Tales of
Erogenia
Episode 1: The Snow
Princess
Chapter 18:
Home
It took another two days
to fully prepare for their desert journey and then they set out in the dark
of night, having rested during the heat of the
day. It was still oppressively
hot, but bearable. All of the
harem girls were equipped with proper walking shoes and they were dressed
in their desert robes. They were
as lightly burdened as possible, the camels carrying most of the heavy goods,
especially the water. Tren had
taken a chance and had acquired three more of the animals, bringing their
little herd to six, and he had laden the animals with the
waterskins. Although Tren did
not say so, it was clear that he did not trust the young women to discipline
themselves well enough to drink only when
necessary. As a result all of
the water was on the camels where he could keep an eye on
it.
To give the girls credit,
they did remarkably well. For
a bunch of harem-pampered beauties there was an amazing lack of complaining
in spite of the fact that the desert march left all of them footsore and
exhausted at the end of each night.
But luck was with them as well.
They encountered none of the desert hazards that Zenaria and Tren
had encountered on their crossing although they did come across the place
where she and Tren had fought off the
lion-spiders.
The heat and unceasing desert
wind had sucked the lion-spiders dry, leaving them as nothing more than dried
out husks. As they passed the
once-fearsome creatures, Tren stopped and took out his
knife. He walked over to one
of the corpses and pried out several of the smaller needle-sharp fangs, and
then handed them to Zenaria.
“The poison is not longer potent,” Tren
said. “You might want these
as a souvenir.”
“Thank you,” Zenaria
replied. In spite of his expertise
as a lover Tren was not given to emotional displays and she figured this
was about as close to a gift as she would ever
get. While she watched he went
to a few more of the spiders and collected their fangs as well until she
had quite a collection. They
were impressive and unique and she already had ideas as to how she would
arrange them. They would make
a fine necklace.
There were no more stops
after that except the daily periods of rest when they pitched camp and waited
out the inferno that was the desert day.
It was so hot that most of the girls could not sleep and even Tren
and Ulua seemed bothered by the heat.
Eventually sheer exhaustion eventually brought some
sleep. However, it was a brutally
fatigued group that finally reached the relative cool of the
grasslands.
Remarkably the Zuni were
waiting for them, lined up along the edge of the cliff as Tren reached the
top of the arduous climb from the valley
floor. If the grassland nomads
were disappointed not to be ambushing a Sandakar expedition they did not
show it, welcoming Tren and especially Ulua like long-lost
cousins. Even Zenaria received
a warm welcome in spite of the bad manners she had shown on her last
visit. Targah regarded her with
his usual appraising stare, but this time Zenaria was
prepared. Before Tren had lied
about her and Tren being bedmates; this time there was no need for the lie
and it showed. Targah nodded
once, a slight smile playing about his lips and then turned his attention
to the two dozen harem beauties.
It turned out that three
of the girls were Zuni, having been captured in Sandak
raids. For them the journey was
over as they immediately merged into the
tribe. Zenaria could not tell
if the reunion was joyful or not, but Tren reassured her that in spite of
the fact that the Zuni were polygamous, women were well treated and the girls
had not been forced. “As
a matter of fact,” he commented, “with the amount of gold each
of them carries they will become women of some influence in the
tribe.”
Zenaria
nodded. She was slowly beginning
to understand that as much as she disapproved of the customs of other people
they were something that she was in no position to change, especially when
they were offering her protection and
hospitality.
That night for the first
time in a week Zenaria and Tren shared a
tent. There had been no opportunity
for lovemaking on their desert trek, but now they made up for lost
time. In the morning Zenaria
emerged from the tent, tired but more than
content. She had gotten very
little sleep, but the sacrifice was worth
it. Tren had been more than
inventive, showing her techniques she had never dreamed
of. As they lay in one
another’s arms, her loins throbbing in pleasure, Zenaria had but one
question. “Why did you not
show me that before?”
“It is best to hold
some things back,” he said, kissing her
nipples. “If I showed you
everything at once our lovemaking would become
stale. This way I can keep it
fresh for a long time.”
“How many things are
you still hiding?” she asked, her voice rising
slightly.
“The
Beni
Sidra are highly trained in the ways of love,” Tren
answered. “Seduction is
sometimes a useful art form.”
Zenaria’s brow
furrowed. “What about
Ulua?”
“Especially Ulua,”
Tren said. “She is much
more skilled than I.”
Zenaria’s eyes widened
slightly. She had never considered
a relationship with another woman, but there was nothing in Snow Leopard
mores that condemned such relationships.
Far from it, there had been several female pairings in her village,
and the thought of a tryst with Ulua was more than
intriguing.
“That interests you,
does it?” Tren asked, his eyes
shining.
Zenaria
blushed. She was still so transparent
that Tren could read her every thought.
She wondered if she would ever be able to hide what she was thinking
from others. “Not as long
as I have you,” she answered.
But even as she uttered her reply, Zenaria knew that she and Tren
did not have much time left. Once
their little expedition had crossed the grasslands she would leave her lover
and return to the lands of the Snow
Leopard. It was something that
weighed on her, but it was a step she had to
take. She was not an assassin
and she could not hope to join Tren and Ulua in their
world. All she had was the time
left before they reached the end of the grasslands.
She made the most of it
or rather she and Tren made the most of
it. The Zuni did not travel quickly
and they stayed with the grassland nomads until their slow circuit of the
grazing lands led to a point near enough to a Kivalian trading
outpost. It was there that Tren
intended to cut loose the gaggle of ex-harem
girls. Many of them were Kivalian
and the few who were not had indicated that they though it as good a place
as any. Tren, as usual, had contacts
in the town who he could depend on to make sure that the young women would
be well taken care of, especially considering that they were all women of
wealth.
They made love every night,
usually more than once, but the dawn of each day reminded Zenaria that her
first love affair was coming to an end.
She refused, however, to become
despondent. Tren had known from
the start the end would come eventually and she refused to become miserable
as the end approached.
They reached the trading
post at last. Zenaria was not
quite sure what she was expecting, but the tiny settlement the Kivalians
called Singleton was not at all impressive compared to what she had seen
in Uhra Don. True, it was much
larger than her tribal stockade, but it could have fitted very nicely inside
Uhra Don’s market square.
It was surrounded by a palisade
inside of which was a deep ditch.
Earth from the creation of the ditch had been heaped up to form an
embankment on top of which a second and higher palisade had been
built. The heads and spears of
armed guards could be seen as they patrolled the top of the
wall. On either side of the entrance
to the town was a wooden gate tower that flanked a heavy ironbound gate that
was currently open. Two guards
wearing chain mail and holding eight foot spears stood in the
gateway. They warily eyed the
strange procession that moved toward them.
“Hold,” one of
the guards ordered as Tren rode through the outer
palisade. Thanks to the Zuni
all members of the party were on horseback and Zenaria expected that from
a distance the score of riders probably seemed rather
threatening.
“Identify yourself,
and state your business,” the guard
ordered. Zenaria noted that the
ramparts held several archers who had fitted arrows to their bows as a
precaution.
“I am Tren of the
Beni Sidra, and I am
escorting the Princess Zenaria and her
entourage. We wish accommodation
for the night and wish to hire an escort to
Normos. Take this token to the
Guildmaster.” Tren bent
and handed something to the guard who had
spoken. The man took one look
at it and suddenly snapped to attention.
“Immediately your
Excellency. Shall I call for
an escort for the princess?”
“That will not be
necessary, Tren replied. “We
will wait here until the Guildmaster receives us.”
“What did you give
him?” Zenaria whispered.
“A silver piece and
a token the Guildmaster gave me the last time I was
here. I don’t expect we
will have to wait long. The
amount I gave the guard is more than he makes in a month and the Guildmaster
is acquainted with me.”
Tren was proved
right. Within the space of a
few hundred heartbeats there was a commotion from inside the gate and a large
man with a florid complexion rode up.
He was so stout that Zenaria wondered at the ability of the horse
to hold him, but he seemed friendly
enough.
He was dressed in what Zenaria
considered very uncomfortable looking
clothes. Skin tight leggings
sheathed flabby legs that ended in a pair of rather useless-looking shoes
with bright brass buckles. A
bright green tunic covered his torso over which was worn a loose-fitting
yellow coat cinched at the waist with a wide brown leather
belt. His head was crowned by
a large red shapeless hat formed from some soft
material. A dark brown beard
covered most of his chubby face, which was split in a wide grin of
welcome.
“Quaram, my
friend. How good to see
you. What have you brought me
this time?”
Zenaria raised one eyebrow,
but said nothing. It was obvious
that Tren had more than one name at his
disposal. Behind him Ulua sat,
her face hidden by the hood of her robe.
Tren turned in the
saddle. “May I present her
highness, the Princess Zenaria of
Leopardia. I have the honour
to be her escort as she passes through your
lands. Your highness, this is
Master Truckle, Guildmaster of Singleton.
“Enchanted,
Princess,” Truckle said, making an effort to bow in the
saddle. How may I be of
service?”
“Her Highness seeks
accommodation for the night for herself and her
ladies. And then more dignified
transport to Normos.”
“Nothing could be easier,
Your Highness,” Truckle replied.
“Please follow me.”
He turned his horse and rode farther into town, Zenaria and her companions
following.
“Master Truckle seems
very cooperative,” Zenaria observed as she and Tren rode into the
town.
“Truckle is realizes
that every time I show up he gets a little
richer. This time is no
exception. He will be well paid
for his services. However, if
never hurts to play the royalty card.”
Zenaria observed the town
with interest as she rode toward its
centre. Although completely
insignificant by the standards of what she had seen in Sandak, it was still
impressive compared to the compound where she had been
raised. It was, also considerably
smellier.
She saw why at
once. There was a single main
street which just happened to be dry at the moment, but Zenaria guessed that
it would be a muddy mess when it rained.
However, it was the large accumulation animal manure and what appeared
to be human waste that explained the pong that hung over the
town. Zenaria wrinkled her
nose. While she did not expect
so small as settlement to rival Uhra Don in its amenities she wondered that
the Kivalians did not even know enough not to throw their kitchen waste and
excrement into the streets. She
looked at Ulua and saw that the assassin had wrapped her scarf over her mouth
and nose and seemed to be trying very hard not to
breathe.
The accompanying harem girls
were not quite so discreet, several of them voicing their shock and dismay
at the sickening stench. A look
from Tren, however, quieted them.
They might not like it, but there was not much they could do about
it.
On either side of the street
rose a variety of wooden buildings, each two or three stories high and built
so that their upper stories overhung the street so that in some places it
was almost like riding through a tunnel.
Zenaria eyed the upper windows warily realizing full well that the
heaps of excrement and pools of urine had to come from
somewhere.
Truckle turned in the saddle,
no mean feat for a man of his bulk, and offered an
explanation. “Always a bit
smelly this time of year, and the tanners haven’t been using as much
as most years so they haven’t been collecting
it. Should be better when the
barbarians bring in their furs and hides this
winter.”
“Barbarians,”
Zenaria thought. That meant people
like her, although dressed the way she was in her desert robes, Truckle had
no way of knowing what she was. She
returned her attention to the town.
Off the main street ran
various smaller streets, some little better than dusty tracks between
buildings. Where the street was
wide enough merchants displayed their wares right out in the street, a pattern
that continued until they reached the main
square. Here there was a market
similar to that she had seen in Urha Don, only much
smaller. Canvas-covered booths
displayed a variety of goods from fruits and vegetables to spices, bolts
of cloth, iron and copper wares, and a variety of other
products. The inhabitants of
Singleton stopped and stared as their procession passed and Zenaria could
hear a buzz ripple through them.
“Princess.
Which on is she? Must
be the tall one. Looks regal
enough. No, it’s the one
with the scarf over her face.
Bloody oath; the tall one looks like a
barbarian. Look at the sword
she’s got slung over her shoulder.
Can’t be a real sword.
Must be ceremonial. No
you’re wrong. She’s
riding at the front. Must be
the princess.”
The murmuring faded as they
passed though the market and halted in an open space in front of a large
four story building. Master Truckle
dismounted and threw the reins of his horse to a waiting
boy.
“You and your ladies
will stay in the Guildhall, of course, Your
Highness. “The stableboys
will care for your mounts. Please
come in.”
Inside there was a large
foyer off which ran twin staircases, one on either side of the
room. It was obvious that modest
as the building was, the room had been designed for effect, and it was still
grander than anything in her village.
It took awhile to portion
off the various rooms so that every one of the girls was taken care
of. Zenaria, as a princess, got
one to herself, an arrangement she found somewhat awkward until she realized
that it would be her last chance with
Tren. It was a sobering
thought. Singleton was as far
as Tren intended to go. From
here he would return to Sandak and his never-ending battle against those
who had enslaved his people, and she would head north into the wilderness
of Erogenia and the track that led back to the land of the snow
leopard. However, she put the
thought from her mind, refusing to dwell on
it. She was still a princess
of the Snow Leopard. She would
not weep or become melancholy over the loss of a
lover. She turned her attention
to helping Tren and Ulua settle in their female
entourage.
It took three days to settle
everything to Tren’s satisfaction, partly because with so many lovely
young women in the town and with a princess in attendance, Mayor Truckle
decided to throw a massive feast and invited everyone of importance in the
town to attend. It was held on
the last night of their stay in Singleton in the main hall of the Guildhall
and it was something that Tren simply could not get out
of. “I am sorry,” he
said, “but we are the guests of
honour. We will have to attend
whether we like it or not. I
am not given much to feasting, but I do not want to damage my relationship
with Truckle. Over the years
he has proved most useful. And
he is one of those very unusual things; a semi-honest
merchant.”
“Semi-honest?”
asked Zenaria.
“It means that he will
only cheat you half the time,” Tren smiled.
“Don’t worry about
the feast,” Zenaria said.
“Feasts I can handle.
But don’t expect me to wear those cumbersome heaps of clothes
the Kivalian women wear.”
“What are you going
to wear?” Tren asked. “I
hope it is a bit more than the first time I saw
you.”
“Perhaps I will surprise
you,” Zenaria grinned.
“You do that all the
time,” Tren commented.
“But I will not interfere in your
decision.”
Zenaria grinned
back. She had just the thing
to set her off.
The feast was everything
Zenaria hoped it was. An entire
ox had been roasted and was carried into the hall by four
men. There were also two roast
pigs, several deer, and more chickens, geese, ducks, and partridges than
she could be bothered to count. It
seemed enough food to feed an army and along with all of the sauces, breads,
and bowls of vegetables, seemed impossible to consume at one
sitting. It reminded Zenaria
of the feast held by her tribe to celebrate the turning of the winter
sun. In that feast it was not
unusual to consume several elk and deer as well as many smaller
animals. The main difference
was that in the Snow Leopard tribe every man, woman, and child attended whereas
in Singleton only the wealthy were
invited. Tren assured her, however,
that any food that was left over would be distributed to the poor, provided
any food was left over.
Zenaria’s entrance
to the hall was impressive. She
had taken the armour Ulua had given to her and had gone to a leather
worker. Although the man had
protested the impossibility of the task on such short notice he had changed
his mind quickly when offered the gold coin Zenaria
displayed. The impossible suddenly
became possible even though he had to work all night to achieve
it. However, Zenaria was pleased
by the result.
The brass-studded armour
was expanded to link up with the wide leather belt that protected her waist,
affording her full protection from her hips to her
breasts. Along with the fitted
leather that protected her upper arms and shoulders her torso was now completely
protected although she deliberately left her throat bare and had unbuckled
part of the leather to flaunt a generous portion of her rounded
breasts. Other than that display
she was almost completely clad in highly polished black armour from the long
wrist guards that covered her forearms almost to the elbow; the well-designed
leather gloves; and her greaves, and thigh
guards. To set it all off she
wore a blood-red woollen cloak she had picked up at a market stall and something
else she had made herself.
She wore her hair unbraided,
bound only by a gold diadem that circled her
brow. Around her elegant
neck she wore a necklace of lion-spider
fangs. Zenaria had arranged them
in a geometric pattern from largest to smallest, with the most impressive
three inch fangs placed in the middle where they could not help but draw
attention to the perfection of her breasts.
With her sword jutting out
from behind her left shoulder and her cloak swirling around her, Zenaria
made a spectacular entrance to the hall.
Since, as the guest of honour, and the supposed reason for the feast
in the first place, Zenaria entered last, and every eye was upon her when
she entered the hall. The seneschal
gulped when he saw her, but recovered quickly to announce
her. “The Princess Zenaria
of Leopardia,” he boomed.
Heads turned in her
direction. From the women there
were a number of gasps of disbelief and then the muttering of the word
“barbarian.” The men,
however, said nothing other than a general murmur of what sounded like
approval. Six-feet-three inches
of barbarian warrior strode into the hall, moving like a personification
of the animal that symbolized her tribe.
Head up, Zenaria looked neither right nor left, but fixed her eyes
on Tren, who watched her with an expression she could not quite
fathom.
Tren rose as she neared
the table. As guest of honour
she sat to the right of Truckle with Tren just to her
right. As her seat was held out
for her Tren leaned over.
“Well done, princess; you are
magnificent.”
Zenaria felt a warm glow
suffuse her. She wanted more
than anything to have Tren make love to her right then and there, but she
was forced to sit through five hours of eating and drinking before she was
free to go. The time was not
entirely wasted. Erogenian warriors
were good at eating and drinking, and the flagons of wine and platters of
food that were placed in front of her disappeared with great
regularity. Only when she had
managed to drink most of the other guests under the table did Tren signal
that she was free to go.
She stood, a little unsteadily,
but her head cleared in excitement and anticipation as she and Tren neared
her room. It was their last night
together and she and Tren made the most of it, making love at first with
an urgency that signalled the depth of their passion and the knowledge that
they would part on the morrow. It
was a frenzied coupling that left Zenaria quivering as her loins convulsed
in sexual delight. But it did not stop
there. They made love twice more
before morning; each time more slowly, drawing out the last moments of pleasure,
before their parting.
Morning found them still
wrapped in one another’s arms, but there was no point in delaying the
inevitable. They bathed and dressed,
Tren in his assassin’s robes, and Zenaria in her warrior’s
armour. There was time for one
last embrace before they separated.
“Goodbye, my barbarian
warrior,” Tren whispered as he held
her. “I will not forget
you, and something tells me we will meet again.”
Zenaria did not
speak. There was something caught
in her throat, and anyway she didn’t have
to. The fierceness of her grip
told Tren everything he needed to know.
He released her from his arms and stepped back and without another
word left the room.
Zenaria waited a few minutes
to compose herself, and then wiping away a very unwarrior-like tear she
followed. She didn’t look
for Tren, instead she sought out Ulua.
The girl was where she knew she would be, in her room with one of
the girls who had decided to follow her and
Tren.
Her farewell to Ulua was
not nearly as long as her goodbye to Tren, but it was almost as
emotional. Then Zenaria headed
down to where her horse waited. She
had given instructions to the servant to have it ready while she was taking
her bath and everything was as she had
asked. She had to admit that
Guildmaster Truckle was good at making sure his servants did what they were
told. She rode out
immediately. The less time spent
in the stink of Singleton the better.
She had said her goodbyes and she suspected that prolonging them would
not make them any easier. She
galloped through the gates and turned her mount’s head toward the
north.
Her return home was uneventful,
except for an encounter with several Urtts who were ravaging a forest homestead
and a run-in with a pack of dire wolves.
The first incident cost the Urtts their heads and a few other parts
of their bodies. Zenaria staked
out their reptilian skulls in a neat row alongside the trail as a warning
to others. The second skirmish
got her three fine new pelts and a string of teeth for a
bracelet.
Other than that and a brief
and very one-side battle with a band of outlaws Zenaria’s trip home
was without incident. Oh, there
was the narrow escape from an aurochs stampede and the surprise encounter
with a cave bear that was browsing the same patch of blackberry bushes Zenaria
had chosen to snack on, but those were too minor to consider
remembering.
She experienced a joyful
reunion just before reaching the lower slopes of the
mountains. A noise in the brush
to the side of the trail startled her and she had her sword out in an instant,
but quickly sheathed it as Jaree bounded out of the
undergrowth. The old bond was
instantly re-established, something that helped her to think a bit less about
Tren and Ulua. After that she
experienced not the slightest threat from anyone, she and the cat hunting
and sleeping together until she reached the climb to the Ice
Gates.
It was here that Zenaria
let her horse go, hoping that it would find its own
way. She knew that almost certainly
no horse could make it through the pass at this time of
year.
She was
right. She encountered deep snow
long before she reached the summit.
However, it was nothing that Zenaria had not dealt with
before. She strapped on the snowshoes
she had previously fabricated and continued the
climb. The huge snow leopard
didn’t even slow down, her huge paws moving her over the frosted surface
almost as if she were floating.
It was as tough a journey
as Zenaria had ever made, rivalling even her first trek across the desert
wasteland where she and Tren had first
bonded. Crossing the Ice Gates
during the summer was tough enough.
Making the same journey in early winter was almost
suicidal. But Zenaria had no
intention of waiting. An overwhelming
urge to see her family and friends and the familiar confines of the stockade
she had been raised in drove her forward.
It was Jaree that made the
difference. Each night she hollowed
out a shelter in the snow and bedded down with the huge cat, her warmth keeping
Zenaria safe and secure through the coldest
weather. They also hunted together,
Jaree with fang and claw and Zenaria helping with her
bow. Between the two of them
they easily caught enough food to feed themselves and slowly but surely they
made their way toward the top of the
pass. It took a full month to
finally reach the Ice Gates.
Frequent stops were necessary due to the frequent white-outs and fierce
storms that swept through the pass, but Zenaria was
relentless. Step by step she
mounted the pass until finally she began her equally slow
descent.
And then, three months after
leaving Singleton she looked down on the stockade of the Snow
Leopard. Her throat closed as
she looked at of the place where she had spent her childhood and where everyone
she held dear lived.
Well, almost
everyone. One day she would see
Tren and Ulua again. She made
that promise as a silent vow as she slowly stripped off her
clothing.
She had timed her last
day’s journey to reach the village in mid-afternoon, but she was not
going to show up covered with the sweat and filth of more than a month without
bathing. Completely nude, she
took a quick snow bath, rubbing her skin until it glowed red and then she
dressed again, packing away her furs and setting out for the last fifteen
minutes of her trek in the armour and crimson cloak she had worn to the feast
in Singleton.
As luck would have it, no
one saw her until she was almost through the
gates. It was not so much a lack
of vigilance as the fact that no one had ever attacked the stockade in the
middle of winter; as a result she strode through the gates unchallenged and
found her mother and queen staring at her from the middle of the compound,
where she had been drilling young warriors in the techniques of the
sword.
It was a poignant moment,
but Zenaria had learned a little in the time she had been away from her
home. She went to her knees in
the snow and bowed her head before her
queen. “Mother,” she
said, “I’m home.”
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