Filled with sudden unease, Zora winced as she slowly raised herself on one elbow. Massaging an aching temple, she looked around the small, shadowy interior.
This wasn't her tent! The space was empty but for this low pile of furs and some wooden barrels stacked against an opposite wall. A strange roughly dressed man slumped on a bench near the entrance, his arms crossed and his chin resting on his chest. Another snore shattered the stillness and she realized he was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open and drool trickling from one slack corner.
Her confusion mounting, Zora thought to rise, but suddenly uproarious laughter sounded just outside the tent. Gasping, she fell back upon the furs as if she had been struck and rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut. Her companion snorted awake, the bench creaking as he shifted his stout bulk and rose.
"Damned Varangians," he grumbled, coming to stand over her.
Zora fought the urge to stiffen as the man nudged her bottom with his toe. She heard him grunt and, to her disgust, break wind as he scratched himself, then he turned abruptly as the tent flaps were thrown aside.
"Still asleep?" The voice was gruff and gravelly, like that of an older man.
"Aye, Gleb. Hasn't twitched a muscle. Whatever that eunuch used to drug her, he must have given her a double dose to knock her out for this long."
So she had been drugged, Zora thought wildly, the dense mist gradually clearing from her brain. But how? When? She had gone to Hermione's tent, had drunk some wine . . . Oh, God! Vague memories crowded in upon her and became more vivid . . . her strange weariness, the litter crashing to the ground, Phineas's whispered voice, brutal hands seizing her—
"It's just as well. I've no time for her right now. This trading camp is swarming with eager buyers. Foreign merchants, too. I want to make more sales before we set off again. The journey downriver will be swifter with a few dozen less slaves."
"But, Gleb, do you think we should risk another hour's delay? We've already been here since midafternoon and it's nearing sunset. Guards could have been sent out to look for the wench."
The older man gave a dry laugh. "For a concubine? I doubt it, but if they are, we've managed a good day's lead on any search party. Why do you think we kept our ships so hard to the river until we stopped here?"
She was no concubine! Zora screamed silently, her thoughts reeling. She forced herself to take steady breaths, knowing both men now stood over her.
"Pity she has to lose her tongue, a fine beauty like this," the younger one muttered. "As a mute, she won't fetch but half the price in Constantinople."
"To hell with your sentiments! The great Prince Mstislav's soldiers showed no mercy when wielding their knives, accursed butchers! They did the same thing to my sons before both were slain as supposed spies, hacking out their tongues, chopping off their fingers, noses, ears. . ." Falling silent for a moment, Gleb's roughened voice was bitter when he added, "That eunuch's mistress paid me well to carry out her orders, and I'll not invite her wrath. Call me when the girl wakes. I'd cut out her tongue now but she'd choke on her own blood."
Horrified, Zora feared her pounding heart would give her away. Holy Mother Mary, please tell her that this was a terrible dream!
Yet Phineas's urgently whispered words came back to her with bone-chilling clarity— "Grab her and be gone!" She knew the nightmare was real. Hermione had finally engineered the cruelest offense of all, staging a reconciliation while treachery seethed in her breast.
Zora banished her sister's hateful image from her mind as the two men, engrossed in a discussion, moved away from her toward the entrance. She half opened her eyes to take a peek at them.
The older one, Gleb, wore a purple silk caftan over his gaunt frame, a stark contrast to the stout guard's coarse woolen shirt and trousers. A close-cropped graying beard covered Gleb's jaw. He looked shrewd, his features angular and pinched, and she stifled her irrational impulse to jump up and tell him that she was no mere concubine but Prince Mstislav's daughter.
If this slaver's sons had been killed by her father's men, any such revelation would place her in greater danger. Who knew what Gleb would do to her then? Maybe kill her on the spot!
Zora shut her eyes as Gleb left the tent and his stocky subordinate retook his seat. It seemed her traitorous sister had chosen her abductors with care. Her only hope lay in escape.
Interminable moments passed while Zora lay upon the furs, her body tense beneath the blanket. She heard the bench creak each time her captor shifted his weight, but she didn't dare look at him, certain that he was watching her. She couldn't have been more astonished when a short while later, a loud, gargling snore burst from his throat. After a third such noise, she dared to raise her head. He was stretched out upon the bench, sleeping again!
Seizing her chance, Zora pushed back the blanket and rose shakily to her feet, fighting the lingering dizziness. For the first time she noticed that her silken clothes had been exchanged for a plain linen tunic and she was barefoot, her slippers gone. Why, those bastards must have seen her naked! And her a princess!
Refusing to dwell upon the indignity, Zora swallowed hard as she took a few cautious steps to test her wobbly legs. When she felt certain that she wouldn't collapse, she edged stealthily across the tent, all the while keeping a cautious eye upon her prone captor.
She almost jumped through her skin when he snorted and smacked his lips, but he did not waken. Carefully she lifted the flap, peering outside, and was dismayed to see that the camp was abustle with activity, traders haggling everywhere over various goods while groups of silent slaves, mostly women, were being led here and there. She also heard muffled male laughter emanating from several tents and occasionally high-pitched squeals that were decidedly female.
But there was one clear advantage. Although the tent was pitched near some larger ones, it was also close to the trees. If she could reach the forest, she could hide near the river and wait for the caravan to pass. The merchant had said there was only a day's lead between any search party and the trading camp. But if she couldn't escape through the front entrance, fearing that she might be seen . . .
Zora's gaze fell upon the knife protruding from the man's leather belt. Dare she?
Another resounding snore startled her, spurring her into action. With shaking fingers, she crouched beside him and eased the weapon from its sheath, then moved quickly to the rear tent wall. Fortunately the razor-sharp blade slashed through the canvas as silently and smoothly as if the fabric were butter, and falling to her knees, she slipped through the narrow opening.
Her heart beating in her throat, Zora lifted her tunic above her knees and fled, looking neither to the left nor right but dashing straight for the tree line. She was nearly there when her left heel glanced off a jagged rock and, grimacing in pain, she had to hobble the rest of the way. She was almost crying with relief when she safely reached the dense woods. She leaned upon a trunk and paused for a brief instant to catch her breath and inspect her foot.
"By the blood of Odin, where are you flying to, my pretty bird?"
Gasping in fright, Zora glanced up to find a huge Varangian trader fastening his breeches as he stepped from behind a tree. Her heart sinking, she realized she had been so preoccupied with her injury that she hadn't noticed the man relieving himself against a gnarled trunk only a few feet away.
"Stay away from me!" she cried when he took a step toward her. Brandishing the knife she still held, she glanced beyond him to the darkening forest and freedom, then met his leering gaze. In the fading light filtering through the leaves, his eyes appeared a pale, chilling blue, and the deep scar bisecting his sparsely bearded cheek only heightened his air of menace. His hair was white-blond and coarse, and he was dressed in fur skins like a barbarian.
"Have you flown from your master's nest?" Ignoring her poised weapon, he advanced another step. His gaze roamed over her, lingering uncomfortably on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. "I don't remember seeing you among the other women. If I
had, I swear I would have sampled you first."
Craning her neck, Zora felt as if she faced a giant. She had seen these massive Norsemen before in Tmutorokan's marketplaces, and her father himself was a tall man, descended from fierce Swedish warriors who had settled in Rus two centuries ago. But now she was alone with the large Varangian, with only a knife to protect her.
"Stand back," she warned shakily. "I am Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus and taken captive against my will—"
"And I'm the king of Denmark," he mocked her, drawing closer. "Sheathe your talons, pretty bird, and come back to the camp with Halfdan Snakeeye." His arm, strangely tattooed with serpents devouring each other, suddenly shot out as he lunged for her.
"No!" she screamed, swiping at him with the knife. As the blade sliced into his flesh, his harsh laughter filled the woods. He easily knocked the knife from her hand, and catching a fistful of tangled hair, he yanked her hard against his massive chest. Crying out from the stinging pain, Zora thought her scalp would be ripped from her skull.
"I said come to Halfdan. I want to find your master and strike a deal."
Zora fought him with all her strength as he lifted her in his arms, but he only laughed harder, enjoying her struggles. Nor did it seem to make any difference to him that blood trickled from his wound. When they stepped from the trees, a curious crowd began to gather and Halfdan smiled broadly, enjoying the attention.
"Look what I found while I was pissing in the woods! A golden bird, a daughter of Freyja, goddess of desire and beauty! From whose nest has she escaped? I wish to speak with that man!"
Zora twisted wildly in his grasp, but the giant's muscled arms were like bands of steel and thick as small tree trunks. Torn by cold fear and outrage, she demanded, "Let go of me, you vile, disgusting—" A beefy hand clapped over her mouth abruptly silenced her, and she was jerked even harder against his chest, pinned so tightly she couldn't move. Her stomach roiled from the Varangian's acrid stench of sweat and filth.
"Who owns this woman?" Halfdan bellowed, now almost to the center of camp.
"I do! Release her at once!" came an indignant reply. Gleb rushed forward with his stout guard. "She is not for sale!"
"Not for sale?" the Varangian trader echoed incredulously.
"I'm saving her for a better market . . . Constantinople," added Gleb, his gravelly voice raised in anger. He halted right in front of the Norseman, who loomed over him, then he shot a dark glance at his wide-eyed companion. "My man here was watching her, but she managed to escape. Release her, I tell you—"
"My silver grivna are as good as any Greek's!" With one swift movement Halfdan yanked a gleaming broadaxe from his belt and lifted Gleb's pointed chin with the well-honed blade. "Will you stop me from sampling her now, little man? Maybe she will displease me and then you can have her back! If not, I will buy her. Those are the rules of the trade!"
Answered by stunned silence, Halfdan snorted in triumph and shoved the ashen-faced Gleb aside, then strode to a nearby tent. As he stormed inside the stuffy lamplit interior, Zora was assailed at once by the overpowering smell of sex, cloying and primal. She gaped in horror at the sight before her.
Everywhere she looked naked slave women were being bedded by potential buyers, upon the floor, on crude benches, against the tent walls, a wild, sweaty tangle of rutting bodies. But she heard no cries of protest, some women laughing throatily, some moaning in pleasure, others mutely bearing what must be a slave's lot . . . dear God, and this barbarian thought she was a slave!
Suddenly realizing the Varangian's lustful intentions, Zora sank her teeth into his callused palm and his hand fell from her mouth. "No! You can't do this!" she shouted hoarsely, her throat constricted with fear.
"Silence, woman!" Halfdan threw her down upon the nearest vacant bench and held her there, despite her wild flailing, with one massive hand pressed between her breasts. Wrenching at his breeches, he released his huge, swollen member and Zora froze, her eyes widening in terrified disbelief. "Frey the Fruitful has blessed me well with the means to please you," he said, coarsely fondling himself. "Now spread your plumage and enjoy the god's bounty." With a harsh laugh, he ripped her tunic from collar to hem, exposing her trembling body to his gaze.
"Stop . . . no, oh, no!" Zora cried as he straddled the bench and lowered his bulk down upon her. In wild desperation she brought her knee up sharply, catching him in the groin. As the Varangian doubled over, sucking in his breath and cursing, she wrenched herself from beneath him and fell hard to the dirt floor. An instant later she was scrambling on hands and knees toward the entrance. As she clambered to her feet and dashed outside, Halfdan's bellows of rage resounded from the tent.
"Help me!" she screamed, seized by hysteria. She took refuge behind several traders only to have them dart away in fear as the Norseman burst through the tent flaps, brandishing his broadaxe. Spying Gleb, she ran to him but he, too, backed away, the sight of three hundred pounds of enraged Varangian stifling any protest he might have offered.
Clutching her torn tunic against her body, Zora spun in terror. Halfdan looked like a vengeful behemoth as he slowed his mad dash to a relentless stalking, his pale eyes gleaming almost silver in the torchlight illuminating the camp.
"You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you . . . here, now, in the dirt in front of everyone. And when I make you scream with pleasure, you will wish you had surrendered sooner to Halfdan Snakeeye."
"Mother of Christ, protect me!" she begged in a daze, shock enveloping her like cold, creeping fingers. Stumbling backward, she turned and fled toward another tent, her eyes nearly blinded by tears. She didn't see the tall, broad-shouldered man stepping outside until it was too late and she ran headlong into him, jolting the breath from her body. She would have fallen if he hadn't caught her, his grip strong and sure.
"Help me! Please help me!" she pleaded almost incoherently, swiping her hair from her eyes. "A reward . . . I promise you a reward! You must help . . ." Her entreaty died in her throat as she stared up into the bearded face of another Varangian trader, a gaze of intense blue meeting hers. "Oh, God . . . no!"
Pushing away from him in horror, she staggered back the other way, everything around her becoming a swirling blur. As Halfdan bore down upon her, his triumphant laughter ringing in her ears, she heard her own voice as if from inside a deep well, crying, "You can't do this to me! I am—"
"Silence, bitch!" Halfdan's sudden openhanded blow to her cheek sent her reeling into a pile of stacked goods, jagged flashes of light bursting before her eyes. Without a whimper, she crumpled amid overturned casks and crates, escaping into sweet blackness.
Chapter 3
"So what will it be, man? Do you want the wench or not? I've two other traders waiting to try her if you're not in the mind to buy."
Rurik did not waste a glance upon the fat Bulgarian merchant or the nude slave being thrust toward him, a voluptuous, almond-eyed beauty who had eagerly opened her legs for his pleasure moments before the commotion that had drawn him outside the tent. His gaze was riveted upon the young woman lying on the ground like a limp cloth doll only twenty feet away, and the Varangian trader who stood above her.
"Didn't you hear me, friend? Time is money and you're wasting mine. Now what's your answer?"
Again ignoring the merchant, Rurik tensed as the huge Norseman bent down and grabbed one of the woman's delicate ankles, clearly intent upon dragging his quarry from the debris scattered around her.
He had witnessed many abuses at trading camps, but never anything that had so turned his stomach as seeing that fur-clad oaf striking down a woman who appeared almost a child to his massive bulk. A woman with the most incredible blue-green eyes Rurik had ever seen, and a face and form rivaling Freyja herself. A woman who had begged for his help, mumbling frantically of a reward, only to recoil from him in terror. A woman whose refined accent marked her as no common, illiterate slave. Yet he knew the wisest thing for his guise and secretive mission was not to become
involved, however strong the temptation, and by Odin, he already had enough women at home.
"Well?"
Rurik turned at the insistent tug on his arm and fixed a dark glare upon the presumptuous merchant. The man withdrew his pudgy hand as if stung and stepped backward in surprise, his eyes round with fear.
"You risk much to impose yourself so upon a stranger," Rurik said in a low warning. "Take your slave and be gone."
"V-very well." The affronted merchant grabbed his crestfallen chattel's forearm and pushed her back into the tent. "Just the same, you're passing up quite a bargain," he added as the flap fell behind them.
A female slave was the last thing he needed on this journey, Rurik told himself again, watching grimly as the Varangian dragged the fine-boned woman back to the center of camp, her torn tunic trailing behind her and her exquisite body bared to the gathered crowd's gaze.
He and his three men had stopped to trade furs for supplies for their trip downriver to Chernigov, nothing more. Sampling slave women was part of their ruse as merchants, a pleasurable one to be sure, but indulged in only to satisfy lust, not with any intention to buy. So there was no logical purpose in challenging the Varangian for his golden-limbed captive.
"Rouse yourself, woman! Feigning a swoon won't save you!"
Rurik felt disgust tighten his throat as the Norseman roughly shook the young woman's prone body. The dullard hadn't even noticed that his vicious blow had rendered her senseless.
When he received no response, the trader spread her legs wide with his foot and went down on his knees between them, dropping his broadaxe near her head. He stroked her upturned breasts with huge, thick-fingered hands, then, grinning, cupped the golden mound at the apex of her thighs and squeezed.
"I said I'd take you in the dirt, pretty bird, and I meant it. When you feel Halfdan's Frey-wand deep inside you, you'll wake soon enough and cry out for more."
"By Thor's hammer, enough! What kind of dog are you to rut on the ground with a woman who lies as if dead?"
The Pagan's Prize Page 3