‘Well, I’d better change for battle….not going into a fight in this old cassock. See you at dawn.’

The warlock did not really need earplugs, lost as he was in the depths of his own thoughts and feelings for the Lapland witch. So he missed the howls of the Satanistas, the wild yelps of the Wolfslutz and the moans of the Hailstone babes as they grabbed at what might be their last orgasm ever. He was lost to the dressing for battle, the solemn body-painting in Hailstonez tents, each lover adorning her bedmate’s firm flesh with the ritual markings of the tribe, placing a little personal love-token above the shaved, wet quim, a red love-heart or a kiss-mark perhaps. All his mind was focused on his love and what her dangers might be. At last as the rays of the sun slanted across the bridge and lit up the allies’ camp, he stood and strode down to where Draca awaited him.

The warchicks were drawn up in readiness as the hitgirl greeted him with, ‘Respect!’ taking in his Hunting Buchanan kilt, chainmail shirt, visored helmet and the three foot blade, broad with twin blood-channels on each side, of his Andrea Ferrara broadsword.

Beside Draca stood a tall, full-breasted warrior, her mounded breasts held by gun-metal cups linked by chains, her pubic mound cupped also in a gunmetal G string. Bracelets adorned her upper arms and left ankle and her upper face was covered by a wolf’s mask, the teeth, yellow and sharp, looming over her pert and cheeky nose, her sullen blue-painted lips all that could reveal any touch of personality. The wolfskin hung down her back to her knees, grey and menacing. She not only yelled like a coyote, she smelled like one: grubby and stained, her beauty was obviously a big draw for Draca who had an arm around the slut’s waist, fondling a bare buttock. A similar musky miasma rose from her dirty followers, all, like Lupa, equipped with six foot spears with two foot barbed heads. The Wolfslutz were to form the advance guard of the attack; behind them were the Hailstonez, wearing only silver chainmail thongs, their bare bodies painted in honour of the sky goddess: nipples were silver stars, a rainbow arched from hip to hip, navels were golden suns, pale blue raindops ran down arms and legs, a comet adorned each buttock. Silver helms with thin eye-slits masked their faces, leaving only white-painted lips on show and long braids of hair flowing from under the faceless helmets. On her feet each babe had strapped reindeer hide boots, tied up around slender ankles with thin thongs. They each held a slim-bladed short sword and a hunting knife. Behind and around them were the archers of the army: the Satanistas wore red leather helmets, masking the upper face, adorned with two small red horns. Cruel lips were painted jet black. Red leather bra and tangas left bare midriffs painted in black with ‘666’ and their long and slinky legs were cased in red leather knee boots. They held longbows and were armed with black, red-spiralled arrows whose scarlet feathers flighted their barbed and poisoned heads with deadly accuracy. Lupa pressed her smelly loveliness close to Draca and whispered, ‘Let’s get this over with…I can’t do without you in my knickers….last night was the best ever…tonight…in my bed…for ever, my adorable one…’ Her eyes burned hotly with her lust behind her wolvish visage as she raised her long spear and howled like a wolverine. At the signal the Satanista bitches launched a stinging volley of feathered death at the Nubian guards of Karramanneh.

Black-skinned sluts pitched off the wooden bridge, five or six red-black shafts quivering in their firm and satin-skinned flesh. Others gargled horribly, throats punched through by barbed steel; some were kicking wildly in the sand, poison tearing at their punctured tummies. The hail of horror continued to hit the reinforcements running onto the bridge. One officer was struck through her golden helm by a swift and powerful dart that sent thin squirts of blood from her eye-slit as she staggered and fell into the gaping and windy void. Another clutched the arrow impaling her ebony tit and fell back into her lover’s arms only to see the girl take a feathered death-dart in the neck. Blood spurted over the two black beauties as they slumped to the floor, writhing together in death as in love. Now the howling frenzy of berserk Wolfslutz was loosed across the bridge, led by Lupa, Draca and the Magus. Now, too, the haremslutz were in action with their short curved bows, pouring their own deadly rain onto Wolfslutz, Satanistas and Hailstonez. A masked Hailchick took a shaft between her bare boobs, its head ripping out of her pale sleek back, knocking her flat onto the bridge in death. A set of Satanistas, too close to their targets, were mown down: arrows sprouted from painted bellies, thudded violently into leather bras, ripped into tangas and tore into twats. One such bitch clawed in grief at the arrow buried in her pretty pussy, lurching aside and stumbling head over heels, windmilling her long limbs as she dropped through the air above the crashing waves. The Wolfslutz took few casualties from arrows as they were hotly engaged with the Nubians face to face…or mask to mask. Barbed spear-heads flashed in the sun and soon glistened with Nubian blood. Draca’s short sword was deep in the bare gut of an officer whose gold lips formed a wide ‘o’ of shock as her tripes tore open. The Magus slashed through the neck of his opponent, sending a great leap of blood in the air. Lupa was half-berserk, half eyeing Draca as the trained killer moved like a ballet-dancer, slaying with elegance and grace. It was the undoing of the Wolfslut chieftain. As she ran her spear into a cowering red-bra-wearing haremslut, pushing it in between her pert little tits, a Nubian lanced at her savagely. The black chick did not live to enjoy her victory, being speared in the crotch by Lupa’s own sister. As she fell wailing in screeches of agony, her helm rolling off her short curly hair, the Nubian saw Lupa swaying, skewered through her delicious bare belly, the spear at least two feet out of her back. The black girl, mad with the pain that stabbed in her cunny, rolled over to disappear with one long shriek into oblivion. Lupa stared in shock and terror at her ripped belly: the blood that ran down her strong thighs, the wrenching pain that tore again and again at her bowels. She felt her eyes misting over, blood was salt on her tongue and then it trickled hotly over her blue lips. The Wolfslut could not handle this agony, this loss, this awareness of her own butchered body. She sank to her knees moaning, ‘Draca….oh my love….Draca!’ The redhead was at once beside her, kneeling and holding her lover’s slaughtered beauty. Once more Lupa pressed her metal-clad crotch on Draca’s warm flesh and fumblingly unhooked her thong chains. Her densely hairy cunt was revealed, blood clotting her black pubic bush. Draca fondled her groin tenderly, touching the blood-wet lips with her own, feeling the warm wet discharge as Lupa’s bodily functions gave way and she peed herself in the moment of her death.