Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
13: Shamed
Shailaja awoke to throbbing
pain and the familiar sound of a camp.
With her clouded vision she could make little of her surrounding,
but gradually her eyes cleared and she realized that she was lying on her
side on the floor of a tent. She
was bound, hand and foot, her wrists tied in front of her and her legs bound
at the ankles and knees. An
additional restraint had been tied about her arms just above the elbows and
passed beneath her breasts, pinning her arms to her
sides. Her armour had been removed
as well as her boots, and most of the right leg of her trousers had been
cut away. A bloodstained bandage
showed where the crossbow quarrel had pierced her thigh.
She could not tell for certain,
but from the way her head throbbed it may have been bandaged as
well. A rush of memories came
back to her and with them a crushing sense of
grief. Had she not experienced
it she would not have thought it possible to experience such
sorrow. The tears flowed, and
in the privacy of the tent she sobbed
uncontrollably. Her period of
private mourning, however, did not last
long. The tent flap was thrust
aside and a familiar figure pushed his way
inside.
“I see you’re
feeling sorry for yourself, girl,” Gorvag jeered, crouching on his
haunches. “But you’re
going to be feeling a lot more than that before I’m
through. I’ve wanted to
slip between your thighs from the first time I laid eyes on you and now I’m
going to get my wish.”
Her shame at displaying
her tears was driven from her by hatred and anger so intense that for a heartbeat
her vision darkened. “Is
that why you did it?” she raged.
“Is that why you sold your honour to the enemy and betrayed your
comrades?” She pulled at
her bonds, struggling to get free in spite of the pain it caused
her.
“Don’t flatter
yourself,” Gorvag sneered.
“You’re just the honey on the
porridge. What I’ve always
wanted is control of the Ravens and now with your lover out of the way I
have them.”
Rage and sorrow rose within
her at Gorvag’s callous reminder of his
treachery. It was clear that
he had everything worked out. No
doubt he had used his “scouting” expedition to contact the Cebarians
and set up the ambush, and probably he had arranged to betray Den through
earlier negotiations when Den was committing himself to
Uvar. She wondered how much gold
Cebar had agreed to pay Gorvag to betray his own
leader. It would almost certainly
be a payment that would be much larger than his share as a member of the
Ravens. And that share still
awaited him. All he had to do
was backtrack through the swamp, pretend that he was the last survivor of
an ambush, and then take over the leadership of the
company.
But none of that mattered
now. Den was dead and Shailaja
could barely contain her grief. All
that kept her from sobbing uncontrollably was the fact that it would have
dishonoured her in front of Gorvag.
Vengeance replaced sorrow
as her dominant emotion. Gorvag
would pay with his life for what he had done, and if she could arrange it
he would take days to die. But
in the meantime she had to find a way to
escape. Gorvag had made his plans
for her all too clear, but she knew that he would not be with her
forever. Very soon he would have
to return to the Ravens or else he would lose his chance at the
leadership.
That meant that whatever
he planned to do to her was going to happen very
quickly. It was a thought that
tied her stomach in a knot. She
was completely at his mercy and in the middle of an enemy
camp. Escape would be difficult
if not impossible, and it was very likely that Gorvag would simply have his
way with her and then cut her throat.
Unfortunately, it turned
not to be even that easy.
Gorvag’s mind was moving along lines similar to
hers. But he was not content
merely to shame her privately. He
removed the rawhide thongs from her ankles and then retied them so they acted
as a tether; and then pulling her forward, he forced her into a kneeling
position and from there pulled her to her feet.
Excruciating pain coursed
through her injured thigh, but she found that she could
stand. An instant later she found
that she could also walk, as Gorvag pulled her from the tent and into the
open.
Her arrival must have been
expected as there was a half circle of Cebarian soldiers outside the entrance
to the tent. One of them,
who judging from his better quality armour, was apparently of higher rank
than the others stepped forward.
“So, Gorvag, the barbarian bitch finally
awakens. What do you intend to
do with her?”
“Give her that which
she deserves, my lord,” Gorvag responded obsequiously, “and then
turn her over to you.”
Gorvag’s words and
manner revealed to Shailaja that she was in the presence of Cebarian royalty,
but she was not in the least intimidated.
The petty king of an Arkanian city state was of little importance
to a Kaltaran warrior.
The man who had spoken to
Gorvag looked toward her and frowned.
“She appears to be a haughty
bitch. Is it true she is
Kaltaran?”
“So she claims, my
lord,” Gorvag answered.
“She’s a barbarian sure enough, and with that hair and
colouring, she fits the description.”
Throughout all of this Shailaja
remained silent, although it galled her to be spoken of as if she was some
exotic farm animal at a trade fair.
She stood with head held high and looked straight
ahead. But her appearance was
deceiving. All the while she
looked for a way to escape, taking in the disposition of the men about her
and searching for any possible weakness.
Unfortunately she saw no
such weakness. She was in a camp
of about two hundred men judging from the number of tents, and could see
that this was indeed the camp that Den had proposed to attack at
“Does she speak?”
the Cebarian asked, stepping close to her and looking into her
face. He was a tall man and his
eyes were almost on a level with hers.
With his dark hair and eyes he was typical of the plains-dwellers
Shailaja had seen and no doubt was considered
handsome. But she found no attraction
in him, nor could have with Den’s death so
recent. He looked upon her with
eyes like winter, a manner she could well understand since she was part of
a band that had come to despoil his land.
“I speak,” Shailaja
answered. “What do you wish
me to say?”
She answered insolently,
not thinking or caring about the
consequences. She had been defeated
and captured, although not by fair means, and she was his to do with as he
wished. From the looks she drew
from his men she knew that her fate would not be a kind one, but she was
not prepared to grovel or show fear.
The Cebarian noble moved
as if to strike her and then seemed to think better of it, but his anger
at her answer was plain to see.
“She is exceedingly arrogant.
Is she always this insolent?”
“Oh yes, my lord,”
Gorvag answered. “Even more
so most times. I have longed
to teach her proper respect, but have been denied the
opportunity.”
“Do so now
then. And then leave her with
us while you return to your people.
We shall take good care of her.”
Shailaja had tested the
tough rawhide thongs that bound her wrists and there was little
give. Had her arms not been pinioned
she might have made a grab for a sword or dagger, and then she could have
died like a warrior, but she had obviously been bound to prevent such
action.
“It will be my pleasure
to give the barbarian bitch the lesson she has been waiting for since I first
met her,” Gorvag drooled. He
pulled on the thongs binding her wrists and forced her across the
campsite. Shailaja saw that
preparations had already been made for her punishment in the form of what
was called a ‘horse.’
It was a simple contrivance,
used for military punishment of a particularly painful sort, and was common
in many camps, although Den had never used one in
his. As she neared it she saw
that in actuality it was not of the sort used for punishment, but a contrivance
for sawing wood. However, in
its structure it would do almost as well.
It consisted of two sets
of poles each set fitted so that it formed an
X. The two X’s were then
joined by parallel logs fastened by means of wooden
pegs. The whole made a serviceable
sawhorse upon which to cut firewood for the camp as she could now see from
the piles of cordwood stacked nearby.
However, it also made a useful and sturdy contrivance for what Gorvag
had in mind.
Upon reaching the sawhorse
he had two men hold her arms while he untied her
ankles. Shailaja considered
struggling while she was prepared, because what was coming was quite obvious,
but decided she would have presented nothing but an image of a frightened
female rather than that of a Kaltaran
warrior. Also her head still
ached from the two blows Gorvag had dealt it and the wound in her thigh was
so excruciatingly painful that even walking almost caused her to stumble
and fall. How she had managed
to fight on it the previous day she had no idea other than the fact that
the blood rage must have dulled the pain.
Having untied her ankles
Gorvag and the other two men forced her to straddle the sawhorse so that
she was an arm’s length from the front
crosspiece. While she was held
in place by Gorvag’s two assistants he first secured her ankles by tying
each of them to the lower legs of the sawhorse behind
her. It forced her to pitch forward
slightly, putting most of her weight on the front of her crotch, a position
Shailaja found far from pleasant.
In fact, it was painful in the extreme and became more so the longer
she was tied in that position. Then
he removed the thongs binding her arms and stretched them forward so that
he could tie her wrists to the upper part of the sawhorse in front of
her.
It was a painful and exposed
position and it left her feeling incredibly vulnerable as it was almost certainly
intended to. Shailaja almost
protested this brutal treatment of a warrior, but then decided that if this
was the way that Cebarians treated their prisoners, then so be
it. It was not the way she treated
prisoners, but she had certainly seen much worse things done to helpless
enemies during the two years she had been a mercenary, although she had
participated in none of them.
She sat upon the horse,
looking neither left nor right while Gorvag went about the next part of his
preparations. With a man like
Gorvag it was never difficult to guess his intentions, so it came as no surprise
when he took out his dagger and slit the right sleeve of her shirt from wrist
to shoulder and then proceeded to do the same with her
left. It allowed him to pull
down what was left of the shirt to her waist, leaving her clad only in her
breast band. With a flick of
his knife he quickly cut through that, leaving her nude from the waist
up.
Shailaja felt the eyes of
every man in the camp upon her, but retained her
composure. It was not the exposure
of her body that discomfited her, but the knowledge that her captors were
enjoying her shaming, each man imagining what he would like to do to
her. There was a murmur of lascivious
appreciation as the upper part of her body was completely
exposed.
“She really is a
beauty,” said the Cebarian, “I hope that you do not intend to mar
her too badly. I am looking forward
to taking her off your hands.”
“For you, Prince
Bekor,” Gorvag answered, “I will have her screaming in agony but
the marks will not last. I will
give her just twenty four lashes, two for each of Selene’s
cycles.”
Shailaja resolved that
Gorvag’s promise about the screams would not come to
pass. As for the rest she had
no wish to be scarred for the simple reason that the marks of a flogging
would shame her for life, but she decided that if that was what Marana decreed
for her warrior then she would accept it.
She felt the touch of a
hand on her breasts, caressing the soft flesh and pinching her taut pink
nipples. “She’s going
to really be something to enjoy,” Gorvag leered, his face no more than
a few inches from her ear.
I’ve never felt breasts like these.”
“I will let you sample
her,” Prince Bekor laughed.
“It will give her something to look forward to
later.”
Once again Shailaja had
to endure further humiliation, but said nothing, holding herself statue still
as Gorvag fondled her. There
would be much to avenge when she finally gained her freedom and she carefully
catalogued each insult, thinking how each would be
repaid.
“Still the Ice
Maiden,” Gorvag leered, his breath hot on the back of her
neck. His tongue touched her
throat but she moved not a muscle.
She might not be able to stop him, but she would give him as little
satisfaction as possible.
Gorvag gave her breasts
one final bruising squeeze.
“Don’t worry,” he
leered. “When the time comes
I have something to warm you up.”
Had Shailaja known the exact
meaning of his words they would have filled her with fear, but not fear of
pain, but fear of utter humiliation.
However, her thoughts were focused on her present
ordeal. Already her position
atop the horse was beginning to tell.
The area between her legs ached from contact with the wooden
crosspiece. With one leg badly
injured she could not even attempt to lift herself from the painful position
without causing even greater agony, so she sat still, bent slightly forward
while Gorvag played with her breasts until finally tiring of the game, he
finished her preparation for the punishment.
He removed her belt and
then once again using his knife; he cut slit the side of her trousers from
hip to ankle and peeled them away from her
body. She was now completely
nude astride the horse and offered Gorvag a wide expanse of flesh for punishment.
He was handed a yegger
whip. Constructed of finely braided
strips of leather it was capable of turning the back of a man or women into
a bloody mess. However, to please
the prince he carefully wrapped the whip with a long ribbon of cloth to reduce
the damage it would do,
and then lifted her long
braid over her shoulder so that it would not obstruct his
blows. He seemed to delight in
the preparation, gauging her reaction, but she gave him not the least indication
of fear, staring straight ahead across the campground.
“You have courage,”
Gorvag said. “I will admit
that, but it will do you little good once the leather has been applied to
your back.” He stroked her
back, running his fingers down the ridge of her spine and then fondled her
buttocks as if outlining the target area for the flogging, and then he stepped
back and raised the whip.
Shailaja could not say that
her head was held high. In her
strained position that would have been impossible, but she fixed her eyes
on a point across the campground and waited for the first
blow.
It came sooner than she
would have liked, but first a strip of leather was pushed into her mouth
by one of the soldiers. “Bite
down on this,” he whispered.
“Try not to spit it out when you
scream.” Then the whip was
brought down with all the force of Gorvag’s arm behind
it.
Only those who have received
a flogging can truly comprehend the stunning force of such a blow and how
difficult it is not to scream in shock and
agony.
Shailaja’s back exploded
in fire and the breath was driven completely from her lungs in a harsh grunt
that all watching could easily hear.
Had it not been for the strip of leather clenched between her teeth
she almost certainly would have screamed and her reaction was followed by
a chorus of jeers and insults from the surrounding soldiers and a snicker
of satisfaction from Gorvag.
“That was the first,
barbarian. Think you can last
through twenty-three more?”
Shailaja gave him no reaction,
but it was not just because she wished to deny him the satisfaction of knowing
he had hurt her, but also because she was trying too hard to get back her
breath and hold down the sob that sought to escape her
lips. Somehow she managed not
to scream and endured the next blow with equal stoicism as well with the
next one and the one after that.
But each successive blow piled pain on top of the
other. By the sixth stroke if
Shailaja not been tethered to the horse she would have fallen, and at the
seventh a strangled cry forced its way from her throat and past her lips
and black spots danced before her eyes.
Marana
give your daughter strength,
she
prayed. She clutched at the
crosspiece of the sawhorse, digging her nails into the wood in a desperate
attempt to distract herself from the pain.
Perhaps Marana did answer
her, because for a short while the pain seemed to ease, or perhaps she was
given the strength to bear it better.
Whatever the case her vision cleared and as the next blow fell she
sank her teeth into the leather and closed her eyes against the tears of
agony. Again and again the whip
fell, Gorvag targeting her shoulders and back and occasionally the curve
of her buttocks. She counted
each blow, desperately hoping that Gorvag would not exceed his chosen
twenty-four, until finally the end came and he threw down the
whip. Somehow she had managed
not to scream or beg, but her teeth were clenched against the excruciating
pain and her eyes were blinded by tears.
“Bravely done,
girl.” It was the soldier
who had placed the strip of leather between her
teeth. He removed the leather
strip and then helped take her down from the
sawhorse. To her shame, her legs
buckled beneath her and she could not stand
unaided. Two men dragged her
across the clearing for the second part of her
punishment.
Gorvag was already there,
waiting by the bed of a wagon. In
his hand he held a small glass ampoule which he held up for her
inspection. “Tharian Dust,
barbarian. I’m sure you’ve
heard of it.”
“Tharian Dust?”
echoed Prince Bekor. “Where
did you get that? It must have
cost a fortune.”
“I took it from a spice
merchant in the last town we sacked, in return for not cutting his throat,”
Gorvag laughed. “I’ve
been saving it for just this moment.”
“I’ll not take
that,” Shailaja gasped. Barely
able to stand she swayed between the arms of her captors, her back shrieking
in agony.
“You will have no
choice,” Gorvag sneered.
“Hold her,” he ordered.
As he stepped toward her
she struggled to escape, but she had less than half her normal
strength. Even as she fought,
her vision blurred and her legs buckled, forcing the men holding her to take
all of her weight. All she could
think of was the horror of being forced to inhale the substance in the
ampoule.
Created from the tiny petals
of a rare desert plant in the far south of Vedra, Tharian Dust was the most
potent aphrodisiac known, creating such uncontrollable lust in some who took
it that they had been known to go without food or drink for days, while in
others it had resulted in death due to
overexertion. It was reputed
to be irresistible, creating a desire to mate that was so powerful that the
very wealthy often used it to seduce reluctant young women into acts they
would later regret.
Shailaja had never had need
of it, nor did she intend to take it now, but she was held fast while Gorvag
approached, and too weak to escape, was forced to watch as he removed the
stopper from the ampoule and placed a tiny pinch of the dust in a small
depression in the stopper.
She saw that the stopper
was in reality a tiny tube through which the dust could be inhaled, the drug
working most quickly when taken through the nose, but she had no intention
of breathing in the vile substance.
Gorvag, however had other
ideas. He handed the bottle to
Prince Bekor and then moved behind her while the two men held her
fast. Suddenly a hand was clamped
over her mouth forcing her to breathe through her nostrils alone, and the
tiny tube was presented in front of her.
She tried to turn her head away, but Gorvag held her close, pressing
her lacerated back against his chest.
In desperation she held her breath, but Gorvag was well aware of the
game she played. He pushed the
tube into her left nostril, one finger over the lower end to make sure that
by sudden exhalation she did not blow the dust away, and another pressed
against her right nostril to ensure that when she next breathed she would
inhale the dust. And then he
simply waited for her to draw breath.
Shailaja would rather have
suffocated than breathe in that noxious dust, and she held out for as long
as she could, but eventually her diaphragm began to move spasmodically as
her body attempted to draw in the life-giving element.
Finally, she could resist
no longer. She took a breath,
snorting air through her single nostril.
The affect was almost
instantaneous. A feeling she
had experienced only in the throes of deepest passion swept over her, flooding
her body with uncontrollable desire.
Every part of her body, from her toes to the top of her head hungered
for the touch of a man. Her
rose-tipped breasts flushed, the nipples engorged with blood as were the
petals of her womanhood. She
moaned, a throaty groan of the deepest
need.
“Now barbarian,”
Gorvag crowed in triumph as he released her, “you will serve me as you
served your lover.”
Shailaja fought the drug
as Gorvag turned her and directed her toward the bed of the wagon, but it
was like fighting the urge to breathe.
Sweat beaded her body, streaming down her forehead and dripping between
her breasts. The soldiers about
her crowed with delight as she fought against what seemed to be her very
nature.
A place had been prepared
for them, consisting of a few blankets piled on top of sacks of
grain. It offered no privacy
and little comfort, but Gorvag was not interested in
either. He wanted the public
humiliation of the red-headed barbarian who had shamed and marked him and
he wanted it to be as painful as
possible. He lifted her and set
her atop the blankets and then attended to arousing her to the heights of
uncontrollable passion.
Shailaja arched her back
as Gorvag’s fingers stroked sex, and let out a gasp of pain as she pressed
her lacerated back into the bed of the
wagon. But she could not stop
herself. Just a few grains of
the dust had corrupted her will to resist, turning her into a squirming
receptacle for Gorvag’s twisted
desires.
Gorvag stood over her while
he removed his vest and shirt.
Shailaja writhed upon the blankets, fighting the urge to spread her
legs and present herself to him.
Perhaps it was the pain of the flogging that helped her; or perhaps
the revulsion and hatred she felt for Gorvag; or perhaps Gorvag had not given
her enough of the precious drug, but whatever the reason she was able to
fight down the almost overwhelmingly desire to offer herself to him like
a sacrificial lamb.
Gorvag, however, was not
the least perturbed by her resistance.
“This one is strong,” he
commented. “Quite worthy
of the name ‘Ice Maiden,’ but I have never seen the dust
fail. Soon she will be begging
me to take her.”
Shailaja dared not reply
for fear of giving away the extent of her
desire. She was in terrible pain
from the flogging, but the agony of the stripes on her back and buttocks
faded into the background as the dust took
hold. It took a tremendous effort
of will not to spread her legs and offer herself to her captors, but Gorvag
soon broke even that slight resistance.
Held down on the wagon bed,
she was helpless to stop him from stroking her breasts and belly, arousing
the basest of cravings. Her nipples
hardened under his touch, while her face, neck and torso coloured with the
telltale flush of desire. A moan
that was more like a whimper escaped her lips and she arched upward, ignoring
the pain that shot through her lacerated back.
“You see how she rises
to my touch,” Gorvag said,” his fingers moving over her body, playing
it as a musician plays a lyre.
“The dust has her now and she is helpless in its
grasp.”
He moved his hands lower,
playing over Shailaja’s hips and belly, stroking her thighs, and creating
such torment that she could not help but cry
out. “Stop this,” she
begged. “Kill me and get
it over with.”
In truth she would have
much preferred death to the shame she was forced to
suffer. To die with sword in
hand was one thing, and torture was another, but Shailaja was being subjected
to the vilest degradation; forced to endure a form of shame so low and vulgar
that no honourable warrior could countenance it.
She moaned as Gorvag moved
his hands upward, her legs spreading of their own
accord. She was filled with an
almost uncontrollable craving and she fought to break the grip of the hands
that held her even as her body betrayed her.
“Please,” she
begged again, “stop it.”
But her body was sending another
message. Her womanhood wept,
a fact that Gorvag was able to quickly confirm with a touch of his
hand.
“See how the Waters
of Selene flow,” he crowed.
“The dust works. Soon
she will be begging to be used.”
Bekor crowded
closer. “I see you speak
truly. Her body burns.
Take her
now.”
“Not yet, my lord,”
Gorvag answered. “First
she must beg for release. And
you will beg, won’t you, my Ice
Maiden?” He finished this
last by stroking the inside of her thighs, moving his hands higher each
time.
What had seemed agony before
now declined into insignificance.
Shailaja could not hold back the fevered moans that escaped her lips,
nor the straining of her body as she invited Gorvag to take
her. But she still could not
bring herself to utter the words he wanted to
hear. And then he touched her
where she could not resist. She
screamed and cried out in her anguish.
“End this! Please
end this.”
“You see,” Gorvag
leered. “She begs me to
take her.”
“No,” Shailaja
moaned. “That’s not
true.”
But everything else about
her denied the lie she had spoken.
As Gorvag touched her petals she
broke. “Don’t
touch…. Oh, please take
me. I beg
you. Take me
now. End my
pain.”
“Is this what you
want?” Gorvag sneered, releasing the ties on his
trousers. What he revealed had
Shailaja salivating. She arched
her body toward him in clear invitation.
Around her the Cebarian
soldiers lewdly remarked on her body and her more than obvious state of sexual
arousal, especially Prince Bekor, who leaned close to
her. “By the gods,”
he leered. “You’ve
got a body like Selene and a face to
match. You are going to afford
me and my soldiers much enjoyment before we execute
you.”
The reference to the moon
goddess did little to please her.
In the central lands of Vedra Selene is seen not only as the goddess
of the first moon, but also as the embodiment of love and
desire. As Shailaja twisted in
torment, she fought not to become what she represented, but the quivering
of her swollen breasts and the heat of her loins gave the lie to everything
she wished to deny.
As Gorvag removed his clothing
she strained toward him, and experienced the torment of denial as he ordered
the soldiers to restrain her.
“Hold her,” he demanded.
“I want the bitch to sweat in
anticipation. I want her to
experience the desire she has brought to so many without fulfillment until
I decide it is time.”
As the soldiers held her
squirming body Shailaja experienced more agony than she had ever thought
possible. Her body cried out
for sexual release, but Gorvag would not give it to her, instead he taunted
her as he stood over her, tantalizingly stroking his
manhood.
For all of his defects of
character and the deformity Shailaja had dealt to his nose, Gorvag was a
well-made man, powerfully built and well-muscled, especially a certain muscle
that now stood at the ready as he played with
it. She groaned in desire, but
somehow held back the cries that sought to issue from her
mouth.
It was very much like being
two people at once. On the one
hand she was a tender young woman, fearing the shameful ordeal that awaited
her, and resisting with every fibre of her
being. At the same time she was
a wanton jade, desiring every man to possess
her. She moaned in anticipation,
ignoring the lacerations that marked her back and arched toward Gorvag until
he finally relented and pressed his body to hers.
“You deserve much less
than this,” he sneered as he thrust into
her. “I would like to watch
you suffer longer, but I have the Ravens to claim and I dare not wait much
longer.”
He took her hard and she
welcomed everything he did. She
cried out and would have raked his back with fervour had not two men held
her wrists. That only seemed
to increase her carnal heat, and she heaved herself against him crying out
as he used her, and begging him for more.
At the same time she felt
the deepest shame at what she was doing.
As has been said it was as if she was two people; one giving in to
her basest instincts and the other a pure spirit, filled with shame, and
watching the utter degradation of her other
self.
Even when Gorvag finally
finished with her she was still in the grip of the Tharian Dust and would
have welcomed him again if he had taken
her. But Gorvag was finished
with her humiliation. He had
shamed her completely, reducing her to little more than a mewling puppet
who danced at his command.
“I leave her to you,
my lord,” Gorvag grinned, stepping away from
her. “I go to take charge
of her dead lover’s command. I
expect you will keep her amused.”
“She slaughtered a
score of my men,” Bekor growled.
“Their mothers, widows, and children will wish to see her subjected
to a suitable punishment. But
first be assured, she will serve my men, and serve them
well.”
“Sadly, I cannot stay
to see it,” Gorvag said.
“Until we meet again, my lord.”
Gorvag left, but so great
was Shailaja’s anguish that she hardly noticed his
departure. What she did notice
was the next man between her legs and she welcomed him eagerly, taking all
he offered and demanding more. It
was the same with the man after that and the one after
him. There were two hundred men
in the camp and in her madness Shailaja may have served them all.
For three days Bekor waited until
it became clear to him that Gorvag had kept his part of the bargain and the
Ravens had given up their siege of the
hill. That was more than enough
time for every man in the camp to taste her, and that is almost certainly
what occurred. It was three days
of enduring the taunts and stares of the soldiers, and serving their
needs.
In between being used Shailaja
was kept in a special enclosure. It
consisted of a wooden cage with posts spaced about a span apart driven deep
into the ground. She was thrown
into the cage without clothing or covering and forced to endure the jeers
and stares of the soldiers. Unable
to leave the cage even to attend to bodily functions she was forced to live
next to her own filth. In desperation
she dug a hole in one part of the enclosure and buried everything
there. Finally, on the morning
of the fourth day she was she removed from the cage in order to be marched
to Cebar for trial and public execution.
By that time, the Tharian
Dust no longer plagued her, but she had been left with more than enough physical
pain to hold her attention for the next few
days. She could walk, but every
step was a reminder of her shame and she was given nothing to cover her
nakedness.
Shailaja had no idea why
the prince so strongly desired decided to make an example out of
her. Maybe it was because she
was the only prisoner; or more likely because she was one of the legendary
Kaltaran barbarians. It might
even have been because she was a woman of some physical
beauty. Whatever the reason she
was marched home with his army as the main prize in a triumphal
procession.
The prince and his escort
went first, some dozen mounted men, well armed and with banners flying; and
Shailaja followed, hands bound in front of her, and her long legs tethered
to prevent escape; not that she would have gotten far with mounted men to
run her down. But it was the
spectacle the prince wanted. His
army had suffered losses, some
Behind her a soldier walked
carrying a thick leather thong. Every now and then he touched it to her body,
whipping her legs and buttocks as she was dragged forward, helpless to
resist.
The prince was greeted by
cheering crowds as he entered his city and Shailaja received jeers and catcalls
as well as a few well-thrown stones and a considerable amount of spit and
horse dung. Passing under the
balcony of one house she even had a full chamber pot emptied upon
her.
But it could have been much
worse. Her soldier escort kept
her from being mobbed and perhaps the sight of a women warrior, well over
the height of most Cebarian males awed some of the crowd, as many stood in
silence as she passed.
The procession finally reached
the castle and with it the next part of her
ordeal. She was marched in through
the castle gate and while the prince entered the great hall she was held
in the castle courtyard and doused with buckets of cold water until the filth
was washed from her. After that
she was placed in proper irons, heavy metal shackles being locked to each
ankle and similar restraints being placed on her wrists; then she too was
led into the castle.
After her previous treatment
Shailaja expected to be taken to the bowels of the castle, but that was not
the case. Instead she was taken
to the upper rooms and placed under a guard of six
men. Still nude, she was watched
over while food and drink were brought before her.
The room she was in was
large and the walls lined with heavy draperies and tapestries to keep out
the drafts. She sat at a table
large enough to serve a dozen people and she guessed that she was in one
of the royal apartments. It turned
out that she was in the apartment of the prince himself and she soon found
out why.
The food and drink helped
her somewhat as it was the first proper meal she had eaten since her
captivity. She was still far
from well, suffering from the heavy use of her body, as well as the injuries
inflicted upon her in battle and at the hands of
Gorvag. She felt better than
she had, but she was suffering from injuries that would have crippled a lesser
warrior.
As night fell she was taken
into the next room. It was dominated
by a large four-poster bed and other items of heavy
furniture. With much laughter
from her guards she was taken to the bed and forced onto
it. She did not go willingly,
having finally guessed what this game was all about, but her weakened condition
left her unable to deal with so many
guards. She did manage to drive
her manacles into the face of one man before she was seized by four others
and heaved onto the bed. Then
while they held her, two others rearranged the chains so that her limbs were
chained to each corner of the bed.
She lay there spread-eagled while the guards commented upon her charms
until Prince Bekor finally arrived.
Once there he dismissed the guards and stood over
her.
“Now that you have
been broken in,” he said, “it is only proper that you serve
me. This time, however, there
will be no use of magical powders to give you pleasure, instead you will
first serve me and then serve the castle
guard. When they are finished
with you, and it may take them some time to finish, you will be taken as
you are to the executioner’s square and there publicly
impaled. I am told it is a most
painful death, and a very long one.
With your great strength I expect it will take you many days to
die.”
There wasn’t much left
of Shailaja’s great strength.
She had already suffered far more than any woman could be expected
to endure. Lying on her back
and spread wide like an offering to the gods, Shailaja could think of nothing
she could say that would pass as any act of wit or defiance and so she held
her tongue, having discovered that silence was just as irritating to men
like Bekor as any clever rejoinder.
As she had thought, he did
find her silence most annoying and seeking to punish her, stripped off his
clothing and climbed between her legs.
It was then that Shailaja produced a well-time
laugh. “Do your best oh
prince. But you will punish few
women with that, least of all me.”
As she had surmised he was
far less than pleased to have his manhood mocked, and he made her pay for
her levity, using her most hard and inflicting many bruises on her breasts
and thighs. It was especially
painful where the crossbow quarrel had pierced her thigh, but she showed
little pain or discomfort to the prince and he was still angry when he was
finally finished with her.
“I should have you
whipped,” he growled, “but I want you strong for your
execution. Let’s see if
you find the barracks so amusing.”
He put on a robe and called
for his guards. They entered,
eyeing her speculatively.
“Take the wench,” Bekor ordered, “and enjoy her to
the full. Just remember she is
to suffer no permanent damage. I
want her to put on a good show at her execution.”
The guards grinned their
pleasure, and applying the chains once again, they escorted her from the
room. She was taken out of the
prince’s quarters and back the way she had come, finally crossing the
courtyard to the barracks. She
was marched inside to find some
Shailaja’s next few
hours were very far from enjoyable.
Her session with the prince had left her barely warmed up, but she
was completely exhausted by the time the last of the guardsmen finished with
her. She had now been used by
over two hundred men in only a week and it went without saying that she was
also sorer than she had ever been or ever hoped to be
again.
It was one of the aphorisms
of central Vedra that a man “used” a
woman. That is a mild way of
putting what happened to Shailaja.
She had now been used so heavily that she was like to be completely
worn out, and when the Captain of the Guards finally ordered that she be
taken to the dungeons she could barely walk.
Her wrists were still manacled,
but it was not thought necessary to shackle her
ankles. She was bruised from
head to foot and sported a number of bite marks in the most tender of
places. Her loins ached so badly
that she had great difficulty in even placing one foot in front of the other,
so the guards had every reason to be confident that she could not
escape.
However, as they reached
the stairs leading to the dungeons Shailaja realized that if she was to escape
it was now or never. Once she
was buried in the dungeons escape would be impossible and there would be
little for her to do but await the day of her
execution. And so she made her
move.
Marana must have given her
the strength she needed, for Shailaja was seized with a sudden surge of
energy. It was thought that only
four guards were necessary to escort her to the
dungeons. Two went in front and
two followed. All were armed,
but they were not expecting a woman they had used so severely to do more
than stumble placidly along with them.
At the top of the dungeon stairs she suddenly turned, and grabbing
the man behind her pulled him toward her and then let his weight carry him
down the stairs into the two guards below
her. While they were recovering
from the suddenness of her action she slammed the chain joining her shackles
into the face of the remaining guard.
Foolishly, he had not even bothered to wear his helmet, and the cold
metal of the manacles knocked him half
unconscious. As he staggered
backward she seized his sword and with a single quick movement ran him
through. Then she turned on the
others.
By now the three below her
had recovered, but she had the advantage of being at the top of the narrow
staircase. They had to fight
their way toward her one at a time, and even weakened as she was, she was
more than a match for each of them.
She dispatched all three
with brutal efficiency and then found the key to her metal
bracelets. Fortunately, she had
had the presence of mind to note which of the guards was carrying
it. Removing the manacles, she
next stripped the biggest of the guards and dressed in his
clothing. Then taking a sword
and all of their daggers, she climbed the dungeon stairs, gained the courtyard
and headed for the stables.
In the dark the tired stableboy did not notice who she was until it was too late. She knocked him on the head, chose the best horse she could find plus a remount, and rode from the castle. With the blessing of Marana still with her she found the gate open. Within a quarter turn of the glass she was free of Cebar and riding down the road. She had no trouble deciding where she was headed. She turned the horse’s head toward Uvar. Somewhere down that road was Gorvag, and she would find him even if it meant her death.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER WIZARD'S LAIR MAIN PAGE L'ESPION'S STORY PAGE NEXT CHAPTER