Slave of Sarma

by Jeffrey Lord

  Blade got his fingers into the man’s hair, trying for a firm hold, but Tarsu was Sarmaian and had but little fuzz. Blade twined both his big hands around the neck and loosed his scissor hold and struggled to his knees. He began to smash the head against the stone floor. Again and again until the sound was pulpy and hollow and blood and brains mingled on his fingers. He tossed the body away and stood up, exploring the wound on his thigh. It was on the outside, halfway between his knee and hip, and he did not think it very serious. Yet it bled freely. He fumbled for the body of Tarsu again, found it and removed the sword belt and wrapped it around his leg just above the wound. He hobbled to the stair and found the sword and thought a moment - he had intended to use the sword as a lever, to hold the tourniquet, but now he decided against it.

  He had won. He intended to make an impression, stage an act, to assume a dominance he did not yet have. It was bluff but it might work. Bluff had worked before now and would again. When he, Richard Blade, climbed out of the pit, waving a victorious bloody sword, he meant to create an illusion, to take to himself the leadership and authority that had not, in fact, been promised or offered. It was all a gamble.

  Blade slashed the belt with the sword and managed to tie it around his leg. By this time the sword reeked with blood - no matter that it was his own - and it would make a good prop. He went slowly up the dark winding stair and rapped heartily with his sword hilt at the trap door. He took a deep breath and roared so that all Sarma might hear him.

  “Open! I command you to open!”

  Sounds. Grunts, straining, curses and the cracking of whips on slave flesh. Slowly the block of stone was drawn back. Light blinded Blade for a moment. He stared into it and did not shield his eyes. He leaped up the remaining stairs and out into the arena, ignoring his wound. It did not pain him much and he carefully avoided limping.

  There was a ring of curious faces. Slaves crowded in the rear and stared at Blade with awe and envy. Blade strode to where Equebus and Kreed stood surrounded by their guards. A sub-leader stepped to block the way and Blade brandished him aside with the bloody sword.

  The High Priest cradled his long chin in skinny fingers and nodded at Blade. “You have won against Tarsu, then? I did not think it possible.” He frowned. “It would not have been possible without the favor of Bek-Tor. That favor, also, I did not think possible. You are not Sarmaian and Bek-Tor is not your god. And yet - “

  Captain Equebus whispered something and Kreed, still frowning, said no more. That the priest was shaken was evident.

  Not so the Captain. He stroked his pomaded beard and regarded Blade coolly and with a new disgust.

  “So you have been lucky once more, Blade? Or was Tarsu only a weakling after all? I suppose we shall never know.”

  Blade reached with the sword before anyone could halt him or guess his intent. Calmly, without haste, he wiped the stained blade on the Captain’s ceremonial cloak.

  “You will know, Equebus! One day you will know. That I promise you. Now do as you have been ordered, High Priest. Your Queen is waiting for me. Take me to her.”

  The Captain’s scowl was black, yet he made a slight bow and stepped aside. Kreed glanced in puzzlement from Equebus to Blade. For the moment he appeared confused. The Captain nodded to him.

  “Do as Blade commands, High Priest” The narrow eyes darkened at Blade in rage.

  “For it appears that he does command now! For the time being. Take him to the Queen.”

  He turned his back on Blade and spat a command at the grotesque Chephron. “Get you down and remove that carrion. See that it is burnt in Tor’s belly.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richard Blade, newly bathed and clothed, bejeweled and perfumed to within an inch of his life, his wound treated, pushed open a heavy stone door and stalked into Queen Pphira’s chamber. It overlooked the harbor, whence came a sea smell, and was lit by two tall candles near her bed.

  Pphira lay naked on the bed.

  When she saw that it was Blade she smiled and stretched her arms over her head, as sinuous as a cat, pulling her small breasts up high and taut. She thrust her tongue through white teeth and licked her lips. She began to caress her slim pale body with her fingers.

  “Ah, Blade! You have slain Tarsu.”

  Blade bowed. “I am here, my Queen. That would seem answer enough.”

  She left off caressing herself long enough to pat the bed beside her. “Come, Blade. Sit here and tell me everything. How did you kill Tarsu in the dark? He was strong and very cunning. He had killed many men in that dungeon.”

  Blade sat beside her. He was much aroused, his blood high and singing in his veins. Not all his battle frenzy had worn off - and no matter what her age, no matter the tales whispered of her, Pphira was beautiful. He wanted her. Now.

  He also wanted a great many other things. Through Pphira he might gain them.

  He took one small breast in his hand and squeezed it gently. A brown nipple stiffened. Blade leaned to kiss, taking it in his mouth and sucking and barely nipping with his teeth. She stiffened for a moment, writhed, and then to his surprise pushed him away.

  “You are too bold, too soon.” But her voice was soft. She made him keep his distance while she stroked herself between the thighs and drew her fingers lightly over the breast he had kissed. Blade sighed and restrained himself. Maybe Pphira was old, though she did not look it. She must prepare herself by autoeroticism.

  And something else. She made him recount every detail of the fight with Tarsu. She made him repeat the more bloodthirsty parts. Her mouth opened slowly in a scarlet O as he told of smashing the man’s head again and again on the stone. Something began to go sour in Blade and he lost much of his anticipation. She would have listened with the same avidity had it been Tarsu relating how he had slain Blade!

  This was no time, Blade thought fiercely, to lose his edge. He had won the battle in the dungeon. He still had to win the battle of the bed. Must win it, else he had gained nothing. He must force the matter before it was too late. An impotent Blade, sick with disgust and made limp thereby, was no better than a dead Blade.

  To stop her questions he swept her into his arms. He clamped his lips over hers and, roughly enough, invaded her body with two of his big fingers. She struggled and tried to cry out. He smothered the cry with his tongue, all the time manipulating her. Three fingers now deep in her vagina. He took a small breast completely into his mouth. She writhed and struck at him feebly.

  “Stop, Blade! I command it. I am a Queen - and this - this is not the way of Sarma. Women rule - women do the things - oh - oh - I forbid you, Blade - OH - “

  He boxed her lightly, with quasi-affection, on each cheek with his huge hand. Pphira was so honestly astounded that she broke off her complaints and stared at him. He had dared to strike her? Even so lightly! She showed her teeth and snarled at him. “I will have you killed for that, Blade, I swear it.”

  He growled back. “Later! First I will have my way with you. I have killed a man for you and I intend to have my reward. My way! I know of your Sarmaian love making and I cannot say that I care for it. This night, Pphira, you will learn something - even as I taught your daughter.”

  The dark eyes glittered and the pale mask firmed as anger muscles came into play. He had touched a chord not intended. She was really angry now. She struck at him with a fist and fought to pull away.

  “Another law broken, Blade. Those banished to punishment are never mentioned. Let me go! Or I will scream for my guards.”

  By this time he was again ready. Tremendously ready. Blade was big by any standards and by Sarmaian measurement he was huge. Nearly grotesque. He ripped off his leathern kilt and flung it away. Queen Pphira took one look and screamed, but not for her guards. She backed away from him, inching up the bed, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  “I cannot, Blade. I cannot! You are too big. You will kill me.”

  Blade pulled her back. “I recall,” he said with mock lewdness, “that it is sai
d to be a pleasant death. And you make too much of it, Pphira.” Cruelly, with deliberate malice, he added, “Zeena made me no complaints.” And he thrust his fingers into her again. Not too gently. He did not like this ageless beauty, nor trust her, but he wanted her at the moment More important - he must dominate her. It was now or never. A sword of flesh, he thought wryly, is sometimes better than a sword of steel.

  She did not cry out for her guards. Blade had gambled that she wouldn’t. He seized her, ankle by ankle, and pulled her apart in a slim white tender V. He raised her legs high and over his broad shoulders and he battered at her with no mercy.

  Pphira was small and compact, very tight and moist, and she did scream softly as he ravaged her, filling her near to bursting. Again came the soft scream, this time muted and blurred. She locked her legs around his neck and pulled at his buttocks. She began to claw and scratch. His wound throbbed and Blade ignored it.

  It was not the first time that he had made love for his life, for his plans, to gain his objectives, and he supposed it would not be the last time. A man must do what he must and take it as it came. One thing he knew - be had never enjoyed it more.

  Blade was as skillful in love making as he was in anything he did. He was that kind of man. If he did a thing he did it well, or not at all. Now he timed himself and used every trick in his considerable book. He touched all bases, left no nerve untitillated, kept pounding at her with a fury and a lust unabated by her groans and prayers for mercy. Pphira began to have an endless series of orgasms and to cry out louder with each succeeding one and still Blade kept at her like a stallion. He hurt her and knew it and kept going. He was little more than an extension of his penis now, and knew that also, and did not care. The more he racked her, the deeper he penetrated, the more he must keep on.

  When at last he broke and spewed, it was his turn to cry out, a harsh guttural sound that lacked sense to any but another copulating animal. The two-backed beast was dead. It lay broken on the bed, swamped in sticky moisture, floating in limbo and near death and careless of it.

  Blade was smashing the little breasts to mush beneath him. She stroked his hair and whispered, “You are crushing me, great ox. Move before you break my bones.”

  As he went limp inside her Blade knew he had won. For the present. Now to strike while he held the advantage. It had been his experience that a really satisfied woman would do almost anything for the man who had satisfied her if he was but canny about it. And quick.

  And yet he did not overdo it. He lay prone, catching his breath, her head pillowed on his massive chest, and let Pphira undo herself. Like all tyrants, the Queen, when she did unbend to a favorite, swung too far toward benevolence. She lavished her favors.

  “I would have Pelops as my personal servant,” said Blade. “Not as a slave.”

  She had her cheek to his belly now, toying with him, admiring the blue-veined hose-like appendage that had pleasured her so much. She swore that in all Sarma there was none like it.

  “In this land from which you come, Blade, are all men made thus?” And she gave him a tweak.

  He smiled down at her. “Many are much bigger. In my own land I am not considered a giant.” There was some truth in that Not too much. He had never had any complaints in Home Dimension.

  Pphira was awe-struck. She stroked the now upthrusting creature with a finger, then bestowed a light kiss on it. It was coming to attention again.

  “What of Pelops?” Blade insisted.

  Pphira nodded. “It is done. You may have him - if Kreed and Equebus have left anything.”

  It took all his restraint to play it cunningly, but Blade managed. His tone casual, he inquired, “What does that mean, Pphira? How do Kreed and the Captain come into it?”

  It was no use. She began to suckle him and Blade lent nine-tenths of his mind to pleasure. While scheming with the remaining tenth.

  Later, much later, when at last she was exhausted and sleepy and happy, Blade got back to it.

  “Kreed came to me and asked for the slave Pelops,” she explained, snuggling to him. “I consented, as why should I not? What is one slave more or less? And Equebus also joined his voice in the asking. I find that I cannot refuse Equebus much, try as I will, so I gave them Pelops.” Her voice had a peculiarly gentle quality when she spoke of the Captain. Blade pondered for a moment Another mystery? What was Equebus to her?

  No time for that now. “They will torture Pelops,” he said. “They will question him about me. It will be useless, because he is a poor little man and knows nothing but what I have told him. When he cannot satisfy them they will kill him.”

  Pphira traced her fingers over his flat muscle corded belly. “I suppose you are right What of it? What is this Pelops to you?”

  “My friend,” said Blade.

  “In that case,” said the Queen, “you shall have him. Or what is left of him.” She tugged a cord beside the bed. In less than a minute a house slave appeared. Pphira made no effort to cover herself or Blade. She gave brief orders and the slave left.

  She kissed Blade and rolled atop him, moving up so that her little breasts were against his face. If she was ageless, the man thought, she was also insatiable. His sigh was inward. It was the name of the game. Show fatigue or boredom now and he might lose everything. He began to will himself to new passion.

  Pphira was shrewd enough to know what was happening. She kissed him, examining his tongue with her own, then began to lick his face like a cat.

  “Ask, Blade. What else would you have? I am not often in such a mood. You had best take while I offer.”

  “I would be Captain,” said Blade. “In command of a ship. I would fight in the games when Otto the Black arrives.”

  “Granted. What other?”

  Captain Blade, now very sly, a little fearful lest he overstep, thought it best to wait a while. He pulled her up and positioned her astraddle his big body and let her ride him long and far and fast into screaming contentment. When she fell exhausted he cradled her tenderly and stroked her hair.

  When she breathed normally again he said, “There are certain things I would know, questions I would ask. Not of idle probing, for I am not given to that, but if I must make a life in Sarma I must have knowledge.”

  She nodded against his chest. “Ask your questions. Then let me sleep, for I swear I have never been so pleasantly weary.”

  “I may anger you, my Queen.”

  “No, Blade. I promise it. Nothing you ask of me at this moment will anger me. So ask ahead.”

  He took the plunge. “What are Kreed and the Captain Equebus to each other? How do they connect? To me they have the look of plotters, there is a smell of conspiracy about them, but I cannot see to what end?”

  Pphira laughed softly. “It is very plain, Blade. They plot against me. So my spies tell me. And I have many spies.”

  “And you permit this?”

  “I permit it. It is not a new thing - there are more plots in Sarma than there are people. I would rather have them plot than act. And they, Kreed and Equebus, are also lovers. Or at least the priest loves - I think Equebus merely permits himself to be loved.”

  So that was it! Blade, knowing that any form of sexuality was considered normal in Sarma, began to form a picture for himself. He put it to the test.

  He said: “So Kreed, an old man, loves the Captain. A man in his prime. This means much to Kreed - very little to Equebus. Kreed is the vulnerable one, then, and you have a certain hold on him. If something should happen to the Captain - “

  “Kreed would be desolate,” she said softly. “He would beat his breast, put on mourning and leap into the fiery mouth of Tor.”

  Blade nodded. “I think, my Queen, that I know at least one of your spies. He even spies against himself.”

  “And against Equebus,” she added. “Equebus whispers to Kreed and Kreed whispers to me. He must, and knows it, to save his lover. And now, Blade, I must ask you a question. Are you my man? Will you cleave to me when Otto the B
lack arrives? For this time Equebus plots with Otto himself - for the promise that Otto will place him on my throne. Otto himself would like this - he wants a docile puppet on the throne of Sarma instead of a trouble-maker.”

  Although Pelops had briefed Blade well on Sarmaian politics he was not prepared for this. He was out of his depth and admitted it.

  He frowned. “At my first audience you reproached Kreed for speaking against Otto the Black. You spoke of being a fief and - “

  She put a soft little hand on his lips. “So I did. I pay lip service to Otto, as does every Sarmaian who wants to live, but in our hearts we are all rebels. We would be free of Otto’s yoke. But this cannot be spoken aloud - for every spy I have, Otto has ten. That is why this time Equebus has gone too far. He really intends to serve Otto when I am killed. Equebus is no true rebel. He is - he - “

  She put her face against Blade’s chest. He felt a tear on his flesh and marveled at it. This woman weeping? And over Equebus the Cruel! There was much, far too much, that he did not understand.

  Pphira did not look at him. She clung, a woman for the moment disarmed, soft and vulnerable, and said: “Equebus is no true Sarmaian. Only half. I alone in Sarma know this.”

  He held her close. “How do you know it?” And half guessed the answer.

  “Equebus is my son,” said Queen Pphira. “The only son I have ever borne. Years ago there came a man from the land of the Moghs - a far place beyond even the Burning Land - and I fancied him and he me. It did not last long, but I have never forgotten him. He was a warrior, fierce and proud, and much learned. He did not like Sarma and returned to his own land. I wept but I was too proud to beg him to stay. A few months later I bore Equebus and, as must be done with all male children, put him away from me. He does not know his birth. No one knows but me, for those that did know I had slain on some pretext. And now, Blade, you know. Two of us. See that you keep the secret, for it can be used against me. And knowledge of his birth can be of no use to Equebus, for no man can rise above the rank of Captain and none can rule in Sarma.”