Zona:

Tales of Erogenia

Episode 1: The Snow Princess

Chapter 11: Chained

“Barbarian!” The cry rang out from a dozen throats as Zenaria revealed herself, along with other less complementary terms. Zenaria ignored them, focusing on the hedge of swords and spears surrounding her. With her back to the wall of pottery jars there was no where for her to go, but at least her foe could not come at her from behind. They came at her in a semi-circle, most exercising caution – most but not all.

“She’s just a woman,” exclaimed one man moving to the front. He stood out from the others, his black robes trimmed with gold, and like Tren carrying two swords which he wielded with authority. He stepped forward, licking his lips. “Surrender, barbarian whore. Surrender and I will keep you for myself. Force me to defeat you and I will let the Guard have you first.”

“The Guard.” Zenaria supposed that he was referring to the men ranged behind him. However, she had no intention of repeating the humiliation of being taken prisoner. She would either escape or she would die. She spat at the Sandak warrior’s feet. It was her only reply. She did not argue with fools.

“Whore. You will pay for that.” Without further comment the warrior attacked, whirling his twin blades with blinding speed.

The two swords gave him a decided advantage against Zenaria’s single blade, but she remedied the situation within seconds. As the Sandak came in, she swung her sword in a vicious arc and then in an impressive demonstration of her strength and control, turned the blade in mid-swing and changed its direction ninety degrees. There was a dull thunk as the blade made contact and then the clang of the Sandak’s sword falling to the ground along with his right hand. For a moment the warrior simply stood there, blood pulsing from his stump, and then he let out a scream, and gripping his arm, fled shrieking into the ranks of his men.

The remaining guards took a full two steps back from her, but that was as far as they went. They still outnumbered her thirty to one and they were not about to let her escape. “Get an archer,” shouted one of them. “We’ll fill the bitch full of arrows.”

Zenaria attacked. If she was going to die, she might as well die fighting rather than waiting to be cut down by an arrow. Surprisingly her attack caught the surrounding Sandak guards unprepared. She went through them like a scythe through grain, each cut of her sword bringing screams of pain and cries of rage and alarm. Only when she had cut into the ranks of the guards so deeply that they were beginning to close in behind her did she retreat, leaving three men writhing on the ground and two lying very still. Several more nursed bloody wounds where her sword had made contact, but not cut deeply enough to inflict a mortal would. Zenaria sported several nasty cuts that would probably heal into honourable scars provided she lived long enough.

She was now backed up against the storage jars once more, her body gleaming in the torchlight as once again her foe pressed forward. She was breathing hard from exertion, but far from finished. However, it was obvious that her situation was hopeless. She had killed and disabled a dozen or more men, but their ranks had swelled by several score more. They hemmed her in, those at the back pushing forward to get a look at the wild barbarian trapped by their fellows.

“Kill her!”

“Cut the barbarian bitch down!”

“Gut her!”

The shouts from those at the back had no affect on those at the front. They had seen what the cornered barbarian could do. Now they waited for a safer way of bringing her down.

Zenaria caught the movement at the last second. She stepped to one side just as an arrow rattled against the pots behind her. It passed so close that its flights caressed her shoulder. She had dodged one arrow, but others would come. She relaxed, waiting for the right moment and when it came twisted her body and raised her blade.

“She’s a witch!” shouted one of the Sandak guards as Zenaria actually caught the arrow a foot from her body, deflecting it harmlessly aside.

“Another bowman,” Someone else yelled. “She can’t dodge two arrows at once.”

Zenaria detected movement on the edge of the crowd. Her position was lit by the torches carried by the guards although she could see only shadows, but she knew that there were at least two archers drawing a bead on her.

It turned out that there were three. The twanging of the bowstrings reached her just before the arrows did. She twirled her blade in an intricate pattern, while once again stepping to the side. She was rewarded by the sound of an arrow whistling by her head, and the sharp “ping” as one deflected off her blade. But there was an agonizing rush of pain from the arrow that pierced her thigh.

She staggered and almost fell. Although she made no sound other than a grunt, the pain in her thigh almost made her faint, but she fought for control, forcing the pain away from her mind, and looked down. A yard long feathered shaft had struck the fleshy part of her thigh, missing the bone, but penetrating until the iron arrowhead emerged from the other side. It was a crippling injury, taking away her mobility, but still her foes hesitated to attack. Instead they stood back to let the archers finish her. And this time, Zenaria knew, she would not be able to avoid them. She raised her blade and prepared to die, whispering a quick prayer to the Moon. “Take me Silver Queen; your warrior dies with honour.”

“Hold! I want her alive! I’ll flay the man who kills her.”

Zenaria peered into the darkness beyond the circle of men, but she could see nothing of the speaker. However, it was a voice heavy with authority and no arrows came. And then the crowd parted to allow a red-robed figure to stride into view. He wore no hood, instead a circlet of gold proclaimed him to be someone of rank. In his right hand he held a staff bound with gold and with an ornate crystal at the top. He was the tallest Sandak she had yet seen, standing several inches taller than her and he was strikingly handsome. He appeared to be in his early thirties with dark hair and even darker eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. A hooked nose added an eagle-like element to his striking features, but it was spoiled by a down-curving mouth that was cruelly expressive.

“Fifty men,” he sneered. “Fifty men and just one barbarian woman. I want her taken and I want her taken alive. I will personally carve off the flesh of any man who holds back. Take her now!”

Zenaria swung her blade, hacking down the attacking Sandakar like a farmer cutting down nettles, but they came at her in a great swarm, fearing the wrath of the Sandak thuski more than they feared death. And this time she was hampered by the burning wound in her thigh. Forced to balance on one leg, she took down the first few men who came at her, but by sheer weight of numbers they forced her back and once she took one step, she stumbled and went down under a wave of attackers.

Although they had orders not to kill her, it was impossible for them not to strike at the barbarian who had killed and wounded so many of them. She avoid a spear thrust to the face, but the same warrior who had tried to impale her swept the haft of his spear around and struck her over her left ear. Stunned, she dropped her sword and then a dozen fists struck at her, slamming into her head and torso and driving her to the ground.

“Hold I said,” the thuski roared. He forced his way into the melee, laying about him with his staff, until the men pummelling the barely conscious barbarian fell back from her. “This one I want alive. It will be most gratifying when I bind her to my will. Bring up chains. I want no chance of her escaping.”

Zenaria managed to get to her knees. The arrow that had pierced her thigh had snapped off when she had fallen, leaving just a stub of the shaft protruding from her leg on one side and the barbed arrowhead on the other. As the gods would have it, the arrow had missed the femoral artery and there was only a small amount of bleeding, but now the pain pulsed through her thigh as if someone was twisting a red hot knife in the wound. It was so intense that for a few seconds her senses reeled and she thought she was going to faint, but she fought her way back to consciousness and faced her captor.

It might have been better if she had passed out. The she would have been spared the pain and humiliation of what came next. She was kept on her knees; two men twisting her arms behind her, while a third stripped her of the rest of her clothing and weapons. They held her there while the thuski stood over her gloating at her capture.

“Who would have thought that I would capture a pale-skinned barbarian?” he asked as he stepped up to her. Seizing her long braid he pulled her head back so that she was forced to look up at him. “What are you doing in the city? Are you a spy?” When Zenaria did not answer he laughed. “No matter. I will have it out of you. I have broken many an Erogenian bitch to my will.”

Zenaria clenched her teeth, fearful of appearing weak in front of her arrogant captor. Breathing heavily as she fought the pain and degradation of being stripped and pinioned before her enemies. She met his gaze without blinking, but it took all of her willpower not to look away from that sardonic gaze. The men holding her arms held her tightly, twisting them painfully behind her and forcing her wrists high on her back. It made it very difficult to breathe and she gasped for air, the shock of her injury adding to her shortness of breath.

The clank of chains alerted her to the next stage of her degradation. The horror of her enslavement by the Sandakar slavers came back to her like a blow to the stomach. For a few seconds she thought she might further dishonour herself by being sick, but she managed to fight down the nausea, as the chains were shackled to her body.

Zenaria in Chains. Illustration courtesy of J.E. Draft

http://barbarianprincess.com/

A chain ran from a metal collar around her neck to her manacled wrists. From there another chain linked her wrists and ankles. Each length of chain was kept so short that she could not straighten her body. The thuski attached the final chain himself, a ten foot leash that allowed him to lead her from horseback. Jerking her forward he forced her to stagger behind him, barely able to walk due to the arrow in her thigh.

Every step was agony as he paraded her through the market under an escort of over fifty guards. Zenaria’s flight through the market and the climactic battle that had led to her capture had attracted the attention of hundreds, and they crowded the street on either side of her as she limped forward.

“Barbarian bitch. Take her to the punishment square. Forty lashes should reach her proper behaviour.”

“Brand her. Put the mark of Aroo upon the heathen whore.”

“Throw her into the punishment pits. Let the scum there have their way with her.”

Most of the more savage suggestions came from the merchants whose goods Zenaria had inadvertently destroyed in her wild flight from the city guards. Others came from those who simply wanted a good show. Bent double, Zenaria was forced to stagger through the streets like a penitent, her every step sheer agony. The thuski rode without paying her the least attention as if confident she would follow in spite of the fact that she could hardly walk. To add to her humiliation some among the crowd decided that it would be good fun to pelt her with ripe fruit and rotting vegetables. Only then did the thuski turn in his saddle. “Guards, clear a path through this rabble.”

The guards obeyed, forcing back the crowd and forming a cordon around their captive, an action that probably enabled Zenaria to complete her agonizing journey. In too much pain to do more than concentrate on each step she took, Zenaria paid no attention to the route they took. She only knew that she eventually found herself in a courtyard. Most of her escort remained outside, no longer needed. As she was herded through a doorway she stumbled and fell, her injured leg finally giving out. The guards on either side of her picked her up under the elbows and without bothering to help her to her feet, dragged her down a dim hallway to a door at the end. The door was thrown back and she was dumped unceremoniously onto a dirt floor. The thuski looked in on her. “Your new home, barbarian. Enjoy your life as a slave.” Zenaria did not answer. Her strength had failed her at last and she lay like one dead. She did not even hear the door slam or the sound of the heavy bolt being shot home.

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