Dor’s attention was jerked back to the immediate situation by the arrival of the Mundanes. There were three guards, one carrying a crude iron bar. They stopped before Irene’s cell and used the bar to pry up the wedged plank that barred it. One of the guards went in and grabbed Irene. She did not resist; she knew as well as Dor did that this was the expected questioning.
Now King Oary entered the dungeon, his eyes traveled along the length of her body. Irene was dressed in a form-fitting bodice that pinched her tiny waist and long high-cut slits in the skirt that revealed a lot of thigh. “So you are the King’s daughter?”
“Try eating a salad Fatso!,” Irene retorted defiantly. Dor winced. She might be getting too into this!
King Oary said something quietly to the translator who then stood in front of Irene and formed a fist aimed at her belly. The King was plotting something dastardly! Dor hardly dared imagine what he might do to Irene. He couldn’t stand to have her hurt!
He drew back his arm and hit Irene in the pit of her stomach.
Irene uttered a deep grunt as all of the air was harshly purged from her body. Her green eyes were agape with astonishment and her mouth dropped open. She made no noise because she had no breath.
Her ears rang as blades of white filled her vision. The guards released her so she could sink to her knees, wrapping her arms around her waist, her gut clenched and burning. The pain was sharp and nauseating, but Irene was also shocked that the man dared to lay a hand on her. In her privileged life, no one had ever purposely hit her before.
The Translator squatted down lifting her head up. “You had better act carefully, the King will use force,” the man warned with a menacing calmness. “Better answer, ****.”
An age passed and still, she couldn’t draw breath. Then slowly her senses began to return and she was able to make short wheezing gasps. She groped feebly at the translator's leg as he clutched a handful of her hair and pulled her back up to her feet.
“Look at me girl!” The Translator demanded. “Do you have anything to say?”
Irene rolled her eyes towards her assailant. “You’re fat too.”
“Ugn!” The girl’s surliness was answered with another stiff punch that sank into her soft, tiny stomach. Her small body lifted with the blow making her stand on her toes. The grunt she emitted was not nearly as dramatic as the first, she had not yet recovered her breath. She dropped to one knee, but the two guards each took an elbow and dragged her back to her feet.
“She won’t talk,” the guard said to the King.
“We shall make her talk,” the King responded. “Bring her over in front of the boy”
The other two guards grabbed Irene’s arms and hauled her a few steps down the hall until they were directly in front of Dor’s cell. The two guards wrestled Irene’s jacket and off her body, while she struggled and kicked, showing tantalizing flashes of the inner thigh.
Dor was silent, uncertain what to do.
The King’s eyes shifted from Dor’s face to the deep cleavage of Irene’s bodice. “Rip off her clothes!” the King ordered.
“What? No!” she panicked. Irene had always been a cute girl and socially precocious. She constantly teased Dor with her legs, letting them distract him from her other attributes. She was confident that he would never touch her due to her being the King’s daughter. Now that Dor considered this, she had kept herself fairly private. These men had no such constraints and were eager to force Irene to make good on her innuendos.
Irene heaved with her arms, but the two men held her securely. She was terrified of being stripped naked in front of Dor and these men, Then the translator put his hand on her neckline and brutally ripped downward. The fine blouse tore down the front, exposing her fine bosom.
Irene gasped, overcome with embarrassment, her blouse hung in shreds from her hips, baring her full youthful breasts.
“Well, look at that!” the King exclaimed admiringly. Dor could not understand a word of the language, but he grasped the essence readily enough. King, the translator, and both guards were all gawking at Irene’s revealed body. So was Dor!
In recent years nature had rushed to endow her generously, and this was quite evident as the small, delicate-featured vixen, stood in front of Dor’s cell, bare-breasted as any nymph. Indeed, Irene closely resembled the slim, lovely female creatures, that haunted men.
At the same time, he was furious with the King and his henchmen for exposing Irene in this involuntary manner. He determined not to tell them anything. The King breathed heavily, ”Continue.”
“No!” Irene pleaded as they tore more of her clothing off. The Translator moved towards her again hooking two fingers into the top of her skirt and ripping it down. This material, too, came apart with surprising ease, displaying her long, shapely legs to the world
Dor wondered why she complained about comments about her legs but insisted on wearing a skirt; pants of some kind would have solved the problems decisively. Then it occurred to him that she might not want that particular problem solved. How could anyone blame her for the many accidents that showed off her legs if she always complained about it?
“Eek!” Irene squealed looking down at herself, she wore nothing but her high heeled shoes, what was left of her dress was hanging around her feet in shreds. She flustered red when she caught Dor’s silly unblinking stare. Dor goggled at the mountains and valley of her bosom. Despite her peril, she was flattered that Dor liked what he saw.
Dor, the King, and the three guards took a long, ravishing look at Irene. Then the King nodded to the Translator and he moved in front of her again curling his fingers into a fist.
“Stop it!” Dor cried. “I’ll tell-”
“Shut up!” Irene snapped at him. One of her knees jerked up, catching the translator in the groin. The guards laughed as the man moaned and fell to the floor.
“Bet her majesty is quite a fireball in the royal chambers eh kid?”
It wasn’t as devastating as Irene had hoped though. The man recovered quickly and he clutched a handful of her hair, his remaining fist driving hard into her bare stomach.
“huuurg!” Irene’s eyes went wide as air exploded out of her. She nearly passed out, settling on the ground to heave her empty guts out, only vaguely aware of her surroundings.
The Translator was still walking with a limp after getting kicked in the manhood. He stalked into position and looked to the king for approval to continue the beating. King Oary nodded.
Irene rolled onto her hands and knees and she drew breath, gasping. Dor admired how hard she was fighting, but this was too much for her. The Translator approached her at an angle, taking three steps and kicking up into the girl’s belly.
“OOOOOOOHHH!” The Translator was angry, and the blow was vicious. Irene’s petite body lifted with the t******* kick. Waves of blackness seemed to ripple over the room. Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of her vision, as she struggled vainly to breathe. Irene sank onto her knees and fell out of consciousness.
“...wherever she’s from, I want to go there!” Irene heard from somewhere far away. “I haven’t seen a body like that in three years.”
The girl woke up to immediate pain in her arms. Without looking she knew that her wrists had been shackled over her head, stretching out her body so that her toes barely touched the ground.
She had no idea how long she had been out, but she was still in the same dungeon, and still naked except for a small pink strip of cloth between her legs. Irene could feel the efforts the men had made to wake her. She’d been pinched, slapped, and groped all over her body.
The Translator was approaching the Princess carrying a bucket full of water. Even though she was obviously conscious he emptied it over her face and breasts.
The water was cruelly freezing and Irene gasped as the cold hit her suddenly. She blinked and shook her head trying to move her own hair out of her face. The men moved and she could see that Dor had also been stripped naked and manacled to the cell bars so that she could see how his body reacted to hers.
“Stop this!” the boy begged, “Leave her alone.”
“If you don’t hate me yet child,” the Translator growled, “you will by the end of the hour. If you were a man, I would be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
“But a real man would have broken her in by now.” the vile man continued. He pulled at the tiny pink garment between Irene’s thighs ripping it away, then she was naked as the day she was born.
Irene and Dor both blushed. They had teased each other for many years. Innocently while they were children, and not so innocently as they grew into the age of consent. Dor had longed to see the charms Irene hid beneath her dresses, and now there were no secrets between them.
Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of her vision, and he drew breath, gasping.
She doubled up, his vision went dark, and he struggled vainly to breathe. Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he drew breath, gasping. He was sitting on the dock, legs splayed out before him, the Sheriff clutching a handful of his hair.
Waves of blackness seemed to ripple over the room. I sank onto the stool and closed my eyes.
“Look at me.” The voice was as light and calm as though he were about to offer me tea. I opened my eyes and looked up at him through a slight fog. His hands were braced on his exquisitely tailored hips.
“Have you anything to say to me now, Madam?” he demanded.
“Your wig is crooked,” I said, and closed my eyes again.
The Sheriff hit him in the pit of the stomach. He doubled up, his vision went dark, and he struggled vainly to breathe, fighting a flash of panic as he relived his hanging, the black, the lack of air . . .
Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he drew breath, gasping. He was sitting on the dock, legs splayed out before him, the Sheriff clutching a handful of his hair.
“Gd khjdr gdq, xnt snkc ld,” the King said. “H bzm rdd vgx! Sgqdzsdm gdq zmc gd’kk szkj.”
The King was plotting something dastardly! Dor hardly dared imagine what he might do to Irene. He couldn’t stand to have her hurt!
The translator stood in front of Irene and formed a fist. He drew back his arm, aiming at her belly.
“Stop!” Dor cried. “I’ll tell—”
“Shut up!” Irene snapped at him. One of her knees jerked up, catching the translator in the groin. The man doubled over, and the surprised guards allowed Irene to tear herself free, leaving shreds of cloth in their hands. Bare-breasted as any nymph, she ran a few steps, stooped to pick up the door-opening bar, and whirled to apply it to Dor’s door.
“Bare, bare, bare!” he retorted furiously, hooking two fingers into the top of her suit and ripping it down. This material, too, came apart with surprising ease, showing that her body was fully as developed as suggested by the contours of her clothing. Her mother the Queen often made herself pretty through illusion; Irene needed no such enhancement.
“Eeeeek!” she screamed enthusiastically. “I’ll get you!” And she ripped more of his clothing off, not stopping at his shirt. Dor retaliated, his anger mitigated by his intrigue with the flashes of her that showed between splashes.
“Do try that. See that you do not fall into the moat,” King Trent said, smiling. “And don’t let my daughter boss you around; it ill befits a King,” He shook his head. “Hasn’t she become a vixen, though? When you pulled her suit down—”
Irene had always been a cute girl and socially precocious. In recent years nature had rushed to endow her generously, and this was quite evident at close range. Now she was a green-eyed, green-tint-haired—occurring naturally; she did not color her hair—buxom beauty. What was worse, she knew it, and constantly sought new ways to use it to her advantage. Today she was dressed in a green blouse and skirt that accentuated her figure and wore green slippers that enhanced her fine legs and feet. In short, she had prepared well for this encounter.
Irene was pleased to have his company. She sat cross-legged opposite him, and Dor tried not to be aware that in that position her green skirt did not fully cover her legs. She had excellent ones; in that limited respect, she had already matched the Gorgon. Dor liked legs; in fact, he liked anything he wasn’t supposed to see.
She shifted her position slightly, unconsciously showing a little more of her legs, including a tantalizing flash of inner thigh. “You are going to try to help my father, aren’t you?”
“Not like this,” she agreed. “She’s a *****, but she is my mother. Now I can do anything I want—and I don’t know what I want.” She shifted position again. This time the hem of her skirt dropped to cover more of her legs. It was almost as if her reference to privacy from her mother’s snooping around her mind had brought about privacy from Dor’s surreptitious snooping around her body. “Except to have them back again.”
“You know, that rock was right,” Dor said. “You do have nice legs. And that’s not all.”
They react to it somewhat the way we do to—well, like people looking up Irene’s skirt.” “Don’t start on that!” she said, coloring slightly. “I think the whole world has been looking up my skirt recently!” “Your fault for having good legs,”
“Eeek—my skirt!” Irene squealed as the mischievous gusts whipped it up, displaying her legs to the whole world. Dor wondered why she insisted on wearing a skirt despite such constant inconveniences; pants of some kind would have solved the problems decisively. Then it occurred to him that she might not want that particular problem solved. She was well aware that her legs were the finest features of a generally excellent body and perhaps was not averse to letting the world know it also. If she constantly protested any inadvertent exposures that occurred, how could anyone blame her for showing herself off? She had a pretty good system going.
“Whatever world it is, I want to go there!” another said. “Must be a foreign student. I haven’t seen legs like that in three years.”
The Mundanes went on, their strange conversation fading from Dor’s hearing. Dor proceeded thoughtfully. If Irene were that different from Mundanes, what about himself? No one had reacted to him, yet he was dressed as differently from the males as Irene was from the females. He pondered that as he and Irene continued along the streets. Maybe the Mundanes had been so distracted by Irene’s legs that they had skipped over Dor. That was understandable.
The scholar’s eyes shifted from Irene’s legs to Dor’s face. “This is very odd. You address her in English, and she seems to understand, but she replies in an alien tongue.”
“It’s complicated to explain,” Dor said.
“I’d better check with Arnolde,” Irene said, and vanished.
The Mundane scholar removed his spectacles and cleaned them carefully with a bit of tissue paper. He returned them to his face just in time to see Irene reappear. “Yes, that’s definitely better,” he murmured.
“Arnolde says we’ll have to use some salient identifying trait to locate my father or mother.” Irene said. “There may be a historical reference.”
“Exactly what language is that?” the scholar asked, again fixing on Irene’s legs. He might be old and academic, but he evidently had not forgotten what was what in female appearance.
“Oh, it is, it is,” the King agreed, his eyes focusing on what showed of her legs.
and Irene’s blouse and skirt were plastered to her body.
Her skirt flew out and up—and now at last Dor saw her *******.
“But I’ve never—I know nothing about—” Dor opened his eyes again, and goggled at the mountains and valley of her bosom, and at the empty face, and retreated hastily back into darkness. Too little and too much, in such proximity!
Her bosom heaved
Irene, apparently struck by the same thought, quickly pulled off her skirt and blouse.
Now King Oary entered the dungeon. “Rn xnt’qd sgd Jhmf’r cztfgsdq,” he said. “Vgzs hr xntq lzfhb?”
“I don’t understand you,” Irene said.
“His Highness King Oary asks what is your magic,” one of the guards said. His speech was heavily accented, but he was intelligible.
“You know Xanth speech?” she asked, surprised. “How can that be?”
“You have no need to know,” the guard said. “Just answer the question, wench.”
So one of the Mundanes here spoke the language of Xanth! Dor’s mind started clicking over. This explained the eavesdropping—but how could the man have learned it, however poorly? He had to have been in contact with people from Xanth.
“Go soak your snoot in the sump,” Irene retorted.
Dor winced. She might be playing her role too boldly!
“The King will use force,” the man warned. “Better answer, ****.” Irene looked daunted, as perhaps she was, but those insulting references to her supposed status made her angry. “You answer first, toady,” she said, compromising.
The guard decided negotiation was the best course. “I met a spy from your country, tart. I am quick with languages; he taught me. Then he went back to Xanth.”
“To report to my father, King Trent!” Irene exclaimed. “You promised him a trade agreement, didn’t you, rogue, if he would come himself to negotiate it?”
“It is your turn to answer, hussy,” the man said.
“Oh, all right, wretch. My magic is growing plants. I can make anything grow from seed to tree in moments.”
Dor, peering out, could not see the man’s face clearly, but was sure there was a knowing expression on it. The eavesdropper thought he knew better, but didn’t want to betray his own secret snooping, so had to translate for the King. “Rgd fzud sgd khd,” he said.
“H vzms sgd sqtsg!” Oary snapped.
“His Majesty suspects you are deceiving us,” the guard said. “What is your real magic?” “What does ol’ fatso care? I’m not doing any magic now.”
“You had magic when you came, trollop. The ogre used unnatural strength to destroy our front gate, and you all spoke our language. Now the ogre is weak and you speak your own language. What happened to the magic?”
The language! Dor cursed himself for overlooking that detail. Of course that had given away their secret! King Trent would have used an interpreter—probably this same man—and the ability of Dor’s party to converse directly would have alerted cunning King Oary immediately. He had known they had operative magic and now wanted to discover the mechanism of it.
“Well, if you bring me some seeds, thug, maybe I can find out,” Irene said. “I’m sure I can grow plants, if I just find the right place.”
Bless her! She was still trying to get to the stable, where she really could perform.
But the Mundanes thought they knew better, “If the King says you lie, you lie, strumpet,” the guard said. “Again I ask: what is your real magic? Can you speak in tongues, and cause others to do the same?”
“Of course not, villain!” she said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t need you to translate to His Lowness King Puddingbelly here, would we? Plants are all I can enchant.”
He drew back his arm and hit me in the pit of the stomach.
I made no noise, because I had no breath. I sat on the floor, doubled over, struggling to draw air into my lungs. I was shocked far beyond the actual pain of the blow, which was beginning to make itself felt, along with a wave of giddy sickness. In a fairly eventful life, no one had ever purposely struck me before.
The Captain squatted down in front of me. His wig was slightly awry, but aside from that and a certain brightness to his eyes, he showed no change from his normal controlled elegance.
“I trust you are not with child, Madam,” he said in a conversational tone, “because if you are, you won’t be for long.”
I was beginning to make a rather odd wheezing noise, as the first wisps of oxygen found their way painfully into my throat. I rolled onto my hands and knees and groped feebly for the edge of the table. The corporal, after a nervous glance at the captain, reached down to help me up.
Waves of blackness seemed to ripple over the room. I sank onto the stool and closed my eyes.
“Look at me.” The voice was as light and calm as though he were about to offer me tea. I opened my eyes and looked up at him through a slight fog. His hands were braced on his exquisitely tailored hips.
“Have you anything to say to me now, Madam?” he demanded.
“Your wig is crooked,” I said, and closed my eyes again.
The Sheriff hit him in the pit of the stomach. He doubled up, his vision went dark, and he struggled vainly to breathe, fighting a flash of panic as he relived his hanging, the black, the lack of air . . .
Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he drew breath, gasping. He was sitting on the dock, legs splayed out before him, the Sheriff clutching a handful of his hair.