Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1)

by Angela Angelwolf

  Slave in the City of Dragons

  By Angela Angelwolf

  Copyright, Disclaimers and Art Credit

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Book copyright @ 2014

  Email: AngelaAngelwolf@gmail.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorangelaangelwolf

  All comments welcome.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover artwork by Isikol @ isikol.deviantart.com

  Contents

  Cover Blurb

  Chapter 1. Captured in the Forest

  Chapter 2. The Abandoned Tower

  Chapter 3. Escape!

  Chapter 4. The Night Apes

  Chapter 5. Death From Above

  Chapter 6. The Court of the Saurian King

  Chapter 7. The Hall of the Night King

  Chapter 8. Memories and Wonders

  Chapter 9. Kro’brin’s Story

  Chapter 10. The Slave Revolt

  Chapter 11. Belles from Hell

  Chapter 12. On the Way to the Arena

  Chapter 13. The First Day of School

  Chapter 14. Birds in High Cages

  Chapter 15. Sword, Bow and Spear

  Chapter 16. Assassin, Queen and Bard

  Chapter 17. Onto the Sands

  Chapter 18. Blood and Sacrifice

  Chapter 19. The Hunt of Wild Beasts

  131,000 words

  Cover Blurb

  Savagery, Lust and Adventure at Time's Abyss: Beautiful Pashera sets off on a quest to kill a fabled beast and thus raise her status in her primitive tribe. But she's captured by a warrior, Tol'zen ... a warrior who's not quite human. He's a descendant of dinosaurs, and she becomes first his slave, then his lover in an ancient city. It's a lost civilization of magic, mystery and unimaginable sin dating back countless millennia. But past glory has curdled to rot, and the city is sliding into decadence and depravity.

  Tol'zen fights for the soul of his people, while Pashera finds herself fighting in the arena against fierce women, worse men and monsters straight out of hell. It's an era of brutal violence, raw sex, wonders and horrors. Brave and resourceful, Pashera risks everything to find freedom and true love at the dawn of time. Will she succeed … or will she end up another nameless and bloody stain on the sand?

  Foreword

  This is a wild, ripping yarn about an alternate Earth. It’s a place where a saurian race traveled through time to escape the asteroid that destroyed the age of the dinosaurs … a place where giant “leatherbacks” and monsters grown in vats clash like titanic walls of flesh … a place where science is indistinguishable from magic … a place where a young woman from a savage tribe, through bravery and cunning, can rise to take on a mighty despot.

  And yet it’s also a place where love – true love – can bridge any divide.

  If that seems too fantastic for you, you’re reading the wrong book.

  It’s also a place where primitive lust boils over ... where innocence is sacrificed on the altar of power … where sex is traded for favors from the high and mighty. In fact, it’s a place where passions feed the very fires that can consume an ancient empire.

  And it’s a place where people walk in the footsteps of dragons … where creatures out of nightmares battle brave gladiators … and sometimes all you can hope for is a quick death.

  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It is NOT a book for the easily offended.

  Feel free to leave comments on my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/authorangelaangelwolf

  Chapter 1. Captured in the Forest

  Pashera ran furtively into the forest primeval, a fire-hardened spear clasped tightly in her hands. Today, she would risk it all, to save herself from a terrible fate.

  She was going to get the horns from one of the great three-horned beasts. She’d kill one if she had to. That was dangerous. But there was a far worse outcome if she didn’t.

  That fate would be marriage to one of the piggish sons of her tribe’s grotesque hog of a shaman, Klonak. The father was greasy and smelly. His sons were worse; pimpled, slobbering, grabby brutes. Pashera’s tribe, the Long Spears, had basic standards for cleanliness, but Klonak had long flaunted them.

  Not long ago, Pashera heard Klonak’s long-suffering wife beg him to take a bath. “I’m elbow-deep in entrails on a regular basis,” he’d shouted at her, within full earshot of half the tribe “How clean do you expect me to be?”

  Klonak seemed to have only two expressions. One was his perpetual belligerence. But now and then, his face would twist into something worse, a horrible parody of a smile. And he smiled as he berated his wife.

  “Besides,” he said with his malevolent grin. “The dried blood is good luck.”

  Then his repulsive boys giggled, and Klonak roared with laughter. He was one of the few men of the tribe fat enough to have a belly. He was easily the fattest, and his belly jiggled with his chortles. It was horrifying, yet Pashera found it hard to pull her eyes away. His belly was huge, and his fat mouth gaped between his heavy jowls. Paint that was supposed to be fearsome, but that only emphasized his obesity, swirled around his brow and cheeks, then ran down his neck to join the riot of painted symbols and wards on his chest.

  Finely painted animal skins – sewn together with all the craft the tribe’s women could muster – girdled his loins but only emphasized his gut, which spilled over the material. A deerskin cape covered his shoulders, and a rare horn from a three-horned beast hung on a fetish necklace. The necklace bobbled as he shook with laughter.

  Klonak’s sons quickly went from giggling to quarreling over some trifle. They fell to blows. The pair of them frequently used their fists on each other, their long-suffering mother, and any other tribe member they thought they could bully. Annoyed, Klonak separated them with a couple of well-placed swats.

  And then, Klonak turned and saw Pashera gaping at him. He laughed at her, and then motioned to his sons. “They’ll fight over you come the first cold moon,” he leered.

  The boys started laughing again. Pashera ran away in shame.

  The worst part is she knew that Klonak would get his way. Pashera’s father was dead. Her status was low. Her own mother lived on her sister’s charity, and was lucky not to be put out as bait for the dagger-toothed cats.

  That’s why today Pashera ran swiftly but as noiselessly as possible through the forest. She was running toward her destiny.

  The rare horn bobbling around fat Klonak’s neck had given her an idea. The only other trophies from the three-horned beasts currently in the tribe’s possession adorned the Chief’s crown.. No three-horns had wandered out of the swamps, or at least near the tribe’s hunting grounds, in many years. That meant there were no carcasses to salvage.

  That’s why Pashera was going to find the carcass of one of the great three-horned beasts, and claim the horns as her own.

  The plan came to her while she bathed with her friend Magwalra in a secret grotto known only to the two of them.

  They’d become friends since the trials
of womanhood three years earlier. Two low-status girls. They’d naturally become allies when the other girls ganged up on them. Together, they stood against the bullies and got through the trials of womanhood.

  They were natural allies; Pashera whose father was dead, and Magwalra, fathered by an outsider.

  Magwalra was the daughter of a heroic prince of a far-away tribe who’d visited the Long Spears for some forgotten purpose years ago. At least, that’s how the story went. Magwalra’s mother was provided as a bedwarmer to the prince. She hadn’t any choice in the matter – such was the lot of women in the Long Spear tribe – but he’d been kind enough. And the tribe needed sons of heroes.

  The prince soon returned to his own tribe, three big valleys and many dangers away. He’d never returned. And Magwalra’s mother gave birth not to the hoped-for boy, but a mere girl. The entire tribe was disappointed.

  Now, Pashera and Magwalra talked and played and worked together. They shared the tasks the old women assigned to them.

  They also played at making themselves lovely, acting as each other’s beautician.

  And so the morning after Klonak made the comment about his sons, Pashera looked into the reflection of the grotto’s pool. She saw a young woman with hair the color of yellowed autumn grass, long and flowing around her shoulders. Her sun-bronzed skin was a shade of light caramel except in a patch around the middle where she wore her skirt. There, the skin was shockingly white except for the soft blond-brown triangle of hair between her legs.

  The women of her tribe, when they talked to each other about such things, referred to that white break in their tanned skins as “a target to help the hunters find the wet spot.” And then they’d laugh.

  Pashera’s red nipples stood out in the chill of the morning water. She didn’t have much flesh on her bones yet, but her breasts had really plumped up over the summer.

  Beside her was another girl; shorter, darker and a bit plumper in all things. The reflection of the brown girl daubed the image of the lighter girl’s body expertly. Magwalra painted Pashera’s chest and arms – her face already done in striking red and green paints made from berries – in the current fashion of the unmarried girls of their tribe. Pashera’s breasts were tender that day, and she twitched and sighed as Magwalra daubed paint on her breasts and stroked lines across her nipples.

  When Magwalra was done, she looked at Pashera with serious eyes and asked her, “Have you ever kissed anyone? Besides your mother, I mean?”

  “No, of course not,” Pashera exclaimed in reply. Then she sighed. “But I guess we will soon enough. I just hope it’s not Terrik or Datik.” She grimaced at the thought of the shaman’s sons.

  “They’ll be Terrak or Datak by the time you kiss them,” Magwalra added somberly. Boys of the Long Spear tribe were given their names in a naming ceremony, and all their names ending in “ik”, meaning “young man.” When they married, that “ik” became “ak”, or “grown man.”

  Girls of the Long Spear Tribe didn’t fare as well. Pashera’s name just meant daughter of her dead father, Pasheak – hence, “Pashe-ra.” The “ak” was dropped from the name to make it diminutive as possible, because an unmarried girl was worth so little.

  If she’d had a younger sister, that girl would have been known as “second daughter of Pasheak,” or “Pashe-lo-ra.”

  Her friend was the daughter of the long-gone prince, Magwal, who had a funny name because his distant, uncivilized tribe didn’t know how to end names properly. So her name was “Magwal-ra”.

  But when girls married, they became an extension of their husbands. So Pashera could potentially become Terrakapa, or “Terrak’s woman.” She grimaced at that thought, too.

  “Why bring that up?” Pashera asked. “Can’t we talk about something nice?”

  “You don’t have to kiss just boys, you know,” Magwalra said, her hand pausing on Pashera’s shoulder. “You could … kiss me.”

  Pashera studied her friend’s brown face to see if she was joking. “What?”

  “Oh, you are so thick sometimes,” Magwalra said, exasperated. Then she leaned in and kissed Pashera. It was a deep, lingering, kiss. Magwalra’s mouth was wet and hot. Pashera was stunned by her friend’s action. But her heart fluttered as if a giant burden was lifted from her.

  “Did you like that?” Magwalra asked.

  “Yes,” Pashera said. “But it is forbidden.”

  “So is this,” Magwalra kissed her again. This time, her tongue found its way into Pashera’s mouth. It probed, and Pashera’s tongue responded. Magwalra’s hand slipped off Pashera’s shoulder and down to her breast. The other woman caressed Pashera’s left breast and lingered on her nipple.

  A moist hotness began to build in Pashera’s groin. She was in a kneeling position, and shifted awkwardly to open her legs.

  Magwalra embraced her and kissed her again. Pashera found herself lying on her back at the water’s edge, a carpet of soft grass beneath her. Magwalra’s hands explored Pashera’s chest, her neck, her breasts. Pashera’s hands, as if moving on their own, caressed Magwalra’s body in return.

  Slowly, after much stroking above the waist, Magwalra’s hand found its way down to Pashera’s sex. Her fingers stroked through the crown of maiden curls there.

  Pashera had only explored her groin in darkest night, when urges overwhelmed her. Magwalra’s fingers stroked urgently. Pashera moaned and her legs opened.

  Suddenly, there was movement in the trees at the mouth of the grotto. Magwalra’s hands leapt off Pashera’s body and she separated from the other girl like an electric shock had run between them.

  Pashera’s heart pounded in her throat. If they were discovered … deviancy from tribal rules was usually met with banishment.

  A monkey hooted in the trees. Then there was more skittering in the woods, as it ran off.

  Both girls breathed sighs of relief.

  Magwalra tried to return to fondling Pashera, but the other girl had had enough. Panicked, she pushed Magwalra’s hand away. “Someone will see us,” she said.

  Pashera tried to sit up.

  Her friend pushed her down again. “No one will see us,” Magwalra said. “We are ignored as much as possible, haven’t you noticed? The village idiot has higher status than we do.”

  “But someone will come …” Pashera said.

  “Not if you’re quiet,” Magwalra insisted. “Shh.”

  They kissed again, slowly and meaningfully. But then Pashera pushed Magwalra away firmly.

  “If the others find out,” she said. “It’s the end of us.”

  “No one will find out,” Magwalra said. Her body had a fine sheen of sweat on it now, glistening in the light breaking through the trees surrounding the grotto. Her nipples were as hard as stones – as hard as Pashera’s.

  Magwalra continued: “Anyway, there are at least three other pairs of women who do it.”

  “What?” That’s not possible!” Pashera reeled from the thought.

  “I’ve seen them,” Magwalra said. “I walk at night when others sleep. I see what goes on by the light of the moon. Women who keep each other company when their husbands go on overnight hunting or fishing trips.”

  Pashera stared at her friend in disbelief.

  “Maybe their husbands are having tickle-fights too,” Magwalra shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “If the chief knew …” Pashera started.

  “If the chief knew, he’d have to start by exiling his wife.”

  Pashera’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped. “Plasetakapa? Her of the straight back and glaring looks? That’s impossible!”

  Magwalra laughed loudly at her friend’s innocence.

  Then she laid out her plan. She and Pashera had to find pliant husbands who liked to hunt. Then they could spend more time kissing while the men were away. They just had to find the right husbands.

  “I’m thinking Jotolik for you,” Magwalra said.

  “—he only has eyes for Petolra,” Pashera said negatively.r />
  “—and Plinik for me.”

  “A son of the chief?! Are you crazy! He’ll marry that fat bitch Urkakra or her sow friend Tlatra,” Pashera scoffed. Those two girls were very high status – and Pashera’s and Magwalra’s chief tormentors in the trials of womanhood.

  Magwalra looked hurt. “Must you always be a dark cloud?” she asked Pashera accusingly. “Can’t I even have my dreams?”

  Pashera hugged her friend. “Dreams are nice. But you shouldn’t torture yourself.”

  She stood up and dusted herself off. “Now let’s go quickly, before the old women wonder why we aren’t doing our chores. She looked herself over and arranged her skirt. The berry paint on her chest was smeared … nearly hopelessly. She fixed it as best she could. Magwalra, silent, fixed herself likewise.

  Magwalra broke her silence. “Maybe the Devouring God will favor us,” she said, making the sign.

  “Maybe,” Pashera said, soothingly. She looked at the tall, angry mountain in the far distance, where the Devouring God lived.

  It was a 10-minute walk from the grotto to the fire pits where Magwalra and Pashera were supposed to help out this morning. Pashera knew they’d catch it for being so late. But even before they got there … within shouting distance of the old women … another obstacle reared. The shaman. Klonak. His angry, fat face reared up in front of them like one of the demons out of old tales.

  Then the worst of all possible things happened. Klonak’s face twisted. He was … smiling.

  Klonak’s blubbery lips pulled back over yellowed, worn-down teeth. His sharp, rapacious eyes fixed, hawk-like, on Pashera. He held up a meaty hand to stop her passage. His yellow smile broadened in its malevolence.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about your future.”

  “Oh, no-o-o-o-o!” Pashera wailed silently as her heart sank.

  “You have been too long unmarried,” Klonak continued. “Three summers past womanhood.”

  “I have till first cold moon …” Pashera started.