The action lasted barely twenty seconds and as he dismounted, the leader of the brigands appeared in the doorway of the coach, a wicked looking dagger clenched between his bared teeth, his fingers desperately trying to drag up and fasten his breeches as he surveyed the amazing carnage.
With casual, unconscious skill, Vulkan drew and threw his heavy dirk in one fluid motion, so that it appeared as if by magic with a solid thud, buried up to the hilt in the bandit's chest. The luckless recipient blew out his final breath in sad grunt of surprise before slowly pitching out on to the grass beneath.
Vulkan clambered up into the coach in time to see the single female occupant drawing her voluminous skirts back down over a pair of extremely shapely thighs. However, not before he had seen the succulent lips of her recently vacated vulva pouting invitingly and glistening with the sheen of the now dead rapist's jism.
"I am in your debt My Lord," the woman gushed somewhat breathlessly, "my cousin, The King, will richly reward you for your valour this day." She quickly finished fluffing her skirts and calmly seated herself on one of the plushly upholstered benches.
Vulkan fought desperately to control his impulses. The unexpected combat had driven him half mad with blood lust. In addition, the sight of the noblewoman's cunt dripping with love juice and the heady smell of sex within the tiny confines of the coach were overpowering to his highly attuned senses.