by Faith Eden
‘I know that,’ Jekka said sombrely, ‘and I am prepared to make such a small sacrifice. Hair grows back and we can easily cover our heads with scarves in the meantime.’
Beside Savatch, Alanna made a grunting sound in the back of her throat. He stole a sideways glance at her, knowing just how particular she was about her white-gold tresses, but her face was an impenetrable mask now.
‘You’re prepared to do the same?’ he asked, and she nodded. Jekka rose gracefully to her feet.
‘I’m going to ride on tonight and tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I want to look at the ground and pick the right spot for our little ambush, but I shall return sometime tomorrow night. And then, my lord,’ she said, fixing Savatch with a steady eye, ‘I should be obliged if you would do me the honour of shaving that which needs be shaved. From what I saw at Erisroth and from Mahari since, there is more than just the sides of my head involved and I’m not sure I can trust my hand to be steady enough.’
‘Your hand not steady, Jekka?’ Alanna hissed, when Savatch had left them. ‘What nonsense is that? Why, you have the steadiest hand I have ever known.’
‘Maybe,’ Jekka conceded, avoiding her direct gaze, ‘but then again, maybe not. Perhaps also there are some things that are best done for a girl, rather than her do them herself.’
‘Yes,’ Alanna said, turning to hide the smile she could not suppress. ‘Indeed so; I just wondered how long it would take you to realise that.’
They had made good progress, leaving the dust of whatever column was coming north behind them far below the horizon, but it had taken its toll on the hard, uneven ground and now Pecon and Opal surveyed the three lame horses ruefully.
‘Perhaps we should have stayed with the original plan and waited for them to pass us by,’ Pecon muttered ruefully.
Opal shrugged. ‘It’s my fault for persuading you otherwise,’ she said, ‘but I am impatient to get out of this country and have my full freedom again.’
‘I understand that, as I understood it before,’ Pecon said. ‘No, if there is any blame it is mine entirely. We’ve pushed these beasts too hard on the terrain and now we have no choice.’ He raised his eyes to the north and pointed. ‘There is a small forested area up there, see, where the hillside looks darker. We still have time to walk on and find ourselves somewhere to rest up while these nags recover.’
‘Trees would be good,’ Opal said, ‘especially real trees. The sorry looking things we’ve been seeing mostly these past days offer little cover.’
‘Well, we can hide safely there,’ Pecon assured her. ‘I’ve travelled this road enough times and passed through that area enough to know it well. As forests go, it’s not that large, but it is fairly dense and we won’t have to get far off the road to be safe. If I was a commander, I wouldn’t even consider sending out flank riders there, for the undergrowth is far too dense for horsemen.’
Opal looked up at the sky and then back the way they had come, but the dust cloud was still nowhere to be seen.
‘Luckily they seem to be making slow progress,’ she said. ‘They must have at least some of their number on foot.’ Pecon grunted and turned away, walking slowly across to where the small group of slaves sat in the shade of the wagon.
‘Either on foot,’ he muttered, ‘or on hooves of a two legged variety. Either way, we had best make the most of our advantage. Those trees are still a good few hours walk away and it will be getting dark by the time we reach them.’
Jekka eyed the cloud silhouettes as they scudded across the night sky. Odd star clusters blinked into view occasionally, but their light was meagre and not enough to present any real danger to her. The moon, however, was a different prospect and would rise within another half hour, which presented her with a decision to make.
Away to her right, myriad earthbound twinkles of light indicated Fulgrim’s encampment, too far away in itself for anyone to notice a lone horsewoman on the skyline, but she knew there would be pickets posted, probably fairly close to her route. All the time there was no moon even they would not see her, but once the moon was up and if the clouds suddenly parted, she knew she would be only too visible to any alert and sharp-eyed sentry.
Not that she feared that in itself, for both horses - the one she rode now and the one she led in readiness for when the first animal began to tire - were fast and surefooted and it was unlikely the camp would send anyone in pursuit of an unidentified rider in the dead of night. However, it was better for all concerned if the Vorsan camp remained in ignorance and continued to think their northward progress was still undetected.
She peered upwards again, sniffing at the night air, and patted her mount’s neck. ‘Let’s go then,’ she whispered, digging her heels into its flank. ‘If we hurry we’ll be well away before old cheese face makes his appearance.’ The horse responded and moved instantly into a canter, the sacking about its hooves muffling their sound, even on the hard ground. Behind her the second animal gave a soft whinny at the sharp tug on its lead rein, but immediately followed its fellow’s example.
Jekka smiled to herself as the campfires dropped away into the distance at last, and settled back into a more relaxed position, thumbing the safety bar across the stock of her crossbow and slinging it casually over her shoulder as she rode on into the night.
Wild-eyed, Corinna barely knew when one Vorsan trooper finished with her and another took his place. Staggering about, perched on her precarious boots, or crawling around on all fours in the dust, time after time she was penetrated and time after time her body surrendered to its instincts, until finally, exhausted, she rolled onto her back, moaning into the gag, legs spread wide in an open invitation.
The Vorsan officers, however, seemed almost as exhausted and, their lusts satisfied, they left her to Halit. The handler crouched beside her, removed the gag and raised her head, lifting a small water bottle to her lips. Corinna stared at him, barely recognising his face, but gulped gratefully at the cool liquid.
‘I’m sorry, master,’ she eventually gasped. ‘I’m sorry, but I—’ Halit placed a finger to her lips to silence her.
‘Shhh, little Flix,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t try to talk. Just rest a little while and I shall take you back to the wagon.’ As Corinna’s eyes at last began to refocus, she realised there was genuine concern in Halit’s eyes.
‘I couldn’t—’ she began again, but once more he shook his head.
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ he told her softly. ‘No girl could have. They demanded too much of you, but then I fear there are some who move outside the pale of normal standards. Come, I shall carry you back and bathe you, and you shall sleep undisturbed for the rest of this night.’ He rose, stooped again and eased his arms beneath Corinna’s shoulders and thighs. Looking up at him she whimpered her appreciation, but already the world was beginning to spin again and mercifully, before they had even reached the entrance of the tent, she had lapsed into a blissful unconsciousness.
For once the men seemed to have forgotten about Dorothea and she was simply watered and fed with the other slaves and then left to sleep, but sleep, despite her terrible fatigue, refused to come to her for many hours. She tossed and turned, first looking up at the sky, and then turning onto her side as best she could, trying hard not to lie on her arm. After a while, gnawing in frustration on her bit gag, she struggled into a sitting position and managed to wriggle across the ground until she was able to rest back against one of the stumpy trees.
All about her she could hear the sound of steady breathing, interrupted by the odd snuffle and the occasional whimper as dreams disturbed a lighter sleeper here and there. Through the darkness she made out the silhouettes of two sentries, as they patrolled back and forth between the area where the slaves rested and the main encampment, a sprawl of tents of varying sizes, all set about a much larger tent that she knew was Fulgrim’s. A few campfires still burned, their flames low now and their little r
emaining light largely blocked by the canvas screens she had seen the troopers stake about them.
Dorothea sighed and blinked away an unaccustomed tear of frustration, tugging at her wrist restraints as she had done periodically since they were fitted to her and finding, as she had found every time before, that they still held firm and that the leather and steel offered little hope of freedom. She tried wriggling her toes - the boots allowed just a little room for flexing them when she was sitting with her weight off her feet - wishing she could be free of the hideous footwear, if only for an hour.
Many of the other pony slaves had indeed been allowed a short respite each evening, the handlers moving about them, unlacing their boots and swabbing their feet with cooling damp rags, but Dorothea suspected that Fulgrim must have given orders that she was to be made to suffer as much as possible and not once did any of the men come near her, unless it was to take her off for even more humiliation and debasement.
She furrowed her brow and closed her eyes, trying to count the days. Was it really such a short time ago that she had been happily in her luxurious bed in Castle Varragol? So much had happened in such a short time. Agana had died before her very eyes, Corinna and Savatch were apparently dead, and Moxie was...
Where was Moxie? Was she dead too? The Vorsans had killed some of her maids and pages, although that seemed to have been an accident and not part of Fulgrim’s plan, but if they had killed the big breasted maid as well, surely Fulgrim would have made a point of gloating over the fact, knowing that Moxie was her favourite. Yes, if Moxie had been killed, they would have shown her the body, for sure.
It was still possible, of course, that Moxie had been captured and was either somewhere else in the column or had been left behind at Erisroth, but it had been a much smaller party that was force-marched from Varragol to the slave camp there and Dorothea felt sure she would have seen her if she was among their numbers then.
No, Moxie must have somehow evaded capture, of that Dorothea was all but convinced. She tried to concentrate, running through again the events of that first fateful morning.
Morning - that was important, she realised. She had not slept until very late and drunk a good deal of wine, whereas Moxie, despite her previous life in her father’s tavern, rarely drank intoxicating liquors and also seemed to exist on very little sleep. She would have been up and about very early that day, as was her habit, and she would have known that her mistress, in the normal course of events, would sleep late, probably into the afternoon.
Dorothea smiled in the darkness, a smile distorted by the disfiguring bit. Moxie would have been not just up and about, she realised now, but almost certainly up and out, enjoying her little fantasy games, probably dressed in her parody of Agana’s leather garb that Dorothea herself had ordered the seamstresses to make for her, initially for her own amusement, for Moxie did make quite a fetching little warrior girl even if she would only ever be a simple maid at heart.
And Moxie really loved that outfit, strutting about for her mistress in her long boots, the short pleated skirt swirling about her beautifully rounded thighs, her incredible breasts threatening to pour out from the leather halter top, her slender throat looking if anything even more vulnerable despite the studded protective collar around it. Agana laughed about it in private, though to her credit the black giantess never derided Moxie to her face.
‘She could not fight her way out of a pair of silken drawers, that one, mistress,’ she snorted.
Dorothea had laughed in agreement, and added her own little comment. ‘As long as she can fight her way into a pair - mine of course - then let her enjoy her little charades,’ she told her bodyguard. It was Agana who first intimated to Dorothea that Moxie was ‘dabbling’ with one of the pages, Pester, but the news neither worried nor annoyed Dorothea. Pester, like almost all the emasculated boys in the castle, was an effeminate little chit of a lad, still in his teen years and...
Yes, Dorothea remembered Pester well enough, better than she remembered most of the pages and maids, in fact. He was the one with the unbelievably large cock and, once aroused, it seemed capable of remaining rigid for hours at a time. Dorothea had enjoyed that benefit on several occasions; she preferred women by and large, of course, but the castrated lads were only like women with cocks, she always thought, and there was never any danger of becoming impregnated by their seed.
So that was all right. But was Moxie?
Yes, Dorothea told herself firmly, of course she was all right. She had probably been out into the woods when the attack came, almost certainly playing one of her games with Pester acting the role of her slave. Had she dressed him in one of the girl’s tunics, as Dorothea saw from the battlements on a previous occasion? He had certainly made a convincing girl, although he sulked and pouted throughout the performance, especially when Dorothea instructed Moxie to bring him to her bedroom in his new guise.
Of course, between them they soon ruined the image - after all, no girl had a huge erection projecting from beneath her tunic - but both she and Moxie thoroughly enjoyed themselves and the bedroom had rung with their laughter for hours. Pester was exhausted by the time Moxie took him back to the servants’ quarters, although he too seemed to enjoy himself, especially whenever Moxie straddled and mounted him.
Poor boy, Dorothea thought. If he was out there somewhere in the wilds he would certainly not like it at all, for he was frightened of his own shadow, as well as being a soft and generally useless thing. Moxie, on the other hand, had grown up knowing a much harder life. The open air and the woods would not frighten her and she could at least shoot straight with a crossbow, so if she had taken a bow out with her that day then the pair were unlikely to starve.
But where would they go? What would they do? Hopefully, Moxie would have the good sense to try to head for either Illeum City or, more probably, Garassotta, thinking to find Corinna and Lord Savatch’s protection. She would know nothing of the other alleged events, but then at least the castle would offer shelter and she would be safe, if only for a while.
But what would she do then? Return to the tavern? Dorothea dismissed that possibility; Moxie had hated working there, with all the sweaty, ale-swigging men trying to maul her or seduce her and she once told her mistress that she would rather die than return to that life.
‘And I would rather die than endure any more of this life,’ Dorothea said to Moxie in her thoughts. ‘But Fulgrim must know that, my sweet, and I fear I’ll not be given the chance to determine my own fate.’ She blinked again and peered up at stars that now swam indistinctly through a lens of salty tears.
‘Sleep well tonight, my pretty Moxie, wherever you are,’ she wept. ‘Sleep well and may the gods watch over you.’
Opal heard the slight sound only at the last moment but by then it was too late, for the point of the blade was pricking against the back of her neck and she knew that any sudden movement would be fatal. Behind her, she heard the soft whispering voice and stiffened as she realised it was another woman.
‘Do not make a sound, lady,’ the unseen assailant hissed, ‘or else I fear it may be the last noise you ever hear.’ Opal relaxed and let her hands drop to her sides, cursing herself for the ease with which she had been taken and praying that Pecon, who lay near the slaves around the dying fire, might wake and realise something was wrong.
‘How many are you?’ the voice came again. Also whispering, Opal told her. ‘Good,’ the woman said. ‘That’s how many I counted. Now, who are you and where are you from? And don’t get any brave ideas, lady. I am a Valkyr warrior, if you know what that means?’
‘Only too well,’ Opal said. She smiled to herself, relieved in more ways than one, for only another Valkyr should be able to do what this woman had just done to her and there was little shame in being surprised by one who was obviously an experienced warrior. ‘What is your name, lady?’ she asked quietly.
‘People call me Jekka,’ the v
oice whispered, ‘but that is of no importance to you. Just tell me who you all are and what your business is in these woods.’
‘Well,’ Opal began, ‘the man sleeping over there is Master Pecon, who appears to be a travelling dealer - mostly dealing in slaves, as you would see if their blankets were not drawn so tightly about them - the others, that is.’
‘I see you also wear a slave belt,’ Jekka said, ‘and yet your hands are free. You must have the trust of your master, I think.’
‘He is not my master, lady,’ Opal chuckled. ‘He has my parole, but nothing more. We part company when we reach Sorabund, but it is a long story and I doubt you’d want to hear it just now. Suffice it to say that my name is Hella Valkyr Mirisopaluna Hildisdottir and that my friends call me Opal. Master Pecon is not my friend, I hasten to add, but I think that maybe you might be.’
‘You are not asleep yet, my old friend?’ Alanna lifted herself easily over the tailboard of the wagon and squatted facing Savatch, who lay back against a pile of meal sacks, a small earthenware bottle in his right hand. He looked blearily at Alanna and smiled.
‘Too many things happening up here,’ he said, tapping his temple with the index finger of his left hand. Alanna nodded.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘For me, too. There is always much to think about, but we do not always take the time to do it - not properly, I mean.’
‘No.’ Savatch raised the bottle and took a short draught from it. ‘We always leave so many things undone,’ he mused, ‘because there is always tomorrow. Except that one day, perhaps one day sooner than we think, tomorrow will not be there.’
‘Tomorrow will always be there,’ Alanna replied. ‘It’s we that may not be.’
‘Yes.’ Savatch peered down at the bottle and then shook it gently. ‘Or do I mean no?’ he smiled. ‘Whatever.’