The Scorpion Princess

Al Areth, the city of chaos. In more civilised lands it's name was whispered as a curse. The home of countless thieves, warlords and cutthroats, both human and inhuman. The city was ancient and sprawling with the desert at it's back and a vast sea surrounding it on three sides. From it's harbour pirate ships set sail to harry the shipping routes and raid coastal towns and from the city gates bands of marauders rode forth to plunder merchant caravans and raid nearby kingdoms for slaves. In return for a tithe on their plunder Al Areth gave anyone sanctuary.

The city's ruler was known only by their title, The Tyrant. When they appeared in public black robes and spells of obscurement hid their features so that none could tell if the Tyrant was a man or woman or even if they were human. The Tyrant had ruled in Al Areth as long as anyone could remember, even the long lived sorcerers who made the city their home. Order, of a kind, was maintained by the Tyrant's personal army.

The Akkadian waited in the shadows of an alley, his dark cloak wrapped around his body blending into the darkness. Some distance up the main street was the compound of the warlord Trimon. Even from this distance the assassin could make out at least four men on the flat roof armed with bows or crossbows, only their heads and shoulders visable above the parapet as they kept watch. Two more guards stood outside the main door, halting and searching all who entered. On the occasions that the Akkadian had seen the door open, more guards were on the other side, only unbarring and opening the thick door when those outside had cleared the visitors to Trimon's lair.

Trimon's would be a difficult one to accomplish, but the harder and more perilous the killing the greater the rewards. The Akkadian grinned to himself as he imagined the reward. He had worked for the sorceress before, eight who had rivalled or displeased her in the past had fallen to his blades and three or four times that number in guards or henchmen of his targets. Despite being the most thoroughly evil bitch he knew the Sorceress always paid promptly without haggling and the rewards he could expect didn't end with mere gold and jewels.

The witch was rumoured to be over two hundred years old, but the assassin could attest that her body in every respect reflected barely a tenth of that. For a killing successfully completed he could expect that the Sorceress's body would be part of the reward, for a night at least. Utterly depraved, there was barely a sexual act at which she not superbly skilled in. A night with the twisted beauty left the Akkadian more cut, bruised and exhausted than a hard fought battle.

He smelt her presence before he heard her approach although his hearing was the keenest of his senses. A rich exotic musk that made his cock stiffen from the memories associated with it was suddenly all around him in the shadowy alley.

"So, it is to be Trimon?" The Akkadian said quietly without turning around.