Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
2: The Hunt
Morning broke bright and clear, dashing any
hopes that Shailaja had that the unpredictable weather of her homeland might
prevent the planned hunt from taking place.
From the window of her small room she could see the main courtyard and
the servants running to and fro in preparation for the hunt. With a sigh she went to her washbasin and
filled it with water from the pitcher.
She would have preferred a ride to the
She dressed quickly, glad that this time she
could dress in her hunting leathers instead of the finery she had been forced
to wear at the banquet. Using the small
mirror in her room she combed out her hair with ruthless enthusiasm, forcing
the comb through her fiery mane and then plaited it into a warrior’s
braid. She then headed down to the
kitchen for a quick breakfast before heading out.
It was a familiar routine; one she had followed
almost every day since her first bleed and the knowledge that physically she
was a woman. At that time she had been
given the small room next to her parents’ quarters. It was intended that she stay there until she
chose a swordmate at which time she would set up her own household.
Her father and mother were already in the kitchen,
as were several other warriors who would be taking part in the hunt, and she
greeted them all. One of them, Telor,
gave her a quick wink as she sat down at the large kitchen table. She gave him a smile in return. She and Telor had grown up as playmates, and
now as adults he wanted to take the relationship a little farther; well quite a
bit farther, actually. However, in spite
of the fact that he drew the admiring glances of many women, Shailaja still
thought of him more as a brother than a potential lover. That might change; he was undeniably handsome
and a warrior who was almost her equal in combat. She could almost imagine the touch of his
lips on hers and sense his hands running up and down her body. Unfortunately, her lascivious thoughts were
interrupted by a loud growl from her stomach.
Putting thoughts of carnal desire aside for the moment, she helped
herself to a bowl of porridge and cream sweetened with honey and blueberries.
Such informal meals were common in the Great Hall;
formal banquets such as the one on the previous night being unusual in
Kaltara’s egalitarian society. Cleron
and his retinue would, of course, have been served in their rooms as befitted
their status as guest of the Kaltaran Hasta.
Word would have been sent to them that their hosts would meet them in
the main courtyard.
Their hunger satisfied, they moved as a group
to the main courtyard, laughing and joking with one another as family groups and
familiar friends were inclined to do.
Shailaja was not looking forward to seeing Cleron again, but was
prepared to put up with him on this one occasion. A single hunt would satisfy the honour of her
family and for the remainder of Cleron’s stay in Kaltara she could feign
“women’s problems.”
There was a short wait for Cleron and then the
party mounted up and prepared for the hunt.
They were riding plenya, a word that translated as “snow foot” in
Kaltaran. The animal was well named; its
large furry feet enabling it to traverse even the deepest snow with relative
ease. In appearance the plenya resembled
several animals of the southern lands.
Standing over twenty five hands tall at the shoulder it had the
appearance of a powerfully built horse.
However, it was covered with thick white fur that protected it against even
the greatest cold and had feet more like that of a bear. Although it preferred the sweet taste of
grass, it could survive on the boughs of firs or spruce or even mosses and lichens. In short it was better adapted to survival in
the cold wastes of Kaltara than any other beast, and was another reason why
Kaltarans were so greatly respected in war.
Plenya did have one weakness, and that was in conditions of extreme cold
they had to browse frequently in order to restore their strength and as a
result the rider had to stop often to allow it to feed. However, as it was high summer, the plenya
were fat from feeding on the rich grass that carpeted much of Kaltara during
the short summer.
Cleron grinned as he swung himself into the
saddle. “Too bad these beasts are so
poorly adapted to heat. With ten
thousand of these I would have cavalry that would allow me to conquer all of
Vedra.”
“They suit us well enough,” Hari replied. “Now, shall we hunt?”
“By all means War Leader,” Cleron replied. “Lead the way.”
Shailaja noted that Cleron spoke only to her
father, ignoring her mother as was customary when addressing the Hasta. It was a deliberate insult and it filled her
with fury. However, there was no
reaction from either of her parents even though several of the assembled
warriors glowered at the Prithian Emperor.
Instead Hari kicked his heels into his plenya and led the expedition out
of the courtyard and on to the hunt.
They entered the streets of Lorholm, the
largest city in Kaltara and home of the Hasta.
To someone like Cleron, it no doubt appeared to be little more than a
glorified village. Stretching along the
bottom of a mountain valley it was defended only by Kaltara’s rugged terrain
and the fierceness of its warriors.
Nevertheless it had never been taken by any outside foe.
As they rode through the streets people waved
and called out to the Hasta, who waved back.
It was something else Cleron found interesting. He ruled through fear and intimidation. It was strange to see the leaders of the
Kaltara greeted as friends. However,
most of his attention was focused on the tall redhead who rode just ahead of
him.
Even dressed as she was in her hunting leathers
she was an exquisite vision. A half head
taller than he was, she sat straight in the saddle, guiding her plenya with
just a touch of her reins. Her long
braid reached to her backside and swung sensuously against her back. Even watching her from a distance he could
feel himself hardening. And what a
warrior! She wore her sword strapped
over her back and her bow in a case just in front of her right knee. She carried a hunting spear in her right
hand. His mouth watered with desire just
thinking about the children he could make with such a woman. And if everything went according to plan she
would be his by the end of the day.
By now they had reached the end of the village
the Kaltarans thought of as a city and were riding through the small farms
carved out of the wilderness that seemed to exist everywhere in this northern
country. Once again people moved to the
edge of the road to wave and shout greetings to the Hasta. Others waved from their fields as they drove
teams of the huge draft animals called yeggers.
Shailaja waved back, along with the other members of her family, calling
out to many of the farmers by name.
Peasants, thought Cleron. But it was those same peasants that formed
the backbone of Kaltara’s fearsome military.
Kaltara was an enigma; a thinly populated nation that bred warriors of
unparalleled skill and ferocity. It had
long been his ambition to forge an alliance that would see these warriors
released for service in his army, but that had been stifled by the refusal of
the Hasta; and so he had tried a different tactic. If a political union was not possible perhaps
an alliance forged through marriage might work.
However, that plan had also been dashed by the refusal of the redheaded
bitch to accept his proposal. Only one
thing remained for him and that was revenge; and it would be a most enjoyable
revenge.
The procession wound its way through the valley;
passing still more farms, and then took a turn across a bridge that crossed a
small stream. After that the road moved
upward through rocky ground toward the highlands flanking the valley. The route took them to the top of a high
ridge overlooking Lorholm on one side and a thickly forested valley on the
other. They descended into the valley,
the sure-footed plenya picking their way over the rough ground without
difficulty. As they passed a huge rocky
outcrop they spotted their prey.
“Guaron,” shouted Shailaja and pointed to an
opening in the forest. Her warning drew
everyone’s immediate attention as well as that of the prey. Directly ahead of them were a dozen giant
elk-like animals. All were half again as
large as the plenya the hunters rode and their heads were crowned with racks of
antlers that reached more than double Shailaja’s height above the ground.
For an instant the guaron stared at the
encroaching riders, the giant bull actually stepping forward menacingly. He was a magnificent animal, fully fifteen
feet tall from his hooves to the tips of his tree-like rack, but then he turned
and ran, bugling for his harem to follow him.
Shailaja headed directly for the bull as the
herd scattered. By Kaltaran custom the
bull was hers as she had spotted the herd first, but there were plenty of other
guaron for the others to chase.
The pursuit turned into a free-for-all, with
different riders pursuing different animals as the prey fled in all directions. Shailaja pulled her bow from its case, and
with admirable dexterity, strung it while riding her plenya at full gallop. Her long hunting spear she shoved into a
sheath just behind her saddle where it protruded like a flagpole as she charged
after the guaron bull.
She knew from experience that a plenya could
not match the speed of her quarry, but she did have one advantage. An animal the size of the guaron bull ran
best in the open, where its giant antlers would not tangle with the low-hanging
branches of the heavier forest vegetation.
As a result the bull did not necessarily take the most obvious line of
retreat, instead it ran in the line of least resistance, keeping to the open
where possible. Experienced in the hunt,
Shailaja did not attempt to follow the guaron, but instead directed her plenya to
where she thought the guaron would run, leaping her mount over boulders and
fallen trees and crashing through light stands of bush.
She was focused completely on her goal, so much
so that she was unaware that several other riders were hot on her heels; riders
who had not been part of the original group.
They followed just behind her, keeping her in sight but remaining far
enough behind that they would not be accidentally discovered.
By now Shailaja had closed the distance to a
point where she was able to take an arrow from her quiver. Still guiding her mount with her knees she
fitted it to her bowstring and began to take up the tension. Almost as if anticipating her action the
guaron suddenly swerved sharply, hurling itself straight into a dense stand of
willows. In spite of the thickness of
the vegetation the huge beast crashed right through snapping off branches in
its desperate attempt to escape.
Shailaja hurled toward the place where the
guaron had disappeared, but at the last instant she reached out and pulled her
plenya to a halt. Shaking her head she
stared at the place where the guaron had disappeared. “Good for you,” she muttered, and raised her
hand in salute. It had been a good
chase, but the quarry had escaped. She
had no regrets; she and the others were hunting for sport, not from necessity,
and she had enjoyed the chase.
Unstringing her bow, she set it back in its
case and then swung from her panting plenya.
“You ran well, Halvar,” she said.
“I’ll give you an extra ration of oats and beer when we get back to the
stables.”
Halvar grunted in consent, swinging his huge
head around to give her a playful push.
Tearing off a handful of grass she held it up for the plenya to nibble
on and then picked up the reins. Having
just run Halvar so hard she would not ride back, but walk to where the chase
had begun.
“I wonder how the others did,” she mused. But she never found out. At that moment the huge form of another
plenya burst from the undergrowth just yards away. Her sword was instantly in her hand, but the
first rider was joined by another and then another, each coming at her from a
different direction.
Shailaja had no idea who they were, but she
reacted like any Kaltaran warrior, placing her back against Halvar so that she
could only be attacked from one direction.
Unfortunately, that proved to be her undoing. One of the riders did not slow his mount but
instead crashed it into Halvar’s side, smashing her mount sideways and knocking
her off her feet. She was sent sprawling,
and then had to roll desperately out of the way as Halvar came crashing down on
top of her.
Somehow in the scramble to safety, she kept her
hand on her sword, but her original attacker came right at her and using his
plenya like a battering ram, sent it right into her. Once again Shailaja had to dive for safety,
jumping to one side and then executing a roll that brought her to her feet,
only to find the third rider right on top of her. This time she could not escape and the
shoulder of the plenya slammed full into her, sending her head over heels, the
breath knocked out of her, and her sword flying from her hand.
“Get her before she recovers,” shouted one of
the men. The other two did not have to
be told; one was already on his feet while the other leaped from his saddle and
dashed toward the fallen maiden.
Get up!
Get up! Get up!
The words screamed inside Shailaja’s skull. She was defenceless on the ground, but she
could not catch a breath and was able only to make it to her hands and knees
before the first man reached her.
He heaved his weight onto her, pushing her hard
into the ground. “Get the irons onto
her,” he called. Still gasping for
breath Shailaja felt her arms seized and pulled behind her. Something hard was fixed to them just above
the elbow and then somehow clamped tight.
Panic seized her and she fought even harder, but she was unable to
prevent the same thing from being done to her ankles. She battled frantically, but the restraints
that now held her prevented all but the slightest of movement.
“Got you now,” the man who had spoken first
said. “Relax and we won’t have to hurt
you.”
Shailaja grunted with the effort of trying to
break free of the unyielding devices that held her arms and ankles. She had not thought to scream for help;
something few Kaltaran warriors would have done in any case, and a heartbeat
later screaming or talking was rendered impossible as a wooden bar was forced
between her teeth, jamming her mouth open.
It was pulled tight and tied behind her neck, preventing her from doing
more than grunting.
“Easy now,” the man who had gagged her said, as
he pulled her into a kneeling position.
“We’ve got orders to take you alive.
But don’t make us hurt you.”
Another of the men stepped forward and gazed
down at her. “Impressive looking
bitch. I can see why Cleron wants
her. I wouldn’t mind having a little
piece of her myself.”
“You know the orders, Veron,” the third man
said. “We take her to Cleron
untouched. No one so much as touches a
hair on her cunt.”
Shailaja stared helplessly at her captors. They were all much shorter than she was and
clearly not Kaltarans. From their accent
and their dark complexions she guessed them to be Prithians, and the reference
to Cleron made that almost certain. She
had been taken prisoner on the orders of the Prithian Emperor. She had no doubt of his motives. She had dared to refuse him, causing him
public humiliation and now he planned to take his revenge.
Rage filled her at the way she had been
ambushed and captured, but she also felt fear.
She was completely at the mercy of the men who held her, and their words
indicated what was going to be done to her.
Her fear was confirmed a few heartbeats later when the one called Veron reached
out and seized the ties closing her shirt.
“Maybe we can’t touch her, but there is nothing
wrong with having a look.”
“No,” the third man said, stepping forward and
placing a restraining hand on Veron’s arm.
“Cleron will have your balls if you touch her and probably mine too.”
“All right, Denov,” Veron growled. “We’ll leave her untouched and pure for our
mighty ruler’s cock.” With bad grace he stepped
back, still staring at Shailaja’s breasts.
“Enough of this yegger dung,” Denov spat. “Let’s get her out of here before someone
stumbles across us. If we’re caught
we’ll lose a lot more than our balls.”
Wasting no more time, her captors slung Shailaja
face down across the saddle of her mount and used rope to hold her there. Then towing Halvar behind them they set off
up the valley.
Her arms pinioned painfully behind her, and
secured to Halvar’s saddle, Shailaja could do no more than look at the ground
that passed beneath her. She was sick
with the shame at being so dishonoured and just as angry with herself for being
so easily captured. She had not so much
as put up a fight, and was now slung like a bag of grain over the back of her
own plenya, a helpless captive.
She had already tested her bonds a half dozen
times with no result. Escape if it was
possible, would have to wait until she was freed from the iron shackles that
held her. It was that realization that
suddenly replaced her fury with fear. If
she was delivered into the hands of Cleron….
It took little imagination to visualize what he would do to her. Death would seem merciful to such dishonour,
but shackled as she was she could only wait the attentions of her captors. She cursed the day that Cleron had ever set
eyes upon her and strained at the irons clamped just above her elbows. She succeeded only in tiring herself
further. Resignedly she let her head
fall as she was led into captivity.
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