Chapter 5: Desert Trial

Bound and helpless Shailaja was forced to endure the humiliation of being dragged through the inn and outside to the courtyard.  There she was searched for weapons.  After finding a second knife in her other boot, a throwing star tucked into her belt, and a palm knife strapped to her wrist, Zenon ordered that she be thoroughly searched.  It gave the thugs who held her a reason to touch and fondle every part of her body, both through her clothing and also beneath it.  Zenon took it one step further, snaking his fingers into the area between her legs.  She winced as he tried to force two fingers into her and the slaver snorted at his discovery.  “I see you’ve despoiled yourself.  That’s unfortunate.  I would have enjoyed being the first to burst your bubble.  Still, you’re tight enough to provide me and my men a few nights of pleasure.”

 

There was nothing Shailaja could say to that.  Humiliated and trussed like a pig for the slaughter, there was little left of her dignity.  The fight had left her aching and battered and the invasive search of her person had added to her bruises.  She willed herself to be calm, and ceased her useless efforts to escape.  Zenon’s words were clear enough; she was once again to be used by men for their amusement, but wasting her strength on fruitless attempts to escape would not help.  She had escaped from worse situations than this and had no doubt she would escape this time as well.  Zenon’s next words, however, told her that escape this time might not be as easy as she had hoped. 

 

“Take her to the blacksmith and prepare her for the journey,” Zenon ordered.  “Then chain her with the others.  We leave immediately.”

 

The rest of the day was a nightmare, beginning with being marched through the streets of Meldin.  Although it was early morning many rose early to avoid the desert heat and numerous curious faces turned toward her as she was dragged through the streets.  Her captors had tied a rope around her neck and pulled her after them as if she were a camel or yegger.  Hooded, she could see nothing and she stumbled frequently as she was led up the street toward the slave pens.  Although blinded she could hear the comments of the citizens as she passed.  While most people simply stared, a number jeered and from their, gleeful shrieks and the stinging pain on her buttocks, a number of small boys chased along beside her, whipping her backside and thighs with small sticks or whips.  With a curse one of her captors ordered them away, apparently not wishing to have her marred, at least by anyone except them.  There would be no serious damaging of the merchandise.  They came at last to the slave pens.  They were located right next to the blacksmith and Shailaja soon found out why.  She could smell them before she saw them.  The stench of sweat, bad food, vomit, and excrement filled her nostrils.  She had seen slave pens before and had always been uncomfortable with them.  It was a case of “There but for the will of the gods, go I.”  But now that she was actually a part of that horror she felt sick, however, she held back any sign of her revulsion, composing herself with some difficulty.

 

Fortunately, Shailaja was spared the ordeal of the pens, but not another degrading trial.  She was pulled into the blacksmith’s shop and dragged over to the anvil.  There, the hood was ripped from her head and she stood blinking in the sudden light. 

 

She was standing in front of the forge and next to it was the smith, his hammer in one meaty hand and his tongs in the other.  He looked her up and down appraisingly and then grinned, apparently liking what he saw. 

 

“Huh, she’s a big one,” the he commented.  Like most smiths he was a burly man, dressed in little more than leather breeches and wearing a heavy apron of the same material.  “Hold her down and I’ll fit the iron.” 

 

Shailaja knew what was coming, but was still seized by a sudden panic.  She struggled like a trapped animal as they dragged her toward the anvil.  She knew it was hopeless, but the thought of an iron collar around her neck broke through her self control.  She almost wept as she was manhandled forward, her handlers using the staff that bound her arms and the rope around her neck to bend her over the anvil.  There she was held in place while the smith stood over her.

 

“Bit of a troublesome bitch,” the smith commented.  “This will help tame her.”  The anvil was set on a huge block of wood and set just below the anvil were several heavy ring bolts.  With practiced ease he wound the rope around Shailaja’s neck and tied it to the anvil, holding her head in position.  To her shame she rolled her eyes in fear as he bent a thick hoop of iron around her neck and then with three blows of his hammer pounded a red-hot rivet through the ends of the piece of iron, securing the iron collar around her neck. 

 

“I’d give her a damned good flogging if I was you,” the smith commented as he stepped back from the anvil.  “She needs to be broken.”

 

“Oh she will be,” one of the men grinned.  “But we have a more enjoyable way in mind.” 

 

The smith grinned his approval.  “I wouldn’t mind helping with that.  She’s a fine looking bitch.”

 

For the first time Shailaja felt hope drain from her.  The despair of a slave almost overwhelmed her and she had to fight to keep from betraying herself.  This is not the way of a warrior she thought.  I will not let them break me.  Somehow I will escape.  And then I will kill them all.

 

By the time the slave collar had been fitted Zenon’s other men had rounded up the other slaves.  There were fifty or so in addition to Shailaja; all of them strong young men and women and about all the slavers cared to handle on the arduous trek across the desert.  They were bound for Thar on the other side of the Tombau.  It was an isolated kingdom where slaves were valued due to their scarcity.  As a result Zenon chose not to be greedy; preferring to transport quality rather than quantity.  With luck he could expect all of his hapless captives to make it to their new home. 

 

Shailaja was forced into line at the head of the coffle, probably because she was the largest and strongest of the slaves, and then they set out.  It was still early morning, the sun just cresting the horizon.  Everything had happened before dawn.  A turn of the glass before she had been a free woman; now she was a helpless captive, chained like an animal and prodded forward by her captors.

 

They set out; eleven slavers; fifty odd slaves; twenty yeggers; and eleven camels.  The latter were ridden by Zenon and his men while the yeggers carried the food, water, and other supplies needed for the trip across the desert waste.

 

The Tombau was a harsh wilderness.  Two hundred leagues of rock and sand; it had few oases and these were known only to a handful of guides.  As a result each slave wore a desert robe to ward off the sun and preserve moisture.  Chained to the other slaves, Shailaja could not escape and the bonds on her arms and her ankles were untied.  Her position at the head of the column allowed her no advantage.  The chain attached to her collar was secured to the harness of a yegger and she was forced to follow in the footsteps of the lumbering beast. 

 

For all their harshness, the slavers set an easy pace, stopping frequently for rests and breaks and finally setting up camp in mid-afternoon.  By that time all of the slaves were tired, hungry, and thirsty.  Zenon seemed well pleased with their progress, and the fact that the slaves were too tired to offer any resistance.  They were given food and water and then one at a time they were escorted to the edge of the camp and allowed to attend to their bodily functions.

 

For all of their brutal and callous nature the slavers were well organized and efficient, carrying out each task with a minimum of fuss or effort.  Shailaja watched, noting anything that might help her to escape, but she saw no weakness in the slavers’ routine.  It was obvious that they had done this many times and escaping would not be easy.  It left her thoroughly demoralized.  Marching in the dust of the yeggers had left her filthy and exhausted.  Her well-made and expensive riding boots were unsuited for walking and she was sporting more than one blister.  Being forced to perform her bodily functions while two men stood by discussing her assets did little to raise her spirits, but she knew if that was the only indignity she suffered she would be lucky.  The slavers had spoken of breaking her and she knew exactly what that meant.  

 

Her pessimistic assumption was confirmed soon enough.  “Bring the redheaded whore over here,” Zenon ordered.  “It is time to begin her training.” 

 

A lantern had been set up in one corner of the campsite, and she was pulled toward it by two men, each holding a rope tied to the collar that was around her neck.  No matter which way she tried to move she was controlled by the ropes.  The lantern was set up on a pole next to a large flat rock.  As she was dragged toward it several more men closed in and took her arms.  Realizing that she had nothing more to lose she struck out.  However, her captors were expecting a fight and were more than ready for her.  Even as she kicked out Zenon stepped forward and drove his fist into her stomach.  The blow landed just below her sternum and although she tensed her muscles just before it landed, it was expertly delivered, and left her gasping for breath.  As she was quickly learning, when it came to handling rebellious captives her captors were experts, a fact that was emphasized all too strongly when another man kicked her legs out from under her while the two men holding the ropes dropped them to move in and assist the men holding her arms.  Collectively they lifted her from the ground and in spite of the convulsing of her body, which actually heaved the men holding her back and forth; they stretched her arms and legs out and lowered her onto the rock. 

 

Zenon stood over her, watching her frantic struggles.  She heaved her body desperately in an impressive display of strength, and even with four men holding her she almost broke free.  But there was no chance of escape.  There were five more men standing ready if she got an arm or leg loose.  Zenon was content to watch, letting her waste her strength before beginning to undress her.  She realized that the situation was hopeless, and that her struggles were simply arousing the men who held her, but she couldn’t help herself.  She battled until her clothing was soaked with sweat and she was gasping for breath.  Finally, she was too exhausted to do more than struggle weakly as Zenon leered down at her. 

 

“You’re a real fighter,” he grinned.  “It’s going to be a real joy breaking you.”  He ran his finger over her jaw, tracing the strong curve down to the artery that was pulsing in her throat.  Then he nodded to his men.  “Let’s get started.  Take off her boots.”

 

Shailaja struggled hard as her boots were removed, calling on her last reserves of strength, and then a bit harder as Zenon began to untie the fastenings on her shirt.  But she hadn’t the strength to break free from the four big men that held her.  As her trousers were pulled down and her shirt removed her gut twisted in an all too familiar feeling of fear.  Muscles straining, and her body slick with sweat, she tried to pull her arms free as Zenon once again ran his fingers through the curly fleece between her thighs.  He parted her petals even as the last vestiges of her clothing were removed, slipping his finger into the moist warmth of Selene’s Grotto.  Shailaja gasped, the heat of desire spreading through her loins even as she fought against the sensation.

 

“You’re already wet,” Zenon exclaimed.  “So much for pretending to be so virtuous.”

 

What he said was untrue.  Unlike other times her body had not yet betrayed her, but she felt the heat rising within her and fought against it with all of her strength.  Stripped to the skin, the bandeau binding her breasts freed, and her legs spread, she was ripe for the taking. 

 

Zenon and his men took the time to savour their prize, noting the flatness of Shailaja’s belly, the strength of her thighs and buttocks, and the thrust of her breasts.  “If there is a warrior goddess, I do not doubt she would look like you,” Zenon mused.  He moved his hands over her body, following every curve and caressing every muscle.  She bit her lower lip, holding back the moan of desire that tried to force its way past her lips. 

 

“Is that to your liking, warrior?” he taunted.  Shailaja could tell by the sneering tone of his voice that he knew he had her, and his smug confidence filled her with rage, however most of it was directed at herself for allowing her weakness to shame her.  She forced down the rising tide of passion and glared in hatred at her tormentor.

 

“I see you have a little more willpower than I supposed,” Zenon commented, continuing to stroke her body.  She tried to twist away from his hands as he cupped her breasts, but was held fast and her struggles simply gave him more pleasure.  She gasped as his fingers sank into the pliant flesh of her breasts.  He grinned maliciously and then twisted the nipples until they throbbed in pain.   Whatever, desire she was beginning to feel was instantly crushed by this cruel act. 

 

“You will not break me,” she cried.  “I will endure your torment and survive to kill you.  I will kill all of you.”

 

“Will you now?” Zenon sneered.  “I somehow think you’re going to be a bit too busy wiggling your backside to kill anyone.”

 

He was between her legs now, bent over her as his fingers mauled her breasts.  It took him but a moment to unbuckle his trousers and release his ready member.  “Let’s see how much of a warrior you are with this inside you.”  He drove forward and penetrated her fully in a single thrust.  She cried out at the sudden pain of the intrusion and arched her back in agony. 

 

“Not so much of a warrior now are you?” one of the men holding her jeered.  “There’s nothing like a stiff cock to tame a bitch.”

 

There was little Shailaja could say to their taunts and jibes, nor to Zenon’s painful thrusts as he drove into her again and again.  She clenched her jaw, holding back any further cries of pain, and endured the shame as first Zenon and then every other member of his band used her.  However, they did not come close to breaking her in spite of heavy use of her body.  It was a painful and humiliating ordeal, but Shailaja had survived much worse than this.  Fortunately, she was spared the ultimate humiliation in that her treacherous body did not betray her.  In that regard, the hatred she directed toward her captors served her well.  They were the vilest of men, traders in human flesh, and nothing they did to her created the slightest sensation of arousal.  At the end of the ordeal, as she was led back to her place with the other slaves, the flames of vengeance surrounded her heart.  Tonight the slavers had triumphed, but she would have her vengeance and when she did they would rue the day they ever set eyes upon her.

 

Zenon laughed as Shailaja was chained, thinking her beaten.  His mocking countenance clearly showed that he understood how much the degrading encounter had angered her.  She knew that this was just the beginning.  She was a useful tool in his little enterprise.  With half the slaves nubile females and with virginity being highly prized in the southern lands, she could be used to satisfy the fleshly desires of his men, while preserving the value of the other captive women.  It was a role she did not relish, but unless she could get free of the iron collar about her neck she had little choice in the matter.

 

She huddled upon the ground, her desert robe wrapped about her.  Now that the heat of the day had fled, the desert air was rapidly cooling and the sweat drying on her overheated body further added to her discomfort.

 

Proud of her size, strength, and beauty, she had been reduced to a plaything for slavers, an ordeal she would not soon forget.  Once again she had been shown that even the strongest warrior could be overcome by deceit and forced to suffer the most humiliating of ordeals.  Again and again she relived the experience, unable to shut it out of her mind.  Once more she heard the mocking voices of the slavers who awaited their turn as they tossed dice to see who would claim her next, and once again she recalled the heaving of unwashed bodies against hers, and the panting breath of each man as he took her.

 

She had endured the entire episode with only the occasional cry of pain, and had managed to keep her body from responding as she was brutalized.  But there was no doubt that tonight Zenon had won, and his smugly satisfied expression detailed the delight he took in teaching the arrogant redheaded barbarian a painful and mortifying lesson.

 

There was just one humiliation she was spared.  As she huddled in her robe one of the slavers came over to her and handed her a cup full of steaming liquid.  She knew at once what it was and drank it without prompting.  Senna.  At least she would be spared the shame of carrying a slaver’s child.  But it was a small and bitter consolation, especially as the desert trek was just beginning.  Thar was more than a moon away and she had nothing to look forward to except successive nights of shame.  Escape seemed unlikely, but somehow she had to find a way. 

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