by Faith Eden
'Maybe,' the older man agreed, 'but my new friend couldn't say. Apparently she was hooded, as are most slave girls, of course. Supposed to stop young whelps like you getting ideas, among other things.'
'Be that as it may, uncle,' Paulis replied irritably, 'I don't see how this means we are in luck. I may be young, but even I am shrewd enough to realise that if we were to kill this Savatch fellow, the Lady Corinna would not then risk venturing beyond the safety of her castle walls. And meanwhile, as strangers in these parts, if we remained in the area suspicion would surely fall upon us.'
'That it would,' Jorkan said, 'though there are strangers enough to share that burden, believe me. However, shrewd as your assessment of the situation might be, it lacks one thing. It presumes that her ladyship is still within her sanctuary, does it not?'
'Well, yes,' Paulis nodded. 'But where else would she be, if not with this Savatch?'
'Ah, precisely.' Jorkan nodded sagely. 'A very good question. But let me answer that question with another. Tell me why, in your youthful opinion, the task of returning an unwanted slave girl should befall her ladyship's chief functionary, a man who, so rumour has it, is also her lover?'
'Well, perhaps she found him with the girl and decided to punish him by making him return her himself?' Paulis suggested.
Jorkan's eyes twinkled. 'I can see you are not the innocent I thought,' he bantered, 'and indeed, that could be as good a reason as any, save that surely her ladyship would not want to give him further rein for enjoying the girl's charms before being finally rid of her. Master Savatch, so gossip has it, has a liking for slave wenches.'
'Then tell me, uncle,' Paulis sighed, taking up his own flagon, 'what do you think the answer is? I'm sure you have one.'
'Maybe,' Jorkan conceded, 'though it might seem just a little far-fetched. My loose-lipped drinking companion had even more gossip that he was only too eager to share, not least the fact that the noble lady steward enjoys catering to her lover's tastes herself.'
'You've lost me,' Paulis confessed. 'What tastes are those?'
'Why, his taste for slave girls,' Jorkan grinned. 'Haven't I just told you?'
'But...?' Paulis' mouth hung open in mid-sentence as the light slowly dawned in his eyes. 'No!' he gasped, letting his flagon return to the tabletop with a thump. 'Surely you can't mean...?'
Jorkan nodded, grinning hugely. 'And why not?' he demanded. 'When you are a little older, you will come to understand that there are some curious notions find their way into the most unlikely heads.'
'But surely not that?' Paulis gasped. 'I mean, why would she? How could she? I've seen the way men drag these slave girls around and she's of noble birth.'
'So you think maybe that showing her tits off to all and sundry might not stir a few juices in her?' Jorkan laughed. 'Well, I've known stranger things, believe me. Besides, hooded like a common slave, who would know it was her tits they were looking at, eh?'
'Apart from the fact that it seems to be common knowledge,' Paulis pointed out.
Jorkan began to chuckle. 'Aye,' he said, 'and there's another valuable lesson. If our betters ever truly knew what we common people thought, it'd either make them rule us better, or else it would frighten them to death!'
Fulgrim's revenge was now extended towards the pages and maids with whom Agana had persecuted him during his incarceration, and Dorothea was brought out to watch, bound with her back to the whipping post and looking towards the castle wall, on top of which the Vorsan troopers had erected another timber construction.
Two heavy timbers, similar to the one from which Agana's torture cage hung, were thrust out from the ramparts, a third timber lashed between them, parallel with the wall itself and jutting a few feet clear of the stonework. To this makeshift gibbet the men began to attach ropes, set an arm's breadth apart, a total of eight in all, with nooses fashioned at their free ends.
From her position, level with this mass gallows, Agana had a clear view as the first batch of young unfortunates, arms bound behind them, were brought up to stand on the inside of the ramparts and the nooses placed about their necks. Realising what was about to happen to them, they began to struggle and cry out, male and female alike, but there was no escape and, through her own agony, Agana prayed that the ropes would be long enough to snap their poor necks when they were thrown over the top and that they would not all be left dancing in mid-air, fighting for a last breath that would never come.
And, as that prayer was finally answered and the first eight corpses hung lifelessly in the late afternoon sun, Agana prayed too, that someone, somewhere would soon be in a position to do to Fulgrim that which she knew now she would never be able to do herself and that her spirit, when it finally departed this world, would be permitted to look down and watch it when his end finally came.
Demila was beginning to feel more at home in the saddle, though the use of unaccustomed muscles and the steady chafing against the insides of her thighs did not help her to feel more comfortable. However, even at walking pace, the sure-footed pony covered the ground quicker than if Pecon had insisted she remain on foot.
Despite their lovemaking of the previous evening, it seemed Pecon did not trust her not to try to escape, though Demila suspected that his precautions owed as much to his determination to reinforce their master-slave relationship as to any real ideas concerning security.
The hated mask remained locked in place and beneath it Demila perspired in the warm sunlight. Her wrists were no longer locked to her belt, but cuffed together in front of her and tied to the saddle pommel, enabling her to hold her mount's reins, but little else. In addition, leather thongs secured her ankles to the tops of the stirrup irons and a thin strap then connected these beneath the pony's belly, ensuring that she could neither dismount voluntarily, nor slip from the saddle accidentally.
They rode steadily throughout the day and the temperature began to drop slightly as they moved towards higher ground. From the position of the sun, Demila knew they were headed roughly eastwards, but as to their actual destination she had no idea. Pecon maintained a lead between them of one horse's length, a lead rein from his saddle running back to the pony's bridle, and did not once look back while they were actually travelling.
Indeed, except for the infrequent rest halts he called, it was as if he had forgotten that Demila was there at all and, even when they stopped he barely acknowledged her, other than to free her from saddle and stirrups and help her to dismount.
Late in the afternoon, as they watered the horses at a small, swift running stream, she could stand it no longer.
'Master?'
Pecon, squatting cross-legged in the soft grass, looked up, seemingly surprised at the sound of her voice.
'Master, has your slave displeased you?'
He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned his face away from her. 'Why do you ask, slave?'
'Because - because you have not once spoken to me since first light.'
He continued to look away, apparently concentrating on some distant object. 'Should a master speak to a slave, except when he has instructions for her to carry out?' he asked.
'No, master,' she mumbled uncertainly.
Pecon looked back at her, over his shoulder. 'Then I don't understand the question,' he said blandly.
Suddenly, to her consternation, Demila found her vision blurred by tears and it was her turn to look away. She did not hear him rise, nor did she sense his approach, but his hands rested firmly upon her shoulders, fingers pressing into her tanned flesh.
'You wish to show your master your devotion?' he asked, his mouth close to her leather covered ear. Dumbly, Demila nodded. His right hand slipped down, his arm partly encircling her until his fingers found her nipple, taking the swollen teat gently but firmly, and slowly massaging it. She let out a deep breath and pressed herself back against him.
'You know of only one way to please a master?' he asked, teasingly. Again she nodded and squirmed her buttocks harder into his groin. He laughed
, but now his other hand mirrored the actions of the first.
'Well, at least you are pleasing,' he said gruffly, spun her about, reached to her throat and pulled the slave hood from her head, exposing her flushed features fully. 'And you are quite pretty,' he smiled, dropping the damp leather at his feet, 'even if you do sweat too much.'
'Interesting,' Jorkan said when he and Paulis were once again mounted and heading back out of the village. 'You heard what that bailiff fellow had to say, didn't you?'
'I did,' Paulis said, 'but I still don't understand any of it. If that slave girl really was the Lady Corinna, why would she have permitted herself to be whipped at the public scaffold?'
'Why indeed?' Jorkan grunted. 'But then, who are we to question what goes on in the heads of our betters, eh lad? I'd say that her ladyship and this Savatch fellow are acting out some kind of game, though what she would ever hope to get out of it I wouldn't like to say. Mind you, nephew, I gave up trying to understand women even before you came into this world. That way lies madness, believe me.'
'But you're sure this was her?'
'You'll learn, lad, that it never pays to be sure of anything. But let's just say that I'd wager a day's ride on the outcome. Besides, why would he pay good money on a wagon and furs, just to ensure the comfort of a common slave girl he's just ordered whipped?
'No, maybe nothing's ever really sure, but this is sure enough for me. Sure enough that we put an arrow into him and take her afterwards. We'll know then, sure enough. And if I'm right, the sweet lady has saved us the trouble of finding a better guise in which to take her back to our paymaster.
'One extra slave girl, more or less - who's going to give her a second glance, eh? Except to leer at what she's showing. Her identity will be as safe with us as it is with this Savatch,' he added, laughing again, 'though I doubt she'll thank us half as much for protecting her secret!'
Fulgrim stood over the slumped figure of Dorothea and kicked her hard in the ribs. She moaned, shifted slightly and struggled to raise her head.
'The black bitch is strong,' he said. 'Though she won't last much beyond tomorrow noon. Already her ribs are cracking and her devil's cunt is stretched enough to take any five men.
'She tried to cheat me, the devious whore,' he continued, 'but I was wise to what she was thinking and we've forced water into her, so she'll stay alive a while yet.'
'In the name of mercy,' Dorothea begged, her voice cracking, 'kill us both, please!'
Fulgrim stepped backwards, aimed a kick at her legs and guffawed.
'Mercy?' he taunted. 'What mercy was I shown? No, you'll both pay my price in full, believe me. The black bitch will die, eventually, but not you, my once proud lady. Tell me,' he continued, bending over her and grasping her jaw, 'how does it feel to have a belly full of common soldiers' seed, eh?
'You've seen the last of fine silks and soft female bed warmers, believe me. From now on, that cunt of yours is game to any man who needs a temporary scabbard for his aching sword, so you'd better get used to it.'
Dorothea groaned again, but her eyes burned defiance. 'Your soul will rot in eternity, Fulgrim,' she hissed, but Fulgrim simply laughed again.
'Maybe,' he agreed, 'but your body will rot in this life well before that time comes. You should have killed me while you had the chance.'
'Believe me,' Dorothea muttered, closing her eyes, her head falling back, 'I'd not make the same mistake again.'
Agana knew she was close to death, though she felt certain that Fulgrim did not fully realise this. He had continued to tighten the metal cage about her throughout the afternoon and early evening, but had taunted her that she would not die until the following day. Fortunately, she thought to herself, as the rope above her creaked in the stirring breeze, he understood little of the powers her people had long since accepted and learned, and soon she would be beyond his reach.
At least, she thought, not only was she now above the pain he could inflict, but so, soon, would Dorothea be, if only for a short while, and he also seemed to have stopped executing the maids and pages now. Presumably, having identified and murdered certain of their number, he had realised that they would fetch a not inconsiderable price if he sold the remainder, and doubtless his men would use them for fine sport meantime.
Such a shame, she sighed, opening her eyes for one last glimpse of the setting sun. Such a shame that she would not be the one who finally sent him back to face the retribution of his maker. Perhaps her own gods would forgive her spirit for her earthly sins, at least long enough to bear witness to his eternal damnation. Hers may not have been a blameless life, but at least she had served her mistress loyally. Such a shame she could not continue to serve her so further.
There was shame in many things, she thought vaguely. Shame and pity, pity and shame. And, as the sun finally dipped behind the distant hilltops, her spirit finally slipped away to join the gathering stars.
The cabin was set well back from the road and hidden from it by the dense combination of trees and undergrowth, so that only someone who knew of it, or perhaps someone stumbling upon it by chance, would know it was there.
Inside the floor was clean and the few items of furniture - a bed, table and two chairs - in good repair, though evidently made originally by a hand that was not entirely skilled in the art. The meagre, cramped dwelling had probably been originally built as a shelter for a hunter, Demila thought; perhaps he still used it, though there was no sign of recent occupation. The ashes in the small hearth looked old and there was no food on the single shelf in the alcove next to it, only a simple earthenware pitcher and two bowls.
Pecon unlocked her wrist fetters from her waist belt and nodded towards the fireplace.
'There should be wood already cut, stacked against the rear wall outside,' he said. 'You should also find plenty of dried twigs beneath the bushes. Gather some and start a fire, slave. Here.' He reached inside his jerkin and withdrew a tinderbox.
'When you have the fire well set, you will find a stream just a little deeper into the trees. Take the pitcher and fill it and wash yourself at the same time. You can wash my feet for me later - among other things,' he added, with a sly grin.
Demila took the tinderbox, laying it carefully on the table, and turned towards the door, trying to hide the smile that kept trying to force its way onto her face. The damned mask was uncomfortable, she thought, but without it she had to be wary not to betray her true feelings too blatantly.
When Agana's death was reported to him, Fulgrim flew into a terrible rage and, for several minutes, Dorothea believed he would kill her too. But he restricted his attentions to a few badly aimed kicks and a stream of insults that seemed to be aimed at the world in general. At last, he seemed to bring his anger under some control and ordered the guards to bring the surviving maids and pages out onto the grass beneath the walls and to set up several torches to illuminate the area.
Then, as the ten girls and seven boys stood in a shivering semicircle, he ordered Agana's corpse to be lowered and her rigid figure, still held within the iron bands of the torture device, lashed to the whipping post. Dorothea, too, was brought out, arms tightly bound behind her back, a heavy iron chain clipped between her nipples and dragging her once proud breasts into painfully elongated melons.
For several seconds an eerie silence descended upon the gathering, as they stood in the flickering light, all attention focused on the grim figure at their centre. Even in death Agana was an awesome sight, her eyes closed, her noble features now in repose, belying the nature of her end. And the soldiers, too, seemed affected by her appearance, but then Fulgrim spoke and the spell was broken.
'The black bitch can remain here, where the animals as well as the birds can pick at her carcass.' He turned to Ingrim, who was standing just behind him. 'Have your men bind the arms of all the slaves and stake them by the ankles. They can mount a final vigil for the corpse, and if any of them tries to sit or lie down before dawn, give them twenty lashes.
'And
make sure, Ingrim,' he concluded, turning back towards the open postern, 'that the men do not try to make use of any of this young flesh - not this night, at least. Leave them to contemplate and make sure everyone is ready to move out one hour after first light.'
To Sprig it had seemed so very simple: wait until the women made camp, watch until they fell asleep, then move in and cut their throats before they knew what was happening. Foolishly, they had even left the weapons and most of the horses at the scene of the underground encounter and, when he had returned, he quickly armed himself with a sharp sword and two vicious daggers.
Riding back along the dried river, he had easily picked up their trail in the snow as soon as he emerged into the open air again, and it had taken no great skill to follow the prints left by the four horses. After an hour or two he had spotted them far ahead and simply dropped back out of sight, waiting for darkness to fall again.
However, as he now realised - much too late - they must have been expecting something, for as he fell upon the first huddled figure, plunging his sword into the general area of the head, something hard and heavy crashed into his skull and he had barely enough time to register that the sleeping 'figure' was nothing more than a fur thrown over a heap of snow, before the purple curtain rose up before his eyes. Then, amidst a background of roaring water, he slipped further down into the waiting, inky blackness.
He awoke eventually, head throbbing, body cold and shivering, and knew instantly he was in big trouble, though it took him several more seconds before his thoughts cleared sufficiently to recognise the nature of his plight. When he did he groaned, as much in humiliation as in pain, wishing they'd simply killed him outright.
'Aha, I see you're awake, slave.'
Sprig peered up through the slits in the slave hood and saw it was the blonde standing over him. He struggled to try to sit up, but his arms were pinioned to the broad leather belt about his waist and he could get no leverage. Breathing heavily, he fell back.