Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Once again Shailaja had
escaped captivity, and this time slavery, by the narrowest of
margins. She now realized that
even though she was a trained warrior, and more than a match for most men,
the fact that she was a woman had serious
disadvantages. But there seemed
to be no solution to the problem unless she could find a society where women
were accorded the same status as men, and she knew of only
one. Unfortunately it was her
homeland and she dared not go back there.
And so she continued her journey.
She went south and east through Tungay, travelling from town to
town. She had no particular
destination, but rode as the mood took her, sometimes staying a day or two
in one place and then moving on.
Her journey took her through
the coastal mountains of Tungay, a wild and rugged land, great in beauty
and with more than enough game to sustain
her. She kept away from towns,
deciding to save her coin, in spite of the fact that she now possessed a
small hoard of silver, and lived off the country, hunting and fishing, and
gathering edible plants. She
had no trouble continuing in this
fashion. Kaltarans were a people
close to nature and she had been shown the arts of the woodlands from when
she was old enough to walk. It
was this ability to survive in places where others might perish that added
to the reputations of Kaltarans as warriors.
Shailaja continued in this
way for more than two moons until she struck south, and leaving the mountains
came to a vast plain. It was
more flat land than she had imagined could ever
exist. It stretched before her
as far as she could see. Dotted
with farms and small towns, it was a rich country, and well guarded by a
series of strongholds the rulers of Tungay
controlled. It kept the country
safe enough and she rode through the peaceful land, without
incident. Here she could not
hunt as all of the land belonged to someone, even the
forests. She found this a very
strange thing, but had no wish to fall afoul of the local
authorities. Her appearance attracted
enough attention as it was and so she pushed south and then east, finally
reaching the largest river she had ever seen.
This, she was told by a
boatman who made his living taking people and cargo to the other side, was
the Sugond, and as far as he knew it was the largest river in
Vedra. He may well have been
right as Shailaja never saw another to equal
it. She was also told that on
the other side of the river was another land; one called
Arkana. She had heard of it,
but could remember little about it.
However, it seemed as good a place to be as any and so she spent a
few coins and crossed to the other side.
A few days after making
the crossing Shailaja saw her first burning
city. It was a sight she never
forgot and it disturbed her greatly and left her wondering what the people
of that place had done to deserve such a
fate. Sadly, Arkana was a land
that was much fought over, consisting of a number of cities each with its
own petty ruler. The land was
fractured by war as each city tried to seize what the others had, but most
were so evenly matched that the wars amounted to nought and so Arkana was
rent by periods of strife followed by short intervals of rest while the cities
rearmed and prepared to go to war with one another all over
again.
Occasionally, as on the
day she discovered the burning city, one city overwhelmed another and took
vicious pride in ravishing its
population. It was a situation
perfect for the bands of mercenaries that roamed the land, taking side with
whatever city paid them the most or was most likely to be
victorious. It was one of these
bands that Shailaja with fell in with.
It was rather hard not to, as pushed toward the city by youthful
curiosity, she almost rode right into their camp.
She should have been more
aware of where she was riding, but her eyes were on the columns of smoke
rising from the plundered city and she did not take as much note of her
surroundings as she should have.
She rode past a thick grove of trees, passing within an arrow shot
of the mercenary camp and still did not realize it was there until a number
of riders suddenly emerged from the trees and charged toward
her. There was no place to hide
and she had been riding all day and as a consequence her horse was in no
condition to outrun the men that now galloped toward her, and so she turned
in their direction, drew her sword and waited to see what would
transpire.
Shailaja knew that a woman
who falls prey to mercenaries usually has a very hard time of
it. She already had some experience
of just how cruel men could be to those they considered weaker than themselves,
but she sat in perfect calm, her sword held across the withers of her horse
as the dozen or so men rode up and surrounded her.
“What do we have
here?” one of them asked.
“A giant woman and about as nice a piece of female flesh as I
have laid eyes on. What is your
name girl and what do you do here?”
The man spoke in the common
tongue of Vedra; a language so old that no one knew who first spoke it, if
anyone ever did. It was a language
every Kaltaran learned as a child, not just to speak to visitors such as
Cleron, but in order that they might communicate with traders and those seeking
to hire mercenaries. He was tall
by the standards of the midlands, although in Kaltara he would have seemed
a puny runt, but he spoke with authority and Shailaja guessed that this man
must be the War Chief of this band.
He appeared to be of middle years, perhaps double her age, and was
of fair complexion with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed
beard. He was dressed in leather
studded with metal and carried two blades, one on either side of his waist,
as well as a dagger. Shailaja
judged that if he could actually wield two blades in combat he would be a
dangerous adversary and so she answered him respectfully, having no reason
not to.
“I am Shailaja, warrior
of the Kaltara, and I am travelling south for purposes of my
own. I intend you no harm if
you intend none to me.”
The War Chief
laughed. “You hear
that? She intends us no
harm. A bold statement if I ever
heard one. Perhaps we should
show her how women are usually welcomed into the
camp.”
Shailaja took his words
as the threat as they were no doubt intended to be; especially as they were
greeted by laughter from the other men, but she said nothing, giving nothing
more away about herself, and sat waiting to see if his words were more than
just wind or whether he would back them up with some sort of action.
She
had deliberately not given him her full name and titles on the very remote
chance that he might have heard of her escape and seek to return her to her
homeland and to the punishment ordained by the Hasta.
“You are a quiet
one,” the War Chief remarked.
He seemed puzzled by her apparent lack of fear when confronted by
so many armed men. “But
there are ways in which you could be made to make some very pleasant
noises.”
Shailaja had no doubt of
his meaning, but she was not about to be intimidated by a man she topped
by a full head. “You will
find that the only noises I make will be the sound of my battle cry as my
sword takes off your head and that of anyone who dares to touch
me.”
By now she was almost completely
surrounded by the men who had ridden out to meet
her. Had it come to a fight she
would have been at a serious disadvantage, but she remained calm, knowing
that nothing could be gained by showing fear, while at the same time measuring
how many men she could take out in the first few heartbeats of
battle.
“She
is
a bold one,” the War Chief chuckled.
“I think I like
her.”
Shailaja later learned that
the leader of the mercenaries was impressed both by her obvious physical
presence and by the serene manner in which she confronted her potential
attackers. He was also much taken
by her beauty. The word Kaltara
also had meaning to him and he proposed to determine just how much of a warrior
she was.
“I am Den Zhidar,”
he said bowing slightly from the saddle, “Captain of the
Ravens. I would be pleased to
have you as a guest at my camp.”
His message was clear, no
matter how polite his words.
Shailaja was to accompany him and his men back to their
camp. It would probably not have
been her first choice, but she was tired of living alone and the camp of
the Ravens seemed like as good a place as any.
Still surrounded by
Zhidar’s men, Shailaja sheathed her sword and followed her escort toward
the trees and in short order found herself riding into a well ordered
camp. Whatever these men were
they maintained some sense of discipline.
A quick glance around the camp showed her that it was occupied not
just by men, but by women as well.
However, for the most part few of the women resembled the warriors
she would have expected to see in a camp in
Kaltara. Most of them she supposed
were the wives of the soldiers although she was to learn later that with
the exception of a few that was not the
case. What should have given
her a clue, but did not was the complete absence of
children. However, she was new
to this land and their customs unknown and so she overlooked the
obvious.
As Shailaja rode into the
camp most of the men in the camp looked upon her with undisguised interest,
some of it written more plainly on the faces than
others. Even the women watched
her closely; some with curiosity and a few others with expressions of
hostility. This she did not
understand until later. But there
was one man who watched her more closely than the others.
Den Zhidar let his horse
drop back slightly as he escorted the tall redhead into the
camp. He had to admit that he
found her fascinating; and for more than the simple fact that she was the
most striking woman he had ever seen.
She was surrounded by dozens of armed men and not a few armed women;
all of whom were involved in one of the most brutal of trades, and yet she
rode into the camp as if she was the guest at a garden
party. Either she was without
fear or she was so innocent as to be completely stupid.
The fact that she claimed
to be Kaltaran also intrigued him.
He had encountered Kaltaran warriors on the battlefield and knew them
to be formidable opponents. But
he had never met one of their women
before. If she was what she claimed
to be then she would be a worthy addition to his
band. If she was not – well,
she would be useful in other ways.
Den’s musings were
interrupted as one of the men in the camp stepped forward and stopped just
short of the Kaltaran’s horse.
Gorvag,
he thought.
It would be Gorvag.
Well, who better to test her
against?
“Is this what you’ve
found, Den?” Gorvag asked.
“I’d say she’s a welcome
addition. Who gets her
first?”
Zhidar
laughed. “You are mistaken,
Gorvag. This is Shailaja, a warrior
of the Kaltara. I hope to persuade
her to join us.”
“Kaltaran?” Gorvag
responded. He spat at the feet
of the redhead’s horse.
“Kaltarans are a myth.
You don’t mean to tell me you think this girl is
one?”
“Perhaps you would
like to test her?” Zhidar grinned.
“Then we will know for sure if she is what she
claims.” He watched
Gorvag’s reaction. The man
was a violent bully, but like most Belusendran warriors very good in a
fight. It would be interesting
to see if he took up the challenge.
“Warriors don’t
fight women,” Gorvag sneered.
“We put them on their backs and use them the way they were intended
to be used.”
Before Zhidar could answer,
Shailaja spoke. “Perhaps
this warrior is afraid to face me.”
Zhidar had to steel himself
to stifle a smile. The girl had
used the word “warrior” as if she were speaking of excrement and
it got the reaction she wanted.
“I fear no one,”
Gorvag bristled. “Especially
not some redheaded girl who prances about with a
sword. I’ll test
you. And then when I’m through
with you I’ll fuck your ass until you can’t
walk.”
Zhidar jumped in quickly
before the girl could respond.
“Agreed,” he replied and then turned to the tall
redhead. “Do you understand,
girl? You are to be tested to
see if you are truly are a warrior of the
Kaltara. If you are then we will
welcome you among us.” He
did not say what would happen if the girl lost, but Gorvag’s outburst
had already made that abundantly clear.
“I understand,”
Shailaja answered, “and I accept your
test.” She was fuming at
being spoken of by Zhidar and Gorvag as if she was a lamb being prepared
for sacrifice. She was a Kaltaran
warrior and worthy of a bit more respect.
She had taken an instant dislike to
Gorvag. He was a large hulking
brute, almost as tall as she was and he reminded her very much of
Cleron. She was also not particularly
happy with Zhidar’s manner.
The man seemed a bit too full of himself for someone who was nothing
but the leader of a band of ruffians.
However, she would deal with him later if
necessary. She must first take
care of the hulking fool who had threatened to rape her.
She felt not the slightest
hint of fear in spite of the implications of losing to a man like
Gorvag. Being used against her
will by the brutish ruffian was not nearly as frightening as the loss of
honour at suffering defeat at his hands.
“Let
us begin,” Zhidar intoned. He
motioned to an open area in the centre of the
camp. It was a well-trodden piece
of ground marked out with small, rather tattered flags into the shape of
a circle about ten paces across.
Shailaja dismounted and
followed him, allowing one of the other men to take the reins of her horse.
She disliked the idea of the
horse being out of her care, but reckoned that if she lost to Gorvag it probably
would not matter. There was little
doubt about what would happen if she was
defeated. Losing her horse would
be the least of her losses.
“This is where we settle
our disputes,” Den explained nodding toward the
circle. “The rules are
simple. You fight in the ring
until one of you is defeated or
surrenders. Anyone who leaves
the circle is considered to have lost and will pay the
forfeit.”
Shailaja wondered what forfeit
she could demand if Gorvag fled the circle, but did not
ask. Instead she stepped into
the circle and unsheathed her sword.
“Oh wait,” Den
holding up his hand. “Not
real swords. You use
these.” He held out a wooden
practice sword.
“It is not a fight
to the death then?” Shailaja asked, taking the sword from his
hand. It was finely worked ash
and very similar in shape to the practice swords used in
Kaltara.
“Stupid barbarian,”
Gorvag jeered. “Maybe you
really are from the frozen wastes.
Of course I don’t want you
dead. I want you warm and moving
under me when I take you. Once
I’ve given you a sound beating first, of
course.”
Shailaja was becoming very
tired of Gorvag’s insults. The
man was clearly a bully used to pushing around those smaller and weaker than
he was. She decided that he needed
a lesson and she was going to give it to
him. It also told her something
about Den Zhidar. The man must
be very good with those two swords if he was the leader and not
Gorvag. It was something she
would keep in mind if she decided to stay with the mercenary
band.
“Then let us begin,”
Shailaja said, sheathing her blade and taking up the wooden practice
sword.
Gorvag grinned and stepped
into the ring, his own practice sword at the
ready. “I won’t hurt
you too bad, girl. I’ll
just give you a few bruises to teach you a
lesson. What’s really going
to be sore is another part of your body.”
“I thank you for
that,” Shailaja replied, ignoring the vile threat against her
person. “I have no desire
to be hurt.”
Her response brought a few
chuckles from the circle of men and women who had come to watch the
contest. Everyone in the camp
was there and just before Gorvag launched his attack she caught sight of
Zhidar. The Raven captain was
watching her, arms folded, with an expression on his face that she could
not quite fathom.
Gorvag
attacked. He was not unskilled,
but as Shailaja had guessed he relied more on his great strength than on
finesse. His technique was to
beat down his opponent’s guard and then drive through the forced
opening.
Shailaja did not give him
that opening; instead she stepped back and let him strike empty
air. She swung the ash
blade carefully, assessing its weight and
balance. It was not as finely
balanced as the practice swords she was used to, but it would
do.
Gorvag did not
stop. Mistaking her evasive tactic
as fear he charged forward, mindful of the fact that he did not actually
have to strike her to win, just drive her out of the
ring. It was clearly an insult
to her fighting skills and Shailaja felt her anger
rising. It was an emotion she
instantly suppressed. Her bad
temper had gotten her into trouble before, causing her to blunder into situations
best avoided. Again and again
her arms instructors had warmed her against letting her emotions get the
better of her and it took a great number of bruises before she heeded
them. So she let Gorvag come
forward, deflecting his attacks with ease until finally he cursed in anger
and frustration.
“Solvat’s tits,”
he raged, using the name of the war goddess shared by several of the peoples
of central Vedra. “Stand
and fight, girl.”
He stood panting while Shailaja
danced to one side, avoiding still another wild
swing. She knew that it could
be fatal in combat to become overconfident, especially against a canny opponent
who might be attempting to draw her into a rash act, but she could see she
had little to fear from a musk ox like
Gorvag. She decided to put him
out of his misery.
She stepped forward, tempting
him to attack, and when he went for the bait, brought her sword down hard
against his forearm in a numbing blow.
Had they been engaged in actual combat his hand and part of his arm
would have been laying on the ground, as it was all he lost was his sword
and a considerable amount of pride.
“The chit didn’t
fight,” Gorvag roared, his face red.
“She didn’t stand still.
All she did was dance around.
She wouldn’t last a hundred heartbeats on the
battlefield.”
Zhidar opened his mouth
to reply, but Shailaja’s temper beat him to
it. “I will fight with steel
if you choose,” she growled, tossing the wooden sword at Gorvag’s
feet.
“You hear that,
Gorvag?” Zhidar added.
“The chit challenges you to a real
fight. Will you
accept?’
His face fire red in anger,
Gorvag stepped back, trapped by his own
words. “My arm,” he
stammered. “I need to see
a healer. I’ll fight her
another day.”
“I’ll fight
left-handed,” Shailaja stated.
“I’m sure there is nothing wrong with your left
arm.”
“Left-handed,”
Gorvag spluttered. “Who
fights left handed? It isn’t
natural.”
“Perhaps you should
learn. It might save your
life,” Zhidar said coldly.
Then he turned back to Shailaja.
“Well, girl. You
have proven yourself. Welcome
to the Ravens.”
Still angry, Gorvag turned
away, but only a half-turn. Without
warning he swung back, striking at Shailaja’s head with his left
hand. Had she been less alert,
she would have taken a heavy blow.
But she ducked beneath the punch and let his momentum carry him around,
and then drove her fist into his lower
ribs. There was a satisfying
crunch and a loud cry from Gorvag.
It told her that he had at least one cracked rib, but she was not
quite finished. As he staggered
back she continued with a backhand blow that had all her weight behind
it. It slammed into his nose
and actually lifted him from his feet, stretching him out full
length.
Gorvag lay there for a few
seconds, before struggling to a sitting
position. Blood streamed down
his face from his shattered nose and he clutched it in both hands.
“Bloody bitch broke
my nose,” he cried, his words muffled both by the damage and his hands.
“And so you deserved
for so cowardly an attack,” Shailaja
answered. “No true warrior
would attack another from behind.”
“No indeed,” Zhidar
said, his face unsmiling.
“There will be no more of this,
Gorvag. If you wish to face Shailaja
sword to sword I will allow it, but there will be no more attacks from
behind. Now go to Selvan and
have him attend to your injuries.”
Shailaja later learned that
Selvan was the mercenary band’s healer, and a man who was most
talented. In the meantime she
went with Zhidar as he escorted her about the camp, introducing her to those
she should know in order to fit into the band.
She found to her surprise that
he rarely used his full name; being addressed by all who knew him as simply
“Den,” a familiarity that Shailaja quickly
adopted.
And so Shailaja joined
Den’s band of mercenaries. For
the next three years she fought her way with them across all of Arkana, sometime
on one side and sometimes on another.
Den proved to be more of a man than she had thought at first appearance,
a fact that taught Shailaja a valuable
lesson. Although small in size
compared to a Kaltaran male, he was brilliant on the battlefield, his two-handed
technique making him one of the deadliest fighters she had ever
seen. He was also a superb organizer
and negotiator. No matter how
many times the Ravens changed sides he always managed to negotiate a more
than satisfactory contract, one that gave every man or in her case woman,
a fair share of the profits. Not
only that, he was skilled in keeping the peace among his mercenary band,
no mean feat considering that many of those that joined the Ravens were little
more than armed rabble. It took
considerable skill to mould such individuals into anything even approaching
a warrior.
He also became her teacher
in the arts of combat, showing her the two handed technique he had
mastered. But more importantly
he tutored her in one more much more intimate
art.
For her first two years
with the Ravens Shailaja denied herself any physical relief, in spite of
the fact that she was surrounded by dozens of virile young
men. She became known to her
companions as the “Ice Maiden” due to her aloof nature, but it
was not because she was not interested in any of her
companions. Many times she was
tempted to share a bedroll with one or another of her comrades-in-arms, but
each time a vision of just one danced before her eyes and she waited until
another time.
At first Shailaja thought
that Den’s appeal was due to the qualities of his leadership; or perhaps
to the techniques of swordsmanship and somewhat less refined skills of combat
that he taught her, but as she associated more and more with him she finally
realized that it was much more than mere admiration of his warlike
qualities. It was
infatuation. She had fallen in
love with a man almost twice her age.
Shailaja must have been
the last to know it. The other
members of the Ravens had been running a lottery on how long it would be
before the Ice Maiden thawed, and Zhidar showed not the least surprise when
after several hours of heavy drinking she invited herself to his
bed.
Drink had never affected
Shailaja that way before. No
matter how long the celebration or how many quarts of strong ale she consumed
she was always able to find her own bedroll, but this time she did
not.
As chance had it the Ravens
had just captured an enemy town.
Den, as the Captain, had commandeered the bedroom of the mayor’s
palace for his own use and was planning on spending a pleasant few hours
with a few of the town whores, women who always seemed to win no matter what
side won the battle. Shailaja
had been drinking rather heavily, celebrating the fact that she had killed
a half score of the enemy in the battle.
Still bloody from combat, and stinking of sweat, she somehow found
her way to his room and blundered in.
It was interesting that no one tried to stop her and even finding
the object of her affection somewhat busy did not in any way deter
her. “Out,” she ordered,
drawing her sword on the startled whores.
There was no record of what
the astonished ladies-of-the-night
imagined. Perhaps they thought
that she was Den’s angry paramour.
Whatever, they thought they scattered quickly before her naked blade
as she staggered toward Den’s bed.
Den for his part took the
interruption very well. Much
better than Shailaja had a right to
expect. After all, she had given
him not the slightest hint of her feelings toward him, partly due to the
fact that she was unaware of them
herself. But when she fell into
his bed professing her undying love and demanding that he have his way with
her, her meaning could not have been
clearer.
Rather good naturedly under
the circumstances, Den first removed the sword from her hand and then suggested
that a bath to remove the sweat and blood of battle might be in order before
he proceeded to make passionate love to her.
Even to Shailaja’s
drink-addled brain it seemed a quite reasonable request and he helped her
undress while calling for water to fill the
tub. Although most of the reputable
townspeople had fled when the town was taken there were more than enough
willing hands among the members of the Ravens he had placed on guard to carry
the necessary water and although there had been no time to heat it Shailaja
was treated to a thorough scrubbing, even Gorvag taking special delight in
wielding a brush, so that her skin was bright red by the time they were
finished. Then Den himself helped
her to the bed where she fell almost instantly asleep.
Shailaja awoke sometime
in the middle of the morning in a quite different frame of
mind. Her head felt as if it
was being used as a blacksmith’s anvil and the inside of her mouth felt
as if it had been filled with lye.
Her gut twisted at the slightest movement and she barely made it to
the commode before she brought up a considerable amount of what she had eaten
the night before. It was her
good fortune that the mayor’s bedroom had a private room for bodily
functions or she would have spoiled his very fine
carpets. After that her stomach
felt somewhat better, but the headache seemed even
worse.
However, her physical discomfort
was as nothing compared to her mortification as the scattered memories of
her night of celebration began to
reassemble. Had she really chased
a trio of whores from her Captain’s bedroom at sword
point? Had she demanded that
he hurl her onto the bed and take her like a captive
princess? And had he helped her
to the bed, combed out her hair, and left her to sleep off her drunken
spree?
None of these things seemed
possible except for a few incontrovertible
facts. First, she was trying
to rid herself of the most savage and enduring hangover she had ever
experienced. Second, her sword,
dagger, and other weapons were gone; and she never went anywhere without
them. Third, she was stark naked
in the Captain’s bed and her last waking memory was of Den tucking the
covers around her.
“What a mess,”
Shailaja moaned. She sat on the
edge of the bed trying to put her head back together.
At that moment the door
opened and Den stepped into the room.
He was carrying a clay bottle and a tray of what smelled disgustingly
like food.
Shailaja was so chagrined
she hardly knew what to say, but she knew what she did not
want. “No more of that,”
she groaned. “I’ve
had enough ale to last me a moon.”
“It’s not ale,”
Den replied setting the tray down on a table next to the bed.
Shailaja hastily pulled
the covers about her, an action that did not go unnoticed and which was quite
out of character considering her normal casual behaviour when it came to
nudity. “You didn’t
seem to mind letting me see a good deal more of you than that last night,”
Den observed.
Shailaja did not reply,
being far too mortified to do more than huddle in the sheets and hope that
he would go away.
“Here,” he said,
popping the cork off the bottle and filling a small cup full of foul-smelling
brown liquid. “Drink
this. I know it helps
me.”
Shailaja could hardly refuse
after the way she had acted, and so she obediently raised the cup and downed
the foul mixture. Its taste very
much resembled what she imagined the bottom of a latrine would be like, but
she managed to keep it down, and to her amazement she actually felt
better.
“Very good,” Den
smiled, refilling the cup.
“Now again.”
Once more Shailaja braved
the vile taste of whatever was in the cup and then Den took the cup from
her. “Excellent,” he
grinned. “We’ll let
that sit awhile. Once you feel
better try to get some food into your stomach.”
He got up and left the room,
leaving her to look at what else was on the
tray. It turned out to be a bowl
of hot porridge topped with honey.
To her very great surprise she actually felt
hungry. Whatever potion Den had
fed her had worked beyond anything she had
expected. She ate the entire
bowl and then licked the spoon clean.
Almost on cue Den
returned. He closed the door
behind him and set the bar in place.
“I should have done that last night,” he
explained. “Then I would
not have been disturbed.”
Shailaja looked at him in
confusion.
“What…’” she began.
He crossed the room in three
strides and stood over her.
“Sometimes my fair Kaltaran, it is best to say nothing at
all.”
While Shailaja watched in
amazement he pulled off his boots, unbuckled his belt, and then quickly removed
his shirt and trousers. As he
slipped in beside her he smiled widely.
“I have left word that I am not to be
disturbed. Even if the most beautiful
woman in all of Vedra comes seeking me.”
Before Shailaja could think
of a foolish answer he pushed her onto her back, lowered himself onto her
and touched his lips to hers. She
offered no resistance and within a short time was panting with
desire. Although Shailaja had
taken no man since Narahan, at least voluntarily, she was not exactly a blushing
maiden, but neither was she especially experienced in the ways of a
man. Fortunately, Den was most
experienced in the ways of a woman and soon had her in a state of arousal
that rivalled anything she had known
before. When his tongue and lips
found her petals and nibbled and sucked at the sensitive bud that lay concealed
there, she begged him to take her, a request that he soon
fulfilled.
Den was nowhere near as
large as Narahan, but it helped that Shailaja had abstained from physical
use for two years and the fact that he was most skilled as a
lover. He did things with his
member that no other man had been able to emulate and soon had her crying
out in unrestrained passion. His
stamina was also quite remarkable.
It took him at least two turns of the glass before he released into
her for the first time and only a single turn before he was ready to go
again.
However, during the interval
he revealed to her that he was well aware of the fact that a woman can be
entertained by lips, tongue, and hands
alone. He kept her in such a
heightened state of arousal that she hardly realized he was no longer in
a state of readiness, and by the time he was, she was more than ready for
him. And then he discovered her
secret.
It happened quite by
accident. They were locked together
in the way familiar to all men and women.
As Shailaja convulsed in uncontrolled passion her nails ripped at
his back leaving eight bloody tracks across his
ribs. Den gasped in pain and
seized both her wrists, and reaching across the bed grabbed his
dagger. He used it to cut the
bell pull normally used to summon one of the servants, and with a couple
of quick turns bound her wrists and secured them to the headboard of the
bed. The action had not the slightest
affect on her state of arousal; instead it actually increased it, causing
her to moan in anticipation of what he might do next.
Recognizing her reaction for
what it was, Den decided to take his own special form of
vengeance.
“You will,” he
growled in mock anger, “pay for that attack.”
He rose above her, his knees
on either side of her hips, and proceeded to work his magic on her
body. She responded immediately,
hardly having cooled in the interval it took to bind
her. It took little time as his
lips, tongue, and hands moved over her body to get the reaction he
sought.
“Now,” Shailaja
moaned. “Take me
now.”
His response was a quiet
laugh. “First you must be
punished for the ravaging of my
back.” He placed himself
partially within her, enough to give him pleasure, but not quite enough for
her. As he continued to move
his hands over her breasts and touch his mouth to her throat, lips, and nipples,
she squirmed beneath him, trying to find a way to force him
deeper.
But Den would not allow
himself to used in that way; he kept himself at the gateway to Selene’s
Grotto, but refused to go any farther, much to her anguish and
fury.
“May Marana damn
you,” Shailaja gasped.
“Use me as a man should use a
woman.” She twisted at her
bonds seeking to free her hands and force him deeper within
her.
“”It would be
better if you called on Selene,” Den chuckled infuriatingly. “The
goddess of love would serve your purpose much
better.”
Shailaja groaned in frustration
as he continued to tease her, his actions driving her almost mad with
desire. “I cannot stand
this,” she whimpered.
“You must use me.”
‘I find your manner
somewhat imperious, my Ice Maiden,” Den
replied. “I would hear you
beg.”
“Beg?” Shailaja
gasped. “Beg for what gives
you pleasure? I will be damned
if I will.”
“Foolishly spoken,”
Den smiled. “You demand
I use you, but will not ask
properly.” He moved within
her slightly, creating the most wondrous sensation, but held back from giving
her true release. She tried once
again to arch into him, offering him access to the centre of her being, but
once again he pulled back, leaving her moaning in unfulfilled
passion. It continued in this
way for many more heartbeats. Den
took her to the edge of edge of release and then pulled back, leaving her
grinding her teeth in frustration, and quivering in sensual
agony. Finally she could bear
it no more. Swallowing her pride
she whimpered her request.
“Alright, I
submit. Take
me. I beg you to take
me.”
“Ask me in the name
of the goddess. Your goddess,”
Den demanded maddeningly.
“I beg you in the name
of Marana,” Shailaja cried.
“Take me now.”
Finally satisfied with her
answer Den proceeded to use her as thoroughly as she had ever been used,
not allowing her a moment’s rest for the next two turnings of the
glass. When he finally released
into her she lay depleted wanting only
sleep.
They spent a long time in
that bed, and regretted not a single heartbeat of
it. They made love perhaps as
many as a dozen times, and by the time they finished in sweaty, sweet exhaustion,
Shailaja was completely satiated and much sorer than she would have believed
possible. But it was soreness
of a sort that she would not have traded for any amount of
gold. When she and Den emerged
from the confines of that bedroom, to the applause of the men and women of
the Ravens who somehow had managed to squeeze themselves into the common
room of the mayor’s palace, Shailaja could not keep a ridiculous and
quite silly grin from her lips. Her
life had changed. She was now
the Captain’s woman.
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