Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
15: Captured
A two day ride brought Shailaja
to the fortification on the bluffs overlooking the road where she had met
her first humiliation at the hands of
Gorvag. It was abandoned now,
but the rows of stakes guarding the approach had only been partly
dismantled. It was a strong defensive
position and one that she would have kept permanently fortified had she been
the ruler of Cebar, but the lack of proper military tradition was one of
the reasons why Arkana was such a fertile breeding ground for mercenary
armies. Rather than raise his
own forces each ruler depended on hired help and the result was continued
chaos.
Shailaja reflected on this
now as she had not before she had met
Sturm. She saw now that much
of he had said was accurate and that her time with the Ravens had in many
ways been ill spent. It was for
that reason that she turned her horse down the hill in pursuit of Gorvag
rather than toward the city of
Finding Gorvag was not quite
as easy as she had hoped. Not
surprisingly the camp where the Ravens had stayed was long
deserted. The question then was
where had the Ravens gone? With
no better idea of where to find them she decided to follow the road toward
Uvar. One hundred mercenaries
should have left a trail that was not too hard to
find.
Indeed it turned out to
be easier to find that she wished.
As she rode toward the city of
Shailaja felt deeply affected
by this. In spite of all that
the Ravens had been, with Den as their leader they had avoided most of the
depredations she now saw. Clearly
under Gorvag the Ravens were an entirely different
band. Given the fact that she
had now accepted such plundering as undesirable she was deeply disturbed
at this turn in their behaviour.
Den had allowed the looting of cities and even the violation of women
if such acts happened out of his sight, but he had never allowed the outright
ravaging of the countryside. She
resolved to catch up with the Ravens as quickly as possible to put an end
to Gorvag’s leadership.
As a result she rode hard,
changing mounts frequently so that she might make the best
time. About twenty leagues from
the city of
It appeared that the
Raven’s passage had been a leisurely
one. They had looted and burned
every farmstead in a swathe a league wide, sparing no one and apparently
gained in strength as they had moved.
Under Den at no time had
the Ravens been more than a hundred in number, Den insisting on quality rather
than quantity. “A hundred
well trained men are worth five hundred rabble,” he had always insisted,
but it appeared that Gorvag did not share this
view. From the size of the camps
Shailaja guessed the Ravens to be nearer two hundred men than their original
number.
However, the larger size
of the Ravens slowed their movement.
Shailaja saw that they took with them a great many carts when before
the band had moved entirely on horseback, using packhorses and mules to carry
all necessary equipment. Wagons
meant that the Ravens could take more with them, but it also made them much
slower and she gained on them daily.
This spurred her on to ever
greater speed. She had no definite
plan in mind when she finally caught up with her old mercenary band other
than confronting Gorvag and making him pay for his
treachery. The fact that such
a confrontation might not necessarily turn in her favour did not cross her
mind. The mercenary code gave
her the right to challenge Gorvag for leadership and that she would do, making
sure that she killed him in the process.
It would not atone for all of the injuries he had done her, but it
would go some way to satiating her thirst for vengeance.
She caught up with the Ravens
mid-afternoon of her third week on the
road. She had stopped a few leagues
back to prepare herself while the band made
camp. If she was to confront
Gorvag she wanted to do it properly and she took advantage of the warm summer
day to stop at a small stream and bathe
properly. Then she washed and
combed her hair before braiding it into its long warrior’s
braid.
She had managed to obtain
some workable armour in one of the small towns off to one side of the path
the Ravens had taken. It was
not as splendid as the fine armour she had acquired during her three years
with the Ravens, but it was serviceable.
Deciding that it would be most fitting for Gorvag to meet his end
in the style Den had practiced, she donned her armour and placed her two
swords in their sheaths. Arrayed
in her martial splendour she then mounted her horse and rode at a relaxed
pace toward the camp.
As she had expected her
arrival created something of a stir, especially as she entered the camp before
most of its inhabitants were even aware that she was
there. The fact that not a single
sentry had been placed showed the deterioration of the once disciplined mercenary
band. Once she was discovered,
however, she attracted immediate attention.
Several men ran toward her
with drawn swords while a few of the others carried loaded
crossbows. It was not quite the
welcome Shailaja had expected and she looked about for familiar
faces.
“Who might you be?”
one of the men demanded.
“I am Shailaja of the
Kaltara, former member of the Ravens under Den Zhidar and I am here to see
Gorvag.”
“Are you now?”
the man sneered. “And what
might be your business?”
“I am here to kill
him, and you too if you do not move from my path.”
“You hear that,
Walnuf?” anther man laughed.
“This girl’s here to kill
Gorvag. You reckon we ought to
let her see him?”
“I’m more concerned
that she just threatened to kill me,” Walnuf
answered. “What say you
take off that helmet, girl and let us see what you look
like?”
By this time someone had
shown up that Shailaja knew. It
was Siva, the warrior woman Den had left in charge of the camp when he had
led his picked band into the treacherous ambush that had killed
him.
“Siva,” she
shouted. “Tell these fools
who I am and take me to Gorvag. He
and I have business to settle.”
Siva looked at her and shook
her head slightly. Shailaja was
puzzled at this, not recognizing it for the warning it was meant to
be. However, Siva stepped forward
and spoke. “It as is she
says. This is Shailaja, a member
of our band and you would do well to keep away from the reach of her
sword.”
“Sword you say?”
Walnuf leered. “I see two
swords. Can she deal with
two? One is usually enough for
any bitch.”
“Perhaps she likes
it in both holes at the same time,” another wag added, a remark that
brought some laughter from the other men around her.
Furious at the mockery and
the stupidity directed toward her, Shailaja spurred her horse forward, almost
knocking Walnuf and his foul mouthed companion off their
feet. “Out of my way,”
she shouted. “I will see
Gorvag.”
She pushed through the camp
toward the largest tent, reckoning to find Gorvag
there. She was not
disappointed. As she reached
the tent, followed by half the camp, Gorvag stepped from it followed by half
a dozen men. Needless to say,
he seemed very surprised to see her.
However, he recovered quickly, placing his hands on his hips and staring
up at her, a mocking smile upon his lips.
“The Kaltaran Ice
Maiden,” he sneered. “I
thought you too busy spreading your legs for Cebarian soldiers to ever make
it back here. I suppose you have
come to kill me for ridding you of your Uvarian
lover.”
That told her something
Shailaja had not known. Den had
never told her that he was from Uvar, not that most mercenaries held any
loyalty to their native city, but it was interesting that he had died serving
the cause of the city he had been born
into.
“Draw your sword, Gorvag
or I will kill you where you stand,” she demanded.
“Gorvag laughed
uproariously. “The stupid
bitch still thinks Den’s weak rules remain
here. That is not how it works,
girl. I am leader of the Ravens
now and I have others to protect my
interests.” He looked to
the hefty men on each side of him.
All were as big as Gorvag, although none matched Sturm for
size. They stepped forward menacingly
as he finished speaking and one of them reached out to claim the bridle of
her horse.
By now Shailaja had figured
out where this confrontation was going.
Gorvag had denied her the right of challenge, although it was standard
practice among most mercenary bands.
She saw now why he had added so many men to the
Ravens. He had added men loyal
to him and not to Den’s memory or
traditions. Possibly only a small
core of her original comrades remained, the greatest number of the new Ravens
being loyal to Gorvag’s new order.
As the hand of his bodyguard reached for her bridle she drew her sword
and cut it off at the wrist, at the same time spurring her horse forward,
intent on removing Gorvag’s head.
She almost reached him,
but it was no easy matter to force a horse through a band of heavily armed
men. For one thing most horses
have more sense than their riders and will not charge into what they perceive
as an impenetrable barrier.
Secondly, the sheer mass of human flesh will stop a horse, especially
if those men carry arms. In this
case Gorvag’s heavily armed bodyguard brought her horse to a halt, and
she laid about her trying to force her way forward while men swung weapons
at her and crossbow quarrels whizzed about her
ears.
It was the quarrels that
bothered her most. She was fully
armoured and although Kaltarans generally wear light armour by the standards
of most armies, it afforded her sufficient protection to last for a short
while in a melee provided she was not struck by a
missile. She hunched low over
the neck of her horse striking at those below her. Several times she made
contact as the screams of those she struck told
her. Over the noise of combat
Gorvag’s voice rose. “No
crossbows, you fools. Take her
alive.”
He could not have helped
her more if it was his intention.
Free of the fear of quarrels she wheeled her mount, the horse’s
hooves and body scattering men in all directions; then she rose in the saddle,
a sword in each hand and cut down at those who sought to capture
her.
Still foremost in her mind
was her desire to kill Gorvag. He
was but a few yards away protected by only a few
bodyguards. If she could just
force her horse three lengths of its body she could reach
him.
Poorly trained as Gorvag’s
new men were, however, they still had some semblance of combat
training. They swarmed around
her, several armed with pikes and bills with which they sought to strike
her from the saddle. These long
arms, equipped with hooks and metal points at their tips were intended to
spear or hook a rider, either method being effective in removing her from
the saddle. In length they far
outreached her swords and she slashed at them cutting off the sharp points,
but she could not get all of them.
Hemmed in on all sides by several dozen men, the sheer weight of their
bodies robbed her horse of its mobility, leaving her to slog it out with
her two blades.
So quick were her movements
that time and time again her blades found flesh and the screams of the wounded
and dying rose up around her as she sought to take her
vengeance. She now realize that
it might have been wiser had she attempted to flee the camp and come for
Gorvag on another day, but she was seized once again by the blood rage and
cared not about the odds against her.
She simply wanted to kill everything within her reach with the ultimate
goal of reaching Gorvag and carving his cowardly head from his
body.
To her great pain and sorrow,
on this day it was not to be. A
bill snaked out, catching her from behind, and snagging in the chain mail
that protected her shoulder. A
hard jerk of the pole and she was partially pulled from the
saddle. Then several hands seized
her and complete her unhorsing. She
fell into the dozen or so mercenaries straining to reach
her. Even as she fell she struck
out with her blades drawing even more blood, but now she was among her enemies
and hands and weapons reached out for her on all
sides. Once again Gorvag’s
voice rose above the clamour of battle.
“Alive. I want her
alive.”
Men swarmed toward her,
hands reaching for her arms, legs, and torso; anything they could get a grip
on. She was held, her body bucking
wildly as she fought to free herself, but her swords were twisted from her
grasp and a heavy blow struck against her helmet that knocked her near
senseless. Dazed, she was helpless
as she was stripped first of her weapons; and then while Gorvag gloated over
her, her armour as well.
“Still the raging barbarian
fool,” he sneered. “I
am going to take great pleasure in breaking you and the breaking is going
to be long and painful.”
Shailaja cared nothing for
his words, but as the battle rage diminished a feeling of cold fear came
over her as she realized that instead of receiving vengeance she had delivered
herself into the hands of her enemy.
She struggled to break the grip of her captors, but was pinned by
a weight of bodies, her arms and legs gripped
tightly. And then as she continued
to fight, her arms were forced behind
her. Once again she felt the
touch of hemp upon her wrists as she was tightly bound, her wrists lashed
together and her arms pinched in at the elbows by a length of
cord.
Her head spinning, she was
dragged to her feet and stood panting before
Gorvag. His eyes were instantly
drawn to her heaving breasts. In
spite of her helplessness she did not flinch from his gaze, not even when
she looked into his eyes and saw the vast store of cruelty within.
“Cold and arrogant
as ever,” Gorvag said, “but I will break you of that stubborn
pride.”
He stood just far enough
away from her that her feet could not reach him and a man stood on either
side of her and gripped her arms.
She’s demon-possessed,” said one of
them. “She killed a dozen
men and there’s not a mark on her.”
His remark was not quite
true, but Shailaja could not help a twist of her
lip. It was the most basic of
combat techniques not to get hit, but of course the spear fodder Gorvag had
recruited for his much larger army would know little of
this.
“See how she mocks
us, Gorvag,” Walnuf observed. “This she-wolf must be savagely
punished.”
“And so she shall
be,” Gorvag replied.
“Take her to the punishment circle.”
Shailaja was marched to
the centre of the camp. She held
her head high, showing no fear, but her eyes scanned the camp for the comrades
she had once known. She saw
few. In the short time she had
been absent Gorvag had rid himself of all members of the Ravens who might
oppose him and replaced them with men that were little more than
brigands. The once proud mercenary
band had been reduced to nothing but a bunch of armed
rabble.
She found herself in the
centre of the camp, but where the circle Den had used to settle disputes
had once been there was instead a heavy wooden frame of the sort used to
mete out punishment. It was already
in use, the forms of two moaning wretches lashed to the either side of the
frame. From the bloody stripes
on their bodies they had been severely
flogged.
“Thieves,” Gorvag
explained. “But I have something
very special planned for you.”
Shailaja was moved to the
centre of the circle and at Gorvag’s orders forced to her
knees. “Bind her ankles,”
he instructed. “I want none
of her tricks.”
It was pointless to offer
resistance. Surrounded by enemies
Shailaja would only have seemed fearful and a Kaltaran warrior showed no
fear. But fresh in her memory
was the brutal humiliation she had received at the hands of Gorvag and the
Cebarians, and her stomach knotted as she was prepared for her
punishment.
At first she thought she
was to be flogged as she had been before, especially when Gorvag ordered
her stripped to the waist. Nudity
offered Shailaja no shame, but the fact that it gave the mongrel assortment
of soldiers pleasure to look upon her nakedness was degrading in the extreme
as they pressed forward eager for a closer
look.
As usual the perfection
of her body attracted the usual unwanted commentary although she considered
herself no more attractive than any other
Kaltaran. It seemed to her that
a good deal of her supposed beauty was due to the fact that the other races
of Vedra were so physically inferior.
She knelt before her captors,
her wrists and arms tightly bound behind her, her breasts arched invitingly
toward whoever might want to sample them.
But Gorvag held everyone back.
For now she was to be his, and his
alone. Helpless, she waited to
see what Gorvag had planned for her.
That it would be painful went without saying as he had already promised
much pain, but what form it was to take was yet to be
revealed. And so she waited,
face frozen in a look of disdain, but internally terrified that she might
not be strong enough to withstand the torture that was planned for
her.
Finally two men hurried
up carrying a length of timber about eight feet long and the thickness of
her upper arms. Gorvag nodded
his approval and the two men seemed to know what he wanted as they acted
without orders while their leader smirked in cruel
pleasure.
“You are about to
experience pain and humiliation that will make your previous experience seem
enjoyable by comparison,” Gorvag
gloated.
As was her custom when in
the presence of one who is more likely to be angered by silence, Shailaja
said nothing, but she wondered how Gorvag could know anything of what had
happened to her at the hands of the
Cebarians. Perhaps Bekor had
sent a message to him relating her pain and humiliation, or it might have
been the usual wind that Gorvag seemed so full
of.
Whatever the matter her
thoughts were soon focused on what was being done to
her. With her ankles bound she
was unable to rise and with several men watching her at all times she could
do little as the bindings were removed from her wrists and
arms.
Her relief from the tight
bondage proved brief. The pole
was placed across her shoulders and her arms were raised so that they could
be bound to it at the wrists, elbows, and
biceps. It left her arms stretched
out parallel to the ground with the centre of the pole resting against the
back of her neck. In order to
make it fit more snugly additional rope was added, securing her neck to
it. The ropes were tight, but
not so tight as to choke her. The
arrangement left her feeling even more vulnerable than before as just two
men could easily move her in any direction by exerting only slight pressure
on the pole.
However, moving her was
not the reason Gorvag had desired her to be bound in this
manner. It was but the beginning
of a much crueller punishment.
Having bound her arms to
the pole, her ankles were untied and she was required to rise so that she
could be moved to the punishment rack.
The men who had been there had been cut down and dragged off, leaving
it free for her use. She was
moved between the uprights and the pole was placed against them in such a
way that she was forced to bend slightly at the
waist. It gave the crowd watching
her and even more spectacular view of her exquisite breasts as they swayed
enticingly. Then the pole was
securely tied to each side of the uprights, the ropes holding the pole tied
in such a manner that it would not slip, and leaving her in a humiliating
and vulnerable position. Shailaja
thought she knew what was going to happen next, but she was not quite prepared
for the horror Gorvag had planned for
her.
Gorvag then approached her,
a look on his face that would have given nightmares to most women, but Shailaja
merely returned his gaze stare for stare.
“You will learn to
lower your eyes when I approach, girl,” he
growled. “And the lesson
begins now.”
Shailaja saw then that he
had in his right hand a hammer and in the other a long iron nail that had
been pushed through a leather washer.
As she suddenly guessed what he had in mind she was filled with such
terror that she turned pale even though she tried her best to hide her reaction.
“Yes,” Gorvag
grinned, looking down at her.
“This is going to hurt a great
deal. Let’s see how a Kaltaran
warrior reacts to real pain.”
Shailaja clenched both her
fists, unwilling to make it easy for him, but he merely laughed and ordered
Walnuf to spread her fingers. This
the brawny henchman did quite willingly.
With her arms tightly bound to the pole there was little she could
do as he pulled back the thumb of her right hand and having succeeded in
that, pried open the rest of her fingers and held her hand flat against the
pole, palm outward.
All Shailaja could think
of as Gorvag set the nail into the palm of her hand was the affect it would
have in holding a sword. The
fear of pain was secondary to the fear that she might never again be able
to hold a blade. For a Kaltaran
warrior such a fate would be as cruel as
death. A few heartbeats later,
however, she changed her mind about the
pain.
Gorvag struck true, bringing
the hammer down in a stroke that would have made any carpenter
proud. The nail pierced the centre
of her palm and was driven deep into the
wood. A second blow pushed the
leather washer against her palm, holding it fast to the wooden pole behind
it. To describe the pain as
excruciating would have been an insult to that
word. She had never known such
agony; and that, accompanied by the fact that her warrior abilities had been
completely crippled, caused her to scream in pain and
fear.
Gorvag laughed as she shrieked
in agony. “Not so arrogant
now are you , girl? Go on, scream,
I quite enjoy the sound.”
To her credit, Shailaja
screamed only once, her initial cry dissolving into a sob as she stood before
him, her right hand throbbing in agony and the red blood welling up around
the wound and dripping onto the ground.
“Well, that’s
a good start,” Gorvag chuckled.
“Let’s see what I can do with the left
hand.”
As before, Walnuf uncoiled
her clenched fingers and held her hand flat while Gorvag set the point of
the nail against it. Shailaja
supposed he wanted her to beg him to spare her the pain, but instead she
raised her tear-streaked face and held his gaze, almost daring him to go
ahead. He needed no further urging,
driving the nail almost to the head in a single
stroke.
Although the pain was no
less, this time she somehow held back the high pitched shriek, but bit her
lower lip until it bled and let loose a long shuddering
sob. The pain was so intense
that she would rather have suffered a hundred lashes than endure such
punishment. She fought with every
breath not to beg for mercy.
“You bear pain well,
but you will eventually beg me to show you pity,” Gorvag said, seeing
the tears of pain that started from her eyes. “And now I will do what
I promised you the first day I laid eyes on you.”
Shailaja did not understand
his words until she saw him begin to unlace his
trousers. Then his intentions
became more than clear to her, but there was little she could do about
it. Her suffering was so great
that he could have demanded anything from her and she would have had little
will to resist.
His unlacing completed,
Gorvag stood before her, his limp member dangling just two spans from her
face. But already Shailaja could
detect the stiffening of his manhood as he stepped toward
her. Her nostrils were filled
with his strong male scent, an odour she normally found arousing, but this
time her stomach lurched in protest.
Gorvag seized her by the
hair, bending her head back and forced her to look him in the
eyes. Shailaja held his gaze
unflinchingly in spite of the agonizing pain in the palms of her
hands.
“I’ll see the
fire in those emeralds dimmed before I’m through with
you. You will suffer like
you’ve never suffered before and it starts now.” Gorvag
crowed. His fingers found her
swaying breasts and closed savagely on her
nipples. It was brutally painful,
but so great was the pain in her hands that Shailaja hardly noticed
it. However, Gorvag was just
getting warmed up.
He moved behind her and
slit her trousers from the back and then pulled what was left of them down
over her hips. Then he settled
his body against her backside, his now stiff member touching her in a place
where no man had ever taken her.
“You think you hands hurt,
barbarian? That’s going
to be nothing compared to the pain in your
backside.”
There was a slight wait
as Gorvag rubbed a sweet smelling oil over his
manhood. Then he shoved forward,
forcing his way into her. In
spite of the lubricant it took considerable grunting for Gorvag to penetrate
her, and as he had promised there was more pain than she had ever cared to
experience, so much so that it almost eclipsed that of the pain in her
hands.
“I told you I would
do this on the first day we met,” Gorvag
jeered. “It’s been
a long time coming, but now I have
you.” He thrust hard, sending
agonizing pain through her backside.
She moaned and he thrust deeper, penetrating her
fully.
“You’ll do more
than a little groaning, girl,” Gorvag grunted as he held her
hips. “Before I finish with
you I’ll have you begging me for a quick
death.”
By now begging was not far
from Shailaja’s mind, but her honour and the stubborn will to resist
that had always characterized her would not allow her to
surrender. In spite of the horror
and helplessness of her predicament she still had hope of escape and as the
agony of her violation increased she cursed the youthful stupidity that had
led her to ride boldly into a situation she would have been much better
avoiding. It was a hard lesson,
and one that would most likely cost her life.
Gorvag used her as harshly
as he could, stroking deep within her with the full intention of proving
his mastery over her. Every movement
of his body sent a surge of pain though her, but especially through her painfully
pierced hands. Shailaja’s
punishment presented quite a spectacle to the members of the camp who surrounded
her. With every one of Gorvag’s
thrust her large breasts quivered and her hair, now unbraided and falling
to her waist, swirled about as she was
taken.
The assembled spectators
shouted encouragement to Gorvag and he redoubled his efforts, forcing a gasp
from her lips with every thrust.
Her tight sphincter was far too small to accept a man of Gorvag’s
size easily, and he made little effort to be gentle, forcing himself into
her with savage energy and excruciating
pain. Shailaja moaned in agony
and cried out with every thrust, no longer able to hold out against both
the pain in her backside and the agony of the nails penetrating her
palms. He continued his brutal
assault until he finally emptied his seed within
her. It was painfully humiliating
and it marked only the beginning of her ordeal.
“Her ass is reserved
for me. But you can do what you
want with her cunt,” Gorvag cautioned as he stepped back from his almost
weeping victim.
It was enough for his men,
and Walnuf took her next, and using her just as harshly as Gorvag had in
spite of his mild restrictions on her
use. By the time he was finished
with her Shailaja was in so much pain that it was only with difficulty that
she held back her cries. And
then it was the turn of the next man.
The assaults continued all night long and into the hours of early
morning. Each one seemed more
painful than the last. By now
Shailaja was slick with her own juices as well as those of the men who used
her, and it should have been easier, but the pain of her pierced palms made
every movement of her body so painful that she was almost sobbing at the
end. It ended only as the light
of dawn tinged the horizon and only then due to the arrival of a dust-covered
horseman.
His coming caused no little
stir in the camp although Shailaja was hardly in any condition to be aware
of much of a change in her surroundings.
She remained in the position her captors had placed her, bent at the
waist on her knees, her tortured hands swollen, and her body stinking from
her ordeal. Too exhausted to
even raise her head, she was aware only of the fact that for awhile at least,
her torment seemed to have ended.
The sun rose and with it
a quickening of the activity in the camp.
Shailaja hung in her cramped position, her body on fire with the pain
of her ordeal. Unable to move
from her painful position, she fought against the slow crippling of her body
caused by her inability to move.
She moaned without thinking, and suddenly Gorvag was in front of her
once again. Seizing her by the
hair he raised her head and stared into her
eyes.
“I thought you might
be stronger than that, barbarian,” he
sneered. “At this rate
you’ll not last out the day.”
He shrugged. “So
be it. I’ll see if you still
live when I return. For now I
have urgent business.”
His words barely penetrated
her consciousness. She knew only
that for now her ordeal at his hands was
over. However, it was not an
end to her anguish. She slumped
forward, the ropes binding her arms holding her where she was, and waited
to see what would come.
She had little recollection
of what else passed that day.
Someone, she thought it was Siva, gave her water, but there was nothing
anyone could do to ease the position of her body or the pounding pain in
the palms of her hands. As the
day dragged on she sank lower as the strength drained from her body under
the heat of the summer sun. And
then she was aware of a commotion in the camp and the sound of
horses.
There was the sound of loud
conversation and the movement of people toward
her. Slowly she lifted her head,
although it cost her what little remained of her strength to do
so. Before her was an unlikely
assortment. Gorvag, of course,
and to his left Siva. Next to
Siva was one she knew but had not had much association
with. This was Selvan-mal-Tir,
the Tharian healer who had been with the Ravens from before she had
joined. To Gorvag’s right
was Walnuf and with him were five other men she did not
know. These last were tall men;
each of a height with Gorvag and all wore polished black lamellar
armour.
She recognized them as
Belusendrans, a land to the east and south of
Arkana. Like that of Kaltara
they were a warrior culture, but one that extended no equality to
women. Indeed it was said that
in Belusendra a woman ranked no higher than a
slave. However, at the moment
she had little interest in their origins or even what they were doing in
the camp of the Ravens.
Gorvag loomed over her a
sneer upon his lips. Once more
he seized her hair, almost yanking it from the roots and tilted her head
toward him. “It seems our
barbarian is a mere woman after all,” he
sneered. “I expected more
of her than this.”
“You drive nails through
her palms and then subject her to the use of more than a hundred men and
you are surprised she barely lives?” Siva
growled. “She is dying and
brought there by your hand.”
Gorvag glowered at
Siva. She had been long with
the Ravens and perhaps it was this that gave her the courage to speak
so. However, it was quite obvious
that Gorvag was not pleased by her
response. “Watch your tongue
woman. I am leader here and your
friendship with the redheaded barbarian matters not to
me. I will punish her as I see
fit.”
“It seems something
of a waste to me,” commented the tallest of the Belusendran
warriors. “Putting her on
her back would be much more rewarding than nailing her to a
frame.”
Gorvag bridled once more
at the implied criticism, but this time he reacted
differently. “Think you
so, Velag? She is an untameable
barbarian from the frozen wastes of
Kaltara. How then would you deal
with her?”
“So this is the
Kaltaran,” another of the Belusendrans
mused. “She seems a little
less than impressive in her present position.”
“I assure you, Quorash,
that she is formidable enough,” Gorag
answered. “She killed over
a dozen of my warriors and injured many more before she was
subdued.”
“Indeed?” the
one called Velag queried.
“Then it would seem she is worth
keeping. Other than killing some
of your rabble what else did she do to earn such
punishment?”
“She sought to kill
me,” Gorvag replied. “As
a leader of men you must be aware that I cannot permit such
mutiny.”
A few other members of the
camp had arrived. Gorvag’s
comment drew derisive laughs from some.
The mercenary leader glowered, but there was little he could do about
it. It seemed that the lack of
discipline so evident in the camp had not won Gorvag any great
loyalty.
Through eyes that barely
saw Shailaja watched as Velag walked toward
her. He inspected her as one
would a prize horse. “She
has the breasts of a goddess, full, large, and rounded; and a face that is
most pleasing. It seems a waste
to kill her when she could be of so much use in another
capacity.”
She is
dying.” The statement was
blunt and it came from Selvan.
“It is not the nailing
of her hands or the using of her that is killing her, but the position of
her body. With her arms raised
the lungs cannot draw air as they are
accustomed. Nor can the heart
properly circulate the blood. Her
fluids are descending into her lower extremities and her body is slowly
drowning. It is a most painful
way to die as I am sure Gorvag knows.”
Shailaja slumped forward
again, the brief effort of raising her head having exhausted
her. The words of those discussing
her fate buzzed in the distance like the sound of a swarm of gnats
“I would have her,”
she heard Velag say.
“Surely a more compliant
wench would be to your liking,” Gorvag
objected. “I doubt you will
find much favour with her.”
“No,” Velag
disagreed. “I think the
possession of a legendary Kaltaran would please me
more. The pleasure of breaking
her would be great and I should enjoy finding out how well she moves beneath
a man.”
“Then she is yours
to seal our bargain,” Gorvag
grinned. “I wish you the
joy of breaking her, but I think she may prove more difficult than you
think.”
“It is a point of pride
with me,” Velag preened, “that I can break any woman, no matter
how strong minded. Within a month
she will be as a kitten, purring at my touch.”
“Then take her,
brother,” Gorvag said.
“I would very much like to witness such a
miracle. Just remember that cats
have claws”
“And so you shall,”
Velag said. “Have her cut
down.”
Gorvag spoke to someone
and Shailaja was aware of several people around
her. One from his deep voice
she recognized as Ulriggan, the Raven’s
smith. Evidently Gorvag had kept
certain former members of the Ravens who might be of value to him such as
Selvan and the smith. She stirred
herself again, forcing open her eyes and somehow moving her
body.
“I see that she has
more life than you would think,” Velag
stated. “I think she may
prove a worthy prize.”
Gorvag snorted, but made
no further comment as Ulriggan moved to stand before
her. From a heavy belt around
his waist the smith took out a heavy pair of metal pincers. He held them
to the head of the nail pinning her left hand and with a sharp snap cut through
the metal. Still bound to the
post Shailaja remained where she was while he repeated the operation on the
other hand, and then Selvan stepped
forward.
“This is going to hurt
a great deal, child,” the healer said, “but I need to get you to
the healer’s tent to treat
you.” While Siva and Ulriggan
held her, Selvan cut the ropes binding her to the post and then with the
greatest care possible, pulled her hand off the nail.
Shailaja did not scream,
but could not hold back a grunt of pain, and her body quivered with the shock
of what was done to her.
Velag
laughed. “You see what spirit
she has? She is going to make
a most worthy slave.”
And then the other hand
was done and she fell forward into the arms of her
rescuers. As if she were no more
than a child Ulriggan lifted her and carried her to the healer’s
tent. Shailaja clenched her teeth
against the pain the entire way, although tears rolled down her
cheeks. It would have been far
better had she fainted, but her body would not let her.
The great strength of which she
had always been so proud now worked against her, leaving her in the grips
of such agony that it took all of her resolve not to
weep.
Ulriggan placed her on her
back on a cot to one side of the tent.
There were several other patients most of them put there by her hand,
but she hardly noticed them as she lay in a confusion of
pain. She was incredibly weak,
but she managed to hold up her hands in front of her to survey the
damage. They were swollen to
several times their normal size and she could hardly move her
fingers. In the centre of each
palm was an ugly red hole from which a watery blood-tinged fluid
oozed. The sight filled her with
the utmost despair. What if such
damage could not be healed? She
would not be able to hold a sword or any other weapon and Gorvag’s vengeance
would be more than
complete.
So deep was her desolation
that she hardly noticed as Selvan raised her head and held a cup to her
lips. And then a strange fuzziness
overcame her and everything dissolved into
darkness.
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