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"I will pay you five hundred gold pieces,"
said Herzog, "half in advance, if you bring me a full-blooded
male elf—one of the six you saw enter the city with that
woman you admired so much. They were all full-blooded. And you
can have her too, if you want."
Wolfram hesitated. Five hundred gold pieces. And maybe he could
go back later for the woman...
...
She was wearing a deep blue gown that clung to every curve of
her body. Wolfram watched her raise each arm in turn and undo
the lacings down the sides, then slip her arms out of the sleeves
and let the gown drop to the floor. Now she was wearing nothing
but a short white shift and a pair of blue boots; Wolfram imagined
using his knees to force those long, slim legs apart...
The woman examined her face in the mirror, then—unexpectedly—drew
the shift off over her head. Completely naked now, apart from
the boots, she looked like one of the high class whores from the
brothel in Bell Lane. Gods, thought Wolfram, a man could
make a mint selling her favours. And still have enough left to
enjoy himself...
Now she had pinned up her hair, and was washing herself with
a large, yellow sponge, dipping it in the soapy water and drawing
it lightly over the curves and planes of her body, leaving the
skin damp and taut and glistening.
She ran the sponge over her breasts, and Wolfram held his breath
as a moan tried to escape his throat.
He reached into his breeches...
...
He stayed on the balcony, watching, until the woman had fallen
asleep. Then he approached the door and carefully tested the latch.
It lifted easily, but made a loud clicking noise, so he stepped
back into the shadows and waited.
After a few moments, when he was sure that the woman had not
wakened, Wolfram pulled the door open, stepped silently into the
bedchamber, and approached her, stretching out his hand and drawing
it—less than an inch above her skin—over her cheek, her throat
and the shadowy cleft between her breasts. Then he lifted a single
tendril of her golden hair and let it slide between his fingers
and fall back upon her bare shoulder.
The woman stirred, but still did not wake.
"Goodnight, my lady," he whispered. "You do not
know what you are missing. But you will—and soon."He
left, closing the balcony door behind him...
...
Eowyn forced herself to go limp.
Wolfram laughed. "Not so dangerous without your sword, are
you, my lady?" he gloated. "You will enjoy this—being
ridden by a real man instead of a pretty-boy elf!" He lifted
himself up, taking all his weight onto his knees, freeing his
hands to unlace his breeches.
Eowyn seized her chance—with all the strength of a Shieldmaiden's
sword arm she smashed the table leg into the side of his head
and, at the same time, drove her fist deep into his groin.
Wolfram was taken by surprise; the pain was crippling—in
his balls, his head, and his wounded leg. "You bitch,"
he screamed, "you elf-riding bitch!" He rolled onto
his side and curled up in a ball, pressing both hands to his groin.
Eowyn scrambled to her feet and lifted the club.
Wham! Once. Wham! Twice. Wham! Three times.
Wham! "This is for Legolas!" Wham! "This
is for me!" Wham!
…
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