Slavemaster's Woman, The

by Angelia Whiting

  Unexpected for him, the Shalcar woman grabbed his arm. She pivoted slightly, stunner in hand, took aim, and the weapon discharged.

  One of the royal guards stumbled over his own feet and fell.

  Tarken slipped his arms beneath Cushla, who remained, by his hand in a half-conscious stupor. He scooped her up and tossed her tiny form over his shoulder anchoring her to him with a firm grasp beneath her naked bottom. She groaned at the jarring movement. With his firing hand free to protect them, he lifted his stunner, though at the moment he wasn’t sure which group of combatants he should be defending them from.

  “Drop the girl, slaver!” The Shalcar pointed her weapon at Tarken, giving him his answer.

  Drop Cushla? Was the woman bent in the brain? He aimed his weapon at her. It would be an easy shot since she was just a stone’s throw away from him.

  “Get Zaviot!” Scoac shouted. “And grab that bitch servicing wench. I’ll teach her to betray me!”

  Bazil returned a string of cantankerous sentences as one of the guards fired at him. He fell to his knees firing a round of his own, taking down the same guard whose stunner struck him. He then fell face first to the ground.

  Three remaining guards surrounded both him and Ayia.

  “Ah shiaka!” Ayia turned to run, but she was grabbed and restrained.

  Reality was dawning on Tarken. It now made sense as to why the royals had been blatantly flaunting their presence all over the Adar Rhiannon Galaxy. Cushla’s purchase appeared to be a ploy to flush out her father. Glancing around while realizing his vulnerability, he retreated toward the cabana to take cover, his weapon firing but missing as he ran with Cushla’s body over his shoulder.

  Rube was rushing toward him, stunner raised.

  Tarken halted to a standstill and swung his firing arm at him taking aim. “Halt royal,” he demanded, and was surprised when Rube actually heeded.

  Stopping in his tracks just a few paces away, the royal spread open his arms as if surrendering, and lowered his stunner. “Give the girl to me slavemaster.”

  Tarken grumbled. He’d been aware the Shalcar had also been moving toward him but unable to defend himself and Cushla against everyone at the same time, he chose to make Rube his target. Shifting his head, he found himself staring down the cold, steel end of the woman’s stunner. He pierced the woman with undaunted eyes, despite observing the weapon was set to kill.

  “I think not,” Rube raised his arm, aiming his weapon at the Shalcar, putting them in a dangerous three-way.

  Tarken’s gaze shifted, toward Rube, then back to the Shalcar, and beyond her to where Bazil Zaviot lay motionless on the ground. He was pale but not the telltale mottled purple color of a dead man, sizzled by a laser weapon. He’d only been stunned, which answered one of Tarken’s questions. They wanted the man alive.

  Tarken considered his options on how he might rescue the man…Cushla’s father, but at the moment there seemed to be little he could do. As for Cushla, his stomach bottomed out as he came to the despairing conclusion that he’d missed the opportunity to escape with her, though he would hand her over to the Shalcar if it would assure her freedom.

  “You’re surrounded, Shalcar,” Scoac snorted, his weapon pointing toward her.

  In kind, two of the guards near Bazil and Ayia, had also taken aim. The third, threatening Ayia with a stunner to the side of her head.

  “Back off royal or the slavemaster gets it,” the Shalcar warned.

  “You think I give a cagger’s ass about the slavemaster?” Scoac sneered at her. He motioned the guards with a wave of his hand, indicating for them to retrieve Cushla. “Grill his brains for all I care, but the slave belongs to the king.”

  With a quick maneuver, the Shalcar woman shifted, turning her weapon on Rube. “Then how about I make the royal’s brains part of the cosmos?”

  “Interesting predicament, Vialin,” Rube mumbled low though Tarken heard him. “Now what do you plan on doing?”

  Tarken’s eyes narrowed slightly at the comment. Other than that, he showed no reaction. His mind, however was reeling to piece more of this conundrum together. Calling the woman by name and the manner of his tone made it clear that Rube knew her.

  “Put me down, Tarken,” Cushla rasped out, apparently recovering. She pressed her palms to the small of Tarken’s back and attempted to raise herself.

  Though he was relieved she was recovering, he ignored her request. He had other things to think about at the moment. First and foremost, the stunners aimed at them, Cushla’s safety, and how he was going to get them out of this convoluted mess.

  Around them, the alarms began to blare, and the sirens of the port security cycles grew louder as they drew nearer. Tarken knew it was time to react. “Take my stunner,” Tarken mumbled low.

  “What?” the Shalcar—Vialin, murmured to him.

  Tarken continued whispering, “Take it, threaten me and use the royal as a shield to get us out of here.”

  Snatching his stunner with her free hand, she pointed at Tarken.

  Well…at least she wasn’t too thick in the skull to realize his plan.

  At the same time, Cushla began to struggle and Tarken growled when he felt the bite of her teeth piercing the flesh of his lower back. He arched away from the pain, felt the moisture of his own blood as Cushla kicked and scratched at him, and then fell from his shoulders and hit the ground.

  “Father!” She scrambled to where her father lay, to where the royal guards stood by him, recklessly putting herself in danger.

  Tarken was forced to stay. Vialin’s weapon—or rather his weapon, which he now regretted giving her control of, was still pressing hard against his head. Tarken gritted his teeth with frustration.

  Panicked, Cushla hugged at her father’s unmoving body.

  Tarken’s fists clenched when one of the guards roughly hauled her to her feet and she slapped at him, struggling to free herself.

  Another of the guards dragged Ayia toward the brush just as whirring cycles rushed the field. Ayia opened her mouth to scream, but it was stifled with a hand to her mouth and she was hauled unheard and unseen into the forest.

  Tarken shifted, intending on stalking over to the guard who dared to touch Cushla, to snap him in two, but when the Shalcar pressed the end of the stunner—his stunner more firmly into his temple, he went still. He should’ve never trusted the woman.

  “This isn’t going to work, Vialin,” Rube muttered under his breath. “Bazil’s out cold. Get your ass out of here.”

  Vialin released a string of curses and shoved Rube into Tarken. Pivoting, she dashed the short distance to the forest and disappeared.

  “Fuck,” Tarken groused. He’d never felt so helpless, so deficient in command of a situation. He pushed Rube away from him, and turned, every muscle in his body tensing, his fists clenching more tightly as he waited silently.

  Security, ten at least, then slid from their cycles and crouched behind them for cover, their weapons raised. “Drop the stunners!” One of them yelled.

  At least the royals and their cronies had the sense to obey. All dropped their weapons.

  “Hands behind your heads!” The same security official demanded.

  Again all obeyed, including Tarken, who was in no mood to be riddled with laser holes at the moment.

  “You! Hands up.” The port official directed his order toward Cushla.

  Now free of the guard’s grip, Cushla once again, dropped to the ground at her father’s side. In Cushla fashion, she looked up and snarled.

  Tarken failed to tamp the smirk at the behavior that was typical of his spirited, little freebird. Still, he feared they would stun her if she failed to comply. “Cushla,” Tarken addressed her. “Do as they say.”

  “Doing as they say as you tell me to do would be the same as doing as you say, which I have no intention of doing, slavemaster!” Cushla snarled at him.

  Before Tarken could make sense of what she’d just said, she reached for her father’s stunner w
hich lay on the ground nearby. Tarken lunged fearful security would shoot her, and as he did, one of the port official’s stunners discharged. Fire shot through Tarken’s right shoulder, an inferno across his flesh as he slammed chest first to the ground, the impact causing him to expel a breath that left his lungs momentarily paralyzed.

  Cushla shrieked and scrambled back.

  “Nobody move!” A Port security bellowed while several others rushed forward weapons raised.

  Tarken gritted his teeth against the pain as he pushed to his knees, relieved at the air he was finally able to inhale, only to find his head the target of yet another stun gun belonging to one of the patrol.

  “On your feet, hands behind your head,” he ordered Tarken. “Slowly.”

  Tarken complied, clenching his teeth at his blistering skin, but thanking the stars it was merely a flesh wound.

  While still aiming his weapon at Tarken, the patrolman carefully crouched and picked up Bazil’s stunner. He then handed it off to a colleague who’d been gathering the other dropped firearms.

  “This man needs a medic,” another port official stated as he examined Bazil. He looked at one of his peers. “Call a medic!” He then shifted his attention toward the royal guards who’d been stunned earlier. Recovering, they were rising slowly, albeit clumsily to their feet.

  Another official, likely their chief stalked into the middle of the throng. He was as tall as Tarken, though with a slighter physique, his tan-colored jumper pressed neatly and clean. The badge on his shoulder clearly indicated he was indeed, the one in charge. He eyed Tarken with slitted lids, sizing him up and down and then turned toward Rube, lifting a brow as he noted the royal’s attire. “Ulow lete pahpin edomos ahre?” He addressed Rube, his foreign words falling on deaf ears.

  The silence that followed, if the expression on the official’s face was any indication…irritated him. With no response forthcoming, he bellowed. “Seules etlo efureis pendes afeaw abri!”

  “I believe I can explain,” Scoac finally answered.

  The official pivoted and sneered, his hand reaching toward a transmitter in his ear, interpreting the language. “Are you in charge of this heap?” he demanded speaking in a recognizable tongue.

  “I am.” Scoac began to lower his arms but raised them quickly when he was nudged by a port authority’s stunner.

  “Then I suggest you explain quickly!” The chief glared at him.

  “Ah well, you see…” Scoac paused overlong, a ploy Tarken surmised, to procure extra time to contrive a plausible response. The convenient arrival of the medics furthered that opportunity.

  The chief official watched momentarily as the medics examined Bazil before turning back to Scoac, seeking an explanation. “Well?” He glared at the royal.

  “Yes,” Scoac began. “It was ah…” Scoac glanced around as if searching for an answer. His eyes fell to Cushla.

  Her pursed lips and strained expression revealed her intense worry as she watched the medics attend to her father.

  “…the slave.” Scoac began to lower his hands again, only to be nudged more forcefully by the barrel of a port official’s stunner. “She was attempting to escape and—”

  “We need to get this man to a health facility,” a medic interrupted.

  “No!” Scoac started forward, but with a quick glance to the patrolman who held the stunner on him, he halted. “He—uh is part of my crew. We can care for him.”

  The chief grunted. “Is he now?”

  “He is.” Scoac lowered his voice forcing himself to calm.

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Bazil,” Scoac replied. “Bazil Zaviot.”

  Cushla’s head snapped toward Scoac, apparently surprised that Scoac knew her father’s name. “He is my father.”

  The chief merely raised a brow. Ignoring Cushla, he again questioned Scoac. “And what of the woman we saw running off?”

  “Ah yes…” Scoac hesitated again. “She would be the one who was helping the slave escape.”

  “I see.” The chief turned to one of his patrolmen. “Find out who the woman is.”

  “Yes sir.” The patrolman who was addressed nodded and then returned to his cycle. He revved the engine slightly and sped off.

  “And who might this be?” The chief referred to Tarken.

  “He is the slavemaster.”

  “I need to see your ship’s manifesto,” the chief requested of Scoac.

  “Of course.” Scoac began to lower one of his hands and stopped, glancing at the chief. “May I?”

  “Slowly,” the chief replied. At the same time he nodded to the patrolman, a signal to be cautious in case Scoac decided to pull a hidden weapon.

  Scoac tucked his hand to the inside of his vest and removed a clear, flat sheet about the size of his palm. He handed it to the chief.

  After a few clicks and beeps on the compu-pad the chief handed it back to Scoac. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring and tucked his arms behind his back. For a moment he said nothing as if considering the situation. He then spoke, “You are aware that I can haul the lot of you to the penitentiary for several violations, namely and most significantly, firing weapons in open and inhabited territory?”

  “That would be preferable to the king’s wrath should I have lost that slave,” Scoac returned.

  It was true, Tarken thought. The king would have them skinned and quartered alive for losing Cushla. At this point, he had no regard for his own hide however. He was still considering how he might free her.

  “Very well,” the chief answered. “Gather your crew and vacate Aracome immediately before I reconsider.”

  “And of him?” Scoac glanced at Bazil, who was now being lifted to a gurney. “He was to travel with us.”

  “I think not,” the chief told him. “He isn’t listed on your manifesto. The man stays with us.”

  Tarken observed the beads of sweat beginning to appear on Scoac’s forehead.

  The royal was nervous, and he should be. He had fucked up his mission. Scoac protested. “We can attend to his well-being.”

  “Hmm…” The chief shook his head in the negative. “Gather your crew and remove yourself. Zaviot stays.”

  “No!” Cushla yelped. “He’s my father!”

  The chief lifted a brow as he ogled Tarken. “Outspoken for a slave. She’s not very well trained is she?”

  “If I may, chief?” Tarken intervened on Cushla’s behalf. “The slave was originally a royal of the King Mecor’s court. Her life as a slave is a mishap. Her father has searched for solars attempting to locate her…” Or at least Tarken hoped he had. “Perhaps we should allow him to accompany us.”

  “I do not know if this is true. Nor do I know if this is indeed Zaviot’s wish,” the chief returned. “He will stay here.”

  “No, no—please?” Cushla attempted to rush forward but was restrained by two of the royal guards.

  Desperate, Tarken suggested another solution. “Then perhaps she should stay here.”

  “Are you mad?” Scoac objected.

  “I will stay with her, and return her to the king once her father is recovered.” Tarken of course lied. “Perhaps return to Buranis with both the slave and her father.”

  “I might stay with them,” Rube spoke up.

  This suggestion surprised Tarken. Something was amiss with the royal. Did he have an ally?

  “You’re both mad!” Scoac groused. “The slave will go with us!”

  “I tend to agree,” the chief nodded. “The slave is royal property and I therefore have no authority to allow her to stay if it’s not your request.”

  “No, no— my father!” Cushla shrieked as the medics lifted the gurney and carried Bazil away. She struggled against the restraint of two royal guards who grabbed her arms.

  “Cushla…” Tarken reached for her, resisting the anger escalating inside. Not at Cushla, but at the guards who touched her, the inclination to break their arms, teeming inside of him.

  She r
ecoiled from Tarken as if she’d been burned, and pulled herself free. Her body stiffened and she shot Tarken an angry look. “Do not touch me.”

  “Cushla,” Tarken began again, this time taking her hand, giving little regard as to who might be watching. “I will make sure you and your father are safe.”

  “No!” She jerked free of his grasp. “Keep your hands off of me slavemaster. I do not wish to ever lay eyes on you again. You protect me as well as you protected your own wife.”

  Her words sliced him deeply, freezing Tarken in his steps.

  Cushla moved closer to the royal guards, seeming to prefer their company instead. She placed a firm hand on the shoulder of one and glanced Tarken’s way, her eyes narrowing as if she loathed him. She then turned her attention to the guard she touched and smiled seductively at him.

  He returned a lecherous smile as his eyes grazed up and down her body.

  Tarken wanted to kill him, and he would’ve but common sense kicked in, telling him to keep his demeanor cool or else he might reveal feelings for Cushla, which might result in the king denying him access to her—a risk he refused to take.

  He then followed the royal entourage as they returned to the ship, his eyes steady on Cushla’s back, disgust and dismay bottoming out in his stomach as he thought of the numerous times he could’ve escaped with her, and how he’d missed every opportunity.

  Chapter Twenty

  The planet, Buranis, Mecor’s Kingdom

  Hiding behind a curtain, careful that she wouldn’t be seen, Cushla peeked through the window that overlooked the orchards, mines and meadows. She stared forlornly at the multitude of minions who worked the land, her heart going out to them.

  Anzer Mecor’s tyrannical reign had brought enormous destitution to those who used to be villagers, now turned slave.

  Her gaze shifted to the figure sitting at the top of a small hill and the sight pulled at her spite, even as her emotions pulled at her heartstrings. Tarken did try to intervene on her behalf when they were on the planet Aracome. She thought about that for a moment and then scowled. “He had another agenda for that,” she mumbled, convincing herself, perhaps to ransom me to make credits for himself!