The True Oracle Ch. 02

He sighed in response, settling hands to her shoulders, her head. Adastriana moaned softly, her mouth emitting wet suckling sounds that just reached his ears and ignited the bonfire of his libido. As his cock thickened, the zantrist took him deep, engulfing the stiffening tube of flesh within a cocoon of sucking, caressing warmth.

"Gods," he murmured, shifting on his feet to remain standing.

But then Adastriana released him and stood, her mouth wet and glistening. A fierce look burned in her eyes as she took the knife and handkerchief from the table, then pushed Gavin back. Her lover eased himself to the floor, fierce erection jutting upward, then groaned as Adastriana impaled herself, straddling his hips.

She stared into Gavin's eyes, even as her own began to turn cloudy. "See what I see," she breathed heatedly. "Know what I know."

Gavin nodded, then lifted up enough so that he cradled Adastriana in his arms. His cock pulsed and throbbed within the woman's massaging depths. His hands roamed across her back, from buttocks to neck.

"Show me."

Adastriana stared back, and her eyes glossed over with the now-familiar radiant sheen of cloudy-white hue. She tilted her head back, clutching the handkerchief in one hand, the knife in the other, and hugged herself close against the knight.

The vision began.

* * * *

Images, thoughts, feelings . . . they were many and confusing, none of them complete, and all of them assaulting him at once. Gavin felt as if he had been drawn into a maelstrom of some kind, with wind, water, fire and earth whipping about him, assaulting from all sides. He struggled to resist the onslaught, holding onto Adastriana who, he realized with a start, was no longer with him.

Abruptly, however, the storm vanished, replaced by a chilling calm. Gavin found himself within a long corridor, framed by pillars on either side, the floor gilded and inset with gleaming marble.

A palace? Gavin thought.

He stepped forward, looking around, seeing not a soul. The realization came upon him that his footfalls, while normally very light by practice, made no sound whatsoever.

Well, of course, he chastised himself. This is a vision. It's not real.

Suddenly, however, sound seemed to flood into the hall. The cadence of numerous booted feet marching in tandem came to him, and Gavin turned about just as two ranks of guardsmen in gleaming silver armor, rifles held against shoulders, marched toward him. Between their ranks was a stunning young woman with light, chestnut-colored hair and a voluptuous frame barely concealed by red-stained leathers. Her arms sported the same basic dark swirling tattoos Gavin had seen on every zantrist disciple.

He jumped back to get out of the way on reflex, but he need not have bothered. None of the guards looked his way, nor did the woman. After a brief moment of reflection, Gavin chastised himself yet again.

I am not here. This is just a vision . . . one that feels like a memory.

As the woman passed, Gavin could see at the woman's waist lay a very familiar-looking blade within a sheath, and tucked into the top of her bodice, like a petaled flower, was a silken cloth.

The knife, the handkerchief, he realized. But where's the book?

At the far end of the corridor, the guardsmen stopped and fanned out, standing six abreast to either side of the massive double doors gilded impressively in golden scrollwork. The zantrist woman took a moment to compose herself, and Gavin found that he now stood inexplicably beside her. The woman smiled, looking excited, proud.

With nary a sound, the great doors opened inward, revealing a circular chamber with a simple wooden throne - little more than a high-backed chair, seated upon a three-step dais. Within the chair sat a blonde-haired woman clad in a shimmering, transparent white robe, one leg crossed over the other.

The zantrist woman smiled broadly, as if greeting a dear friend. "Your Truthfulness," she said, effecting a deep bow. She straightened and continued: "This is a glorious day."

The blonde woman - she was older than the voluptuous brunette, yet no less attractive - nodded with a smile. "It is indeed. Thirteen years have come and gone. The Gods have chosen my successor."

The blonde stood and descended the throne. She reached for the brunette, and the woman clasped hands. "Welcome, Onamara."

The brunette's eyes dipped. "Thank you, Lady Tannamille. I am honored to follow in your auspicious wake."

Tannamille cocked her head with a smile, looking over the younger woman's fine form. She caressed Onamara's cheek with the backs of her fingers, which then trailed down the strong, pale neck to the woman's abundant breasts. Onamara's lips parted at the touch. She lifted Tannamille's other hand to kiss it.

"There is, of course, the matter of the ritual," Tannamille prompted.

The brunette's cheeks colored slightly. "I am ready to begin, my mistress."

The blonde woman smiled, but to Gavin, it seemed the expression was tinged with the steadily growing hint of malevolence. "I see no reason to delay," she said, stepping back. She raised her hands and clapped twice loudly above her head.

In an instant, a hidden door to one side of the circular room opened, through which a quartet of muscular men clad only in loincloths appeared, pushing a broad, low bed across the floor. Upon the singular mattress sat only a pair of pillows. Leading the bed to the floor, the men quickly retreated, leaving the two women alone.

Hand in hand, Tannamille the True Oracle and Onamara, her successor, approached the mattress. The older woman paused a few paces away and waited for the brunette to stop and turn. With a casual shrug, the transparent white robe slipped from Tannamille's shoulders to the floor.

Onamara smiled with approval, taking in the mature woman's firm body, her fine skin, the trimmed thatch of dark golden curls above her sex. The blush of arousal was plainly evident upon her face.

Reaching up, Onamara undid the clasp of her top and let it slip away. The handkerchief tucked within the brassiere fluttered like a feather to the floor. The she eased the lower garment from her hips, sliding it and the knife attached down her shapely, strong legs. As naked as her mistress, Onamara stood proudly, offering herself to the woman she - indeed, all of the Seven Sovereignties - considered a mortal goddess.

"Beautiful," Tannamille whispered, before stepping forward and cupping the brunette's face. The women kissed heatedly, sucking one another's lips, tasting each other's breath as they sighed.

The women moved to the bed, where they stood upon their knees as the kisses became more passionate. Hands roamed; fingers teased soft flesh, leaving wakes of awakened nerves. Nipples stiffened. Labia moistened. The great chamber echoed softly with the murmurs of impending sexual fulfillment.

Onamara lay back upon the bed, a sultry smile inviting Tannamille to position herself on top. The blonde did so readily, straddling the younger woman's comely face as she moved to poise herself above the brunette's eagerly spread thighs. Onamara's pussy was slick, fleshy, and dark pink, with lips that flared out, splaying open like the petals of an orchid. The bulbous clitoris glistened as it peaked from beneath its fleshy shroud.

"Oh, what a treat," Tannamille murmured before lowering her head to entrap her lover's pussy in a suckling, massaging sheath of oral flesh. At the same time, Onamara dragged her slick tongue up along the older woman's wet lips, before pushing it as deep inside the entrance to Tannamille's sex as it could reach.

Both women moaned as they devoured one another. Bodies writhed. The bed groaned and creaked. Muffled groans and gasps permeated the air.

Gavin watched with interest. He had never been privy to the love play between two women, and had often wondered, from his limited experience, how women could derive any amount of sexual pleasure from one another.

But now he was beginning to understand. And he was humbled.

The mutual oral pleasure continued for quite some time, with the wet smacking of lips and tongues against increasingly sopping vaginal flesh filling the air. The brunette erupted first, grunting beneath Tannamille's body, writhing and arching her back as the older, more experienced woman voraciously devoured her lover's sex.

But then Onamara increased the stakes, and as she was still flushed and panting from her orgasm, she gripped the blonde's firm cheeks and spread them wide before lifting and craning her neck. With a firm jab, the brunette drove her tongue deep into Tannamille's rectum.

The blonde woman gave a primal groan, lifting up and pushing back. She shifted her thighs and hips, giving Onamara better access to her puckered anus. Slack-faced and close to release herself, Tannamille rocked back and forth, using her lover's talents to bring herself closer and closer to the tilting point.

Finally, with a cry, the blonde cried out, raking her nails across Onamara's body, leaving trails of pinkish welts. She grinned with her orgasm, and sighed heavily in satisfaction.

Slowly, languidly, Tannamille drifted down from her orgasmic precipice. Onamara lavished her anus and pussy with affectionate, caressing swipes of her tongue.

Satisfied, Tannamille turned about, swinging her legs and arms until she was poised, face-to-face, above Onamara. The brunette smiled up at her, lips and chin and cheeks glistening.

"I am glad to have pleased you, Tannamille."

The blonde leaned down and kissed her lover deeply, sucking her own flavor from the brunette's lips and tongue. Then she lifted up, gazing down into Onamara's liquid eyes.

"There is one more thing you can do," Tannamille said.

Onamara smiled, smoothing her hands along the older woman's back. "Please, tell me," she said. "Before I take your place and you leave for your home."

Tannamille said nothing. She looked upon the brunette beneath her with a smile that became progressively more contemptuous and predatory.

Too late, Onamara read the malevolence within the Oracle's face, but when she did, she found that the supposedly dismissed male servants had inexplicably reappeared, one at each corner of the bed, and now snatched wrist and ankle, holding them down against the sexually soiled mattress.

The young woman struggled against her constraints, becoming more alarmed and apprehensive with each beat of her anxious heart. "What's going on?" she cried. "What have I done?"

Tannamille ran her hands down Onamara's body with an evil sneer decorating her face. "You have done what you were supposed to do," she said. "Which is, to deliver unto me the power that I need to remain as the True Oracle."

The brunette stared back, plaintive, angry and confused all at the same time. "What do you mean? Am I not to take your place? Is that not what the Gods decreed?"

Tannamille laughed harshly, then slapped her hands to either side of Onamara's face. She stared into the young woman's shimmering, fearful eyes. "The Gods, as a whole, are complacent," she said. "Except for the one I serve: Malefleas, the Dark One, who has granted me the power to take from such as you what I need to remain where I am. I have no wish, after all, to return to a life of pathetic mundanity, not when I can remain here indefinitely."

Onamara stared back in horror. "You . . . you serve the Dark One? But . . . you are the True Oracle . . . ."

The blonde woman grinned evilly. "Yes, I am," she said. "And I will continue being so. You, Onamara, were not brought here to replace me, but rather . . . to replenish me."

The younger woman squirmed and began to protest, but Tannamille lowered herself and pressed her mouth to the brunette's in what could have been seen as a deep, soulful kiss. However, as the union continued, Onamara struggled, kicked, moaned . . . then became progressively less animated.

Her body sagged.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

At last, Tannamille lifted up with a great sigh. Her skin rippled like the waters of a pond after a stone had been hurled within it, revealing the sleek, unmarred skin of youth. For the Oracle, the clock had been turned back. She looked as she had nearly a decade and a half before.

But for the woman beneath her, nothing remained save for a corpse with glassy eyes that stared up at nothing.

As a last act of spiteful cruelty, Tannamille slapped her hand hard across the dead brunette's face, knocking it to the side. Drops of blood danced from Onamara's lifeless lips, sailing through the air to land upon the knife and the handkerchief laying upon the floor.

A soft, hazy glow filled the room, and Tannamille, her guards, the bed, everything faded away, leaving only the ethereal apparition of the dead young woman floating in the air. Gavin approached, looking down upon the poor girl.

A stereophonic conglomeration of voices emanated from the air around him. "She was Onamara, the intended True Oracle. But her story did not end here. It now continues with you, and with Adastriana . . . ."

Gavin listened with a heavy heart as the unearthly voices continued. There was part of him that felt remorse for the dead woman, and another, stronger part that felt a need for revenge. Within his seething heart, a single thought blossomed.

You will not be allowed to escape your judgment, Oracle . . . .

* * * *

Within the large circular hall with its gilded floors and ornate pillars, its grandiose throne made to look like a phoenix with wings spread in flight, Tannamille paced slowly, fidgeting. Though she looked no older than the barest onset of middle age, her furrowed brow brought out the wrinkles of the hidden elderly woman within.

"The hour approaches, Tannamille," came the ominous voice of the Dark One.

She cast a look of annoyance - tinged by fear - to her otherworldly benefactor. The god of deception and cruelty wore the same smug smile upon his face as he had given thirty-nine years previously, when he had first appeared to Tannamille with a promise of keeping her station . . . at the eventual cost of her soul. Since that fateful day, three zantrist women had been sacrificed to him, their youth bestowed upon her each time. Had the zantrists continued with their usual ritual every thirteen years, Tannamille could conceivably live forever and never know the horrors the Dark One would visit upon her.

But this year, the Zantri Elders had not selected a replacement, and therefore a sacrifice, to the dark god Tannamille served. The god who now stood before her, gloating as he anticipated taking her instead.

"And has not yet arrived," she answered acidly.

The Dark One snickered. "Oh, but it will," he said. "Even I cannot challenge the march of time, as much as I would love to do so. But not in your case, of course. I think your selfishness has been served enough."

Tannamille blanched. "Are you saying it is not to happen tonight?"

A chuckle rolled forth from the Dark One's lips. "How am I to know? I am no harbinger of prophecy. Perhaps you should appeal to your god of portents," he said condescendingly. "But . . . oh, that's right; he so rarely sends you divinations anymore. Except when it pertains to your own doom."

The Oracle shrieked in frustration, the pitch of her voice echoing in the chamber. "Possible!" she cried. "Possible doom! No divination is absolute! I will have that zantrist harlot here before the turn of midnight, and you will not have my soul!"

"Oh, I will have it," the Dark One responded with calm surety. "Perhaps not tonight, my little lamb, but then . . . perhaps."

Tannamille seethed, trembling in fear at the possibility that, after merely more than half a century, she might have to pay the price to which she so willingly agreed as an impetuous and avaricious young woman. It seemed to her too short a time to enjoy the status she had come to take for granted.

"I did not come this far to not cheat you yet again," she claimed.

The dark god laughed softly. "The designs of mortals are always so amusing to me," he said, circling her as he spoke. "So sure of your strength of will, you are. So many of you have no grasp of what it truly means to live. You bemoan the inevitability of death and let it consume you. After so many eons, I am still perplexed by that fact. But the truth remains."

He faced her directly, and both his countenance and voice darkened. "You are not immortal. You all die. Every . . . last . . . one of you. It is simply a matter of circumstance, chance, and providence acting in concert. Make no mistake, Tannamille. You will die. And it will be a delicious event when you do."

She was about to retort when the chime sounded, indicating someone at her door. She glanced briefly to the towering portal that divided her chamber from the hall outside. "Report!" she called.

A voice filtered through disguised speakers. "We have captured the knight-gunman. He is being brought to you now."

"What of the woman?" cried the Oracle.

"He claims to have knowledge of her location. He wishes to parlay for his freedom."

A wicked smile crept slowly across Tannamille's face. "Oh, what beautiful irony," she muttered. She glanced to the Dark One. "Not even a knight-gunman is immune to the fear of death."

The man in black remained amused. "It would seem that way," he said. "But you should certainly know by now that not everything is exactly as it seems."

Tannamille huffed and stepped toward the door. "Bring him in!"

* * * *

Standing in readiness in the broad hall outside the Chamber of the Oracle, a dozen figures clad in sterling armor and hefting rifles awaited the approach of the prisoner. Though well-trained and outfitted with the ultimate gear, even they had to admit to some level of trepidation when it came to facing a knight-gunman.

At the far end of the corridor, a door opened. The man himself appeared, clad in his distinctive armor, wrists shackled before him. A single armored guard marched beside him, one hand upon a rifle, the other upon the knight-gunman's elbow. Their matched footfalls echoed within the hall.

As the knight was brought closer, the waiting guards fanned out, forming a circle which enclosed the prisoner and the guard which escorted him. Both stopped.

"Has the prisoner been searched?" asked the lieutenant of the Oracle's detail.

Silently, the escorting guard held up the knight-gunman's massive pistol.

The lieutenant smiled thinly. But then his eyes drifted down Gavin's armored body, noticing the hilt of a knife within its sheath at the man's right calf. "Why did you not take his blade?"

"Because I still need it," Gavin replied, before bursting into action.

With a jerk of his hands, the shackles were sundered, casting steel rings that flew through the air. In the same moment, the knight-gunman snatched both his pistol and the rifle from the escort while shoving the armored figure aside. Then he began firing.

The thunderous eruptions of his weapon filled the room. Five men, one after the other, were sent hurtling back, fatal wounds driving through their chests. Even as they still tumbled across the polished floor, Gavin tossed aside the pistol and opened fire with the rifle.

Chaos reigned. The armored guards cried out as more of them were brought down. Gavin moved swiftly and with superhuman poise, evading the attacks of his enemies. Bullets lanced through the air where he had been less than a heartbeat before. He pivoted, ducked, leapt, cutting down his foes. When the ammunition in the rifle ran out, he darted to close quarters, engaging a final trio of the Oracle's detail with his wrist blades.