Clutching her water bucket, keeping her eyes to herself, she began to walk. There were footsteps behind her and a pair of warriors trailing her to the left. She would go directly to the stream, she decided, saving her escape for later. Caralissa knew the way, having ridden horses often in this area as a child. The Rashal had greatly transformed it, felling trees, erecting barricades and raising huge tents at regular intervals along the nearby hillsides. Closer to the stream she saw rows of wooden machines, siege engines - catapults and battering rams - neatly arrayed, already facing their target - the walls of her faraway castle.
More and more warriors joined the excursion, following her as if in a parade. Others merely watched her pass as they leaned upon spears or swords. In a clearing to the left some hundred or so men partook in exercise, vigorously clashing their steel, their rounded brightly-coloured shields lying in stacks on the ground as they ran at one another, bare-chested and fearsome. There were patrols too, soldiers in helmets, holding thick chains at the end of which tromped proud, long-toothed black and grey tigers, cousins, no doubt of Ahzur.
It was clear to Caralissa as she made her survey of the Rashal camp that what Varik said was true: he had deliberately lowered precautions to allow the rumoured assassin free access. Much as she hated to burst her own pride, it was obvious that were these men even mildly vigilant last night, she would already be arrayed upon one of the sharp poles which pierced the ground at regular intervals, their tops tufted with Rashal flags, crisply flapping in the morning breeze.
So she had been betrayed; just as Varik said while simultaneously spanking and fondling her, driving her mad with desire, imposing on her the unbearable mix of pleasure and pain. Who could it have been, though? Only the royal council knew of her actions, and these were rock steady old men, the most loyal servants of her father.
And Romila, of course. She knew as well. Her dark-haired, sullen sister was displeased by her decision to end the impending war in one fell swoop, but could petty jealousy ever lead Romila to endanger her life, not to mention the security of the entire state? No, it wasn’t possible. She was glad, though, that she’d removed the scheming Telos from the castle before she left. The man was a worm, a charlatan, who when not occupied in his pathetic attempts to bed young maidens, was forever finding ways to line his pocket from the royal treasury.
‘You there! Halt!’
A single warrior blocked her path. His chest was mailed in black metal, worn over a tunic, also black. A red raven was painted across the front. Over his shoulders was slung a cape. His hair was tightly bound in a single braid. There was something about him, something different from the rest of the men with their casual stances and their mismatched uniforms.
‘I am going to the stream,’ said Caralissa, answering the unasked question that burned in the man’s narrow eyes. ‘I am to fetch water for Lord Varik.’
The man looked her up and down then addressed something to the entourage that now accompanied her. Several men answered at once in Rashal, their tones indicating lack of knowledge or responsibility. Caralissa held her head proudly as the man approached her, the tips of his boots touching her bare toes. ‘I shall fetch Senelek,’ the man decided, switching back to the language of the Valley, the language she spoke and Varik spoke. Then to the others, raising his arm, he issued an order. At once the others began to disperse.
Caralissa made a mental note to beware of the man in the future, and any others like him, with their distinctive hairstyle and uniform. She met no further trouble on the way to the stream, though when she arrived she saw there was a small group of men there already, laughing and shouting, passing among them a small horn which appeared to contain liquid. Judging by the volume of their conversation, and its boisterousness, it was something alcoholic.
Warily, she made her way to the stream.
‘By the gods,’ slurred one of them, a blond fellow, hair long and stringy. ‘My breakfast has arrived.’
There was raucous laughter. Judging by the thicker accents and halting speech, she gathered these were common soldiers.
‘To Hades with you, Galak,’ roared a bearded man, his hair wild and black, a scar across his right cheek. ‘This is my gift!’
‘For shame,’ chastised a third man, red-haired like her. ‘Can’t you see a lady is present? Forsooth, milady,’ he bowed. ‘What brings you to our fine watery establishment?’
‘I am to fetch water,’ she said. ‘For Lord Varik.’
‘For Varik?’ He slapped his knee. ‘Do you hear that, men? Who but Varik could win himself a trophy before the battle is even begun?’
‘Long live Varik!’ said a man, his voice hoarse from shouting or drinking or both.
‘Aye,’ grumbled a second, raising the horn. ‘To Varik, a chief who knows how to take care of himself first.’
‘To the perks of the chieftainship!’ called another.
‘Varik is waiting for me,’ she told them hastily, not liking the tone of their words.
‘I’ll bet he is,’ called the red-haired man. ‘You hear that, men? I’ll give you three guesses why we aren’t marching yet today. And I’ll wager my share of the next round of spoils we won’t do any marching tomorrow, either! Not once Varik gets his water bucket filled!’
Galak shoved his way forward. ‘I have something for your water bucket,’ he sneered, gesturing rudely to the crotch of his tan britches.
Caralissa stiffened as the bearded man reached across Galak to touch her chin. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked, the smell of his breath making her swoon.
‘I am the queen,’ she said proudly, realising too late the comic nature of her remark in the current circumstances. ‘The queen of Orencia.’
Gales of laughter rose into the sky, mingling with the smoke of the dozens of campfires, rising almost as high as the highest of the white clouds.
‘A queen!’ the man howled. ‘A queen. Shall we kiss her ring?’
‘Let her kiss this,’ Galak said, his attention still fixated on his genitals.
She felt a hand from behind, clenching her buttocks. ‘Not till I’ve had a piece,’ said a new man, his tongue lapping at her ear. ‘It’s been two months since I’ve spiked a wench. I’m ready to explode inside my pants.’
‘It would be a very small explosion,’ observed Garak.
‘We’ll see about that!’ the man fumed, taking Caralissa in his arms. Others quickly joined in, whether to stop or encourage him she wasn’t sure. She was on the verge of going down to the ground beneath the lot of them when a whizzing spear, lofted from the hillside, landed at their feet.
The men looked up, spoiling for a fight. Seeing the small company of black armoured men, however, they quickly reconsidered. Caralissa felt her pulse quicken. Among them was the dark-eyed man, the one from before.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded their spokesman, a sturdy man, his head clean-shaven save for a long black braid rooted at the base of his skull. From the look of him, the black breastplate being trimmed in gold with a fiery yellow dragon at the centre, Caralissa took him for their leader.
The redhead, having been shoved forward by the others, became spokesman for the band of soldiers. ‘Forgive us, Lord Senelek. We were sporting with the girl. A capture of our chieftain, so it seems.’
‘I am queen of this land,’ she offered, deciding to play up her special status. ‘Your chief captured me. And now I must bring him water.’
Senelek examined Caralissa. She felt naked under his gaze, naked and used. Uncharacteristically - and hating herself for her loss of nerve - she lowered her eyes.
‘You are drunk,’ Varik’s brother said, turning back to the redhead.
Immediately the man’s face went pale, as though just realising the severity of his offence. He fell at once to his knees. ‘We heard rumours we would not march today, my lord. Behold the hour,’ he pointed towards the sun. ‘It is
already late.’
Senelek thinned his lips. ‘I need no lesson in astronomy.’
‘Forgive me!’ the man wailed, realising his compound error.
Senelek considered the trembling man before finally addressing the assembly. ‘Be gone, the lot of you. Tomorrow when we fight you will all march in the front line.’
‘Yes, Lord Senelek,’ the man cried. ‘We thank you, Lord Senelek.’
The revellers scattered like rats, leaving Caralissa to the sombre company of Varik’s brother and his men.
‘Thank you,’ she said to her rescuer, though secretly she suspected she would have been better off with the drunken braggarts.
Senelek eyed her. ‘I am not fooled by you,’ he told her, his fingers lifting her chin. ‘Not for an instant.’
Caralissa remained painfully still. Where was Varik, she wondered, when she really needed him?
‘How come you to be in this camp?’ Senelek demanded.
She relayed, in unsteady tones the full story of her attempted assassination, the thought of lying to the man being incomprehensible.
Senelek shook his head. ‘You came by sorcery,’ the man corrected. ‘Not by stealth. You are a witch sent to destroy the Rashal. Varik is under your spell, it seems, but I am not. Do not think you will succeed in your plot. I shall defeat you.’
His eyes lingered a moment longer as though deciding something. ‘Take her,’ he ordered two of the men. ‘Back to Varik with her. Let him have his toy. For now.’
Senelek’s words chilled her. Their implications echoed in her mind the whole way back to Varik’s tent. Who was this man, exactly? She’d heard Varik speak of her brother in such reverent tones and yet the man was seething inside with hostility, a fact plainly obvious to Caralissa.
‘You took long with my water,’ Varik complained as she re-entered the tent, the black warriors having left her at the entrance.
‘I was detained,’ she replied, a bit cross.
Varik’s back was to her. He was dressed now, wearing dark trousers, boots and a red tunic, belted with a sash. His arms were crossed as he contemplated a map pinned to the rear of the tent. She recognised it as a representation of the Valley of Seven Kingdoms, of which Orencia was one, and beyond it the Forests of Night, an unexplored territory in which demons were said to dwell, along with invincible man-eating beasts. These would be Varik’s next destination, logically, once he subdued her lands. That is, unless he were growing tired of building an empire. Strange, she thought, that such an idea should cross her mind. Was she capable of reading the man’s thoughts?
‘I encountered Senelek,’ she said, trying to keep her tone neutral.
‘Senelek is my greatest ally,’ Varik told her, as if he could read her mind, too. ‘He has fought beside me since the beginning. From the days when the Rashal were one village, unable to defend even our own hearths.’
‘Why does he wear black, he and his men?’
‘Senelek is the Keeper of the Way. He is high priest. He and his men enforce the moral codes. In addition he informs us of the will of the gods. He is stern, but we would not be an empire without him.’
‘My sister is jealous of me, too,’ Caralissa said, not knowing from whence the words came. ‘She wanted to be queen instead of me.’
Varik turned, his face bearing a most peculiar expression. ‘Why do you tell me this?’ he mused. ‘Were you sent to me by gods or by demons? Can you answer me that, Little Flame?’
‘I came of my own accord.’
Varik smiled. ‘We have much in common, you and I. Unlike Senelek, we seek our own ways, not those of gods.’
‘And what is your way, Varik?’
She saw the light in his eyes, suddenly kindled. ‘My way is conquest,’ he said, his face taking on the predatory look she’d seen in Ahzur. ‘I take what I desire. Remove my shirt from your body, Little Flame. I would train you now.’
‘My name is Caralissa,’ she defied, though her fingers were already undoing the makeshift belt at her waist. A mere handful of heart pounding seconds later, she was bared to him.
‘I do not like clothes upon your body,’ he told her, running his fingers through her hair. ‘Were you mine, I would keep you nude at all times.’
Caralissa felt the stirrings, now familiar between her legs. ‘Then I am not yours already?’ she challenged. ‘But last night, I thought?’
‘You think too much, Little Flame. For now, be silent.’ Taking her arms he stretched them, so that she was in the form of a cross. She watched as he took the water from the jug and poured it into a small basin. To this he added an amount of golden liquid, sweetly scented. There was a sponge in the basin and he squeezed it, even as he came to her, to bathe her skin.
Varik’s touch was surprisingly gentle, so much so she could scarce imagine it was these same fingers that pummelled her buttocks and tortured her loins to spasmodic ecstasy just a short few hours ago. Closing her eyes she allowed the sponge to take her. The trickling water, the small circular rubs, all of it was so delicious she wanted it to go on forever. Why could not her servants treat her so well at home? Caralissa blushed as she guessed the answer: it was because none of them were untamed warriors like Varik.
A small sound escaped her lips, one of pleasure and thanks as he brushed her nipples. Rivulets of water ran down her belly, teasing the opening of her still ripe sex. In truth she was still mightily aroused. In a way he was right; she was his Little Flame. Kindled at his touch, fanned by his presence, his arrogance, his intensity.
‘You are dangerous,’ Varik observed as she parted her legs in readiness for the sponge. ‘Were a man not sufficiently strong he might find himself your slave.’
Caralissa glowed beneath the compliment. She’d heard such things about herself, but never from a man such as he. Proudly, almost recklessly, she thrust out her breasts. Every thought was driven from her mind: her mysteriously absent army which she’d expected this morning, the unknown traitor, the tenuous nature of her personal freedoms, none of this mattered. She lived for his words alone, for the feel of him, for his whims, his dreams his ideas.
‘I shall dry you now,’ he told her when the bath was complete. ‘And then I shall bind you in ropes, in a manner sacred to my people. You will then kneel to me, in the way I command. Thus will you be prepared to serve my pleasure.’
Caralissa was floating above herself. As he continued with her, fulfilling the words of his own prophecy, she felt herself in the hands of a god, protected and safe. It was like with her father, when she was very young and he would play with her sometimes, tossing her in the air and catching her. However it was different with him, innocent and pure, not sexual as with Varik.
Patting her skin, almost doting on her, he brought her to a state of warm dryness. Still standing he left her momentarily as he went to one of the wooden boxes in which were contained long coils of rope, brightly coloured and of varying lengths. Choosing a coil of purple, he cinched the ends and made small loops at various places. Caralissa giggled as he worked, for with his intent concentration and stooped shoulders, he resembled more an old woman than a barbarian chieftain.
‘This is Rashal Ka-an,’ he said, holding the snaking, many knotted coil up before her eyes. ‘The Rashal love bond.’
He began at her waist, looping the rope about as a belt. He called it a love bond. Was that what he felt for her, then? Cursing her own girlish naiveté, she braced herself as Varik pulled the long end up under her bottom, slipping it tightly between her thighs. At once she began to spill her juices upon the biting material. The pressure in her front and rear, aimed simultaneously against both passages was an odd, almost overpowering sensation. She was constricted in one sense, closed off to invasion, and yet she was at the same time quite fully possessed.
‘Do not forget, Little Flame, your punishment,’ he whispered, nibbling her ear, the combination of words and touc
h weakening her knees, cutting at her belly like a hot knife. The punishment. She nearly forgot. He’d said she would be punished for having spit upon him. For a man this would mean death. But for her, a girl, it would be something small and intimate, something designed to humiliate. Something she would no doubt come to crave as much as she hated it.
Varik went to work on her torso. Brooking no obstacles he put her hands atop her head, compelling her to twist her fingers in the damp tendrils of her hair. The rope he wrapped skilfully round her ribs then over and under her breasts, forming an outline. It was tight enough that she felt the constriction and though he neither laid a hand on her nipples nor touched them with the rope, she found herself responding, the nubs being full and ready, just as Varik said they should be on a female.
There was no mistaking the femininity of the ties, the intensely sensual, sexually explicit implications. Rashal Ka’an was designed to blatantly display a woman’s charms, tempting a man to plunder them. She remembered his promise, that he would not enter her unless and until she invited his presence. No, not invited. Begged for it - those were his exact words. Was that to be her punishment, then, to be teased to submission? Caralissa stiffened, trying to keep her guard up. She would not yield to this man, could not yield to him. She would not surrender her liberty.
‘Place your hands behind your back,’ Varik commanded, his presence a constantly shifting distraction, a mountain of potency keeping her constantly off balance.
Caralissa removed her hands from her hair, allowing it to fall about her shoulders and breasts. She was particularly vain about her hair, having been encouraged from an early age to think of it as a divine sign of the red-haired sun goddess, evidence that her life was marked for special beauty, special greatness. Certain popular statues of this goddess, banned in the capital for their overtly sexual connotations, depict her with red pubic hair as well, and so she sometimes thought her untested sex divine too.
Caralissa's Conquest Page 4