Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
14: Outlaws
Shailaja rode as far as
she could that night before exhaustion and the state of her injuries forced
her to halt. She had little doubt
that Bekor would send men in pursuit. The escape of so notorious a captive
from the heart of his domain would shame him too badly and she would not
be safe until she was well clear of his
borders. But her injuries and
exhaustion finally caught up with her; so much so that she was almost falling
off her horse. She needed to
find a place to hide, and find it quickly.
None of the small farms
she passed offered her a safe refuge.
The two horses she had would be too easy to track, but she could not
afford to abandon them.
Fortunately, Selene was high in the night sky and her bright light
allowed Shailaja to see a rocky outcrop bordered by
trees. Although it was not the
way she would have chosen she had little choice if she was to find a place
to rest and at the same time have any chance of throwing off
pursuit.
She moved toward it, fighting
off exhaustion with every step of the
horse. She was finding that riding
a horse was not the way to recover from being harshly used by
She finally gained the shelter
she sought and dismounted. She
was well in among the trees and had ridden over rocky
ground. It would not present
much difficulty to a decent tracker, and dogs would certainly have no trouble
finding her, but she was too beaten to go any
farther. Heaving herself off
the horse, she made a quick camp, fell into her bedroll and was almost instantly
asleep.
Somewhere toward morning
Shailaja awoke to find herself in the middle of a steady
rain. She might have cursed her
luck, but instead she blessed Marana for delivering her from her
enemies. All trace of her passage
would be washed away and her scent as
well. For the moment she was
soaked but safe. Nevertheless,
she spent the remainder of the night huddled in her soggy blanket, fighting
off the cold.
At first light she found
to her displeasure that just a few yards away from where she had chosen to
stop was a rocky overhang where she could have remained dry and
comfortable. It was partly screened
by a jumble of large boulders and so she had missed it, but she wasted no
time in moving herself and her gear to its
shelter.
Once there she found that
there was enough dry wood and dead leaves to start a good fire, however,
she waited in case the smell of smoke might give her away to a search
party. Instead she stripped off
her wet garments and hung them about her camp to
dry. Then she burrowed down in
the thick bed of leaves to keep warm.
She fell asleep and slept
the sleep of utter physical and mental
exhaustion. It did nothing to
remove the crushing tragedy of Den’s death, but it did help her to feel
better in body, and she awoke hungry.
In her rush to escape she had not dared to bring any food with
her. All she had was a sack of
oats she had brought for the horses and for the moment both animals were
well taken care of, the area around her refuge having a plentiful supply
of grass and succulent leaves.
However, she had brought a crossbow with her that she had taken from
one of the dead guards. With
it she could get food provided any presented itself.
Her first movement sent
a wave of pain through her that left no doubt that she was far from being
healed, but she had to eat and so she forced herself to move, gritting her
teeth against the pain. In spite
of the cold the effort left her bathed in sweat and panting for
air. But there was nothing for
it, but to keep moving.
Pushing the pain from her
mind she rose from her bed of leaves and dressed in her wet
clothes. They had dried but little,
however, she had no wish to attempt a hunt in the
nude. Taking the crossbow she
stalked from the camp, moving silently through the
trees. Since it was now raining
harder than ever the chance of finding an animal moving about was diminished,
but even in the rain, animals must eat and she was lucky enough to come across
a yearling buck. Carefully pulling
the crossbow from the oiled leather that had kept its string dry she released
a single quarrel and was rewarded with a
kill. Then she knelt before the
animal and gave the ritual prayer asking its spirit to forgive the taking
off its life and thanked Teloc, god of the hunt, sprinkling a little of the
buck’s blood on the ground to satisfy the god’s
thirst.
She skinned and gutted the
buck, leaving the entrails where they were for the scavengers and then hauled
the carcass back to her camp. She
staggered under the weight of the meat, a sure sign that she was close to
collapse, but now that she had food she could rebuild her
strength.
Hoping that the rain had
indeed thrown off any pursuit she chanced a fire, finding a plentiful supply
of dry wood beneath the overhang.
While she waited for the meat to cook she ate the liver raw, cutting
it into bite-sized pieces with her
dagger. Then she ate the cooked
venison, washing it all down with water, which thanks to the rain, was all
around her.
She kept the fire up even
after the meat was cooked, using it to dry her
clothing. It was a bit of a risk,
but she needed dry clothing if she was to
continue. While her clothes dried
she sat close to the fire and worked on the
deerskin. She had saved what
fat she could, and rubbed it into the skin, trying to make it as waterproof
as possible, keeping it in mind that she might have to ride in the rain whether
she liked it or not and the treated deerskin would serve to shed the water
much better than the woollen jerkin and leather trousers she had scavenged
from the man she had killed. Then,
exhausted again, she let the fire die and slept in the bed of leaves once
more.
Shailaja spent two days
in this way trying to rebuild her
strength. The rest no doubt helped
her, but she felt hot and realized that she was running a
fever. She was not used to being
sick and was still sore from the ordeal she had
endured. As the rain continued
she stayed where she was and spent much of her time trying to sleep away
the fever. On the third day the
rain ended, and in spite of the fact that she was still not healed and the
fever had not left her she decided that it might be best to move
on. Every day she waited Gorvag
and vengeance was moving farther away from
her. She ate as much of the remaining
venison as she could and then packed up the
rest. Gathering her horses she
set out once more.
She knew where she wanted
to go, but moved slowly, keeping away from farms and towns as much as
possible. Whenever she rode in
the open she kept a sharp eye out for pursuit and often moved off the road
when she spotted anyone coming from the other
direction. Had she not been suffering
from the affects of her ordeal, she would have avoided such craven tactics,
but she was in no condition to fight
anyone. She could only account
for her escape from Bekor as Marana’s blessing, for almost certainly
she should not have had the strength to overcome the four guards she had
killed.
Whatever the reason she
was determined not to be captured again, and rode slowly, keeping away from
contact with anyone as much as possible and sleeping in isolated forested
areas that hid her from view.
Unfortunately, careful as she was, she found that there were some
dangers that could not be avoided.
It was on the fifth day
of her escape and the sixth since the death of Den that Shailaja led her
horses into a small glade set in thick forest some two hundred yards from
the road. It had grass and a
small stream trickling across it and made as good a place as any to spend
the night. It would shelter her
from the eyes of anyone passing on the road and if she kept her fire small
and brief she would probably not be
detected.
She swung the saddle from
the horse she had been riding, hobbled the two of them and let them go to
graze. Then she began to set
up her small camp. It was then
that the snap of a twig startled her to alertness.
She was on her feet in an
instant, her swords in her hands and was just in time to see three men emerge
from the trees. They were not
a pleasant-looking bunch, dressed in clothing that had seen much better days,
but they all wore swords and daggers and looked the sort that may have had
some practice with them.
“Well, look
here. See what we got,”
said the largest of them. He
stood a half head shorter than Shailaja and spoke through crooked and broken
teeth.
“A red-haired girl
with a pair of swords,” the second of the men answered for
him. “Think she might be
the one the prince is looking for?”
This man was of medium height, with dirty blonde
hair.
“The very one I’d
say,” observed the first man.
“Put away your swords girl.
You’ll save yourself some pain.”
“It is not I who will
receive pain,” Shailaja answered.
“Come no farther into my camp or you will never leave this
glade.”
Even as she answered her
eyes were searching the trees behind them and she was listening for the faintest
sound of movement. It seemed
likely that there were more than just these
three. From their rough appearance
they had the look of outlaws and were not the sort she wanted anywhere near
her.
“She holds those blades
like she knows how to use them,” the third man said.
He was the smallest of the three,
a weaselly little man with brown hair and blue
eyes.
None of them looked to be
any real danger to her, even in her weakened condition, but she was disturbed
by their confident manner.
Everything about them told her that they intended her nothing but
harm, yet not one of then had drawn a blade.
“I said put away your
sword, girl,” the tallest man
repeated. “We’re going
to have a little fun with you.
Cooperate and we might let you
live. Make us mad and your death
won’t be easy.”
“Leave here,”
Shailaja ordered. “Leave
here or you’ll regret you ever saw
me.” She took a step toward
them, gauging their reaction.
“Maybe we better show
her,” the medium height man said.
“Jobb, Mallum, come out.”
There was a movement in
the trees behind them and two more men stepped into
view. They both held loaded crossbows
and they were pointed directly toward
her.
“There are still three
more men hidden in the trees,” the tall man
stated. “They all have
crossbows. Put down the swords
or we’ll put a few bolts in you and then make use of you if you’re
still alive.”
Had Shailaja been in full
fighting trim she would have cast caution to the winds and gone right at
them, but she knew that with her injured leg and her other injuries she lacked
the speed to reach them before she would be taken
down. She considered her chances
and then carefully set her swords on the ground in front of
her.
“That’s better,
girl,” the tall man chuckled.
“Now the dagger.”
As he spoke the other three men
materialized. As he had said
they were armed with crossbows, but thinking her defeated and helpless without
her swords two of them were not even pointing the weapons at
her.
Shailaja tossed the dagger
onto the ground. “What are
you going to do?” she asked, putting a quaver in her
voice. She hated the cowardly
deception, but she hated being raped even
more. She still had two more
daggers, one in each of her boots, but she needed to lure the men closer
before she could use them.
“Back away,” ordered
the tall man, and as she complied he continued.
“The prince seems to
want you. His messengers have
proclaimed your description all over
Cebar. You must have really done
something to attract so much interest.
We will take you to him and collect the reward; after we have had
a little fun with you.”
Shailaja backed away another
step, as if in fear, and as she had hoped her action drew the men toward
her. Thinking her helpless, the
five men with the crossbows
lowered their
weapons. But as the original
three moved to within two yards of her they
stopped. “You’re bigger
than I thought,” the smallest of them
said. “Not such a little
girl any more.”
Shailaja could wait no
longer. Bending her knees, her
fingers found the daggers in her boots and pulled them free and then before
the men could react she charged into them.
The dagger in her right
hand plunged into the heart of the tall man in the first instant of her attack
and the left found the small man half a heartbeat
later. But it was the crossbowmen
she was after and she plunged past the men she had killed even as they were
falling. Realizing their mistake
the five crossbowmen raised their weapons, but the first was too late, Shailaja
was upon him, her dagger plunging into his
guts. He fell with a scream as
the other four attempted to bring their weapons to
bear.
One of the crossbowmen found
his target and his finger tightened on the
trigger. Shailaja was too far
away to stop him and did the only thing she could, dropping to the ground
just as he released the quarrel.
The act not only saved her life, but his shot struck another of the
crossbowmen across from him.
She was right at the feet
of another of the crossbowmen, too close for him to bring his cumbersome
weapon to bear, but he did the next best thing, swinging it like a club onto
her head. Had Shailaja been fully
fit she would probably have avoided the blow, but she was a fraction too
slow and she was knocked half senseless.
It gave the remaining four men their
chance. The man who had hit her
swung again, making even better contact and she went out, her vision clouding
and then darkness winning out.
Shailaja awoke to the
all-too-familiar splitting headache.
And something else that was all-too-familiar, the touch of ropes on
her wrists.
“The bitch is awake,”
a voice said. Shailaja recognized
it as that of the blond-haired man.
Grimacing in pain she forced
her eyes open and saw a circle of men around
her. There were eight of them
although she knew only four. There
were the three remaining crossbowmen and the blond
man. One of the four new arrivals
stepped forward. He was a huge
man, slightly shorter than she was, but probably weighing half as much
again.
“This girl killed four
of you?” he said in disbelief.
“No wonder the prince wants her.”
She moves like a panther,”
said one of the crossbowmen.
“I never saw the like.”
“What are you girl?”
the big man said. He bent forward
and seized her by the front of her
jerkin. The movement as he pulled
her toward him sent incredible waves of pain through her head and other parts
of her body. She felt as if she
had been bruised everywhere and realized that as she lay unconscious the
four survivors of her attack must have taken some measure of
revenge.
“Red hair,” he
observed. “Dressed like
a man, handles daggers like an assassin, and taller than any
man. Who are you and what does
the prince want with you?”
Shailaja said nothing, seeing
as little could be gained. Instead
she turned her head away from his fetid
breath.
“Looks like she’s
not interested in talking Lorg,” chimed up the little
man.
“I think she’ll
be more than willing to talk before we’re through with
her. Let’s get
started.”
Lorg lifted her by the front
of her jerkin. As both her hands
and feet were tied Shailaja had no choice but to go with him and she was
too weak to resist in any case. She
was dragged across the clearing to a large fallen tree and arched backward
across the trunk.
“Hold her wrists,”
Lorg ordered and one of the men came forward and pulled her arms over her
head so that she lay hard against the tree trunk, its rough bark in the small
of her back. Then Lorg straddled
her and bending forward ripped open the front of her
jerkin. “By all the gods,”
he exclaimed, “she’s got tits like a
goddess. I think I see why the
prince wants her.”
His hands closed on her
breasts. Still bruised from their
previous mauling at the hands of the Cebarians Shailaja winced in pain, but
held her piece knowing that any strong reaction would only encourage even
more painful acts. “Tits
like a goddess indeed,” Lorg
repeated. “Firm as a cow’s
udder before milking. I think
she’s going to offer up some real sport.”
The men around her laughed
and offered their own comments on the beauty of her breasts and what should
be done with them, but by that time Lorg was well on his way to removing
her trousers.
He first had two of the
men hold her legs after he had untied her
ankles. It was not really a necessary
action. Rarely had Shailaja felt
so weak. The fight and the blow
to the head plus the additional punishment she had suffered while unconscious
had taken all of the fight out of her.
She could hardly have raised a hand to stop the least of them, and
could only lie helplessly while Lorg stripped her and then pushed his way
between her legs.
He slid his maleness against
her, sliding his member back and forth between her petals, but he did little
to excite her before taking his
enjoyment. She grunted in pain
as he thrust into her, helpless to do more than vow vengeance upon the men
who now used her; provided she lived.
He took her deep and hard,
using his considerable weight and size to make sure that he fully enjoyed
her and she was thoroughly used before he finished with
her. And then the next man took
his turn and the next.
None were as hard on her
as Lorg had been, but all too soon it seemed that every man had taken her
and Lorg was there again. By
this time Shailaja was slick from the efforts of eight men, and he took her
easily although the pain of his rutting was not much
less. And so it went with each
man using her thoroughly until all had taken her
twice.
Through it all Shailaja
endured in a sort of daze, halfway between wakefulness and a complete lack
of awareness of what was happening to
her. She had retreated from the
world, her mind and body finally succumbing to the continuous assaults that
had been made against her in the last quarter
moon. So unaware was she that
she did not even hear the shrieks of her assailants as death suddenly came
at them from out of the forest. Nor
was she aware of strong arms lifting her and then placing her across her
horse and leading her off into the depths of the forest.
Shailaja revived somewhat
as the horse moved off but her world was one of a series of indistinct
images. There was a journey through
a forest and the sight of the ground changing as the horse moved, as she
was hung head down one side of the horse and her legs down on the
other. She crossed streams and
travelled down poorly marked forest trails and then came to a clearing and
her view of the world changed.
She was lifted from the
horse by the same strong arms that had placed her upon it and was aware of
a strong male scent, the smell of leather, the creak of hinges, and then
she was in a dark room. She must
have babbled something as a distant voice spoke to
her.
“Fear not my redheaded
barbarian you are safe in the house of
Sturm.” She was aware of
being set down on a soft surface and then the world faded once
again.
Shailaja remembered little
of significance after that. There
was light and dark; movement, and sound; the touch of hands; and the taste
of food, but none of it made the least bit of
sense. It came at her in bits
and pieces and sometimes not at all as she drifted in and out of
consciousness. And then one day
she awoke.
She was lying in total darkness,
but she sensed that she was in a dwelling of some sort, simply due to the
fact that the surface she was lying upon was obviously a
bed. She could smell wood smoke,
leather, wool, and cooked food. The
latter made her mouth water and she must have made some sort of sound as
a few heartbeats later there was movement in the
darkness. It was quickly followed
by the glow of coals as someone blew upon them and a fire flickered to
light. By the few small flames
that were generated she saw the shape of a man feeding more wood into the
fire and then he stood looming over her.
“I see that you are
awake,” a deep voice said.
“Will you stay awake this time or lapse back into
dreams?”
Shailaja opened her mouth
to answer but could do little more than manage a pitiful
croak. The shadow hanging over
her moved away and then returned.
She was lifted slightly and then something was held to her
lips. She had a vague memory
of this happening before and therefore drank
willingly. It was nothing but
water, but it helped to clear her throat.
She was somewhat shamed at her complete helplessness, but there was
little she could do about it except
promise herself to try and get her strength back as soon as possible
in order not to be so helpless.
“I am awake,”
Shailaja finally managed to answer, although her voice was
weak.
“Good,” the voice
said. “Perhaps this will
help you more. The cup was taken
away and refilled with something else.
Her nose told her it was some sort of strong drink and she sipped
cautiously as it was presented to her.
It was well that she was
careful as that which passed down her throat was something that made spahr
seem like watered beer by comparison, but it cleared her head and throat
and she was able to speak normally once she had regained her
breath.
“Are you hungry?”
the man asked. “I have some
stew that can quickly be heated.”
The fire burned brighter
now and she could see by its dancing light that he who tended her was a man
of very large size. Almost certainly
he was taller than she was. She
judged that he was of middle years.
He wore his hair long and held in place by a leather
braid. His beard reached to his
chest and was divided in the middle so that it was in two
forks.
She nodded and then realized
that back in the shadows he probably could not see her so she spoke
up. “I
would. And may Mirana thank
you. But would you please tell
me who tends me?”
“My name is Sturm,”
he rumbled. “And who might
you be, my warrior maiden?”
“I am Shailaja of the
Kaltara,” she answered, giving away no further details of her
past.
“I suspected as much
from your height and colouring,” Sturm
said. “I note that you do
not give her your clan name and rank, but I will not press you on
that. I suspect you have your
reasons for not telling me.”
Shailaja found it interesting
that Sturm knew of her people’s customs, but she revealed no more about
herself. It was now almost three
years since she had fled her homeland, and she doubted that anyone would
still be seeking her, but she took no
chances.
She reached out to take
the bowl of stew he offered to her and realized as the blanket fell away
that she was wearing nothing beneath it.
Strangely, she felt not the slightest sense of
apprehension. She remembered
that the outlaws who had waylaid her had made a pretty good job of stripping
her. No doubt Sturm had simply
finished the job; after all he had probably been in his cabin for at least
a day or so.
“How came you to be
in a place where Lorg and his villains could fall upon you? Sturm
asked. “It is a place most
people would shun.”
She hesitated to tell Sturm
more. She was still somewhere
in Cebar and did not know how well the presence of a mercenary who had fought
against its prince would be received.
Also, Lorg had mentioned a reward, and might not Sturm be just as
interested in turning her in to Bekor if he knew of it?
“Fear nought of
Bekor,” Sturm stated, as if reading her
thoughts. “If I wished his
reward you would not be here.”
Still Shailaja
hesitated. It came to her that
a mercenary was not the most honourable of
professions. It was a thought
that up until now had troubled her little as she had fought her way across
central Vedra, but now she wondered how it might be
received.
“Perhaps you are too
tired to speak now,” Sturm said. “Sleep
now. There will be time enough
in the next few days to tell your tale.”
He was
right. The brief conversation
had taxed her and it was not difficult to close her eyes once
again. She was somewhat vexed
at this weakness. It seemed that
her body was finally rebelling at its harsh treatment and was insisting on
proper rest before allowing her to move once
again. But there was something
she had to know before she slept again.
“How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Five days,” Sturm
answered. “You slept most
of the time. And now should sleep
again.”
Shailaja took little persuading
to close her eyes once more. She
slept so soundly that it was almost night again before she
awoke. She was sore and hungry
and desperate to attend to matters of a personal nature, but her weakened
body would not allow that. Instead
Sturm lifted her from the bed and carried her to a wooden bucket that she
might relieve herself. It was
discomforting for a warrior to have to be treated like a child, but there
was little choice.
She was returned to the
bed and then brought more food. Her
physical weakness had not diminished her
curiosity. And she wondered exactly
who Sturm was and his relationship to the outlaws who had waylaid
her. Since he was curious about
her it seemed only fair that he answer questions about
himself.
“I am the Warden of
the Woodlands,” he answered. “Although I am sure Bekor does not
recognize my claim. No doubt
he thinks them his, but I rule the
Heartwood. I have been here much
longer than Bekor has been alive and no doubt I will still be here when he
dies. During my life I have been
many things; soldier, trader, mercenary, thief, and still
others. For awhile I even ruled
one of the many cities of Arkana, but I found little satisfaction in any
of these occupations. Living
in the Heartwood suits me well. It
sees to all my needs, and allows me to institute certain standards of behaviour
on those who enter it.”
“Standards?” Shailaja
asked.
“I require that all
who enter her realm enter do no serious harm to
others. Those who violate my
rules pay with their lives.”
“Like Lorg?” she
asked.
“Like Lorg and the
others of his band. I do not
hold it against you to fight to protect yourself.”
“I thank you for
that,” Shailaja said.
“You are proud,
warrior,” Sturm observed.
“Pride in a warrior is natural, but do not allow it to draw you
into situations you will later regret.
Now, I would like to know how you came to be in my domain, and in
such dire peril.”
So Shailaja’s fragmented
memories of her rescue proved accurate.
Lorg and his men were no more.
That suited her. But there
were others with whom she had a score to
settle. But Sturm was waiting
for her story and so she told it.
It took her longer than
she thought it would as she left very little out, and found that she tired
easily. She gave no details of
her clan or rank within it, but told everything else plainly
enough. Several times Sturm brewed
tea while he listened. He asked
few questions, stopping her only now and then for a point of
clarification. When she finished
he thought on what she had told him for a few heartbeats and then
spoke. “It seems from your
tale that you have a long list of grievances to
avenge.”
His words were framed in
the form of a question and so she nodded her
agreement. “It is
so. There are many who must pay
for what was done to me.”
“Do you seek retribution
against even those you would have wronged?
His words took her by
surprise. “I have
wronged? I have wronged no
one.”
“You have led the life
of a mercenary, fighting for pay without regard to what was right or
wrong. Can you say truthfully
that you wronged no one? Did
no one stand in your way who might have lived a peaceful life had he been
left alone? Were no innocent
lives taken in your presence?”
These were things Shailaja
had not thought on. Den had made
all of the decisions for the Ravens and she had followed him without questioning
his leadership. Sometimes they
fought on one side and sometimes on the other; and that had not bothered
her as that was the life of a mercenary.
“Think on your answer,
warrior. You may find you have
more to answer for than you thought,” Sturm
said. “And now I think you
should sleep more and try to regain your strength.”
Shailaja did sleep, and
due to her weakness she also did considerable
thinking. Sturm’s words
had stirred in her something that in her youth and inexperience she had never
before considered; that she was not the only one who had been wronged and
that she had wronged many herself.
It was a concept foreign to the ways of most
Kaltarans.
Kaltara was a land poor
in resources and the tradition of its warriors serving foreign armies was
a long one. It had not occurred
to her that there might be any right or wrong in
this. It was simply a matter
of serving those who paid best.
Morality was not an issue.
But now Sturm had presented her with the uncomfortable notion that
engaging in indiscriminate rape and plunder might not see favour in the eyes
of Marana. She pondered long
and hard on this as Sturm tended to her and her body mended, and discussed
it further with Sturm during those times when he was
present.
He was gone for much of
the day and Shailaja supposed he was out tending to his
domain. During those times she
mostly slept, having very little energy, but gradually she became stronger
until the time came when she was able to tend to
herself. At that time she busied
herself about the cabin, keeping it clean and preparing meals for when Sturm
should return.
There was nothing in any
way domestic about this activity.
Sturm had adopted her into his household, and as was Kaltaran custom
she simply made herself useful.
Among Kaltarans there was no husband and wife relationship as it was
known in the central lands or the semi-slave status of women in the far
south. Kaltarans become bondmates
and as such were equal in all things save those few things that only a woman
could do such as carry a child and suckle an
infant. Other than that each
member of a household was equal as was evident when Kaltarans went to
war. There were no restrictions
on who might serve; both males and females participating equally in the
profession of arms. This was
well shown by the fact that the Kaltarans honoured Mirana, goddess of war
and not some male deity as it was the custom in other
lands.
Eventually Shailaja was
able to do more than simply keep house and moved outdoors to cut and stack
wood. Using the glade in front
of Sturm’s cabin as a training ground, she also resumed her training,
feeling dire need of it after having been inactive so
long. With and without weapons
she practiced, going through the various patterns she had been taught over
and over again. She especially
tried to practice the two handed technique she had learned from Den and when
she did so her demeanour became one of deadly intent as she pictured what
she would do when she caught up with Gorvag.
As was usual among Kaltaran
warriors Shailaja usually stripped down to the bare essentials when engaged
in such training. Other than
her weapons she wore little more than her breast band and a scrap of cloth
that covered her loins. Not too
surprisingly Sturm found such training exercises particularly interesting
and he would watch her for some time when he was not about his other
business.
On one particularly hot
day when Sturm had departed on one of his mysterious errands Shailaja stripped
down entirely and loosened her long braid, letting the forest air play about
her body. She felt freer and
healthier than she had in quite some time and decided that she was indeed
healed, but she did not relax her routine but rather intensified it, whirling
the two blades as she practiced what Den had shown
her.
She had been at this exercise
for half the turn of the glass and had worked herself into a complete sweat,
so much so that her unbound hair was clinging to her body when Sturm
appeared. Unashamed of her nudity,
particularly now that the marks of her captivity and violation had healed,
she continued with her practice, moving fluidly through the moves in the
manner she had been taught.
Sturm said nothing but simply
moved to a tree stump where he sat himself and watched her
progress. Shailaja refused to
let the intensity of his gaze distract her, focusing on the movement of her
body and acting as if he was not there.
Let him watch, she
thought.
He will see the true intensity
of a Kaltaran warrior.
But Sturm’s focused
gaze was not as she thought. When she finally finished, panting from exertion,
and with her body bathed in sweat he got to his feet and moved toward
her. “An impressive
routine,” he observed, “but there is one slight flaw in your defensive
posture.”
Shailaja stared at him in
surprise. So far he had shown
not the least interest in her training, and now he was correcting her on
it. She supposed from what he
had told her about himself that he must have some military training, but
she felt that he presumed somewhat to dare to correct her.
However, as the man who had almost
certainly saved her life she allowed the comment to stand, but not
entirely.
“Show me,” she
demanded reversing her blades so that he could hold them.
“I will,” he
smiled. “But retain your
swords I will use mine.” He
stepped into the cabin and after a short interval returned carrying a long
wooden box. Shailaja had never
noticed the box before, but then she had never bothered to search the
cabin. He set the box down on
a large stump and opened it, revealing twin
blades. Shailaja knew weapons
and she knew that she had never seen a finer
pair. She also reflected that
she had never before seen Sturm draw steel, but the way he held the swords
revealed that he was more than familiar with a
blade.
“Now,” he said,
“show me that last move again, but this time use me as your
opponent.”
She did, flashing steel
at him in a series of lightning moves that would have penetrated the defence
of almost any opponent. To her
complete surprise he completely blocked her attack and came back with a series
of moves that had her instantly on the defensive.
She fought back, catching
his blades and then driving him back across the glade, before he managed
to halt her attack and launch one of his own, and then suddenly his sword
snaked out and rapped her strongly on the
wrist. He struck so hard that
her hand went numb and she dropped the sword from her right
hand. Fortunately, Sturm’s
control was such that he had struck her with the flat of his blade, leaving
her embarrassed and bruised, but otherwise untouched.
“There, you see,”
he said, ceasing his attack.
“You are vulnerable when you attempt that defensive
posture.”
With her hand and forearm
tingling with pain, and her sword lying on the ground Shailaja had to admit
that he had proved his point.
“I thank you for that,” she
bowed. “Let me rest for
a few heartbeats and then show me again.”
“As you would have
it,” he agreed, “but first allow me to match you in
comfort.” With that he stripped
off his woollen shirt, revealing his massive arms and
shoulders.
Shailaja could not help
staring at his deep chest, wondering what it would be like to have that pressed
against her.
So
big, she thought. She
imagined those massive arms holding her and the heat of his body as she lay
against him.
Shailaja’s reaction
may have seemed somewhat shallow given that she was supposedly still mourning
the death of her lover only a few weeks before, but Sturm’s physical
presence was more than impressive, especially with the sweat beading on his
skin and his dark hair damp from
exertion. He was a very well
made man and she found herself wondering what the rest of him looked
like.
Then her rest period was
over and they continued their mock duel.
For a man Shailaja had never seen lift a sword in practice, Sturm
was amazingly adept, defeating all of her attacks and putting her on the
defensive repeatedly. She had
to admit that had they been engaged in more than mock combat she would have
been in serious difficulty. Back
and forth across the glade they went, the ringing of their blades frightening
all of the wildlife within a half a league of where they
strove. Finally, her chest heaving,
and no longer able to keep up her guard Sturm touched her
gain. This time not as hard,
but enough to know that he had won.
Shailaja lowered her blades
and then raised them crossed before her in
salute. Few warriors had ever
bested her in combat, practice or otherwise, and she recognized him for the
master that he was. Sturm, however,
shrugged off her acknowledgment almost in
embarrassment. “You fought
well,” he said, placing his swords back in the wooden
box. “And now I think I
will cool off with a swim.”
He looked toward Shailaja
and she nodded acceptance of his
invitation. Lowering her blades
she followed him across the clearing and down a forest path toward a place
where a small stream tumbled over some boulders into a deep
pool. She had bathed there before
and after the intense exercise she had just engaged in she was quite happy
to follow his suggestion.
The pool was not large;
about seven yards across and double that in length, but it was deep enough
in the middle to reach her neck and had a smooth sandy
bottom. She set down her weapons,
never going anywhere without them, even in what Sturm regard as his domain,
and slipped into the water.
It was colder than she would
have expected from the temperature of the air, but she had bathed in it before
and so was not surprised, and it was considerably warmer than the streams
of her homeland. She ducked her
body fully within it, swimming to the bottom and then coming up in the middle
where she trod water. She felt
the slight surge as Sturm plunged in and stroked toward
her.
He grinned as he stopped
before her. “Is the water
to your liking?” he asked.
“Very much so,”
Shailaja replied. Suddenly she
was strangely tongue-tied and could think of little more to
say.
“Sometimes the simplest
pleasures are the best,” Sturm observed, moving onto his back to scull
away from her.
She could not help it as
her gaze went to the area below his middle as that part of his body was briefly
exposed, and once again she wondered what it would be like to be pressed
against that great wall of a chest.
Sturm seemed unaware of her observations, swimming to the end of the
pool and then back again, before relaxing in the shallows, his body half
out of the water and his face turned toward the sky.
Shailaja swept her hair
back, wishing that she had thought to bring a comb, and continued to covertly
study Sturm. It was difficult
to guess his years. His dark
hair and beard were streaked with grey, yet his body was as firm and muscular
as that of a man in his twenties.
By now the water had cooled
her more than sufficiently and she splashed toward the
edge. Reaching the shallows she
stood up and strode toward a large rock that caught the sunlight with the
idea of basking for awhile on its warm
surface. She could feel Sturm’s
eyes upon her as she moved and was suddenly aware of the affect of the cold
water upon her nipples.
Unconsciously she arched her back slightly and swung her hips as she
climbed out of the pool. She
glanced once more toward him and saw that the water had affected a certain
very interesting part of his anatomy in the opposite manner to her
nipples.
This time he caught the
direction of her gaze and held her eyes.
“Would you like to see it properly restored?” he asked grinning
more widely than before.
Shailaja blushed, her pale
body reflecting the heat of her blood all too well.
She was suddenly struck with
a strong sense of guilt.
Den’s
death was still very close, but she could not deny the sudden powerful attraction
she felt toward Sturm. Had it
really only been three weeks since the murder of her
lover? Was she really so weak-willed
and animalistic as to be attracted to the first strong male that she chanced
across?
Confused by her reaction
she stammered some nonsensical reply and attempted to step past him toward
the boulder, but he reached out and gently gripped her
ankle.
Few men would have dared
such an action, but in Sturm the deed seemed quite
natural. Instead of protesting
she bent and splashed water into his eyes.
Quick as the strike of a
falcon he had both ankles and without the least effort he tipped her back
into the pool, lifting her ankles and forcing her
under. She splashed to the surface,
fighting to keep her head above water while he fought to duck it
under. Shailaja should have been
outraged; nothing like this had been done to her since she was a child who
had not yet had her first moon. But
instead she giggled childishly and fought to escape, finally wrenching herself
free just before Sturm heaved himself into the pool on top of
her.
His weight carried her to
the bottom and she kicked and punched in mock combat as she struggled to
break free of his grasp, but he held her
easily. Never had she experienced
such strength, and in spite of the cold of the water she felt a certain part
of her body growing warm as she fought to
escape. However, Sturm’s
grip was unbreakable until she reached for a certain part of his
anatomy.
As she had observed it was
badly shrunken due to the cold of the water but as her fingers closed gently
upon it she felt a definite tremor as it responded immediately to her
touch.
“So that is the way
you wish to play is it?” Sturm
laughed. Without the least bit
of effort he picked her up and carried her kicking and squealing toward the
large boulder where she had sought to sun
herself. Her fists hammered at
his massive chest, but she may as well have been punching a
wall.
Laughing he placed her upon
the rock and then loomed over her, water dripping from his body onto
hers. His hands were on either
side of her shoulders holding him just two spans above her heaving
breasts. This close she could
feel the heat of his body and sense the swelling of his
member.
Then slowly he lowered his
head and touched his lips to hers.
She arched into him, her lips pressed hard to his and found his tongue
with hers. Her arms slipped beneath
his armpits, her fingers moving to his back as she pulled him to her and
pressed her breasts against his chest.
Of their own accord her legs parted allowing access to the swollen
petals of her throbbing flower.
There was no need for Sturm
to see if her body was ready for him. The flush of her breasts, the tautness
of her nipples, and the heat of her loins told him all that and
more. He thrust into her, slowly
at first, giving her time for her body to adjust, and then deeper and more
quickly until he was deep within her and her body was bucking wildly beneath
his.
Shailaja had never been
taken like this. Den had been
an experienced lover, but the size and power of Sturm did something to her
that was beyond her ability to describe.
She moaned at the first
penetration and cried out as he thrust his spear deep within
her. Sturm’s moans mingled
with hers as he plunged ever deeper into her, quickening his speed as he
sought satisfaction. Writhing
in his powerful arms she presented her breasts to him and squealed in animal
passion as he took his lips, tongue, and teeth to her throbbing
nipples.
They made love urgently
as if fearing the moment would somehow be lost, and then lay quietly for
awhile, panting in one another’s arms, and allowing the sun to soak
into their bodies before making love again, this time more slowly and
thoroughly.
As before Sturm groaned
as he expressed his passion, and Shailaja’s moans mingled with his as
he took her even higher than the first
time. His size and his strength,
and the pleasure and pain of his large manhood excited her in ways that Den
had not. And Den had been a most
skilful lover.
There was something, however,
about being taken by a man of such great
strength. She felt helpless in
Sturm’s arms, unable to stop him even if she wished
to. It was something that she
had never felt before, a feeling of being utterly dominated that she had
not felt even when being used by Gorvag and the other men who had taken her
against her will. Sturm took
her again and again until she was so sore that it was almost something of
a relief as he poured his seed into her for the last
time.
Shailaja had no fear of
being with child. The life of
a warrior precluded an undesirable pregnancy and she avoided it by chewing
the bitter leaves of the senna bush, a plant that almost conversely grew
in the distant deserts of Thar, the same place that Tharian Dust
originated. The demand for these
two drugs had made Thar a place of great wealth and
power. It was a kingdom she had
long wondered about, but never expected to
see.
If Sturm was aware of her
use of senna he gave no indication, and he really had no way of
knowing. The drug was a powerful
one and the chewing of a single leaf infused the body to such an extent that
it was necessary to chew the leaves only once every few
weeks. Shailaja had made regular
use of the leaf as was common in mercenary camps among the few women soldiers
and the effect promised her safety weeks after she had taken
it.
She would have had to find
more if she continued with Sturm, but that was not to
be. As pleasant as had been their
lovemaking her desire for his touch was outweighed by her desire for
vengeance. Gorvag had stolen
her honour and murdered her lover.
That could not be allowed to stand
unavenged. And so, now that she
was restored to health, she took her leave of Sturm and turned her attention
to righting the wrongs done to her.
It was a reluctant
parting. Shailaja had never had
a lover to match Sturm. Not even
Narahan had managed to dominate her so completely and she would probably
have quite enjoyed Sturm’s forest life had she not committed herself
to finding Gorvag. As it was,
the idea that every day Gorvag was getting farther away from her grated upon
her like an itch that could not be
scratched. She had to go and
Sturm fully realized this even before she left.
“You are welcome to
stay with me for as long as you wish,” the giant woodsman
said. “But I see that you
will not be satisfied until your world has been set
right. Go and seek your
enemies. When and if you succeed
you will know where to find me.”
And so she rode away from Sturm’s domain with the same two horses she had ridden into the woodlands. Her heart was heavy as she turned for one last look at Sturm’s cabin, but her mind was made up. Determined to seek vengeance she swung the horse back toward the edge of the forest and rode in search of Gorvag.
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