Not Without a Price

The battle had raged on for weeks, an exhausting stalemate between good and evil. A battle replete with spell-casting and traditional weapons made this a true test of resiliency and skill mastery. Only in recent days had the tide turned, and the Order was on the cusp of repelling the vile Badland Trolls’ offensive. It was a most important battle, for either side a decisive victory in the war for territory.

Just behind the front line, First Leader Sinclare watched the Trolls’ formation crumble. “How long has it been since we last slept?” he asked.

At his side, First Deputy Aryn sighed. “Three fortnights, perhaps more.”

Sinclare placed his arm around her waist. “How long since we have shared a bed?”

“Far too long,” she said. “Your leadership in this battle was without error. You have reaffirmed your regiments’ loyalty.” She drew in closer and kissed his cheek. “…and your Deputy’s affection.”

“For centuries I have valued that above any military victory,” Sinclare said proudly. “Forgive me, I must prepare the final attack.” They exchanged knowing glances before he left her side.

Mere seconds later, a Troll appeared before her, a diminutive, sickly runt hardly fit for the rigors of combat. Yet before anyone could subdue him, he stared daggers at Aryn and bleated his incantation. “Inkal mivrunda huma bas flatel!” Fortunately, his invisibility cloak and the spell had weakened him enough that a nearby master sorceress set him ablaze with the most basic of spells. In the distance the Trolls began a full retreat.

By the time the Troll had disintegrated the Deputy was already feeling ill. The sorceress approached her and watched Aryn’s bare stomach lurch outward, pushing her leather weapons belt down. A hush spread throughout the regiment. Panicked, the sorceress shouted, “First Leader! The Deputy has been attacked!”

Aryn found herself unable to react as her breasts swelled within her leather brassiere. Her backside followed, testing her skirt of armor.

Sinclare came running through the army to meet them. Aryn’s swelling had increased; the metal clasps on her skirt were failing and her brassiere afforded her breasts little modesty. Some men averted their eyes out of respect for their Deputy. “What has happened?” Sinclare asked.

“It was a Troll,” the sorceress reported. Aryn’s legs widened, proving to be too much for the armor. “He appeared after you left.”

“How did he get through?” Sinclare demanded. The leather belt succumbed to Aryn’s increasing stomach, three feet wide and growing.

“He was invisible. Highly skilled.” The sorceress hesitated. “More so than I.”

Aryn’s arms and legs tripled their width. Her breasts burst free from the brassiere, challenging her stomach for dominance. Her slender warrior’s figure had become an absurd, unclothed mockery.

Sinclare breathed heavily. “Can you reverse it?”

Aryn grew rounder and taller, absorbing the last traces of her waistline, then her arms and legs. Her breasts, however, maintained their shape.

“I know no spell capable of this,” the sorceress admitted, defeated. “Nor anything to reverse it.”

The Deputy’s width surpassed ten feet. The perimeter of her form expanded beyond her hands and feet, recessing them into divots. Her neck and head soon followed suit. A breeze rolled her forward, propping her up on her breasts.

“We must take her home! Surely you can research a counterspell once this stops.”

“There is no time,” the sorceress said. “She will surely perish from the effects of this spell.”

“Can you do anything?”

“Yes.” Fixing her gaze on Aryn, she muttered, “Inkal porta sphera tysruppar geoto!”

Aryn began turning a dark gray, the color spreading and consuming her as she became a 20-foot ball of solid stone.

Sinclare approached his mistress, feeling the rough, cold surface of her bosom. Above he could see her blank face frozen in time, her eyes lacking any trace of life. “This was your only option?”

“She is safe,” the sorceress said, visibly weakened from casting the spell..

“Spells this powerful… are not very temporary.” He looked back at the sorceress. “How long?”

“Two centuries,” the sorceress confessed. “It will take much time to research a counterspell. I only hope two centuries is enough.”

Sinclare was silent.

“Leader, we must return her home immediately, lest the Trolls attempt to steal and desecrate her.”

He nodded, and many men gathered beside their stricken Deputy and heaved her forward to take her home.

Sinclare would have to wait a long time to share his bed with Aryn again. His victory had not come without a price.