by Amy Gallow
"I'm sorry,” she said, aware it was concern for her safety from his choice of her companion. “I'll be more careful in future."
"From tomorrow, the risks escalate.” He looked serious. “You must not move without your two archers. Only when you are with me will you be safe. The same goes for your assistant. Except when she is with her spearman, she must have the protection of the men assigned to her."
"I'll make sure she understands."
They ate together, the camp quiet around them in the deepening dusk. They were close to the trail and to the road.
"Do I get a massage tonight?” She was smiling.
"Do you need one?” So was he.
"I always need a massage."
His smile deepened. “I don't suppose I'd find anyone else to do it at this short notice."
"Not if you value their lives,” she agreed, emboldened by his expression.
"A wise commander avoids casualties.” He stood up. “Our bed is in that direction. I'll brief the guard commander and join you."
He took his time but Helene forgave him when she realized he'd bathed too. His hair was still damp, as was the bandage on his leg and his chain mail shirt lay over his arm.
Her massage came first, and it was done thoroughly, but this time its effect was different. Her skin tingled to his touch and her excitement escalated to a point where self control was a distant memory, entirely unrelated to anything Helene might feel. He provided guidance not control, firm hands urging her to remain still, allowing her choice, seeking her consent to continue when she tried to move.
"Wait,” he whispered. “It will be worth it."
She didn't disbelieve him but her body had a mind of its own and she was captive to its demands, rather than his. His patience was inexhaustible, his self control absolute, as he coaxed responses from her she'd thought soiled forever by the smugglers.
She'd healed his leg, he was intent on healing her soul and he'd done this before—or had learnt by failure.
It was odd. A part of her mind could think, could observe and reason, while the rest was so intimately involved in an irresistible arousal it prompted her to scream her demands to the sky.
"Shush, baby.” He turned her over and covered her mouth with his, swallowing her moans as his hands shifted from massage to exploration, gently kneading her flesh into ecstasy as he discovered secret places to pleasure her. She had never been one for kisses, considering the pastime vastly over-rated as anything but a form of greeting relatives. He revealed her loss, tongue teasing and delighting her at the same time.
Her nipples, the gently aching cores of her breasts, demanded his touch and the center of her being had shifted south to a yawning chasm that throbbed its need. Yet, he would not be hurried, prolonging each moment until her arousal became eerily selfish. Where nothing mattered but her, and the world receded to leave only the means of her satisfaction, not as part of him, but individual items with entirely separate entities. She reached for what she wanted and guided it home with no sensation that the flesh impaling her had an owner. It acted to her desire, not his, and she exploded time and time again around it until exhaustion claimed her and she spiraled down into the darkness.
* * * *
Rachael was impatient. They'd reached the shore at first light. She'd set up her signal on the broad beach and expected rescue at dusk. It was past midnight. She was hungry, tired and longing for the comfort and security of the mother ship. Too many strange things had happened on this planet.
A new phantom had invaded her mind, a woman called Helene. She shared flashes of her experiences in her dreams, felt her fear of the sergeant and the growth of another emotion she couldn't yet define. Her tiredness made her more vulnerable it seemed.
"Your friends aren't coming tonight.” Anneke sounded definite. “I'm going to see what food I can scrounge in the village."
Rachael nodded distractedly. “I'd better stay here, just in case. Be careful.” Their beach lay between two fishing villages, the closest one just beyond the point.
"Bet on it.” Anneke's teeth showed whitely in the gloom.
Rachael wished she could match her friend's robust cheerfulness. Nothing fazed Anneke. She was as impervious to tiredness as she was to fear and despair. A friend first and foremost, her connection to the First Family an irrelevance, Anneke had opened Rachael's eyes to the world outside the Federation and she would never be the same again. “I'll keep watch until you return."
She sensed Anneke's nod rather than saw it.
"Here's the last of our food. You might as well chew on it while I'm gone.” Rachael felt the knob of dried meat pressed into her hand. “I'll find something.” Anneke chuckled. “Even if it's a discarded boot.” She turned away and disappeared into the darkness.
Rachael sat down with her back to one of the tumble of rocks forming their hiding place at the foot of the cliff. Well above the high tide mark and approachable only from the sea, its only drawback was the lack of an escape route. Anneke was unworried by the fact and Rachael had grown to trust her judgment. They wouldn't be there for long.
She gnawed at the edge of the meat, wishing she had a knife. Coated with herbs and dried to the consistency of granite, it resisted her efforts at first. It was her saliva rather than her teeth that won the day, softening the edge and she gained a miniscule morsel to chew and soften. Its taste bordered on obscene but Rachael's hunger was so sharp it overwhelmed fastidiousness. Half the lump had disappeared before she noticed the denser loom in the darkness of the sea and jumped to her feet.
They'd come!
The shuttle would have landed over the horizon and sent their silenced motor launch along the radar beam to the location of her signal. She ran down the beach, waving her arms.
* * * *
Helene woke with the feeling she should feel ashamed. She didn't, and it bothered her. The feel of Kamran's arms around her and the slow thud of his heart as her head rested on his chest should have made her feel better, but they didn't. He'd treated her with unique consideration and she'd responded so selfishly, their love-making had become little more than rape on her part. She had thought of nothing but her own satisfaction, which made her little better than the smugglers.
She must make it up to him. He'd earned so much more.
Her first movements were tentative and evoked no response and she was about to stop, afraid she would compound her earlier selfishness by waking him.
"You are awake too.” His voice came to her through his chest as much as from his mouth.
"Yes, I'm awake,” she agreed, lifting her head from his chest and looking up at his face. “I want to thank you properly and ask a question."
"In which order.” He was amused.
"What was her name and where did you learn to make love like that?"
"That's two questions.” His teeth gleamed whitely in the darkness. “Her name was Leticia and I failed her.” He paused. “As for your second question, In Xanadu, did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.” He chuckled. “I'll have to know you a little better before I can explain further than that."
"That leaves the matter of thanking you properly.” She could return to his answers later.
"What did you have in mind?"
She'd taken pleasure from him without regard to his feelings, so a proper response was to give pleasure without reward. She'd never done this willingly before, one of the smugglers had removed her gag to attempt it but had been stopped and made to replace the gag by his leader, so it was all new territory.
Her hand moved of its own volition and she felt his shaft thicken in her hand. So far, so good. Her fingers explored it, beginning at the tip and working their way round the ridge of its helmet. He was circumcised, an oddity on this planet. She recalled a rumor his father had been a Spacer. It responded to her touch, the head nodding as in agreement. Her thoughts were distracting her and she put them aside.
He deserved her full attention.
The fuzz of hair around i
t base was wiry, full of tight curls and the twin sacks containing his testicles bulging firmly. She'd seen the same reaction in oxen when they scented the herd was in heat. Damn! She had to discipline her wandering mind again. A glance at his face reassured her. He was smiling. A trickle of liquid ran down his shaft on onto her hand, surprising her. It felt viscous, yet lubricated her grip.
The next step was going to be awkward. She rose to a kneeling position at his side, changing hands to surreptitiously sample the liquid with the tip if her tongue. It had no unpleasant taste, a little salty perhaps, but bland. One hurdle overcome. The angle of his shaft forced her to approach it from the side and she began tentatively, licking the crown of its helmet. It jerked in her hand with each lick and she wondered if he were doing it consciously. She took the tip in her mouth, careful to avoid touching it with her teeth by using her tongue to cushion and stimulate.
His hand stroked her bare back, gently caressing the vertebrae and she shivered with pleasure as she experimented with different movements, trying to judge what pleased him most by the responses of his shaft. Some were involuntary she thought, the others deliberate movements she could limit with her hands. She had both clasped around the base of his shaft now and she moved them in unison with her mouth, increasing the tempo as she felt his excitement grow. The awkward position made it difficult and her neck muscles had just begun to protest when his shaft convulsed in her hand and a jet of warm liquid hit the back of her throat.
She fought down the automatic reaction to jerk away and swallowed instead, owing him that much and more. Four more spurts of liquid followed. It had a stronger taste, still not unpleasant, but saltier. She kept stimulating him until his shaft softened, then licked it clean before raising her head to look at his face. “Satisfied?"
His hands clasped her shoulders and she felt herself drawn upwards so she lay on top of him. “Yes,” he said, and kissed her.
* * * *
Rachael came to Kordobah lying in the bilges of a boat. She was gagged by a foul tasting cylinder of wood jammed between her teeth and lashed in place by thin cord, her head covered by a coarse sack and her arms bound. Movement was deterred by kicks from the men sitting above her on the thwarts as they rowed. The weave of the sack was loose enough for her to distinguish shapes but not details, but she knew she was in the hands of smugglers.
She'd run down the beach, expecting rescue but straight into the arms of a big man with bad breath and had been captured quickly by men used to their trade. Realizing further struggle was futile and counter survival, she'd allowed them to bundle her into the boat and had lain quietly, listening to their quiet conversation and learning they were bound for the warehouse of their supplier in Kordobah. She wasn't the first captive they'd taken from the coastal villages and their speculation on her fate chilled her. The High Born paid well for pretty things and their exploration of her body suggested she was comely.
"It was too dark to be sure, but her face felt soft. She's a rare bonus for a bad trip. It's a pity time's so short. I'd have enjoyed a sample of her wares, but we must be through the water gate before first light."
"Shut up and pull, you bastards.” The rough voice came from the stern of the boat. “Save your breath."
The steady creak of the oars and her helplessness had been oddly soporific and Rachael had slipped into sleep congratulating herself that Anneke was still free.
The lurch of the boat as it thumped into the wharf woke her and she could see the gleam of lanterns hung on wooden beams above her. “Come on, girlie.” Rough hands grasped the ropes around her arms and pulled her upright. “Time to enjoy your new home.” Lifted onto the wooden deck of the wharf, she was bustled along a dark passage to a heavy wooden door and thrust through, a final shove sending her headlong. She retained her feet more by luck than judgment as the door slammed behind her and she heard the click of a lock as she was left in pitch blackness.
Exploration was the first priority and careful shuffling determined she was in a bare room with damp stone walls, but a wooden floor. A waft of air suggested there was a window, but it must be high in the wall and she could see no loom of light, even after twenty minutes in total darkness. Her bonds were efficient, her wrists bound behind her and her arms pinioned to her sides. There was no give in any of them and squirming exploration revealed no knots her fingers could work on. She fought down panic and forced herself to think.
From the men in the boat, she knew dawn must be near, but her captors would be in no hurry to inspect their goods. They'd rowed for much of the night and would eat and sleep first. She wasn't going anywhere and it was pointless tiring herself needlessly. She backed against the wall and slid down to a sitting position. It wasn't comfortable, so she rolled onto her side and lay down. She must rest if she was to be fit enough to grasp the slightest opportunity to escape.
* * * *
Helene watched the light creep into the sky above them and heard the first stir of movement as the guard commander woke the sleeping men. Kamran had made love to her twice after their kiss, the first time with incredible gentleness, almost an act of worship, and the second the culmination of a rain of kisses on every part of her body. Then he'd slept, his body relaxed in her arms. She hadn't. Too many things had happened. Too much was changed. She should feel tired, but strength flowed through her body like fire.
"Morning.” He'd woken, passing from sleep to consciousness instantly, an ability that amazed her.
"Yes,” she responded. “A great morning."
"You sound satisfied."
"Aren't you?” She turned to look at his face.
"Eminently."
"You speak very well. Who taught you?” Peasants were taught their numbers and little else, less than one percent could read anything beyond the simplest texts.
They were interrupted by the guard Commander. “The camp is roused,” he said. “Orders?"
"Weapons cleaned, shields polished. I want to put on a show when we enter Kordobah. Send Beyorn to me as soon as he's eaten."
The man nodded his acknowledgement and saluted with a clenched fist to his breastplate. “What time do we march?"
"At sunrise."
The man completed his salute and left.
"I'll need to change your dressing.” Helene was all business.
He looked down at the bandage on his thigh. Other than a light stain around the wound site, it was clean. “Do it now, please. There won't be time later."
She nodded and reached for her pack. The wound was clean and healing more rapidly than she'd seen before, especially considering the rigors of the march. There were no signs of infection and it was cool to touch. The bandage she'd washed last night was dry and she used it, binding his thigh firmly.
"Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet as Beyorn approached. “Good morning."
"You wanted to see me.” The Westlander had the relaxed stance of a man who knew he was in no trouble.
"Once we reach the road, the companies will shift into the five files of ceremonial formation. I want to decorate every spear of the leading company. Are there enough?"
"There's a few spares."
"Keep the most presentable and get rid of the others."
Beyorn nodded. “The men will be pleased. They're a bit ripe."
"We'll get rid of them as soon as they've served their purpose."
Beyorn saluted and left.
"Wha...?” Helene began, but Kamran shook his head.
"Time to eat,” he said. “Soup and hard bread, I'm afraid."
Each man carried his own dried stock, adding his portion to the iron pot shared by five men. Kamran's meal, and hers, was contributed to by all, the competition to please him fierce.
His chain mail had been burnished with sand and water overnight, making it gleam like silver, as did his helmet, shield and greaves. He armed himself at the finish of the meal, becoming a grimly impressive figure. Helene shuddered at the reminder of his trade in death. He sensed it, because he turned
to her and his smile dispersed her fear.
"Appearance can win battles,” he said. “I don't want to fight, if it can be avoided."
The first notes of the Assembly sent Helene hurrying to her place with the archers.
The march to Kordobah had begun.
Chapter Eleven
The click of the lock woke Rachael and she'd struggled to a sitting position when the two men entered her prison with a lantern.
"Let's see what we got?” one said, and she was lifted roughly to her feet.
The sack over her head was removed and she blinked owlishly at the light as they stood back to examine her. Her jaw ached abominably from the gag and bonds on her arms felt like bands of fire, but she knew the first law of the captive, “Antagonize no one,” and kept her eyes downcast.
A hand under her chin forced her to look up momentarily but she avoided eye contact, even when hands invaded her clothing, feeling her breasts and thighs. Resistance was impossible. She could only endure.
"Hurry,” another voice spoke from the door. “He's here."
"Damn, he's early. I was just beginning to enjoy this.” It was the man fondling her breast. “Too bad.” He grasped her arm and forced her to walk in front of him.
They climbed three fights of stairs, the walls changing from stone to brick and finally to wood, before Rachael was thrust into a richly appointed room with three men seated at an over-ornate table, one a corpulent merchant and the other two High Born. The elder High Born had cold eyes set either side of a thin nose in a narrow face, while the younger looked part imbecile, with slack lips he licked frequently.
Rachael kept her eyes downcast after the first glance. She feared the worst, but could do nothing to change it.
"Do you like it.” The older High Born's voice was cold. He was asking a question for form's sake, not for interest.
"Y-y-yeah.” The younger one's voice matched his appearance.
"Remove its clothing. I want to see it's not diseased."
A bustle at the door turned Rachael to see a man-at-arms bearing a note. Everything paused while the older one read it and swore. “Damn it. We'll come back later. See it's not damaged in the meantime. I don't want my son catching every disease your men have.” He threw a purse of coin onto the table, turned and walked out the door, his son shambling afterwards.