A Pony Slave
She stands erect and tall - erect because her stringent harness and bit prevent anything else, and tall because the curiously shaped hoof boots hold her feet within them so that she stands almost on the tips of her toes. The boots stretch up to mid thigh, keeping her legs stiff and at the same time protecting them from being scratched by coarse grasses or stray fingers of underbrush.
Her waist has been compressed by a broad band of leather that her masters call a girth, but which acts also as a form of corset, reaching from her hips to just beneath her full breasts. Thinner straps stretch up from the top of this girth to pass over her shoulders, connecting by metal links as they do so to a high and stiff leather collar that forces her to keep her chin held high.
From these straps, other straps extend, forming adjustable circles about the base of her breasts against her chest and drawn tight so that her breasts are forced outwards, presenting the engorged nipples, with their rings and tiny bells, in full availability to any man who wants to handle them. Most men will, she knows, and many already have, but she is helpless to prevent this and angry that sometimes their touch excites her more base instincts.
They may touch, but no more however, at least not unless they are either her masters or have the permission of her masters, usually given only after a handful of bronze telts has passed between them. Meanwhile, from the lower edge of her girth, two further thin straps pass downwards to join between her thighs with a narrow leather triangle which covers her permanently hairless sex. A small hole in this permits her to relieve her bladder, which she must do standing up, splashing the ground between her splayed legs whilst trying not to betray the humiliation which she suffers during this.
Her arms have been laced into leather sleeves that terminate in tight mittens, keeping her hands balled into useless fists, whilst small metal clips keep her wrists fastened close to her hips, adding to her helplessness even more.
Behind the strapping of her bridle her face has been stained, so that now, with its dappling and narrow white blaze that stretches down her nose, she knows it appears almost more equine than human, with the cruel bit keeping her mouth drawn back and exposing her white teeth framed between full lips. She cannot speak like this and so she makes no attempt at any other noise, for she knows that her best efforts will produce only a series of snorts and grunts that merely add to the animal effect that her captors have perfected.
Her head has been shaved to either side, but they have left a central strip that now flows back and down between her shoulder blades, woven with several lengths of coloured cloth to resemble a mane. When she moves, she feels it tantalising her bare flesh as she hears the sullen tinkling of her nipple bells as they respond to even the slightest stimulation.
She is a human pony girl slave. She will draw the cart, she will obey the whip. At night she will open her legs to whichever male is fortunate enough to possess her.
She is pony girl Flix, Princess Flix as the obscene monster Fulgrim has now named her. In Karliean Flix is slang for breasts, she knows, and so the handlers know her as Princess Tits.
Princess Tits, slave pony girl.
Once she was the Lady Corinna and now she is Princess Tits.
A small tear forms in the corner of one eye as she stands beneath the trees, whilst in the west the sun slowly sinks towards the peaks of the mountains.
The Story So Far
Lady Corinna - daughter of Lundt, the Lord Protector of Illeum, the largest and most influential country of the Northern Continent. Young, beautiful, married to the son of a neighbouring ruler and then abducted by the aristocratic mercenary Savatch to further the political ambitions of her step-uncle and the villainous Fulgrim of Ernsdt, and eventually sent by her father to become Warden of the Castle of Garassotta in the farthest north eastern reaches of Illeum. Her sham marriage is as good as over and Savatch is now her captain, lover and sometime master in their games of slavery.
Lady Corinna Orleanna, once an innocent virgin bride, is now constantly fighting against her darker urges and her need to be dominated and enslaved by her one time kidnapper. Innocent Corinna is innocent no more.
Innocent Corinna is a lady no more.
Innocent Corinna is now a slave again for real, a human pony slave of the Karliean bandit traders and their ally, the murderous psychopathic Vorsan Lord Fulgrim, escaped from Lady Dorothea’s castle at Varragol, where he was imprisoned after his first failed attempt to seize power. Now, with Dorothea a prisoner and her devoted black Amazonian servant Agana dead at his hands, Fulgrim leads a Vorsan army that has infiltrated the Vaal lands to the east of Illeum and which is headed for Garassotta in a determined attempt to seize the castle and thereby control of one of the key areas of Illeum itself.
Having instigated a second attempt to kidnap Corinna and to kill Savatch at the same time, Fulgrim believes that the real Corinna and her master/lover are both now dead following the bungling efforts of his hired assassins and that Corinna - now calling herself Demila and renamed Flix by her new Karliean masters - is only a doppelganger for the late aristocrat.
Or does he? Corinna cannot be sure, but she does know that his knowing her true identity will make little difference either way. For his plan to work, as long as the garrison at Garassotta believes that Fulgrim holds the real Corinna, they must surely surrender the castle to him.
Meanwhile, Savatch learns of Fulgrim’s treachery from Dorothea’s maid, Moxie, and though he is still recovering from his injuries, together with the Yslandic warrior women, Alanna and Jekka and a small detachment of Illean troopers, he is determined to rescue his lover and thwart Fulgrim’s ambitions. Unfortunately, their first attempt ends in failure, for the slave pony girl Jekka rescues is not Corinna at all and now Fulgrim and his men have been alerted and a second attempt will surely not prove so simple.
Unaware of all this, the hapless and helpless Corinna - now pony girl Flix - struggles to settle into her new role as a beast of burden and sexual plaything for Fulgrim, his soldiers and his Karliean allies as they begin their march northwards.
Between two hills, a valley, a cleft of moisture cut into an otherwise arid and barren landscape, a haven for the few travellers who still ventured along the ancient trader road to the east of the mountain spine that bisected the continent south to north.
Once there had been farms, orchards, even vineyards, spreading away across the slopes in every direction, further even than the eye could see, but after the Great Shift, as historians referred to it, the rains had come less and less often, the greenery had withered, shrivelled and died and the once fertile earth had dusted to a powder that supported nothing more than the coarse brown grass and a few scraggy wisps of what could be described as bushes only by the most generous botanists.
Only here, amidst the small cluster of stone and mud dwellings that rejoiced in the name of Mascolum, where a small spring bubbled to the surface and ran for perhaps half a mile before disappearing below ground again, only here was there life - grass that was green and grazed by a small herd of plains cattle, two groves of fruit trees, a small field of corn and several strips of vegetables tended by the womenfolk, though at this late hour, with the sun already dipping towards the horizon, there was little sign of such industry and, but for two children and a small dog running between the buildings on the furthest edge of the village, the entire place might have been considered deserted.
Approaching over a slight rise to the south, Moxie studied the scene, her eyes narrowing as she picked out the gibbet, pillory and whipping post set in the circular clearing in the centre of the village. She reined her mount to a halt and turned in the saddle to address her companion. The page, Pester, raised his eyes to peer up at her, his sweat stained features betraying his exhaustion, the smeared grime on his face now almost as ingrained as the dirt on his once white tunic.
‘Are we going to rest now, mistress?’ His voice was high, falsetto, both childlike and feminine, a permanent reminder of his emasculation that was also evidenced beneath the dirt that now all but masked his face. Moxie shook her head, not in refusal, but in resignation.
‘You whine worse than a four-year-old little girl, no-balls,’ she sighed. ‘Moan, moan, moan, that’s all you ever do.’
‘And walk, walk, walk,’ Pester retorted, pouting sulkily. ‘It’s all right for you, playing the warrior princess up there on your bloody horse - I must have walked across the whole damned world ten times over since we started this. Why can’t we just leave this whole thing to Savatch and his killer witch friends?’
‘Because,’ Moxie replied, levelly, ‘I say not.’
‘Well, he was pretty definite when he said they didn’t want you along with them,’ Pester muttered. ‘They know it takes more than a sword and a suit of leather armour to make a true warrior woman.’
‘Watch your tongue, you ball-less little worm!’ Moxie snapped, her hand going to the hilt of the sword she wore slung at her hip. ‘Another word from you and I’ll make a true woman out of you, though I doubt anything could ever make you into a warrior.
‘I may be only a maid, but Lady Dorothea has been good to me and wherever Lady Corinna is, my Lady will not be far away, I pray.’
‘And then you’ll have your slippery tongue back in her snatch again, which is all that concerns you, I know,’ Pester said, and immediately regretted his rashness. Moxie’s sword swept through the air, the blade landing flat across his unprotected shoulder, sending him sprawling into the dust. Her horse half reared and he barely managed to squirm clear of the dancing hooves.
‘That’s it!’ Moxie snarled, apparently unconcerned at how near he had come to being trampled. She jumped down from the saddle and grasped Pester by the leather collar she had kept locked about his throat since they had first fled from Castle Varragol.
‘No, please!’ the effeminate page squealed. ‘Please, no - not that, I beg you!’ Moxie hesitated for a few seconds and then released her grip on him.
‘No, maybe not,’ she said, quietly. ‘That sort of butchery is for true butchers like Fulgrim only. Besides,’ she added, smiling slyly, ‘we’ve already shown there are ways of making a woman out of you and still keep that pathetic little worm of yours put to use from time to time.’
At least, Corinna thought grimly, she was in no imminent danger of gaining any excess weight. The handlers had kept the long column of pony slaves moving from just after dawn until now, just before dusk, with only a handful of water breaks during the day and one longer rest during which they had all been fed a few handfuls of some cold and stodgy grain based preparation that had been pressed into their mouths during the one welcome release from the otherwise ever present bits.
The small carts each human pony pulled were not terribly heavy, but they seemed to have gained weight with every passing hour and the terrain over which they moved was hard and uneven, for the road north through the Vaals was little used nowadays and had probably never been maintained properly, even during its more popular days.
Standing now between the shafts, Corinna shifted her weight from foot to foot, waiting patiently for her turn to be released and led across to the area beneath the almost leafless trees that had been selected as a makeshift overnight corral for the exhausted human beasts of burden. Patient, she thought, sighing resignedly. What else could she be?
The Karliean pony masters knew their trade well and Corinna, like all her similarly unfortunate companions, was as helpless as she knew she was bizarre, the revealing harness contraption holding her exactly as they wanted her to appear - almost naked, silent, unable to do anything but walk on when she was given the order, bending her sun-bronzed back to her toil and plodding steadily in the awful hoof boots that had been laced and locked onto her feet and legs.
‘Ah, Princess Flix.’ The speaker was one of the more senior Karliean handlers - her original trainer, the Colrasian Attak’u, had been killed, she had been told by Fulgrim himself - and his name was Halit, a tall, dark-haired individual with a pronounced nose and high cheekbones. He reached out one hand, stretching long bony fingers to grasp her heavy left breast where it bulged out through the tight leather strap that encircled it close to her chest.
‘Princess Tits indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘And what fine tits they are, too. Well, I think I shall sample their succulence this night and see if you live up to your appearance.’ He spoke Illean, which was unsurprising, for Illean was the lingua franca of most of the countries that bordered Illeum itself, but what did surprise Corinna was his fluency and almost total lack of accent. Halit, she guessed, had probably spent a good few years in her native country and had possibly even received a good education there. Why he had chosen to become involved with the slave traders of his own country she did not know, but then he was a man and men were apt to do many strange things.
‘You are one damned fine pony woman, Princess Tits,’ he chuckled, bending beside her to release the buckles that held her to the cart shaft on that side. ‘Good long, strong legs, strong hips and a good back.’ He patted her between her shoulders and then ran his hand down the long mane of dark hair that was all that now remained flowing from the centre of her scalp.
‘Perhaps,’ he mused, his fingers trailing down through the thick tresses, ‘when all this is over I shall ask Gul to name a price for you. Maybe in time we can give you a few pretty foals to suckle on those beautiful teats, eh? Would you like that, Tits?’
Corinna strove to suppress the shudder that was her immediate reaction to this prospect. There was little - nothing in fact - she could do about it if she did remain a prisoner of these ruthless people, she knew, but for the moment there were more immediate things to concern her, not least the fact that she could already be pregnant, either by the captured bandit youth Sprig, or even by Pecon, the mercenary trader who had abducted her after the assassination attempt on herself and Savatch.
‘You’re certainly a fine specimen, Tits,’ Halit grinned, moving around in front of her to attend to the harness on the other side. ‘And a bit special at the moment, so I hear tell. Seems you look a bit like the daughter of the Protector of Illeum, eh? Now, isn’t that something?
‘I wonder how a grand lady like that would feel if she were in your hooves right now though, eh? Probably wouldn’t handle it at all well, if you ask me. Probably be crying her aristocratic little eyes out and falling down in a dead faint.’ He released the right hand shackle and reached up to cup Corinna’s breasts in his two hands. The tiny nipple bells clinked hollowly.
‘Step forward,’ he commanded her, quietly, pulling her heavy globes to emphasise the instruction. Slowly, Corinna obeyed, eyeing him steadily from beneath hooded lids, fighting to keep her features impassive, though his touch was sending a succession of fiery darts down through and into her lower stomach.
‘Good girl,’ he breathed. His own expression was a mixture of wanting and mockery, wanting her very badly now, Corinna knew, yet at the same time disdainful of her helplessness and knowing that he could simply throw her down, remove the leather triangle from between her legs and simply take her on the spot, as she’d seen happen with other handlers and other girls throughout her brief period of training.
‘You want it too, don’t you, pony slut,’ he chuckled. His fingers and thumbs squeezed her soft flesh and Corinna barely stifled a gasp. ‘Yes, I can see it in those beautiful eyes, Princess Tits,’ he said. ‘The Lord Fulgrim gets first rights with you, so my master tells me, but I suspect he may have other things on his mind this night.
‘Come, my little pony, let’s get you settled for the moment.’ Halit released his grip and reached instead for the short lead rein that hung from the ring to the right side of Corinna’s bit. He gave it a short tug, indicating for her to turn right and began leading her to join the other slaves among the trees.
‘I’ll let them feed you and wash you down first, I think,’ he continued, wrinkling his nose. ‘Then, when you’ve rested a while and smell a bit sweeter, if his lordship hasn’t claimed you for the night, then I most certainly will.’
Another pony girl slave - a pony woman, to be more accurate, for she is far more mature than poor Corinna/Flix, approaching her middle years, though still handsome, with a firm figured body and finely chiselled, aristocratic features, though these are distorted by the cruel bit gag she is forced to wear.
Her shaven head has a band of stubbly hair running across from front to back, re-growth from where her skull was completely shaven some days previously, although the sides have since been shorn again. The stubble will eventually grow into a mane, as dark as Corinna’s, but naturally so and not dyed as camouflage of her identity.
Apart from her current near hairless state, the pony woman slave is adorned as Corinna now is, indeed as all of the pony slaves are. Rings hang from her pierced nipples, supporting bells that sound at the slightest movement. Her new masters delight in reminding their charges of their lowly status and she detests the mocking tinkle that accompanies her progress.
She stands now at the end of a long day. Like Corinna - like several hundred fellow sufferers - she has been between the shafts, hauling a cart, the contents of which are not known to her, nor are ever likely to be, for it is not for a pony slave to know her purpose other than that she is a beast of burden and a sexual possession to be used at the whims of those who own and control her now.
She has been still further abased, for now her once lightly tanned skin has been stained a much darker brown and the white blaze the Colrasian slave woman painted down her face stands out against this most starkly.
They have not yet allowed her to see an image of her new self, for they know that she knows the spectacle she now presents. In her bridle and harness, perched on her elevated hooves, her breasts heaving from her breathing exertions, she is a helpless and pitiful creature, a captive animal being trained to serve and obey without question.
They have not even given her a pretty name, for she is now called Gol. In Karliean the word is a vulgarism for a woman’s sex, or vagina. It amused Lord Fulgrim, her former prisoner, to name her so, to whip her, to give her to the common soldiery of his Vorsan army.
Gol the pony.
She was once the Lady Dorothea of Varragol, a member of the ruling family of Illeum. Now she is simply Pony Cunt and soon they will come for her and there will be little rest this night...
Demila crouched motionless in the corner of the room, gazing out at the proceedings through the small eye openings in the tightly laced slave hood in which Pecon had now kept her for almost three days. He had also gagged her upon arrival in the village and her mouth bulged around the tightly wadded leather plug, now soaking wet from her spittle.
The slave belt about her waist felt painfully tight - Pecon had drawn it in another two notches - and her wrist cuffs had been secured to the two rings at the back, rather than those at her hips, which was more normal for when they were travelling, but her master had seemed determined to show her off to her best advantage to these people and added cuffs above her elbows, which he drew together with a short, three linked chain, so her shoulders were pulled far back and her breasts thrust out provocatively.
The village men had eyed her appreciatively as they rode into the centre of the small cluster of buildings, Pecon on his black stallion, she seated astride the saddle of a bay mare, her ankles secured together beneath the placid animal’s belly to prevent her from slipping off, the two pack mules plodding disinterestedly at the rear. She had shivered in the late afternoon air, not from cold, but from a sudden dread that he intended to sell her, for a sale meant a new master and men who bought girls out in these wilds were seldom inclined to treat them any better than their animals and frequently treated them worse.
However, as he untied her ankles and lifted her down from the saddle, Pecon had grinned at her reassuringly and whispered into her ear.
‘Bear up, little one,’ he told her. ‘I need you to make a good impression on these yokels, whilst I barter to see just what they are offering today. You are my example of the quality I seek and mayhap I’ll be able to bargain them down to the roots if they have anything worth my attention.’
There was not much to the village, Demila saw, just a dozen or so rude cottages that were little more than mud huts and one larger building, into which Pecon led her. Inside, she saw several men assembled, mostly sitting cross-legged around the walls, some smoking pipes, some chewing, all holding flagons and flasks, from which they periodically swigged. This was, she realised, a communal meeting hall and also a sheltered convenience in which to conduct business.
An older man, his grey hair ragged about his shoulders, his tunic and leggings much the worse for wear, stood up as they entered, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and staggered towards them uncertainly.
‘Master Pecon!’ he exclaimed, raising his right hand level with his shoulder in salutation. ‘Well, damn my eyes if it isn’t you. How keep you and what brings you to our humble village?’
‘I keep well, Farridan, you old drunkard,’ Pecon chuckled, returning the salute, ‘and I come here because I heard tale that you might have some suitable wares for sale.’
‘Suitable?’ Farridan laughed out loud, throwing back his head and opening his mouth to reveal a set of yellowing stumps. ‘Why, everything we have is always suitable, you know that.’
‘Aye, but suitable for what?’ Pecon retorted, still smiling. He jerked a thumb towards Demila. ‘As suitable as this, do you think?’ Farridan paused, letting his gaze roam up and down Demila’s naked body in a way that sent a shiver up and down her spine.
‘Maybe,’ he said, nodding slowly, ‘though I’ll grant you she’s a tasty little morsel. But does she fuck as good as she looks, eh?’ he roared with laughter again and this time several of the other men joined in. Pecon’s smile did not falter.
‘What would you think?’ he said. ‘I’ve kept her these many days now and refused two good offers on her.’
‘Then she’s a rabbit, I’d say,’ Farridan sniggered. He peered even closer at Demila, struggling to focus his glazed eyes. ‘Good offers, you say? Hmmm, and you choose to keep her for yourself. But how about a good offer for her use for just the one night?’ A cold fist formed inside Demila’s stomach and it was all she could do to control a bladder that felt suddenly very weak.
‘I think not, you rogue,’ Pecon replied, coolly. ‘I’ll share my bread and wine with any man, you included, but my personal sheath remains just that, until or unless I find a better option and choose to dispose of her.’ He took Demila’s arm and guided her into the corner, motioning for her to squat, which she did. Meanwhile, one of the other men had produced a small flagon, which he passed to Farridan, who in turn offered it to Pecon.
‘My thanks for your hospitality, Farridan of Mascolum,’ Pecon intoned, taking it with the proper formality that was required, even here in this near abandoned wilderness. ‘May your roof forever keep the rains at bay,’ he added, raising the flagon in a toast. This brought another titter of amusement from the assembly and Demila realised that rain was probably a very infrequent visitor to this village.
She also realised, as the conversation developed between her master and the village head man that whilst Pecon may not have been here for some time, in the past he had come to the place frequently and was well known to the villagers. Looking around the rough faces, and at the tales of treachery that were being discussed so easily among them all, she also realised that Pecon must command considerable respect from his hosts, for they were several to his one and could easily have overpowered him, seizing both his gold and his possessions, herself included.
Even the slaves they were offering for sale, she learned, had been stolen from a small party of travelling slavers upon whom a band of the village men had fallen one night a week since, killing two of their number and capturing the third, who was about to learn, first hand, the lot of a slave.
Food was brought in by three shabby looking village women and laid on platters for the men to help themselves, but nothing was brought for Demila, who was left to chew on her gag and try to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. This came as no surprise to her, for in this sort of rural society a slave’s comforts came very low on any list of priorities and Pecon would not want to betray any sign of a weakness towards her.
‘Well then Farridan, my friend,’ Pecon declared, having worked his way through two large foul legs and a large chunk of some darker meat, ‘how about you show me something you think might interest me?’ The head man, still gnawing at a bone, nodded, first to Pecon and then to two of the men to his left, who immediately rose and left the hall. The rest continued to eat in near silence.
A few minutes later the two men returned, each leading a belted and cuffed slave girl, naked but for their restraints and, Demila noted, their faces unencumbered by slave hoods. The first girl was very dark, not quite black, but obviously with a lot of Colrasian blood in her. She stood tall and slim, with long, well muscled legs, generous breasts that stood out with the pertinence of youth. She had a high forehead and long black hair, held back from her face and hanging down between her shoulders in a thick braid.
Demila realised immediately that this was a very valuable slave; one who would fetch many telts in the city markets of Illeum, where such females were prized highly, both for their high-cheeked beauty and for their incredible strength and stamina. However, it was the second girl who took her attention, for here was a slave of an even greater pedigree.
The girl was also young, perhaps two years younger than her dark counterpart, and equally as tall, but there, apart from the length of her legs, the similarities ended. Where the dark girl’s limbs displayed sinewy strength, the second girl’s arms and legs were slender and very feminine and her breasts seemed to have hardly developed at all, just two small mounds from which pert nipples projected like twin fingers.
Her face was elfin, her nose slender, her wide eyes glittering like blue ice, whilst her hair, left to hang free, cascaded in white-blonde tresses down over her shoulders and back, reaching almost to her knees. Hers was an ethereal beauty the like of which Demila had seldom ever seen before and never in a slave; Pecon, she saw, was also impressed, although he was striving not to show his eagerness. Demila’s heart gave a small lurch.
‘By the gods, Farridan!’ Pecon exclaimed, at last. ‘What do you mean by offering me such as this?’ He jabbed a finger on the end of an extended right arm, indicating the blonde girl. ‘Are you out of your mind, man?’
‘You don’t find her beautiful then, Master Pecon?’ Farridan replied slyly, narrowing his eyes. ‘Such as she must be worth hundreds of telts in the right place, surely?’
‘Or a man’s death - and a very unpleasant death at that,’ Pecon growled back. ‘In all the hells, Farridan, where would you suggest I sell a wench like that?’
‘Erisroth, perhaps?’ Farridan suggested. ‘Those mad bastard Karlieans will buy anything, so I hear.’
‘They’d not waste good silver to turn her into one of their pony women,’ Pecon retorted. ‘And mad as they are, I’ll wager they’re not that mad. If word got out that someone had enslaved such as she, death would come stalking whoever owned her with a certainty that I’d wager my own life on.’ Pecon’s outburst seemed to shock the villagers and suddenly Demila realised that none of them had the slightest idea as to the origins of this beautiful captive. Pecon, she saw, realised this too, now.
‘You fool, Farridan,’ he hissed. ‘You really don’t know, do you? But then I suppose living in this outback you see so very little of the real world.’
Farridan’s expression was becoming more troubled by the moment, but there was also suspicion in his eyes. ‘What are you telling me, friend Pecon?’ he demanded. ‘Is this some kind of trick to push my price down?’
‘Trick?’ Pecon echoed. ‘It’s no trick, you old fool. I wouldn’t buy this girl, not even if you offered her for a single copper telt. You truly do not understand, do you? The girl means doom to any who try to own her or abuse her.’
‘You’re telling me she’s some kind of witch, is that it?’ Farridan said, looking from the girl to Pecon and then back to the girl again. Pecon shook his head and sighed heavily.
‘A witch would be good, believe me,’ he said. ‘A witch would be far less trouble than what you have here, my friend.’ he nodded to the girl, who had remained erect, calm and impassive throughout. ‘This girl - the gods know where those slavers got her - this girl is an Yslander, probably of noble birth, if I’m any judge, but even if she was from their peasant classes it would matter little.
‘The Yslanders will by now know that she is missing and they will move all the heavens and all the hells to get her back and the gods help anyone they decide is responsible for her plight! Farridan, I wouldn’t have that wench if you gave her to me, neither would I like to be in your boots when her womenfolk come avenging her!’
‘You should try to get some sleep, my friend.’ The wagon’s springs creaked as the tall figure of Vala Valkyr Kirislanna Friggitsdottir, Alanna to her friends, pulled herself up over the tailboard and settled on the layered furs beside the prone figure of Lord Savatch.
‘My head is full of too much,’ Savatch sighed. Alanna peered at him more closely; even by the flickering light of the tallow lantern, the deeply etched lines on his face betrayed how much further he still needed to recover from the near fatal injuries he had received, both from the crossbow quarrel that so nearly pierced his spine and when the runaway wagon plunged into the ravine. Only the river had saved both himself and Corinna from certain death and now his mistress, slave and lover was almost certainly suffering a fate even worse than that.
‘We will get her back.’ Alanna laid a delicately pale hand upon his chest, the long fingers pressing gently and stroking the bare flesh. Savatch looked up into her equally pale eyes and forced himself to smile. That elegantly feminine hand was so deceptive, he knew, for it could kill as quickly and efficiently as it could soothe.
‘Yes, we shall get her back,’ Savatch agreed, ‘and this time we shall kill Fulgrim, as we should have done before.’ He made to rise on one elbow, but a sudden spasm of pain drew an involuntary gasp and he slumped back. ‘Damn him to all the hells!’ he spat, screwing his eyes tightly shut. Alanna stroked his face now, muttering something quiet and indistinct under her breath. A few moments later, his features relaxed again and he opened his eyes.
‘Witch,’ he said softly, but there was a smile on his lips now.
‘I wish that I were,’ Alanna said, shaking her head, her white-blonde mane of hair shimmering in the lamplight. ‘My powers of healing are limited mainly to the relief of pain itself, not the curing of its cause.’ And there are some pains that even these fingers cannot help, she thought to herself.
‘Promise me,’ Savatch said, closing his eyes once more, ‘promise me that if I cannot do it, if my strength or will fails me, promise me that you will kill that evil bastard for me.’
‘I promise,’ Alanna said gravely. ‘For you, for myself, for Corinna and for all humanity’s sake, I shall kill him.’ She let out a low breath that was not quite a sigh. ‘And if I don’t,’ she added, ‘then I know Jekka surely will.’
Jekka.
She had a much longer and more formal name, but few knew it and fewer still ever used it. Like Alanna, she was very tall, taller than many men and slender in an athletic way that was a tribute to her years of training and the hard life style that was the chosen lot of the Yslandic warrior woman. Also like Alanna she was a pale-skinned blonde, an albino but for the ice blue of her eyes, although her long tresses presently glowed a flame red, courtesy of the bottle of dye she now carried in her saddlebag.
‘Time for us to make our move,’ she said. The young Illean soldier, Ceth, who had aided her in the abortive attempt to free Corinna, looked up at her from beyond the small campfire.
‘I am yours to command, lady,’ he said, dutifully. Jekka peered down at him and could not prevent herself from smiling at the earnestness and devotion she saw in his face. She nodded, drawing the long black robe about her.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Yes, I know you are.’ She turned and took a few steps into the darkness beyond the circle illuminated by the flames. ‘Sadly,’ she said, continuing almost under her breath, ‘the sort of service you would really like to give me I can happily live without.’
Towards the centre of the encampment, among the smaller tents of the traders and officers, a much larger canvas lodge had been erected and it was to this that Dorothea found herself being led. Evidently, she thought miserably, as she tottered along behind the uniformed orderly who led her by her bridle rein, Fulgrim was intending to continue her misery again tonight and, to judge from the shadows being thrown against the tent wall by the lanterns within, had gathered something of an audience to witness her further abasement.
Inside the marquee a dozen Vorsan soldiers lined the far sidewall, while four more stood in a knot at one end, behind a heavy post that had clearly just been set into the ground. It was to this that Dorothea’s attention was immediately drawn and her educated eye quickly discerned its terrible purpose.
The stout timber was square in section, perhaps six inches by six inches and stood a little higher than a tall man. In front of it had been placed a square board, an inch or so thick, presumably chosen as a method of adjusting for the height of the intended victim. Towards the top, at approximately the height of a tallish man’s head, two sections of a hinged metal collar stood open and waiting; through the wood of the post at the same height, running from front to back, a hole of some two inches had been bored and, as Dorothea watched, one of the four troopers from behind placed a long, blunted metal spike into this, inserting it so that its tip did not quite project out at the front. On the ground, resting against the back of the post, stood a heavy, short-handled club hammer.
‘Ah, I see pony Cunt has joined us!’ From a small group of officers at the other end of the tented space Fulgrim himself now came forward. He leered at Dorothea and gestured for the orderly to pass him her rein.
‘I imagine you are familiar with our Vorsan execution methods?’ he smirked, nodding towards the waiting post and its attendants. ‘Of course, we use the rope too, especially for common civilian criminals, but the garossette offers so many more possibilities for entertainment. I expect you know it got its name from the fact that it was a former warden of Garassotta who actually designed it? Yes, of course you do, an educated lady such as you are, Gol!
‘The state of Illeum outlawed it, of course, but then Illeum has always considered itself to be so much more civilised than the rest of the world, hasn’t it?’ He said the word with so much hatred that Dorothea automatically recoiled from him, but a tug of her rein quickly brought her face back close to his. Dumbly, she ground her teeth into the hard leather covering of her bit and waited for him to continue.
‘The irony of it is, Gol, my dear,’ he said, ‘that the garossette is really quite a humane method of execution. The neck is shattered in an instant and death is immediate, unlike so many hangings, where the condemned is left to dance at the rope’s end, sometimes for several minutes. However, the garossette also permits a beautiful degree of anticipation, especially when used in creative ways.’ He chuckled and the sound reminded Dorothea of the rusting winch above the well at Varragol.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Fulgrim went on, smirking again as he studied her eyes, ‘the garossette is not for you. Oh no, that would be too quick, Cunt, far too quick indeed. No, you shall suffer as I suffered and for as long as you intended that I should have suffered, had I not bested you, bitch. Before your body finally dies, I shall have destroyed your mind completely, on my oath I shall.
‘However, I have a very special part for you to play in this evening’s proceedings, a very special part indeed. You shall have the honour of assisting a Vorsan soldier to die a true man’s death, Cunt pony, and you will act as a true woman should.’ He laughed and turned back to face his officers, who had all been listening attentively to his tirade.
‘This once fine lady does not appreciate a good cocking, gentlemen, did you know that?’ he roared. ‘No, she prefers a soft girlish tongue in her twat and a full teat in her mouth. Unfortunately, her big-titted bed girl escaped us at Varragol, or you could have seen her tastes for yourselves, but no matter. She’s going to get used to a proper fucking from now on - and lots of proper fucking, for that matter!’
Fulgrim threw back his head and roared with laughter, and his officers and even the troopers dutifully emulated him.
‘Yes, Cunt,’ he grated, suddenly serious once more, ‘you’ll wriggle on the end of more rods than you ever thought it possible for one cunt to take in a lifetime, starting with a very special one in just a few minutes from now.’ he turned again and addressed one of the younger officers.
‘You, Massin,’ he cried, ‘go and tell them to bring the prisoner across. And don’t forget the two little maid girls I selected, either. We want to make sure that Gol’s cunt is nice and wet for the condemned man’s last fuck, don’t we?’
Moxie picked her way carefully back down the reverse side of the ridge, to where Pester stood miserably, his wrists still cuffed to the slave belt she insisted he wear all the time, the fingers of his right hand clutched about the reins of her horse. His thin, feminine tunic offered little protection against the chilling night air and all he now wanted was to huddle up inside a blanket, or even to squat next to a campfire, but the would-be warrior girl apparently had other things on her mind than his creature comforts.
‘Shut up,’ she said tersely, when he began to complain. ‘Just shut up and listen. We can’t stop now, not here. That village down there, I knew I was right to have a bad feeling about it. There are slavers there, I’m sure of it, so we’ll have to go right around it and our best chance is to do it in the dark.’
Pester looked at her bleakly, the moonlight glinting off the swelling of her magnificent breasts making him ache with desire for her. The removal of his testicles had ensured he would never father a child, but it had done nothing to diminish his desires, nor to curb his ability to fulfil them. Why hadn’t she been content just to wait in the safety and comfort of Castle Garassotta, instead of dragging him on this fool quest?
‘What’s the point in taking the risk?’ he pouted sullenly. ‘Why don’t we just go back and wait? We don’t even have any idea where Lord Savatch and the others are, do we?’
‘Not precisely, no,’ Moxie conceded, ‘but we know they were headed towards Erisroth, and I have the map I borrowed from the castle library.’
‘Oh yes, the map,’ Pester groaned. ‘I’d completely forgotten about the map. I mean, it’s probably only a hundred years old by now, so why am I worrying that we’ll not find our way? All we have to do is keep going south and we’re bound to find them, aren’t we?’
‘I’m starting to get angry again,’ Moxie hissed, in the near darkness. ‘And, if you keep on, I’ll dress you nice and girly and leave you tied to that tree across by the road, where those slavers are bound to find you in the morning. I expect they’ll be more than happy to take you along to their next market and I expect there’s bound to be one nice hairy-arsed one who’ll enjoy shagging your cute little bum until they sell you on again, don’t you?’
‘At least it’d only be a sore arse I had to worry about,’ Pester whined. ‘My feet are throbbing, my knees are killing me and my back is broken, I’m sure of it. Why couldn’t you have borrowed a horse for me, too?’
‘Because there aren’t that many horses at Garassotta right now,’ Moxie reminded him, ‘and the few they do have are better used for soldiers, not pathetic, snivelling, useless little wimperers like you, right?’ She glared at him, but secretly she now indeed wished that she had taken an extra horse from the stables. Either that, she thought, or she should have left the page behind in the first place, but then she would have been on the road alone and, useless as he undoubtedly was, even his company had to be better than none at all. She may have been dressed as a warrior, she may also have discovered a courage she never before realised she had, but underneath that she was still Moxie, former tavern serving wench and later maid and bed companion to Lady Dorothea.
Her right hand closed over the hilt of her sword as she strove to draw some comfort from its presence, but she was only too well aware of her shortcomings if it ever came to using the weapon in a one to one confrontation. The crossbow that now hung from her saddle was the better insurance, but it was slow and cumbersome to reload and would afford her the chance for only one shot, if the time ever came when she needed to use it.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to adopt a more reasonable attitude and tone, ‘let’s be sensible about this, shall we?’ She breathed in and then exhaled, slowly.
‘Maybe I’m no warrior and maybe the map is no good, but it’s all we have and I’m all you have at this moment. If those are slavers in that village, they’ll be as interested in trying to take me as they will be in taking you, only more so and I’m hardly going to beat off several big men, even if I had your help, which I doubt I’d get anyway.
‘Somewhere down there,’ she continued, pointing in a generally southerly direction, ‘are our friends and Lady Dorothea.’
‘And that murdering bastard Fulgrim and a bloody great army, if Lord Savatch’s guess is anywhere near correct,’ Pester pointed out. Moxie nodded.
‘And, in a few days from now,’ she continued, ‘Fulgrim and his bloody great army are going to arrive at Garassotta and will probably take it, one way or another, at which point there’ll be no way to get to my lady. The best chance we have of saving her is while they’re on the road, at night, probably.’
‘You’ve got a plan, then?’ Pester challenged.
‘Only to stay alive and keep out of trouble until we see what’s what,’ Moxie retorted, ‘and that means giving that village over there a very wide berth indeed and putting as many miles between it and us before daylight.’
‘You mean you expect me to walk all night?’ Pester howled.
Moxie sighed again. ‘No,’ she said, resignedly. ‘No, I don’t. Once we’re past the village you can ride for a while and I’ll walk, is that fair enough? And, if you behave yourself and keep your moaning to yourself, when we do find somewhere safe to camp for a while, you can share my blanket and see if we can’t put your worm to decent use.’
‘And can I suckle, please?’ Pester’s voice sounded very childlike suddenly and Moxie’s heart softened towards him.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Yes, you can suckle on my titties, if you’re a good boy for me. Just keep those lips pressed firmly together until then.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard tales of the Yslander warrior women, Master Pecon,’ Farridan said, ‘but tales are wont to be built from shadows and I prefer to believe only what I see with my own eyes.’
‘If the Yslanders find out that you have one of theirs here,’ Pecon said darkly, ‘they’ll be the last thing those eyes of yours ever do see. Heed my words, you old fool, for I have seen and heard many things in the world and what I tell you is no idle fable.’
‘But they’re still only women,’ Farridan persisted, ‘and we are many here, despite what you may think you see to the contrary. I can muster thirty, maybe forty men within two days at most and we know how to fight, as you surely know.’
‘And the Yslander women know only too well how to kill,’ Pecon replied. ‘One of their warriors will happily stand against any two of yours, but that’s the least of your worries, friend. You cannot fight what you cannot see and they are mistresses of the art of subterfuge. Your gizzard will like as not end up slit from top to bottom before you even realise there is a danger.’ He turned to the still expressionless girl.
‘Lady,’ he said quietly, ‘tell us your name.’ The ice-blue eyes flickered, but there was absolutely no fear in them. And then the girl smiled and there was something about the smile that made even Demila’s blood turn cold in her veins.
‘My name, sir,’ the girl replied quietly, ‘is Hella Valkyr Mirisopaluna Hildisdottir. My friends call me Opal for short.’ She paused and her smile broadened. ‘You, of course, are not my friend, sir,’ she added, her tone as icy as her eyes. Pecon shook his head and turned back to the head man.
‘The house of Hella is second only to the house of Vala in Yslandia,’ he said. ‘The beautiful Opal here also bears the title of Valkyr, which means she has already been marked as a top warrior, probably already even begun her training, for they start them as quite small girls. The gods alone know how those fools managed to capture her in the first place!’
‘I was drugged, sir,’ Opal interjected. ‘I was travelling with a party of scholars in Sorabund, heading south to Illeum and we stopped overnight at a wayside inn. The innkeeper was clearly in league with the slavers, for when I recovered my wits, I found myself bound helplessly as you see me now.’
‘And did these men know from whence you came?’ Pecon asked, incredulously. Opal shook her head.
‘They never asked, sir,’ she replied simply, ‘and I never ventured to tell them.’
‘And did they...?’ Pecon hesitated and the girl laughed, a clear, sweet sound in the oppressive atmosphere of the small hall.
‘Did they assault my honour, you mean?’ she said. ‘Other than to confirm that I was still a maiden, no, they did not. When they discovered I was still virgin, they decided I would be of more value to them if things were left that way.’
‘That’s what the one we captured told me, too,’ Farridan confirmed. ‘And I checked it for myself, too. I’m no fool.’
‘Perhaps more so than you think,’ Pecon muttered. ‘You’ve laid your hands on this girl’s intimate parts and for that they would happily emasculate you with a blunt blade, believe me.’
‘I would do it myself, were my hands free,’ Opal said levelly.
Farridan’s already flushed features turned a darker shade of red. ‘I’ll cut your pretty throat and feed you to the dogs first!’ he spluttered.
Opal seemed totally unmoved by this threat. ‘Then do so, you fat moronic pig,’ she said. ‘It will make little difference to your fate. My people will come looking for me, as this fellow has told you, and they will not grant you an easy death, you have my oath as a Valkyr on that.’
This suddenly seemed to penetrate Farridan’s bluster and he slumped back against the wall of the hall, looking from left to right. What he saw was distinct unease in the faces of all his men and Demila knew that they were badly affected by what they had been witnessing.
‘Set her free, Farridan,’ one of them, a fair-haired younger fellow, urged. ‘Just give her some clothes and a horse and send her on her way.’
Farridan seemed confused, however. ‘If I set her free, what if she comes back here to kill me?’ he demanded.
Pecon reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘She would most certainly do that,’ he confirmed, ‘but maybe I have a better idea. Let me take her and give me clothes and a horse for her for later. I am headed north from here, passing through the outlands of Illeum and on into Sorabund, where I can see her safe onto a ship bound back to her homeland.’
‘And then she’ll come back with more of her albino harpies and I’ll be in even greater peril,’ Farridan protested. ‘It would be easier to cut her throat now.’
‘Not so,’ Pecon said. ‘Those “harpies” as you call them would come for you anyway, but if Opal gives you her word of absolution, you will be safe. After all, you took her in all ignorance and you have not harmed her.’ He turned to the girl again. ‘What say you, young lady? A safekeeping pledge for this old fool in return for your life and freedom and passage safe back to your home?’
‘Perhaps.’ Opal seemed less than impressed by this offer of release and Demila found herself marvelling at the young girl’s composure. ‘There would be one other condition,’ she said, at length. Farridan looked at Pecon, who shrugged.
‘That condition,’ Opal continued, without waiting for a response, ‘is that the man who survived your attack should be made to face me in combat. It was he who defiled my sanctity in the first place and it is right that I should have the opportunity to avenge my honour.’
‘Why not just let us cut his throat for you?’ Farridan suggested. ‘After all, he might kill you, might he not?’ Opal gave him a look of utter contempt and Demila was forced to stifle a laugh, even though the gag would have made such an action difficult.
‘I think he might not, old man,’ she replied, coolly. ‘Besides, if you slit his throat, where is my honour then, eh?’
Farridan was becoming even more confused than ever. He turned back to Pecon for help.
‘Do it,’ Pecon stated firmly. ‘She’s offering you her word and she’s happy to take the swine on in single combat. If she does lose... well, somehow I don’t think she will, so it matters little either way. Just fetch the fellow in and give them each a sword. After that, well I think you and I have a few matters to discuss, my worthy host.’
The condemned man had already been stripped before being brought to the execution tent and Dorothea saw that his back was criss-crossed with vivid red welts, evidence of a very recent punishment. His black hair had been shorn close to his skull, though with little effort to produce an even cut, and there was a dark bruise on one cheek.
His hands had been bound behind his back with a length of rope and another, thinner cord had been looped around the base of his limp penis, behind his pendulous scrotum, and this was employed as a means of ensuring his compliance in accompanying his guard. He looked scared, but was plainly making an effort to walk to his death with what little dignity his condition allowed, and although his gaze flickered towards Dorothea, his eyes quickly returned to the front.
‘You are Bendick Gothan, cohort corporal of the seventh regiment of Vernician Cavalry?’ Fulgrim challenged him, as the guard brought him up before him. The man nodded, coughed to clear his throat and managed a single word reply.
‘Yes,’ he grunted, lowering his eyes to Fulgrim’s feet.
Fulgrim’s expression flickered slightly. ‘You have been charged and found guilty of the wilful murder of another man in your regiment, Harsic Harsigan, trooper of horse, and I hereby confirm the sentence of death imposed by the court martial, earlier this day.’ Fulgrim looked past him and directly at Dorothea.
‘This filthy scab stabbed a fellow soldier in a petty squabble over a mere pony girl slave, would you believe?’ he cried, mockingly. ‘As if there aren’t enough of you bitches to go round an army twice this size, eh? Well, Bendick Gothan, you shall have your pony woman. Turn and see her, there. Go on, look at her, I say!’
With evident reluctance, the helpless man turned to obey and Dorothea was astonished to see the sudden fire of lust in his eyes, despite the imminence of his death. She wanted to look away from him, wanted to scream out that he was just one more proof of how absurd men were, how easily they allowed their animal instincts to overcome their sanity, but the bit still filled her mouth and so she remained silent.
Fulgrim turned to Bendick’s guard and then to the four men who stood behind the gibbet post.
‘Secure him,’ he instructed. ‘Lock the collar and then release his hands.’ he paused and looked around the small crowd. ‘Where are those two little maids, then?’ he demanded. ‘They should be here by now. Don’t want to keep the wretch waiting for his last mortal fuck, do we?’
Almost as if on cue, the side canvas parted and the young officer reappeared. Behind him, naked except for a simple slave belt and wrist cuffs and a collar from which a lead chain ran to the man’s hand, came two very frightened young maids, both of whom Dorothea recognised as being from her entourage at Castle Varragol and both of whom had, at various times, shared her bed, often together and almost as often with Moxie, too.
Meantime, Bendick had already been led to the post, turned and backed up to it, and one of the guards was busily securing the metal collar about his throat, locking it with a side lock so that the front section remained clear, the rounded hole in the dull metal waiting to accept the killing spike when the time came.
‘As I said, Gol,’ Fulgrim said, ‘you will have the honour of ensuring that this murderous scum at least dies a man. My whip will conduct you in a pony dance, which I am sure will arouse him, and then you will mount him and ride him - or he you, it matters not - until the moment of his release, at which time his spirit will also be despatched.’ He paused again and turned to the execution squad.
‘Hood the bastard, so she can’t see his face,’ he snapped, ‘but make sure he can see out and see her. Of course, dear Gol,’ he continued, turning back to Dorothea again, ‘there is the possibility you won’t be able to make the bastard come in you.
‘We shall light a time candle shortly, one which will burn down to the hour mark. If he holds out until then, he shall live and be set free. However, if he does, you will have failed me and will be rewarded with a hundred lashes, but not before these pretty little things have also been given fifty lashes each.’ Fulgrim indicated the two quivering maids.
‘They will each then go up there where he is and be fucked by three of my men in turn, after which they will be executed in his stead. I hope you understand what I’m saying, you worthless pony cunt?’ Miserably, Dorothea nodded her head. She had nothing personally against Bendick, save that he was a man and the thought of having any male member inside her was utterly repulsive, but she knew when there was no other option, and there was no other option now but to ensure that the wretch reached his orgasm and his sentence completed as quickly as possible.
Dorothea tried to swallow, closing her eyes as the spittle instead began to dribble from the sides of her gaping mouth, wishing they would at least blindfold her, but knowing Fulgrim would ensure that she kept her eyes open through the coming ordeal as much as possible.
The surviving slave raider was much younger than Demila had been expecting, perhaps only a year or so older than herself, but he was trying to put on a bold front as he was brought in between two of the village men. Like the two girls, he wore a slave belt, his wrists cuffed to it at either hip and he had been stripped naked, so that his muscled body, including his impressive manhood, was fully visible for any prospective buyers.
Seeing Pecon and recognising that he was the stranger in the midst, he naturally assumed that he had been brought in for the purposes of eliciting a sale and immediately adopted an arrogant pose, fixing him with unblinking grey eyes. Pecon, in his turn, regarded the young man with professional detachment, evaluating him automatically, even though he was certain the fellow would not live to ever reach an auction block.
The villagers had evidently washed him recently and made an attempt to tidy his appearance in readiness for sale, for his dark hair had been brushed and cut into a tidy, if still long style. His pubic hair had also been recently trimmed, Pecon noted, so that it formed a neat, short triangle above a flaccid organ that would have excited the interests of many a female visitor to the slave markets in the larger cities.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ Pecon drawled.
Farridan answered for him. ‘He’s called Rolf,’ the head man said. ‘His father was one of the men we killed. This one fought bravely, I must say, but there were too many of us and we managed to overpower him before he could inflict more than a couple of scratch wounds.’
‘So, you handle a sword well, do you, Rolf?’ Pecon said.
Rolf drew back his shoulders and jutted his chin forward defiantly. ‘If you fancy yourself, friend,’ he replied, ‘then give me a blade and see if you can stand against me yourself.’
‘That might indeed be interesting,’ Pecon said, ‘but then there is one here who has prior claims to test your mettle.’ Rolf’s eyes narrowed as he took in this statement and then flickered across to where Farridan was busily draining another flagon.
‘Him?’ the young man said, his tone dismissive. ‘Certainly. Give me a worthy blade and I’ll show you how it should be used.’ Farridan spluttered and was about to rise, but Pecon held up a restraining hand.
‘No, not Farridan,’ he replied calmly, ‘though I’m sure he’d be prepared to give you your chance if the time ever comes. No, there is one here whose honour has been slighted and who demands the right to satisfaction by combat.’ Pecon paused for a moment or so and then jabbed a finger towards where Opal was now standing back against the wall opposite where most of the village men were squatting.
‘Her,’ he said. Rolf turned slowly, his eyes blinking as he sought to pierce the shadows on the far side of the hall. For a moment he seemed to freeze, whether in surprise or with indecision Demila could not say and then, without turning back, he began to laugh.
‘The fair-haired one?’ he said, his tone a mixture of disbelief and scornful amusement. ‘That little virgin girl? She wants to fight me? With what - straw pillows?’ Opal made no response to this insult, but Demila was close enough to her to see the brief flare in her eyes.
‘She chooses the sword, Rolf,’ Pecon said.
The young captive shook his head and turned back to face his captors again. ‘Why should she do that?’ he demanded. ‘Does she prefer a swift death to a life of bondage, is that her choice?’
‘I prefer a swift death, yes,’ Opal said, breaking her silence at last, ‘but yours, you filthy dog, not my own. Perhaps though, I should leave you to a life of slavery after all, as killing you would be a kindness you and your ilk have done nothing to deserve at my hands.’
‘Big words for a little child,’ Rolf scoffed. He nodded at Pecon. ‘And, when I slay the silly bitch,’ he continued, ‘what then for me? Will these people fall on me then?’
Pecon seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I think not,’ he said eventually, turning to Farridan. ‘What say you, Farridan? You are granting the wench freedom, so why not offer the same lure to our young friend here?’
Farridan yawned and then belched loudly. ‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘Yes, let’s add spice to the dish. Yes, if he beats the girl, then we’ll give him his horse back and he can ride out of here unharmed. My word on it.’ There was a general murmur among the other men, accompanied mostly by enthusiastic nods of agreement.
‘There you have it, Rolf,’ Pecon said. ‘Beat the girl and you go free.’ The young man’s tanned face broke into a leering grin.
‘As soon said as done,’ he said. ‘Just get me free of all this and let me have a sword and I’ll show you how it’s done.’ He turned his head to look back at Opal and the leer grew wider still. ‘A waste in some ways though,’ he said, ‘even if she has almost no tits.
‘How about a further edge to the contest?’ he continued, turning back to Pecon. ‘Say I don’t kill her, but just disarm her? Do I get to take her with me as my prize?’
Farridan opened his mouth and began to protest at this arrogance, but Pecon overrode him quickly. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’ll cover the loss of one slave, Farridan. It will be interesting to see how hard this young oaf fights for the right to bed an Yslandic warrior girl. Oh yes, Rolf,’ he chuckled, seeing the look of puzzlement in the other’s face, ‘I wondered if you knew what you were holding before.
‘The young lady is from one of the most powerful houses in Yslandia and has been training for her destiny since childhood. I dare say you know of her kind?’ Rolf either managed to recover his composure with astonishing speed, or else he was a good actor, Demila thought.
‘We’ve all heard the legends,’ he scoffed, ‘but the greatest stories are those that grow greater in the retelling down the ages. I’ll accept her challenge,’ he added.
Pecon nodded. ‘The bravery of the foolhardy,’ he muttered. ‘Actually,’ he said, rising slowly to his feet, ‘the choice was never yours to make.’
‘As I suspected,’ the voice said from the darkness, ‘the noble lord has other things with which to occupy himself this evening.’ Recognising Halit’s near flawless accent, Corinna struggled to raise herself into a sitting position. In the gloom all about her, recumbent bodies stirred slightly at this disturbance, but all their mouths, like Corinna’s, were firmly gagged with bits and if any were awake, they made no sound to betray the fact.
‘Up you come then, pretty pony,’ Halit urged softly. Corinna saw a hand extending down towards her and she lifted one heavily mitted hand of her own for him to grasp. With surprising ease, he hefted her to her feet and drew her towards him, crushing her belled breasts against the leather of his jerkin and covering her bitted mouth with his own. Corinna felt a shiver of unbidden desire rise up through her and tried to pull away, but he held her in an unbreakable grip and continued the bizarre kiss for several seconds more.
‘Come,’ he ordered finally, drawing back and turning to pick his way through the maze of bodies. ‘We shall find somewhere where we shan’t disturb anybody. These lazy creatures will need all the sleep they can get before the morrow, but I’ve arranged for you to spend the day among the reserve girls. I may even let you ride in my wagon with me, if you prove your strength is worth conserving.’
Fulgrim himself unbuckled Dorothea’s crotch guard strap and removed the protective leather triangle with careful deliberation. The night air felt suddenly cool against her exposed and depilated mound, despite the general protection of the tent itself and the heat emanating from the many lanterns hung about the interior.
‘Always a delightful sight,’ Fulgrim snickered, flicking the leather strap against the tender flesh and drawing an involuntary gasp from Dorothea. ‘A nice naked pussy slot just waiting to be filled with man flesh - none of your woman on woman now, Gol.’
Dorothea was fighting against the knot that was forming in her stomach, struggling in an effort to control her breathing, dreading what was to come, yet knowing she was helpless to prevent it. A few paces before her, secured to the gibbet post by the neck collar, Bendick now stood motionless, his features hidden inside a tight leather slave hood, only the glint of his eyes visible through the narrow slits.
The guards had also gagged him before putting on the hood and Dorothea was close enough to hear his breath hissing in and out his nostrils and the two small holes in the leather beneath them. She managed to swallow at last and prayed for this to be over, but Fulgrim seemed in no hurry, intent it seemed on drawing out the execution and savouring every moment of it.
At last, letting the leather triangle fall to the ground, he turned to the two slave maids.
‘You little sluts know what to do?’ he growled. The pair nodded and the first girl, a fair-haired, urchin faced Haaflander Dorothea recognised as Helma, moved forward towards her. The second girl, slightly taller and slightly darker, though still with hair that was a sandy colour and long enough to just touch the top of her buttocks, moved around to take up station behind her former mistress.
Dorothea groaned under her breath. The proximity of the two maids, their nakedness, their pert little breasts, so different from those of her beloved Moxie, yet still as delightful and appealing for the air of innocence they lent their owners, was more than she could bear and she knew only too well that Fulgrim had anticipated this, as a certainty. The second girl - Dorothea was struggling to recall her name - reached around and cupped Dorothea’s bulging breasts, her skilled fingers immediately beginning to manipulate her swelling nipples.
Helma, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees and was shuffling forward, face upraised, mouth open, tongue already flickering.
‘Legs apart, cunt pony!’ Fulgrim snarled, seeing Dorothea’s automatic attempt to resist this latter advance. A long crop-like whip had appeared in his hand, seemingly from nowhere, and it hissed through the air, cutting across Dorothea’s flank with a vicious crack. Instantly, she slid her feet wide again and Helma wasted no time in finding her intended target.
‘Use that little tongue to good effect, girl,’ Fulgrim laughed, giving the maid a sharp reminding tap across her jutting bottom. ‘I want the cunt good and wet before she starts her dance for her lover.’
Peering through slitted eyes, Dorothea saw that her ‘dance’ was unlikely to be necessary, for the sight of the two girls striving to stimulate her in readiness for him was also stimulating Bendick. His organ, which had until now continued to hang limply between his thighs, was now rapidly beginning to swell and already trying to stand erect. If the fellow had entertained any hope of escaping his doom by remaining incapable of penetrating her, that hope was now all but dashed.
‘Enough!’ Fulgrim commanded, flicking at each girl in turn with the tip of his whip. ‘You!’ he ordered, pointing at Helma. ‘You, take hold of his cock and keep it nice and hard when it gets there, but let the bastard come and I’ll flay the skin off your tits meself!’
As the two girls detached themselves from her, Dorothea closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, which had become rapid and very ragged from their ministrations. Seeing this, Fulgrim slashed across her breasts with a backhanded swing.
‘Keep your damned eyes open, you pony whore!’ he screamed. ‘I want you to watch what you’re doing to this murdering swine and see him pay for what he did, too. Watch him all the way, Gol, or by the seven hells I’ll have your eyes put out this very night!’
As Fulgrim spoke, Helma was already scuttling across the ground to crouch before Bendick, reaching up with her hand to grasp his full erection. Indeed, it was now so hard and stiff that there was really no need for any further efforts on Dorothea’s part to arouse him, but Fulgrim was determined to complete the scenario as he had originally planned it.
‘Come, pony cunt,’ he urged, ‘let’s see you dance on your hooves and hear your pretty teat bells make some music.’ He clipped Dorothea sharply across her naked rump and, her cheeks now burning with indignation, she began slowly to prance up and down, the heavy hooves beating a morbid tattoo on the sun baked mud beneath them, the little metal bells tinkling as her heavy breasts rose and fell in time with her steps.
‘Swing those hips, whore,’ Fulgrim chuckled, flicking firmly at each buttock in turn. Hands still held helplessly at her sides, Dorothea started to sway her hips from side to side with each little leap, feeling totally ridiculous, yet only too well aware of the effect her display was having on the doomed soldier. In Helma’s small grip, his organ now looked more massive than ever, the flesh stretched thin and shiny, blue veins clearly visible beneath, the purple knob seemingly on the point of bursting, yet still Fulgrim was not satisfied.
‘Faster, you lazy cunt!’ he roared, laying three savage cuts across Dorothea’s buttocks with such venom that she all but toppled off balance. She squealed through the gagging bit and had to move forward in order not to fall headlong, bringing her closer still to the hapless Bendick, her flashing hoof boots now mere inches from the crouching maid in front of him.
‘That’s it!’ Fulgrim bellowed in triumph. ‘Now mount her, you bastards! Quickly now, let’s have her cunt plugged and give the bastard a real send off!’ At this, before Dorothea had time to realise what was happening, three of the execution squad leapt forward. The first grasped Helma by the hair and hauled her clear, while the other two seized Dorothea from either side, lifting her clear of the ground and carrying her forward, one hand each gripping a thigh, opening her legs and lowering her so that the waiting erection impaled her as they lowered her again.
Immediately, Bendick threw one arm about her, as with the other he seized her right breast, kneading it viciously and then gripping the engorged nipple between finger and thumb. A small cry forced its way past her bit and she stared straight into his eyes, which shone dark and damp behind the hood mask, from behind which now also came a series of muffled grunts.
In her elevated boots, Dorothea was easily able to reach the ground and still retain enough height in which to raise and lower herself. Biting hard into the bit, she proceeded to do so now, while Bendick continued to hold her close and, to her amazement, she realised he was responding, thrusting up and down as far as the neck collar permitted, in time with her own efforts.
It could not last long and nor did it. Despite his gag and mask, the doomed man let out a high-pitched screech of release and, as his body began to buck, Dorothea felt the hot spray of his seed shooting up into her. At the same time, from behind his shoulder, she saw the one remaining soldier from the execution party. His arm rose, swung and the hammer arced towards its target; the blunted spike was driven forward, through Bendick’s neck and out again, the tip of it appearing through the hole at the front of the collar.
He was dead even before his orgasm finished, a slow trickle of blood beginning to ooze down his now lifeless chest and Dorothea fell backwards, to be caught by two pairs of waiting arms as his immediately deflating phallus slipped from her dripping sex.
‘Keep your fool head down!’ Jekka’s whispered command scythed through the still night air and Ceth immediately flattened himself into the grass. ‘The moon will make us stand out like boils on a bald man’s head, if it suddenly comes out from behind those clouds,’ she added.
‘Sorry, madam.’ The young Illean trooper raised his eyes to her, his voice sounding shaky. ‘It’s just that I’ve never really done anything like this before,’ he added lamely, and Jekka chuckled in the near darkness.
‘Spend all your nights in a nice warm guardhouse at Garassotta, I expect,’ she said. ‘Well, this is what real fighting is all about and we’ve hardly yet started. Just remember, this ground is so damned flat and there’s very little cover - that’s why they’ve screened their campfires over there, see?’ She pointed towards the myriad tiny flickering lights that spread across the ground amongst the spattering of scraggy trees a few hundred yards ahead of them.
‘They’re also keeping very quiet, for an army encampment, especially. This is difficult country in which to remain concealed and their commanders evidently appreciate that.’
‘They’re trying to maintain an element of surprise, then?’ Ceth said.
Jekka nodded. ‘Clever boy,’ she chuckled. ‘You learn quickly, but let’s hope it’s quickly enough. Now, use your eyes instead of your mouth and tell me what you see.’
‘Not that much, except for the campfires,’ Ceth admitted. ‘Are you sure that’s what they are? They don’t look very big to me, not big enough for proper fires, anyway.’
‘As I said,’ Jekka replied, ‘they’ve almost certainly placed canvas or sacking screens around them, to stop the light from shining out too far. Of course, it’s impossible to block out their light altogether, so what we’re seeing is just the little bit that’s escaping.
‘It’s not perfect,’ she continued, ‘but imagine how much light that many fires would give out without the screens. They’d be visible as far as the eye can see and it would be obvious to anyone what they were looking at.’
‘If I were their commander,’ Ceth suggested, ‘I’d have pickets posted way out from the main camp, to alert me if anyone did stumble across them.’
‘So would I,’ Jekka agreed, ‘and I expect there are pickets both south and north, covering the obvious approaches. They may well have sentries roaming to the western side, too, but we’ve approached from the east and not far behind us is a lot of very swampy land. Any travellers still on the road at this time of night would avoid that area like a plague, believe me.’
‘So, what are we going to do now?’ Ceth asked. ‘Do we just lie here and watch still?’
‘For the moment, yes,’ Jekka confirmed. ‘I want to get some idea of just how many they are. Things back at Erisroth were a tad confusing, don’t forget, and we may well not have been seeing anything like their full strength there anyway.’
‘Well, apart from those fires, I can’t see anything anyway,’ Ceth said, and Jekka chuckled again.
‘You’re not an Yslander,’ she said.
In the darkness the young man’s eyes blinked. ‘You mean Yslanders can see in the dark?’ he asked, clearly awed.
Jekka sighed. ‘Only gods and demons see in the dark,’ she said, ‘but in a few minutes from now, those clouds up there will have moved over and the moon will show us all we need to see. Just as long as they don’t see us, we’ll be able to lie here and count numbers.’
‘We’re not going any closer tonight, then?’ Ceth sounded nervous, but not afraid.
‘No,’ Jekka said, ‘not tonight. No cover and we have no idea how they are disposed over there. No, we watch and we count and we also listen. Sound carries easily across flat ground when there is little wind, so who knows what we may learn from careless lips, eh?’
To her relief, when they finally reached the shallow hollow to the east of the main encampment, Halit turned Corinna around and unclipped her bit, drawing it from between her lips and tossing it down onto the coarse grass.
‘Feel better, little pony?’ he asked, grinning so that his teeth showed white in the moonlight.
Gratefully, Corinna nodded. ‘Yes, master,’ she said, swallowing two or three times and then wiping her mouth on the back of her right mitt. ‘Tell me, master,’ she asked, ‘why do you make us wear the bit throughout the night time, too?’
‘Noise, little one,’ Halit answered. He stretched out an arm and swung it around in a gesture that included the horizon on all sides. ‘Hundreds of chattering little bitches, even if they were chattering quietly, that makes for a lot of noise and noise travels a long way at night, especially in these parts.’
‘I don’t understand why that would worry you, master,’ Corinna persisted. A glimmer of hope had sprung up at his disclosure; perhaps there were friendly forces in the area after all, although where they might have come from she had no idea.
‘The night has ears,’ Halit said, ‘and the ears may not all be that friendly. The Lord Fulgrim would prefer that news of our progress did not precede us if at all possible. By day we can send out scouts against unexpected eyes, but by night we can hope for no such protection and so we make as little noise as possible, and you fine little fillies must continue to remain gagged against any chance of giving our camp away.’
‘Then perhaps you should gag me again, master.’ It was an outrageous gamble, for Corinna’s jaws were aching badly enough to appreciate even a few more minutes of relief from the dreadful bit, but she sensed that in Halit there was just the chance of cultivating a sympathetic friend, if not an outright ally. The fellow seemed to find this funny, however, and to her relief Corinna saw that he had seen the point of her joke.
‘A noisy little filly when mated, are you?’ he chuckled. He stepped closer to her and reached out to stroke her breasts. ‘Well, little Flix, soon we shall see about that and mayhap I can find a better way of quieting your noise than a piece of metal covered in leather.’
‘Fulgrim may be a murdering madman in some respects,’ Savatch observed, dryly, ‘but he’s not insane when it comes to political and military matters.’
‘So you keep saying,’ Alanna replied, brushing her pale hair away from her face and leaning back against the canvas side of the wagon. ‘But we still don’t really know for sure what he’s up to, do we? At this point, we are simply surmising.’
‘Everything points to us be right,’ Savatch persisted. ‘There could be no other reason for his having assembled so many troops in and around Erisroth and they are now moving north, which fits exactly with an attack on Garassotta.’
‘Unless he intends to continue north into the Snow Kingdoms, or even to go around and move into Sorabund. If the Vorsans could occupy Sorabund, that would impose a threat on Illeum’s northern borders, without actually invading Illean territory, which would be a blatant act of war.’
‘Everything about Fulgrim is blatant,’ Savatch said. ‘And everything is right for him at this moment. Illeum’s main army, for what it is worth, is mostly concentrated in the south, protecting the borders of Tamarinia and to an extent, Karli, through which any Vorsan army would normally be expected to attack. The borders in the north and northeast, even as far south as Varragol itself, have always had the protection of nature herself; mountains, forests and swamps, through which it would be difficult for an army to advance.
‘The few roads through are then protected by strongholds, such as Castle Garassotta, impregnable to attack and easily defended by a relatively small garrison.’
‘But Varragol is also such a stronghold,’ Alanna reminded him, ‘and he has already captured and then abandoned that. Why move north on Garassotta when he already had his route secured?’
‘Because Varragol is far enough south for the main army to move and blockade it. It’s not a true frontier stronghold in the same sense as Garassotta. Look at the map in my satchel. For Lundt to effect a siege of Garassotta and confront Fulgrim’s forces, he would have to move many men away from the south, weakening the defensive lines there.
‘Besides, Garassotta can be strengthened more easily from outside Illeum. A Vorsan fleet could land reinforcements in Sorabund, move them east and then follow the Sorabis river south to the castle. Sorabund has virtually no army worth speaking of and many of the factions there would gladly throw in their lot with Fulgrim, in exchange for the promise of a slice of Illean coastal territory.
‘I tell you, Alanna, I’m certain that’s what the bastard plans. It’s exactly what I’d do, if I were in his boots. Besides, with Corinna as a bargaining tool he can afford to forget about Varragol when he knows Garassotta will surrender to save her.’
‘If the girl really is Corinna,’ Alanna said. ‘We don’t even know the girl Jekka saw was her, or merely someone resembling her.’
‘I know it has to be Corinna!’ Savatch snapped back. ‘You heard what the physician’s daughter said and those lads from the village. Pecon was taking her east to Erisroth, so it has to be more than just coincidence.
‘Besides,’ he added, his tone more reasonable suddenly, ‘it doesn’t really matter if it’s her or not, does it? If the girl she saw looks enough like Corinna to fool Jekka, then she’ll fool those oafs at Garassotta for sure and, whether she is Corinna, if she’s not Corinna, if Fulgrim realises it’s her, or whether he’s fooled into thinking she’s just a convenient double, the end result will be the same.
‘Garassotta will fall to Fulgrim and there will be a war that Illeum probably cannot win. The Vorsan alliance will hold the power and the world we know will be there’s to rule.’
‘And what if we cannot get this girl - Corinna or otherwise - away from Fulgrim?’ Alanna said carefully. ‘What will you do then, my noble lord? Have you considered the alternatives?’
‘I have, yes.’ Savatch closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. ‘If we cannot rescue Corinna - or her double, if indeed that’s who she is - then I must get to Garassotta before Fulgrim and make sure the garrison stands fast.’
‘Even knowing that it could mean death for Corinna?’
‘Yes.’ Savatch nodded slowly. ‘Even knowing it means death for the woman who has come to mean everything to me. It is what she would want, I am sure.’
‘Yes,’ Alanna agreed, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Yes, I believe she would. Besides,’ she added, closing her own eyes, ‘she may not even be Corinna. Keep that thought firmly in your head as well, my friend.’
Both contestants were quickly freed and given swords. Rolf made a great show of examining his weapon, swinging it to and fro, first in one hand, then in the other, and then again with two hands, cutting and thrusting at an imaginary opponent. Opal, meanwhile, simply held her blade up to the light of one of the lamps, peered along its length and then placed the point of it in the mud between her feet, resting both hands on the hilt and closing her eyes. Demila saw her lips moving slightly and guessed that she was offering either a prayer or a blessing.
To the hooded slave, still huddled in her corner, the contest looked as if it would be very short run and, despite what her master, Pecon, had said about the Yslandic women, she could not believe that the frail looking blonde could really be expected to defeat the muscular young man standing opposite her. The warrior women were reputed to be great fighters and ruthless assassins, but Opal looked far too young to have gained sufficient of their legendary skills.
Having seen the two Yslanders that Pecon had bought the snow land bandit from, Demila could easily make a comparison. Both had seemed much taller, more developed, more mature, whereas Opal, despite her own height, still had the childlike aura of innocence. Demila closed her eyes and offered up her own silent prayer, hoping that Rolf would not actually kill her, even though that would mean the girl facing a lifetime of slavery.
Perhaps, Demila thought, Opal would be as lucky in time as she herself now was and find a master as handsome and fine as Pecon...
Preoccupied with these thoughts, it came as a surprise to Demila to see that several of the men now cradled loaded crossbows in their laps and for a moment her heart lurched. Did Farridan intend to renege on his word? Would the eventual victor of the contest then be simply shot in cold blood? Pecon, however, appeared totally unworried by the sight of the deadly weapons and this at least gave her renewed confidence.
‘If I shout to you to fall back,’ he said, addressing himself to Opal and Rolf, ‘you will do so on the instant, otherwise you may find yourself with a bolt through your heart. I will not do so, however, in order to spare the life or influence the outcome of this fight, merely if I see foul play.’
‘Foul play?’ Rolf echoed, mockingly. ‘Surely sir, all is fair in war?’
‘Nearly enough, yes,’ Pecon agreed, ‘just so long as there is no outside interference.’ He half turned and looked meaningfully at Farridan, who returned him a sly grin. ‘Now then, take stance and await my word.’
With a swagger, Rolf strolled a few paces and then turned, sword raised before him in his two hands. Opal, without looking at him, glided to a position facing him, the two separated by perhaps four paces. She held her own blade in her right hand, the weapon looking far too heavy and cumbersome for one so slightly built. Pecon looked from one to the other, raised his hand and then let it fall.
‘Fight!’ he cried, and instantly Rolf lunged forward, slashing left and right, his sword hissing through the air, but that was all the edge found, for Opal was suddenly not there, her movements so swift that Demila hardly believed she had seen someone make them. At almost the same instant, her blade swung and Rolf was fortunate to parry the blow as he staggered sideways. From the watching villagers came a concerted ‘aahh!’ of approval.
‘Slippery little snake, I see!’ Rolf gasped, regaining his balance quickly and turning square on to Opal once more. She made no reply, but stood motionless, like a pale statue, waiting for him to make the next move.
This time he feinted to swing and then changed his stroke to a forward thrust, but Opal simply turned this aside, stepped past him and delivered a flat bladed swat across his naked buttocks. The village men roared with laughter as Rolf was sent hurtling off balance, but Demila could not understand why the Yslandic girl had chosen not to deliver the blow with the sharp edge instead. It would not have been a fatal blow, but it would certainly have disabled her opponent and made him a very easy target afterwards.
However, within another minute or so, Demila understood - Opal was simply playing with her opponent, teasing him, turning him, making him look foolish. He was clearly an experienced and brave fighter, but, contrary to the obvious first appearances, he was no match for her speed, agility and anticipation. He hacked, swung and thrust, but not once did his blade come even close to her unprotected body.
‘Bitch!’ he hissed, panting for breath and trying to recover some composure. ‘Playing games, are we?’
Opal smiled sweetly at him, but the smile did not reach her eyes. ‘I thought it was you playing the game, sir,’ she said. ‘I am merely waiting for you to show me some sign of being able to fulfil your earlier boast. I thought you wanted to have me for your slave so keenly, but it would appear that perhaps I don’t appeal to you quite so much as I did just a while ago.’ She stood very upright, lowering her sword to her side and placing her free hand on her hip, blatantly displaying her nakedness to Rolf, and Demila was unable to suppress a gag stifled giggle.
‘I’ll fuck the life out of you before I’m finished,’ Rolf snarled. ‘I’ll spike you on one weapon and then spike you on another to finish your insolence!’ Even before he had finished speaking, he leapt forward again, blade whirling. There were three hollow clangs as Opal parried it in quick succession and then a sharp yell from Rolf as she pressed a strike through his guard and danced clear again. A trickle of red began to ooze down his sword arm, from a small wound just below his shoulder, but he feigned to ignore this and prepared to engage again.
This time, however, he advanced with more caution, offering his sword for Opal to parry, but the warrior girl would not be drawn. Instead, she simply bounced to her left and kept going, forcing her opponent to turn with her and waiting for him to make a more positive move. This he suddenly did, jumping forward, but now in a crouch, his sword scything low at her legs.
Unfortunately for him, however, Opal’s legs were high in the air by the time the sword reached where they had been and, as she seemed to fly past him, once again she used the flat of her blade, this time bringing it down across the top of his unprotected skull with a dull thud that suggested to the onlookers that the bone might have cracked.
But Rolf apparently had a thick head, for although he staggered and dropped to his knees in a scrambling crawl, he was rapidly up again, although unsteady on his feet for several seconds after regaining them. Opal did not waste this advantage. Twice, three times, she darted forward, turning aside his defensive attempts and nicking away, once on his shoulder, once on the top of his free arm and finally drawing a thin line of red along the top of his chest, just below his collarbone.
The audience roared its approval and Demila would have clapped her hands in delight, had they not been securely cuffed behind her back, for it was now plain for all to see that the slight blonde was more than a match for her older and heavier opponent and that, barring some unforeseen disaster, she could finish him whenever she chose to.
She did not, however, appear to be in any hurry, continuing to toy with Rolf, nipping and nicking away at him until his upper body and the tops of his thighs were covered in scratches and small lines of blood. The expression in his eyes had long since changed and the watchers could see that he now fought on through fear, as aware as they themselves were that he was a beaten man.
Then, suddenly, it was all over. As Rolf made another desperate attack Opal feigned as if to weave away from him, but then, at the last moment, she changed her balance and met him head on. Her sword was a blur of reflected lamplight. One blow slapped across the wrist of his sword hand, another slapped sideways across his upper hand and then her foot flew out, catching him squarely in his open crotch and drawing a wail of agony from him as he toppled forward onto his knees.
In another moment Opal was behind him. The hilt of her sword slammed down into the nape of his neck and again her sword flashed, still flat bladed, smashing the knuckles that still tried to clutch the hilt. The hand flew open as Rolf pitched onto his face and another kick sent the sword spinning across the dusted mud floor. For the briefest of moments Opal stood, poised in victory and then she fell upon her adversary, rolling him onto his back. His eyes, though still open, were glazed and uncomprehending.
‘Knife!’ Opal snapped, looking up at Farridan. There was another flash of metal and a knife appeared, quivering in the mud by the girl’s knee. She gave a feral grin, tossed her sword down and plucked the smaller weapon from the ground. From the watching men there came a sharp intake of sympathetic breath, but not one of them made a move to stop her as she seized the semi-conscious Rolf’s testicles in her free hand and then neatly removed them with a single sweep of the razor-sharp dagger.
‘Bind his wounds,’ she said flatly, standing up and tossing aside her trophies like some unwanted offal. ‘If he bleeds to death he’ll be worthless to you. As a eunuch, you’ll probably still find a fair price.’
Suddenly, as if at some secret signal, a dozen or more crossbows were raised, their deadly bolts all aimed directly at Opal. Demila let out a small cry, expecting to see the triumphant Valkyr slaughtered in a hail of iron, but if this unexpected turn of events surprised her, Opal did not betray that. Instead, she regarded Farridan squarely.
‘Is this treachery, old man?’ she demanded. She turned the dagger in her hand and Demila wondered if she would have time to throw it at the head man before she was shot through and through, but Pecon quickly leapt up between them.
‘Not treachery, pretty Valkyr,’ he said soothingly, raising his empty hands before him. ‘Merely the old rogue wishes to protect his skin, even before you showed him that the rumours he dismissed were no rumours at all.’
‘Then bid him let me go, as was agreed,’ Opal said.
Pecon shook his head. ‘He’ll let you go,’ he assured her, ‘but in my charge, bound as when you arrived here, and you have my oath that I shall release you when we reach Sorabund. After that, of course, if you choose to return later, well then that will be a matter between you and he.’
There was a long and heavy silence in the room, broken only by the low moaning sobs from the huddled form of Rolf, who lay clutching his groin, trying to stem the flow of blood from where his testicles had previously been attached to it.
‘Your oath, you say?’ Opal said at last. ‘And who are you?’
Pecon shrugged. ‘Just a man,’ he replied. ‘Just a man who has never given his oath falsely in many a year.’ Opal narrowed her eyes, studying his face and then, after a briefer pause, reversed the knife again and slowly extended it towards him.
‘On your oath be it then,’ she said quietly, ‘for I believe you know what it would mean to give it falsely to a Valkyr.’
Corinna lay quietly on the coarse grass, staring up at Halit’s silhouette as he fumbled with his belt and breeches. The protective leather triangle lay on the ground beside her and she could feel the damp warmth of her juices as they trickled out onto the backs of her parted thighs.
His foreplay had been crude but unhurried, and her nipples throbbed from the constant nipping of his teeth, her buttocks stinging from the sharp slaps he had delivered to them as he kissed and fondled her. She had groaned and writhed, but not in any attempt to break free and not just because she recognised the futility of such an effort. Rather, once again her inner demons had been given full lease and in her helplessness she craved for the final fulfilment.
‘Yes, I think I must definitely try to have you as my own when this campaign is finished,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees between her legs. Corinna peered along the length of her prone body and saw that he was already erect, his long and surprisingly thick weapon standing up ramrod straight. She gave a little whimper and tried to wriggle towards him, but Halit placed a hand on her belly.
‘Not so fast, pretty Flix,’ he chuckled. ‘First you must ask me.’
‘Ask you?’ Corinna feigned ignorance, though she well knew his game.
‘Yes, ask me, as your master,’ Halit said. ‘Ask me to fuck you?’
‘Oh yes!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Oh yes, please my master; fuck this worthless little pony slave. Make her come and make her yours forever!’ Her plea was not as false as she would have had it, however, for the fires were raging in her now.
Halit paused, extending one hand to insert a finger deep inside her, turning it until he found her swollen nubbin, which he began to rub slowly. Corinna let out a squeal that sounded barely human to her ears and raised her buttocks as she tried to thrust herself up for him.
‘Good,’ she heard him say. ‘Very good, my pretty Flix. Beg me once again.’
‘Yes, please master, I beg you! Please - oh please, torment me no more - fuck me!’
A moment later she felt him at her entrance, pressing against the folds of her lips, forcing them aside and driving deep into her with one massive thrust. Corinna wriggled her useless hands in their bonds and beat her weighted feet against the hard ground. Above her, Halit gazed down into her tortured face and smiled the smile of the conqueror.
‘Pony slut,’ he chuckled, brushing one sticky finger across her forehead. ‘Pretty little pony slut. And now, Princess Tits, you shall have your good fucking, indeed you shall!’
Opal had allowed herself to be secured in the slave belt once more, several crossbows ensuring her compliance, but she had baulked when Pecon produced a hood for her.
‘Why must I?’ she demanded. ‘I am not a slave, not now nor at any time, and you gave me your oath you would release me in Sorabund.’
‘And so I shall, lady,’ Pecon assured her. ‘However, apart from my oath I also value my life, and I desire very much to get far enough along the road to be able to keep both of them. I know for a fact that there are two of your countrywomen somewhere in these parts, and where there are two, there may well be others.
‘One look at that face and hair and they would have me as vulture meal without awaiting any explanation I might offer and, unlike Farridan there, I have seen enough of Yslandic efficiency to not want to test its mettle personally. Now, stand still while I bundle up this hair of yours and still that tongue, or I’ll gag you the same as little Demila.’
‘You would not dare!’ Opal snarled, but they both knew that the mercenary slaver would do exactly that, for there was something about the air of the man that belied his apparent fear of retribution. Young and inexperienced as she was, the novice Valkyr recognised a fellow fighter when she saw one.
Having effectively disguised his charge, Pecon seemed in no immediate haste to depart, but continued bartering with the villagers for some of the other slaves they were offering. The dark girl who had first entered with Opal - her name was Ganda - was purchased for a fraction of her true worth, Pecon reminding Farridan of how much he was in his debt for having saved him from a terrible fate and taking Opal off his hands.
‘Besides,’ Pecon laughed, ‘it’s not as if you paid for any of your stock, you old rogue. Now, let’s see what else you have.’ He refused even a cheap price for Rolf, who had been handed over to the women to have his wounds dressed, explaining that it was not practical to take a convalescent on the journey north, but did give a fair price on two light skinned Vaal country girls and two more slightly darker girls whose origins were probably much further south. He also bid for the original slavers’ wagon, complete with the various accoutrements of their trade, plus a string of six ponies, more than enough so that each of his new acquisitions could ride, rather than walk.
Completing the transaction with two bags of meal and two wicker baskets filled with fresh vegetables, Pecon directed two of the young village boys to refill all their canteens and announced that he intended to depart forthwith, though by this time it was past midnight.
‘I prefer not to share a roof with those cutthroats,’ he told Demila, as they rode away into the darkness again. He had removed her gag and fed and watered her as the final preparations were being made and now she rode at his left hand, as the sulking Yslander rode at his right. The four smaller girls rode just behind them, while the Colrasian girl sat awkwardly in the driver’s seat aboard the wagon, managing to hold the traces to the two horses, even though her hands remained cuffed at the sides of her belt.
‘They would surely not try to harm you, master?’ Demila said, surprised. ‘I sensed too much respect from them for that.’
‘A perceptive child you are, little slave,’ Pecon replied, ‘but your perception yet needs the greater depths that come only with experience. Farridan himself would not dare confront me, nor would he wish to, for we have traded many times over the years, but Farridan is growing old now and there are those among his people who would perhaps have a different outlook.’
‘And you yourself would fetch a fine price for the arenas of Maravania,’ Opal said, breaking her self-imposed silence at last. ‘I suspect you would acquit yourself well in the gladiatorial games they favour so much there.’
‘You have travelled to those parts, lady?’ Pecon asked. It was not so surprising, he thought, for although they were a long way from Maravania and its squabbling neighbour, Dasnia, Yslandia itself sat in the northern reaches of the seas that separated them from Illeum and the eastern continent, and Yslanders travelled as frequently and freely through those lands as they did through any other.
‘I went with my mother, many years ago, when I was young,’ Opal replied.
Demila tried to see Pecon’s face in the gloom and barely suppressed a giggle, for Opal had still at least two more years to go before she left her teen years behind.
‘We watched at some games,’ the hooded Valkyr continued. ‘It was quite interesting, for there were some fine warriors on show. You have seen those games yourself, I venture?’
‘Oh yes,’ Pecon muttered. ‘Yes indeed, and at far too close quarters, believe me. Now, enough of your women’s chatter. We would not hear if an entire army was trying to creep up on us. Just ride on, while I fall back and check that we have no unwanted company riding with us.
‘There’s a good place ahead where we can make camp safely, out of sight of the trail, but we have some hours of riding yet before we reach that haven and then several more days’ hard travel before we reach the borders of Sorabund, so save your strength and try not to fall out of your saddles. I don’t want to waste time picking any of you up and remounting you - at least, not remounting you in the saddle!’
The sound of his low chuckle reverberated on the still night air, as he wheeled his mount and began cantering back the way they had come.