they don't belong."

Puffer winced. Pointing out that she had pointy ears was a good sign this man didn't much like elves. And trying to explain to him that her father had been a human was pointless. Such bigots didn't care for nuance, she'd long since learned.

Her mind raced. If the Sheriff got involved, she would be in a dungeon before sunset. The trail for Amelia would go cold. Worse, Lace would try to break her out, and the Rolling Hills would become a bloodbath. Puffer couldn't let that happen. Not to the mission. Not to Lace.

"Wait," Puffer said, her voice dropping to a desperate plea. "Please. No law. I'm willing to... negotiate?"

The farmer looked her up and down, his indignation curdling into something slower and more predatory. He saw a vulnerable woman who was terrified of the consequences, Puffer knew, but also one of a strange and alien sort of beauty. Though such men would mock her pointy ears she suspected they found them quite desirable just the same: the way they swept up and peaked out through her short red hair. The way her almond-shaped eyes sloped upward, her long lashes making her green eyes sparkle. The way her pert little nose sat upon her cute little face.

But he wasn't looking at her face, and Puffer's stomach plummeted when she saw the way he was eying her cleavage. Unlike Lace hers could never be too remarkable, what with her small pointy breasts and slim, petite body. But she had them all the same and on her small body she knew some men saw nothing but the curve of her bosom giving way to her slender waist, that they became aroused by the symmetry of it all.

The way he was staring at her was like that of a hungry man being offered an unexpected meal.

Unfortunately her cute and innocent look tended to attract predatory men. Growing up to an abusive father, she sometimes wondered if the gods had marked her from birth to be a continual victim throughout life. After her father it had been her first boss, a petty criminal with delusions of grandeur. Then it'd been her first lover, a fellow half-elf who feigned love but exerted control. There had been many more over the years, until she met Lace who taught her that women didn't have to tolerate such brutes.

Only now, in moments like these, she knew she had to embrace her past lives to move forward with this one: the life of a hero. Lace was fond of saying, 'Ya do what ya gotta do so you can do what you wanna do.' And she was right.

"Negotiate, eh?" the man finally said. He kicked the door shut. "Get over to that chest you were so busy looting."

Puffer slumped her shoulders but complied. She said, "Look, I have some coin! And a couple of silver arrows that are worth..."

"Turn 'round, hands on the chest. Flat," the man growled. "There ya go. No, bend at the waist, hun. Legs together. That's it."

The half-elf's face burned red with shame and not a little trepidation. She was wearing tight leather pants, dyed green like her eyes, and a gray wool cloak over a simple yellow blouse. The man, looming behind her, no doubt saw the shape of her heart-shaped ass perfectly, leaving little to the imagination in this bent-over state.

The humiliation was a sharp, physical weight. But what was she to do? If she made a run for it and failed, he'd probably hurt her bad before carting her off to the sheriff's anyway. And if she drew a blade on him she'd have to risk using it, which wasn't an option. After all he was technically in the right here: she had been burgling his home.

He didn't give warning before slapping his open hand down hard across her ass. She shrieked in pain and nearly lost her footing.

"Hold still, damn you!" the man growled.

"Please!" she begged. The pain stung terribly.

He chuckled in response, then slapped his hand down again.

"OW!" she cried. Tears came to her big green eyes, which she clenched tightly closed as she steeled herself for the next blow.

"Teach ya a lesson, going through my things, elf scum," he grumbled. Then he brought his hand back down again and it landed squarely on her right buttcheek, sending ripples of pain exploding across her ass and down her thighs.

She blubbered something, then, but he was spanking her again before she could form proper words. Then came another, and another, and her arms began to wobble more than her legs as she struggled to kep herself in the prescribed position, knowing if she fell he'd make her pay somehow. It was how men like these were: hurting you, then hurting you for getting hurt.

Puffer was whimpering and pleading pathetically before long, and when he told her to shut up and be quiet, only then did she realize he'd stopped with the blows. In fact he was helping her up into a standing position.

She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, then wiped away tears, and tried to calm herself down. Deep breaths, deep breaths, and hope.

Hope that he was finished. Because as humiliating and painful as it was to be spanked by this brute, if she got away with nothing but a spanking she would count herself lucky.

"Alright now git," the man spat. "And don't lemme catch you 'round here again, or I'll call a posse and we'll teach you a proper lesson before hauling your skinny ass to the sheriff!"

Puffer didn't waste a moment getting out of there.

Outside of the hovel the sun was beginning to dip and she could see farmers across the fields all returning to their homes. Her bad luck she'd chosen the home of a lazy farmer who'd returned early. Sighing to herself she began to come up with excuses when Lace surely noticed she was sitting or walking funny. Could never tell her the truth or that farmer would be good as dead.

Wincing as she walked, the normally graceful woman stepped awkwardly and carefully as she made her way back toward the village. When she reached the road she thought she'd figured out a good way to walk without looking like she was in obvious pain, but was so distracted with her thoughts again that she didn't notice the horses until they were nearly upon her.

A large covered wagon was pulling past her, its driver not sparing her so much as a glance. It was pulled by two sturdy horses, its canvas top swaying as it rattled over the stones. She recognized it instantly: the trader's wagon. She'd seen it in the last village. And the one before that.

The realization hit her like a bolt from her own crossbow.

A stationary pervert is a stationary target, she thought excitedly, her eyes narrowing as she watched the dust cloud behind the wagon. But a travelling one is a moving target...

Jericho. The old, scarred trader. He didn't live in a hovel; he lived on the road. He had access to every village, every house, and every "young, attractive woman" in the valley. But where had he been two nights ago when Amelia had stumbled north out of the graveyard? She had to find out.

Puffer stood up straight, ignoring the ache in her body. She had a new lead, now, and a theory good enough to impress even Lace.

END OF CHAPTER 2