Tales of
Erogenia
Episode 1: The
SnowPrincess
Chapter 5:
Slave
Zenaria staggered after
the female troll. The creature
seemed tireless and dragged her forward down forest
paths; across roiling mountain streams and stinking swamps; and through
thorn-infested thickets. Flies
and biting insects swarmed around her attracted by the cuts and abrasions
inflicted during her capture by the
Urtts. Her bare feet were cut
and bruised by sharp stones and every forced step became
agony. Finally, just when she
thought she would collapse the troll turned off the trail and entered a rocky
canyon.
The troll jogged down the
canyon for about a hundred yards and then stopped before a large cave
opening. She turned her shaggy
head and gave Zenaria a fang-toothed grin.
“Home,” she
grunted. An exhausted Zenaria
could not reply, only follow meekly as the troll pulled her into the
cave.
Inside Zenaria was surprised
to see that it was not the dark and gloomy cavern she had
expected. Instead light entered
the interior, not just from the cave entrance, but from a large hole in the
cave ceiling that appeared to have been artificially
created. In spite of her confusion
and exhaustion Zenaria realized that there might be more to trolls than she
had thought.
“You stay there,”
the female troll ordered, pointing to what appeared to be a pile of leaves
and branches against one wall. On
closer inspection it resolved itself into a bed and Zenaria was only too
glad to sink down upon it. A
few seconds later the male troll entered the cavern carrying Zenaria’s
clothing and weapons. “Why
you bring those, Rorrg?” the female troll asked, eyeing him
suspiciously.
“Sell to
trader. Buy more goods,”
Rorrg answered.
The female troll grunted
and moved over to another part of the
cave. Zenaria saw to her further
surprise that the cave was full of modern improvements including a large
iron cooking pot, metal traps, and tools for working
stone. The latter probably explained
the stone shaft that let in light from
above.
“When supper?”
Rorrg asked. Zenaria shuddered,
wondering if she might be part of the menu, but Rorrg did not even look at
her. And then she remembered
something the female troll had said.
Maybe she would be traded.
Surely that meant she would not be eaten.
“Soon,” the female
troll answered. She went to a
large chest and pulled out a large sack.
To Zenaria’s relief it turned out that it contained what looked
like dried peas. However, that
did not answer the question of what sort of meat might be used and she remained
apprehensive until Rorrg moved into an alcove and returned carrying a large
haunch of meat. To her further
relief she noted that the meat seemed to be venison.
Zenaria knew only a little
bit about trolls. The huge beasts
were almost unknown in the cold, mountainous regions inhabited by the snow
leopard. But it was said that
they were creatures of almost unbelievable strength and ferocity and from
the way that Garrod and the Urtts had run she could well believe
that. It was also said that they
preferred human flesh to any other and that they delighted to torturing anyone
unlucky enough to fall into their grips.
So far Zenaria had not seen any indication of the latter characteristics,
but that did not mean it wasn’t
true. And the female troll had
mentioned something about trading or
eating
her.
“Get water,” the
female troll ordered, tossing a leather bucket toward
Rorrg. The male troll caught
it and moved toward another section of the cave where he scooped water from
a shallow basin. Zenaria noted
that a small spring trickled down the wall of the cave constantly refilling
the basin until it overflowed and made its way toward the cave entrance in
a tiny stream.
Rorrg returned with the
water and kindled a fire beneath the iron pot using flint and
steel. He proved quite adept
at this and soon had a roaring fire.
This was further evidence of Zenaria’s
ignorance. Up until now she had
supposed that trolls ate all of their food raw.
What you look at?”
the female troll growled, noting Zenaria’s fascination with their
activities. “You think we
eat you? Might - you look
tasty.”
“Leave her ‘lone,
Grettcha,” Rorrg said.
“She just be
frightened.”
Grettcha grinned and Zenaria
turned deep crimson. Rorrg’s
comment was all too true. She
was frightened, a condition
no Erogenian warrior would admit to.
However it was part of Zenaria’s destiny to discover that there
was more to courage than simply not being afraid, although she had no inkling
of it at the time. Instead
Rorrg’s comment ignited a defiant response.
“I fear no one,”
she shouted. With surprising
energy she managed to bound across the cavern to
where Rorrg had dumped her gear.
Her fingers closed around the hilt of her sword and she drew it forth
and turned to face the two trolls.
However, with her wrists still bound and her nude body swaying with
exhaustion, she hardly presented much of a threat to either
troll.
“She even more pretty
than before,” Rorrg commented.
“I like her like that.”
“You put eyes back
in head,” Grettcha warned, “or I put her in
soup.”
Rorrg laughed, a sound somewhere
between that of a lion’s roar and the screech of an
eagle. He seemed completely
unconcerned by Grettcha’s threat or Zenaria’s defiant
stance. He moved toward the Snow
Leopard warrior while Grettcha looked on
unconcernedly. “Put down
poker,” he ordered, “or Rorrg punish.”
Zenaria remembered that
Rorrg’s use of the word punish meant rape and
she prepared herself for battle.
However, her act of rebellion was humiliatingly and quickly
crushed. She had not had time
to remove the tough rope from her wrists and Rorrg simply reached down, picked
up the trailing end of the rope and jerked her halfway across the
cavern.
With a cry of surprise and
despair Zenaria was pulled right off her
feet. Even given the troll’s
huge size she had not expected such strength, but she had no time to reflect
on her mistake as she slammed heavily into the rock floor of the cavern,
her sword flying from her hands and clattering loudly against the
stone. She lay helpless as her
enormous adversary loomed over her.
Fortunately Rorrg was more
amused than angry, an attitude that Zenaria found even more
mortifying. It was as if the
troll was treating her like a naughty
child. “You
be good,” he ordered.
Zenaria did not have much
choice but to obey. Without her
sword she would have little chance against the troll and being slammed to
the rock floor had taken the last of her defiance out of
her. She waited, beaten and exhausted
for the trolls to decide her fate.
At first that fate did not
seem too frightening. For an
hour she waited while Grettcha prepared supper, sitting quietly near the
crude bed. She noted that Rorrg
carefully placed her weapons in another part of the cave out of her immediate
line of sight. Then Grettcha
lifted a spoon the size of a canoe paddle to her lips and gave a satisfied
smack. “MMM,” she
grunted. Picking up a bowl the
size of a washtub she spooned it half full and then placed it in front of
Zenaria.
For a few seconds Zenaria
looked stupidly at the pea soup then she picked up the oversized spoon Grettcha
had stuck into it. In spite of
her exhaustion she found she was quite
hungry. Tentatively she raised
a spoonful to her lips. To her
considerable surprise it was quite good, and she took another and then
another. Before she knew it the
bowl was half empty and she could eat no more.
Grettcha looked at her
half-empty bowl disapprovingly.
“Skinny human,” she
chided. She picked up the bowl
and set it aside. “Save
for breakfast,” she added.
Her belly full and with
nothing else to do, Zenaria suddenly found she was very
tired. Curling up on the crude
bed she closed her eyes and was almost instantly
asleep. She stayed that way until
the next morning.
When she awoke Rorrg was
gone, but Grettcha was more than enough to prevent her from
escaping. Besides, her every
movement was so agonizing that she could barely make her way to the section
of the cave that Grettcha indicated was for relieving
herself. It was a small trench
through which flowed a stream of water.
There was also another of the basins carved into the side of the cavern
wall. Into it trickled a thin
stream of water that kept it filled to the
brim. Zenaria supposed that this
was some sort of wash basin and took advantage of the opportunity to wipe
the sweat, grime, and blood from her
body. Then she returned to
bed. Waiting for her was the
cold bowl of pea soup she had not finished the night
before. She stared at it for
a second and then spooned half of it down, setting the rest aside for
later. So far the trolls had
treated her well or at least well compared to what she had
expected. But she was still a
captive and entirely at their mercy.
She could not expect that such benign treatment would
continue.
The day passed in total
boredom, but it was a day that Zenaria needed to help her recover from her
ordeal. Her body was covered
in scratches, bruises and abrasions and she hurt all
over. For the most part she simply
lay on the crude bed and rested.
Sometime after
As it turned out she could
not think of anything that first day or the next or the
next. Grettcha was never more
than a few feet away and other than preparing meals she seemed quite content
to sit and watch Zenaria. For
the Snow Leopard maiden, however, the hours seemed to pass as slowly as the
flow of maple sap during a cold spring.
Finally in the afternoon of the second day she got to her feet and
began to move through the ritual exercises of a Snow Leopard
warrior.
These consisted of a series
of moves simulating both unarmed and armed combat and there were literally
hundreds of patterns and variations on the
exercises. Although Grettcha’s
eyes widened, she made no effort to stop Zenaria, but instead looked on
interestedly while Zenaria refreshed her
training.
The athletic activity helped
to pass the time and left Zenaria tired enough at the end of each day that
she slept well. However, during
the three days Rorrg was absent she found no opportunity to
escape. Grettcha might be lacking
in imagination and perhaps intelligence, but she was an excellent
guard. At no time did she move
farther than twenty feet from Zenaria and always she remained
watchful. Zenaria might have
chanced making a run for it, but she had seen how quickly Grettcha could
move when she had been dragged behind the troll when she was first
captured. She had no doubt that
Grettcha could run her down without
difficulty. As a result, she
remained a captive until the day that Rorrg
returned.
When the male troll returned
he had someone with him.
Or rather, several
someones. Zenaria had
never seen anything like them, which is not too surprising, considering that
prior to her spirit quest she had never been more that a half day’s
walk from her stockade.
There were five human males,
but they were quite different from the men she was used
to. Not only were their skins
very dark, but had they been members of the Snow Leopard tribe
they would have been regarded as
runts. Not one of them came up
to Zenaria’s chin even though from their facial hair they were obviously
adults. The beards were another
difference. In spite of their
reputation as barbarians Snow Leopard males were clean
shaven. It was partly a matter
of vanity and partly practical. In
melee combat beards could be grabbed by an
opponent.
The strangers were also
dressed most peculiarly, wearing long robes that reached from their shoulders
to their feet. It seemed to Zenaria
that they were heavily overdressed, especially considering the warm summer
weather.
For an instant hope surged
through her. Surely the presence
of other humans meant that she would be saved from the trolls, but that hope
died almost instantly when she noted the way that they looked at
her. It was as if she was being
examined like some item at a market and for the first time in her life Zenaria
was conscious of her nudity.
“Uhh,” grunted
Rorrg. “Here be pretty
female. She
good for trade, yes?”
One of the men stepped forward,
stroking his beard. Zenaria assumed
he was the leader. The way he
looked at her would have invited a beheading had he done it when Zenaria
had a sword in her hand. Either
that or she would have considered asking him to bed her provided she had
not taken her vow. But she was
given neither option. Rorrg’s
comment struck home. She was
going to be traded.
“Well,” the man
replied, “she might be of some
value. How much do you
want?”
At that point Grettcha took
over. She might not have been
much of a conversationalist, but she was very good at
bartering. “We want salt,
much salt.
Ten
barrels. And new
iron pot. And copper
wire. And more
peas.
And…”
Grettcha’s list of
demands went on for quite some time, but the dark-skinned trader appeared
to have done this before. He
made a return offer less than a quarter of what Grettcha had asked and seemed
quite unperturbed at Grettcha’s outraged threats to put him in her next
stew.
“Why, Grettcha,”
he responded. “If you did
then wherever would you get your next cooking pot when that one wears
out?”
Throughout all the demands
and offers Zenaria watched, her sense of outrage growing within her until
finally she exploded. “What
is this?” she screamed.
“How dare you discuss me as if I were no more than a piece of
meat or chunk of iron to be bartered
away? I am a princess of the
Snow Leopard tribe. I will not
be treated this way.”
Her outburst did not have
the desired effect. Instead it
completely backfired on her.
“Princess?” Grettcha
asked. “Then she
be worth even more.”
The dark-skinned trader
flashed Zenaria a look of pure hatred.
And his face got even darker when Grettcha listed her demands all
over again, but this time doubling each previous item.
Appalled and annoyed that
her outburst had resulted in the opposite of what she desired; Zenaria turned
her back and sat down. She stayed
that was until the bargaining was over.
“Get up,
princess.” It was the
trader. He stood just a few feet
away, holding the rope that bound her wrists in his
hand. Behind him were his four
henchmen and the two trolls. It
was apparent that she had little choice but to comply with his
demand.
As she stood he motioned
two of his henchmen forward. They
took her arms and attempted to move her
forward. Angrily, Zenaria shook
them off, her powerful arms pushing them easily away from
her.
“Yes,” the trader
commented. “It is apparent
that she has spirit. I would
expect no less from a barbarian princess.
She will have to be tamed.”
He nodded to the two trolls and the huge creatures stepped
forward.
The trolls were something
that Zenaria could not resist, at least not without some sort of
weapon. They took her arms and
lifter her from the floor of the cavern and carried her to where the trader
indicated.
At first Zenaria was
confused. She had expected the
trolls to escort her from the cavern.
Instead they moved her closer to the
fire. Then suddenly she understood
what they were going to do.
“No!” she
cried. She strained with every
muscle to break away, but she was like a babe in arms in the hands of the
trolls. They carried her kicking
and struggling to a large stone next to the
fire. Once there they held her
face down over the stone while one of the dark-skinned men bent an iron band
around her neck. All of her strength
was not enough to prevent him from doing it, nor was she able to break away
while an iron rivet was heated red hot in the fire and pounded through each
end of the iron band, creating an iron collar around her
neck.
The touch of the iron on
her neck was like a death sentence.
Hope left her, temporarily robbing her of her strength to
resist. She lay still as
two more bands of iron were secured about each of her
wrists. Only then was she allowed
to stand.
She stood dazed, her arms
slightly
raised.
She had little choice. Heavy
iron chains connected her wrists to the collar around her neck, preventing
freedom of movement. Even if
she had held a sword in her hand she would not have been able to swing
it. She was completely at the
mercy of the dark-skinned men who had bought
her. The iron around her neck
and wrists weighed her down. It
was an oppressive weight that seemed far heavier than it really
was. It completely robbed her
of her will to resist. She stood
fighting to control her trembling waiting to see what was going to happen
next.
Her bondage complete Rorrg
appeared with her clothing. With
her arms so positioned she was unable to dress herself and had to suffer
the further humiliation of letting one of the men dress
her. He took full advantage of
the opportunity, allowing his hands to linger on her belly and breasts as
he arranged her minimalist costume.
“That will be enough,
Adul,” the trader said.
“She is not yours to touch.
That will be reserved for the man who buys
her.” He picked up a length
of chain that was connected to the iron collar and with a tug directed Zenaria
toward the cavern entrance.
Outside were a number of
pack mules. Zenaria was familiar
with them even though the tribe of the Snow Leopard made little use of beasts
of burden. The cold climate was
not conducive to keeping donkeys, mules, or horses through the long cold
winter when fodder was not available.
But she had seen southern traders using them during the summer months
when they came to exchange their goods for the fine furs and high quality
amber the Snow Leopard tribe harvested from its northern
wilderness.
The two trolls followed
and Zenaria watched as they unloaded the goods that the trader had promised
them. As they carried them into
the cave the trader approached her.
“A barbarian
princess,” he said. “I
have long sought such a find, and now I have one.”
Zenaria opened her mouth
to reply, but nothing came out. She
stood gaping while the trader walked around her in a circle, inspecting her
as he would a prize horse. Finally
he stopped in front of her.
“And I am Gazari ven
Raban, Thuski in the empire of Sandak” the
dark-skinned trader said. “I
am now your master. Your foolish
outbursts have already cost me far more than I bargained
for. From now on you will speak
only when spoken to. Were you
not so valuable to me I would have you whipped for your
insolence. But do not try my
patience. I will get you to Sandak
one way or the other. If it means
that I have to remove some of your skin from your body I
will. Now shut up and do as you
are told.”
If ven Raban’s speech
had been intended to finish her complete subjugation it
worked. She bowed her head and
tried to hold back the tears that threatened to destroy her warrior
image. She had no idea what the
title “thuski” meant, but something in the way ven Raban spoke
sent chills down her spine; that and the way he looked at
her. Suddenly Zenaria wished
she were more fully clothed. It
was a strange feeling for a member of a society in which the human body was
something to be displayed rather than
hidden.
The name Sandak also sobered
her. Never before had she encountered
any of the people of that far away
empire. But she knew its
reputation. It was a place where
human life was held so cheaply that the vice of slavery was practiced as
a part of everyday life. It was
said that anyone who was unfortunate enough to fall into the hands or a Sandakar
slaver was never seen again. It
was a thought that filled her with quiet
desperation. Surely her spirit
quest could not end with a life of
slavery. Somehow she had to
escape
Escape, however, was not
possible, and bad as things were they were nothing compared to what awaited
her. Ven Raban and his men mounted
their horses and set out. Zenaria
was placed at the end of the column, behind the last mule, the chain around
her neck attached to the harness of the
mule. It was a deliberate attempt
to further break her spirit and it almost
worked. Staggering forward behind
the mule, Zenaria was forced to walk in the dust at the end of the column,
her feet frequently encountering manure dropped by the animals in front of
her.
By the end of the day she
was once again reduced to a state of utter
exhaustion. Covered with dust
and sweat and desperate for water she staggered in the woodland glade Ven
Raban had chosen to set up camp.
But even here she was afforded little
respite. Falling to her knees
in exhaustion she was immediately ordered to stand by her Sandakar
master.
“I gave you no leave
to rest, slave,” Ven Raban shouted.
“You will stand until I permit you to
sit.”
Zenaria lurched to her feet,
swaying from fatigue. But whatever
Ven Raban’s intention, it had the opposite
effect. “I will not let
him break me,” she thought.
“I swear to the gods that I will die before I surrender my will
to such scum.”
Ven Raban let her stand
until the camp was set up. Only
then did he let her go to the small stream that flowed beside the campsite
to slake her thirst and wash some of the day’s grime from her
body.
She did not expect Ven Raban
to feed her, but to her surprise one of his henchmen brought her a steaming
bowl of food. It was not what
she was used to, as a matter of fact Zenaria did not recognize what was in
the bowl, but it was the same as what was served to everyone
else. In any case she was too
hungry to care. Ignoring the
burning spices that flavoured the food, she wolfed it down using her fingers
as fast as the chains confining her wrists would allow.
Sleep came
quickly. In spite of the horror
of her situation she was too tired to stay awake and think about
escape. Nevertheless, she noted
as she nodded off that one of the slavers was assigned to watch
her.
She awoke before
dawn. She had
to. Ven Raban kicked her awake
and ordered her to her feet.
“Get up, princess. You
will get no royal treatment here.”
Zenaria wanted to tell him
that royal treatment among the Snow Leopard tribe meant training twice as
hard as anyone else, but bit back her
reply. As hard as it was she
had to hold her temper. Ven Raban
was now the master of the situation.
Encouraging him to punish her would not do her the least bit of
good.
They got away from camp
quickly. For the first time Zenaria
noted the direction they were moving and it puzzled her.
They should have been moving
south toward Sandak, but instead were moving east and deeper into
Erogenia. Ven Raban was either
lost or he had some other motive. A
few hours later Zenaria learned what it was.
It was near mid-morning
when the small column crested a hill.
Before them was an opening in the trees and she saw that there seemed
to be some sort of fort in the middle of the clearing.
It seemed strange that anyone
would build a fort in the middle of a thick forest, but the reason soon became
clear as they approached.
“It’s not a
fort,” Zenaria thought.
“It’s a prison.”
It wasn’t much of a
prison either, but it was strong enough to house the twenty or thirty wretched
prisoners behind its crude bars.
Sudden realization swept over
Zenaria. It should have been
obvious. Ven Raban was a slave
trader. He wouldn’t be in
Erogenia just for a single captive.
Zenaria was simply one more of many.
Ven Raban used the occasion
to call a short halt. It was
a welcome rest for Zenaria, but it was not the reason he had
stopped. Zenaria’s life
as a slave was about to get much worse.
One by one the prisoners
in the slave compound were brought out and attached to one another by chains
identical to the one she wore about her
neck. All of the slaves were
young men and women, warriors all, although Zenaria had no idea what tribe
they were from. Most were in
the same condition she was, dirty, thirsty, and in a state of
semi-exhaustion. One after the
other they were added to the line of chained slaves until they stretched
out in a long row, twenty seven in all.
And then Ven Raban gave the order to march.
The column moved much more
slowly now, many of the slaves stumbling as they were directed down the
path. Ven Raban’s band of
slavers now numbered ten and they patrolled either side of the
line. Zenaria found out the hard
way that they were not just there to prevent escape.
Zenaria was chained in the
middle of the column, no doubt to make it even more difficult for her to
escape. While climbing a hill
she stumbled, almost taking down the girl in front of her and the man
behind. There was an immediate
pain between her shoulder blades.
“Get up you Erogenian bitch,” yelled the slaver who had
struck her. “Get up or
I’ll take all the skin off your back.”
Zenaria struggled to her
feet and forged ahead. Both ahead
and behind her she could hear the crack of whips as the slavers drove on
those who lagged or stumbled.
Deliberately deprived of water and half starved, none of the other
slaves were in nearly as good condition as
Zenaria. The whips cracked more
and more often as the nightmarish procession continued; and then it began
to rain.
At first Zenaria and the
other prisoners welcomed the rain.
It allowed them to slake their thirst while they moved and cooled
their sweating bodies, but it also turned the crude trail into a
bog. Footing, especially on slopes,
became treacherous, and the marchers slipped and fell more
frequently. But there was no
stopping or slowing down. If
anything it seemed that Ven Raban urged the slaves on
faster. And after awhile the
rain no longer soothed the slaves' overheated
bodies. Instead it chilled to
the bone. Wet and exhausted the
slaves were driven on, the whips falling more and more frequently as they
stumbled from fatigue. Only when
early evening approached did they finally
halt.
Almost too weary to think,
Zenaria huddled on the ground. She
was covered in mud and colder and more miserable than she could have
imagined. That place where Ben
Raban had chosen to stop offered little shelter and in any case the slavers
had only enough tents for themselves.
Without fire there was no hot
meal. The slavers dolled out
handfuls of some sort of grain which the wretched slaves chewed
on. They also ordered the slaves
to crowd together for warmth.
Zenaria pressed her body as close to those around her as she could
and tried to ignore the rain.
Huddled together in misery with the other prisoners Zenaria reflected
that she had carried out part of her
quest. She had made contact with
other Erogenians, but not in the way that she had
imagined. In spite of her exhaustion
she got very little sleep that night.
The rain ended sometime
before morning, but it was a wretched bunch of slaves that were forced to
their feet. Ven Raban seemed
to think that the best cure for their shivering bodies was to force them
into a quick march and he might have been right, but forcing half-starved
and exhausted captives to move at all proved almost
impossible. Right from the start
the slavers had to use the whip and before long blood streamed from the back
of every captive. It soon became
obvious that without proper rest none of the slaves would survive the
day. Reluctantly Ven Raban called
a halt. Cursing with frustration
he ordered that the slaves be properly fed and
rested. As a result the column
did not get underway until early
Zenaria could understand
Ven Raban’s desire for speed.
They were deep within Erogenia and almost certainly the slaver’s
depredations would have been noted by
now. The slavers had to escape
before Erogenian pursuers caught up with
them.
They marched until dusk
in an attempt to make up for the late start, but in spite of ruthless application
of the whip, the column made poor time.
It became obvious even to Ven Rabin that if any of the slaves were
to survive they needed at least one day of rest and he gave it too
them.
The extra day seemed to
work. Rested, the captives made
much better time, and Ven Raban seemed to
relax. He seemed to think that
he had outdistanced any pursuit, a belief made obvious by the fact that he
ordered his men not to drive the slaves as
hard. As a result, the column
slowed down, but it probably saved the lives of most of the
captives.
For two weeks they marched
before finally reaching a river. It
was two weeks of humiliation and torment.
Each day the slaves were marched until Zenaria’s feet
bled. Her deerskin boots had
long since worn through and she had been forced to wrap pieces of her brief
costume around her feet. When
these also were worn away she went
barefoot. She was not alone;
the other prisoners were treated no better and most of them were limping
at the end of each day.
Kept short of water, most
were close to collapse by the time Ven Raban decided it was time to set up
camp. At first Zenaria wondered
at the brutal treatment, but it didn’t take her long to
understand. Although chained
and unarmed, the twenty-seven young men and women were all Erogenian
warriors. Each was capable of
killing an opponent with his or her bare
hands. With less than a dozen
slavers to control them, keeping the captives half crippled and in a perpetual
state of exhaustion was a simple method of making sure that they gave as
little trouble as possible. It
was an effective method. Coupled
with the chain connecting each slave to the other there was not a single
escape attempt during the long march.
As the demoralized captives
stopped at the edge of the river Ven Raban rode his horse along the column
and pointed to the other side.
“Sandak,” he shouted.
“Sandak, and in a few days the slave
market.”
If Ven Raban had intended
his remark to further dishearten his prisoners it had the opposite effect
on Zenaria. Refusing to look
in the direct Ven Raban pointed, she fixed her burning
gaze on him. “You will
die,” she muttered. “You
will die if it is the last thing I do.”
PREVIOUS
CHAPTER
WIZARD'S LAIR
MAIN PAGE
L'ESPION'S
STORY PAGE
NEXT
CHAPTER