Starlit Ruins

by Simon Woodington

“So how is she?” an impatient female voice demanded. The white skinned being turned towards her in the faintly lit hall. His grey-eyed gaze settled upon her, seeming to consider her with little more importance than an expressly beautiful specimen of gnat.

  “She's a pretty thing, for a human,” the plainly male creature answered with a faint measure of interest.

  She scowled unpleasantly. “You had best not have laid a hand upon her. I paid extra to see that she wasn't sullied!”

  He nodded with a vaguely discernible wry grin. “I haven't. And for the extra bit you gave me, I watched her myself.” Which meant as much as the oath of a dragon to her. A gleam entered the creature's eye above the deep grey rim of skin. “Entertaining she was, too.”

  Marlanda suppressed a dull shudder. She felt remotely sorry for the young woman, having to be submitted to the scrutiny of the inhumanly ugly Kidian, and perhaps worse. She gazed upwards at the ten foot tall armored creature who looked ready to fight the nearest war. “And is her training record accurate?”

  “Yeah. She takes orders just fine. We even left her outside her cell for a bit, under order, and she didn't take off.”

  Her replying nod was a pleased one. At least she would have no trouble with her. It was becoming exceedingly difficult to break in new slaves. An immediately obedient one would be a nice change of pace. She balked at the thought of the effort she knew she would have to expend training Makoto. Unlike Chalin, Makoto did not seem about to bow directly. She did not fear Marlanda, yet. Oh well, that would come with visitations of Chronos and the vibro-whip.

  “Fine. Take me to her then, will you? I'm a busy woman.”

  A smirk. “I bet you are.”

  Under her breath she uttered an unladylike guttural curse. He grunted and gestured stiffly with the eyed staff held in his thickly muscled arm. Ignoring the voices beseeching freedom, mercy, and similar desires, her mind wandered to the image of her purchase in her mind. If the description was accurate, Sharla Westshore was a young woman of notable secondary physical endowments. She had - as it was recorded with indeterminable accuracy - strawberry blond hair which fell to waist length, was roughly five feet ten inches tall, one-hundred forty pounds, with dark green eyes. She was described as a highly desirable creature.

  Her mind caught on the calls of surrounding slaves, and the occasional slam of metal to itself as the Kidian shouted harsh orders of silence.

  “No, you needn't do that. I don't mind it,” Marlanda noted.

  The guard looked puzzled, decided he did not care, and shrugged. “Here she is. Cell G3, like you asked.”

  He manipulated a small panel to the right of the armor sealed door, which slid ajar with a faint grinding noise. Without further indication, he turned, and leaned against the wall aside the open section of wall. Upon entering, the woman inside dropped to her knees, head bowed.

  “Ma'am,” she offered in greeting, her voice soft, like strings of falling silk.

  “Stand sharla,” she commanded with practised ease. As the Kidian had stated, Sharla seemed to easily recognize and act at the behest of the dominant personality.

  “Yes Ma'am.”

  Marlanda studied her for a moment. The alterations from the description were few: Her hair was a fair sight longer, and she was pale, having the appearance of illness. She uttered a dry oath. “Damn them. sharla, tell me, have they taken advantage of you?”

  “Yes Ma'am.”

  She did not ask in what manner. The thought sickened and angered her. That they had was all she needed to know. “I will have you examined later. I do not desire that you should die of some alien malady.”

  “Thank you,” was her gentle reply.

  Marlanda fetched a rune encrusted collar from a small bag hung over her shoulder. “Wear this. It bears my rune.”

  “Yes, Ma'am,” and offered no delay in compliance.

  A smile turned the corner of Marlanda's lips. “It suits you. The grey-blue works very nicely. Now, come. I have another slave to retrieve.”

  @~%~~~

  “Ten-thousand credits!”

  “Ten-thousand five!”

  “A Gideon Mystic Mark is worth more than that! Twelve!!”

  “Thirteen!”

  “Thirteeeen… I hear thirteeeen-thouuusand. Anyone going to give me thirteeeen-thouuusand fiive?” Inquired the spurred voice of a silver suited and blue-skinned humanoid figure standing behind a podium.

  “Fifty,” called a sundry tone.

  “Fifty-thouuusand!” smiled the fellow, waving his hand towards the voice. “I want to hear fifty five-thouuusand! Will anyone give me fifty five-thouuusand?”

  “Sixty!” Answered a voice, meeting the challenge.

  “Is that it? I bought sixty Portable Holes for that cost! Sixty five!”

  “Seventy!”

  “I hear seventy-thouuusand universal credits… I'm listening for a call of eighty-thouuusand… anyone going to meet the value of this prize creature? A firebrand; Manarr, member of a dying race… with no fear of death! A challenge to be sure!”

  The fellow tugged on his up-to-date suit. “…Not to mention attractive! This one would make an ideal pleasure slave!” His hand fell in the direction of the dark skinned young alien woman, a fearful and angered snarl her only reply.

  “Curse you to all to hell!” she barked, struggling against the pole to which she was bound by hand and foot. Clad in only loincloth and half-shirt, she felt restrained as much by modesty as by the enfolding of metal at wrist and ankle. Despite her heated and fiery demeanour, her physical attractiveness was self apparent.

  Of course. It was the solitary reason for which she was on the flesh slave market as opposed to the labour.

  “Gods damn you all!” she cried, tossing against the chains, hoping in vain that they would betray a weakness not recently self-evident. Laughs, cat-calls, and hollers of inspired ill-taste and moral vacancy withered her retorts after a time. Relinquished to a faint hateful expression, she retreated to more pleasant thoughts of grisly anarchy as the bidding continued.

  “One million,” stated the same feminine voice, as in victory.

  The crowd of no less than fifty men, women, and other dimensional beings fell abruptly quiet.

  “One million…?! Uh… going once.. going… oh hell… sold!” barked the still stunned auctioneer.

  @~%~~~

  “Rune?” prodded a voice with predetermined gentility. She looked up at him weakly, a faintly wry expression resting upon her features.

  “From demon to slave,” she remarked with a trace of wearied humour. “I wonder what Mike would think. But I guess he's got his own troubles…”

  “Mike is your friend?”

  She smirked, sitting with legs drawn to her bare breasts, arms wrapped around her knees. “If you consider a friend someone constantly trying to kill you… then I guess so.” Chalin had no remark in reply. She thought for a moment, gazing about the room. “I know I'd prefer that to this. At least I could manage him.”

  He said nothing. For a moment, she watched him, gauging the core of his existence, trying to determine what drove him. What was it that keeps him in silence? She shut her eyes tiredly. No, I got that one down. It's Marlanda. Can't help that right now. Or him. “Chalin… why do you keep on risking yourself for me?”

  His eyes flicked to hers, then away just as rapidly. Annoyed, Rune staggered to her feet, grasping at the bandaged holes in her side.

  “Don't look away. Damn it Chalin… I don't get you.”

  “I'm sorry Rune… I…”

  “Don't apologize… You haven't done anything wrong.” For a moment she felt the distinct need to hold him, knowing he could barely stand his own fear of her. “Why…? Just answer that. I need to know.”

  “I… I felt you coming here. I know you… I…” his voice trailed off to a dark timbre of silence.

  “What?” she touched his shoulder.

  “I love you.”

  Immediately she was struck by the power of his st
atement. All at once she found it impossible to believe, and to accept. For her entire life she had been fighting fearlessly, expecting to expire dramatically in battle, and rather hoping to. She took a step back from him, torn by her own emotions.

  “I… I know…” the words fell from her mouth, and she startled at them. As they passed, she began to comprehend their truth. She reflected to the first occasion of their meeting. Marlanda had just purchased her and she was being transported to she-knew-not-where. Chalin had introduced himself during the trip in the miniature hover vehicle, and had expressed his concern for her. Even then he had seemed vaguely familiar, and she had felt something between them.

  “There's a bath ready if you want to take it,” he offered, breaking the recollection.

  “Chalin…” she started. A glance elaborated his nervousness, and she dropped the dire subject at hand, determined to have the whole explanation from him later. “All right.”

  Chalin reached towards her neck and removed the leash cord chaining her to the corner of the room. The cord retracted with a pain promising sharpness.

  Rune Mourndealth was a young woman of considerable stamina, intelligence, and beauty. Marlanda had owned her for only a pair of days, and she still refused to concede to her. Her insistently lofty regard for life included her own, of late. She had been informed that she would not die of a racially-spanning genetic mutation, to which she was unknowingly immune. Her attitude had altered radically since that point, and she fought for her own life as much as that of others.

  As she stepped into the steaming bath, she noted Chalin exit discreetly. She sighed, bruised, battered, and fatigued. That red haired man was a dynamic she would hardly have expected. As yet, he had revealed nothing of his former life. Only that he had been a slave to Marlanda for five years. “Oh gods,” she muttered, scrubbing two days of sweat from her skin. “What the hell have I gotten into?”

  She had to discover a way to flee. She knew herself to be far too proud to cave in to this violent wench. “Maybe I can piss her off…”

  The fact of the matter was, the collar, somehow, rendered her physically benign. So if Marlanda decided she was going to beat her senseless, then there was no point to argue. She snarled faintly. After a time, the unpleasant expression dissipated into a serene look as she began to hum a familiar folk tune she had learned before leaving her homeworld. Her voice was gentle, and had the trained range of a professional singer.

  “That's pretty,” a voice remarked.

  Rune smiled, knowing the owner of the amiable tones. “Thank you.” She stood slowly from the bath, and stepped towards him with all the sure-footed grace of a tap dancer. “Did you know I was a singer as a child? I've sung before thousands. This self-serving beast doesn't scare me.”

  Realizing he seemed to be deliberately keeping his distance, she queried, “If you love me, Chalin, then why shy away?”

  She took the hung towel from the wall and proceeded to dry herself with it as she awaited his reply. She honestly expected him to say nothing; he seemed apt enough as it stood.

  “I'm sorry Rune…” He squirmed as if suspended from a hook.

  Concern lit in Rune's mind, and anger followed sharply behind. How could that harlot turn that gorgeous man into a scared child? she thought bitterly.

  “We can't take too long, the Mistress will be returning soon.”

  Annoyance flared once again. “Why do you have to call her that?”

  “It is what I have always called her,” he replied her, sounding certain of the 'fact.'

  “I don't believe that. To me a name is a matter of respect. I have a list of things I'll give her before she ever gets that!” Rune's words sparked audibly with the passion that fed them. “It's your choice. You're so much stronger than she is!”

  Chalin looked sour for a moment, then stifled the expression, gesturing quietly for her to exit the room.

  “How can you…”

  “You don't understand!” Chalin snapped abruptly, his voice containing a shred of forcefulness never evident. He turned and left the room, not pausing long enough for her to follow.

  “Maybe not, but I know this isn't right!” Rune replied, further put at ill ease. She sighed uselessly. He said nothing. Rune was sure he had something to put forth, and also that there was a restraint of a sort, whether physical or emotional. Aware of the futility of an ensuing discussion, she did not pursue the topic.

  @~%~~~

  “Ki-hi-ha!!” Makoto cried, punctuating the first word with a punch, the second with a high kick, and the third with a blurred knife hand. Heaving air with unconscious regularity through her lungs, she continued, practising her jan-ken - basic strike techniques - determined to beat the living daylights out of Marlanda should she return.

  A flash of pain threw her left-handed punch aside to knock a small oak box to the carpeted floor. Collecting herself, she halted and retrieved it, picking up the small crystal which hung from a silver chain necklace.

  Who are you? demanded a female voice through what Makoto recognized to be telepathy.

  I am Makoto Kino. Now you can do me the favour of replying the same.

  I am Ellison Cadre. I am the crystal in your hand, which I might add, you will lose if I do not repair it.

  What? How do you know that?

  How is it I speak to you, a mere crystal? Let me heal you.

  I wasn't exactly refusing. It does hurt a lot. I don't think you're lying to me, she replied cleanly, gasping faintly as an abrupt, but welcome tinge surged through the shattered bones of her mangled hand. Within minutes, a remotely normal feeling returned, which she clenched experimentally. Mechanism still existed within her modified lower arm, yet the back of her hand lacked the ports and the vibro claws.

  Do not remove the cast.

  Why? Oh, she’ll get suspicious. Well Ellison, thank you.

  You are welcome. Please, if you would sit down, I will answer your questions.

  She obeyed, still stunned somewhat by the abrupt skewing of events, eyes fixed upon the small talisman.

  She’s going to figure out the wound has healed eventually.

  Let her. She cannot harm you when you wield me.

  Wield you? Okay, slow down. Let's back up. Does she know you can talk?

  No, she has determined me to be a mere trinket.

  So… what are you, anyway? Makoto replied with a smirk.

  Yes. Are you familiar with Rune Weapons?

  Makoto's confidence drew to a sharp halt. The very idea of owning one had simultaneously shocked and interested her. To be trapped within a weapon, sealed for all eternity… The very concept horrified her.

  I chose this, Ellison replied, meeting Makoto's response quickly. This is a justice existence for one such as I.

  Um, I don’t know what to say, Makoto offered.

  Then say nothing. We must be expedient, you have much to learn.

  Why should I trust you?

  None. Tuck me away and submit as you might to this master.

  Master? The hell she is!

  Then you accept.

  Damn straight. Fat chance I let this coal-skinned bitch get the upper hand again. Okay, so what was that you said about wielding you? You some kind of shapeshifter?

  Of sorts. Tell me of yourself.

  So she did. Ellison listened intently, reassuring her by providing emotional and telepathic feedback to allay her doubts.

  Yeah, so… I owe the order my life. Uh… Forget magic if you want me to do that. Sorry. I just never could get my head around it, Makoto stated apologetically. I know its real, and I've seen it, but… nothin' doin'.

  All I can do will not require your… skills… merely your trust.

  At least that's not a tough decision. I like you turn into a super tough blade. Should be useful. I guess maybe a little practised be a good idea?

  “makoto!” called harshly a venom-filled voice. A sharp spike of agony erupted from her neck to take her body in full, causing her to shudder and utter out a
rending scream. The crystal fell into her palm where it was clenched so tightly that blood ran from where her nails penetrated the skin. A pair of slender hands took her by the feet and jerked her to the floor, forcing the air from her lungs. She cried out in protest, delivering what seemed to be a well placed kick, leaving an invisible mark in the air beside her assailant.

  Ellison! Help me!

  Makoto, you have merely to release me… I will assist you!

  “So makoto, tell me now,” she jammed her fist into her gut. She felt a prick befitting that of a knife. “Do you wish to refuse me still?”

  Makoto tasted blood, and heard a ringing in her ears. Reality still held the tangible sense of agony which had been so sharply forced through her. Marlanda smelled remotely of an earth-drug she could only relate to a smoked narcotic, and also of something akin to alcohol.

  Makoto swore heavily. “Let me go, or die!”

  “Foolish, foolish fighting child,” Marlanda sneered, drawing the blade across her stomach, eliciting a cry of pain from Makoto. “You will regret this day, my love. It is simple. You will be punished for this.”

  Makoto flinched, expecting another searing wound to appear, but none did. “Come!” bid her voice angrily. Makoto simply refused to comply, offering only resistance. 'The Mistress' returned, and snarled: “Have it your way then, foolish girl.” A flesh-toned blunt weapon collided with her skull, dropping the curtain on her consciousness.

  @~%~~~

  To be awoken by a kiss would be a thought for want in Rune's mind could she think beyond the brilliant presence of agony. Her mouth distorted by a dead scream jammed in her throat, she curled up reflexively, scrambling into the corner of walls, away from the source of pain.

  “Get up!” was the command, harsh among the failing patience of the madwoman. The broad shouldered creature drew her would-be slave to her feet, and paused not long enough to strike her. Whether by drunkenness or sheer luck, Marlanda missed. Rune's eyes snapped wide in sheer amazement and uninhibited relief. Chalin, eyes narrowed from the still open door, gazed on, hatred shuddering inside him at a violent boil.

  “The nerve of you to dodge me!” the banshee declared with a faint hiss. The second motion was double that of the first, in power, and speed, throwing Rune to the floor.

  Firesky eyes and death reflected upon her unpleasant face, and Marlanda raised her fists to sever her mortal thread and Phate.

  “No!!” his voice matched every protective will borne within him by the introduction of this young woman to his life. It was those passions which caused his fist to deliver the body of the dominating creature to the wall behind Rune with force enough to shatter her skull. Rune flinched and scattered from the spray of blood which fled from the body of the former Master as it sank to the otherwise unmarred floor.

  “Chalin!” Rune cried in horror and disbelief, overwhelmed by the implications of his action. Gazing upon him, for a moment she saw the man he must have been, his face flushed with fury, his body taut in the heat of murder. His grisly, though romantic, visage burned itself into her mind before the man of lost self began to return from the journey of her salvation.

  Running towards him, her eyes spoke volumes where words faltered. Accepting her to his finely muscled arms and chest, he said: “I love you… I couldn't let her…”

  She uttered a gentle hushing sound, eyes closed, savouring the moment of intimacy, unsure of when she would next be so close to him. They had to flee, but she balked at the thought of losing him should they part. His voice was gentle, though passioned: “Rune, we have to…”

  Her reply was a nod, for she could summon forth not one word to penetrate the fog of emotion which had ensnared her heart. The Phated and fearful action dawned, Chalin stepped back, leading her by hand to his destination.

  “Chalin! Aren't we leaving?” she asked, nonplussed by his pause aside a door similar to her own.

  He shook his head, gaze not quite meeting hers, as his weakness in personality bid. “Sharla and Makoto are here. I was helping Makoto. I must free her as well.”

  The hard scrutiny of the young woman failed to catch his notice, unlocking the door, and stepping inside as it opened.

  “Chalin?” asked a voice, infinitely genteel. In Makoto's arms was a woman struck by the repressed fears of a child, and trembling with all their intensity.

  Rune approached her, eyes sharp and gauging. “What's wrong with her?”

  The long haired brunette held in her eyes the learned patience of age, and merely said: “It's a long story. Sharla…”

  The pinkish blond untangled herself slowly from her, seeming barely able to stand.

  “Yes…?”

  “Stand up. You're free.” Makoto stood also, expectant glance given easily to Rune, who nodded.

  Makoto turned to Chalin, obviously the leader, as the eldest slave and most able to determine their route to liberty. In silence, Chalin guided them quickly through hall and corridor to what appeared to be a launching pad of sorts. Voices of authority joined his indication towards the vessel of choice. Weaponless all save Rune and Makoto, who wielded her newfound Rune Blade, they fled towards the vehicle in question.

  Sharla, however, stumbled on her robe, succumbing to fatigue, unprepared for the haste with which they sought respite from the moral horrors experienced.

  “Sharla!” Makoto cried, eyes fallen to the alluring woman, hating herself for lack of foresight. “Rune! Cover me! I'll get her!”

  While Makoto retreated to the sight of blunder, a squad of ten armed troopers trodded up to her, taking her in arm, and stopped. In mid-motion, partially closed grasp, a punch given but yet to land. Unerringly obvious and dubiously impossible. Makoto's senses betrayed every accepted logic in her mind. Sound had ceased, aside from the thundering of blood in her ears, the heavy drawl of air through her lungs, throat and mouth, and every visible object within reach, which had halted completely in motion.

  “Nice, isn't it?”

  Makoto's heart resumed the ponderous ka-thud inside the cage of ribs which contained the air she abruptly gave freedom. A step brought her to the voice. As the realization of the speaker's identity sank in, the color drained easily from the already pale subtle curves of her face.

  “How did you…” She knew as the words rose that the answer was insignificant. “You've been watching me.”

  “Yes my dear, that is very true. You have been most entertaining.” The once heavily swathed ancient smiled inside the facade of tooth and hand to replace the latter of claw.

  Yes, Ellison affirmed. He is like me many tens of centuries past.

  “What do you want?” she began, her mind seeking the words which would please him as much as assist her.

  “You. You interest me. Few women have done that in the last centuries I have lived.” He paced up to her, examining the hardness of her jaw as softness of her curves. “I always select the strong…”

  “Like Marlanda? To toy with?” Makoto growled, unable to restrain herself.

  A firm and sinewy hand parted the silver threads of hair formed like a tangle of disorganized webs atop the sun beaten crown of balding skull.

  “No, Makoto. I fought once like you do now. That was the ailed marriage of which I spoke. I stopped fighting for myself.” His eyes of a crow's detailing held her. “I no longer have that passion. Nor the need.” Makoto said nothing, expecting only an answer. “Ah! Youth! To have such a delightfully narrow view of life! I would cherish it, my dear, for it is innocence, and regretfully, it is a creature born only to die. Like us.”

  Her hard eyes softened, if only to glaze at the point given. “Why bother then? You said you don't care anymore.”

  A gleam was fostered in his heart and displayed in his glossy silver eyes. “I don't, not about me, at least. You, and the others, your feral sexuality keeps my interest.”

  Baka hentai, Makoto remarked internally, a sour frown on her face which the ancient either failed to notice, or enjoyed.

  Ellison unear
thed a logic suited for both parties: He will not risk your death. And as it seems he has the power to bring you here… why not return you to where you will be safest?

  But what about my friends? she replied. I don't want to go back to my home! Not now.

  Where then? Back to the place of your exile? As you will, young warrior. It is not my choice, ultimately.

  “Can you send me back?”

  He shook his head firmly. “Not now. There is another who would have your time. Moreover, a quad searches for you. One is your friend, the other your husband.” A smile lit his face. “It was a keen move to marry him as you have.”

  “Han! Oh hell…” she gasped, eyes wide. “…and who else?”

  “Mamoru, and a woman you will come to know as Aaran Yyone. She is an apprentice mage and Hormone Juicer of some ten years.”

  “Mamoru…” she murmured distantly, then “A Juicer?!”

  A wry grin appeared on the ancient. “Why yes!” he chimed delightedly. “Is that a problem?”

  Beyond her primed prejudice, she had to wonder favour a Juicer might possibly owe her? Though, there was no telling what Hanlan actually knew, exactly. He had never denied having friends that were Juicers. “No… No it isn't.”

  “Good luck then, my lovely child,” he stated with a mind numbing gesture of hand.

  When her vision returned, she was beset by a landscape of unimaginable and delightful beauty. Air-brushed jade plains stretched out beyond sight and caring, trees of oil-painted appearance wafted gently at the limiting dome of the turquoise sky-ceiling. With a gasp, she realized the she was not on Earth.

  “Makoto,” a voice from behind her demanded softly.

  She turned to face a woman no taller than she, yet impossibly attractive, making Sharla (for the well formed beauty she was) seem homely and nearly asexual. Her waist length slightly wavy hair churned easily in the wind. Her body seemed almost bound in the body suit of deep blue, and the light long coat of a tamer shade to match the former item. Emerald eyes of inconceivable experience grasped hers, telling Makoto that she was expected.

  “Come,” she stated curtly, turning to proceed towards a quaint cabin of small stature.

  “What…? Who are you?”

  “I am Phate,” were the words. Makoto felt her ears were deceiving her. For she did not pause in her step, so was it not possible that she had misheard it?

  No, young one. You haven't. Follow her.

  Ellison…!

  Just do it. Trust me.

  Okay…

  Chapter 9

  Akin to Fire