Caralissa's Conquest Read online

  ‘As you wish,’ Senelek bowed, his voice rich with irony, ‘my brother.’

  Caralissa waited till the man was gone to fall at Varik’s feet. ‘Thank you,’ she offered breathless. ‘For sparing me.’

  Varik growled from the back of his throat, sounding like Ahzur. Seizing both her arms he yanked her to her feet, holding her before him on tiptoe, like a rag doll. ‘Do you dare to insult me again, wench?’ he fumed. ‘Do you think I care one whit for your feelings? Think yourself more to me than a momentary diversion from my battles?’

  Caralissa shook her head. ‘I - I meant no offence.’

  Varik frowned, his eyes a raging sea. ‘I grow tired of these games,’ he declared, unwittingly echoing Senelek’s words. ‘We shall end them. Now.’

  Lowering her to the ground, on her back in the dirt, Varik fell upon her. Using the dagger at his waist he cut the rope that held her crotch then spread her legs painfully apart. He took her in a single stroke, not bothering to free her hands. The barrier of her virginity was torn as a sheet as he pressed himself as deep as a man could go.

  Caralissa clutched him with her thighs, issuing sounds of shock and wonder and ultimately pleasure. He was taking her, at last, at long last.

  ‘Oh, my lord,’ she whispered in ecstasy. ‘My barbarian lord, I beg to come for you.’

  ‘No,’ he said fiercely, gripping her chin between his fingers. ‘You will not climax beneath me. That is your punishment. Is that clear?’

  Her acknowledgement was lost in a long wail as she set herself down the torturous road of obedience. Round her the world faded as everything focused on her subservience, her grip in his iron will. Until at last, trembling, shaken, her will broken, her body bound beneath him, she accepted the gift of his lust, the sign of his dominance and her submission. The cycle, ancient as the goddess, ancient as the moon, was now complete. Silently then they lay together, he sated, she yet burning till at last they were able to speak.

  ‘This changes nothing,’ Varik said, his loins already pumping towards a renewed erection. ‘When I am finished with you I shall take you home and collect your ransom.’

  ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, ‘my lord.’

  Though still a helpless prisoner, she welcomed him yet again, for he alone among men dared to do with her as he pleased, dared to ignite her secret submissive passions. She sought to meet him with every thrust, telegraphing his conquest of her with moans and yelps and with the soft, bound flesh of her, desperately pressing, seeking contact betwixt the ropes that harnessed her breasts and torso.

  On and on he pressed, till he was satisfied, and satisfied again, caring not one whit for her pleasure. When he was finished, Varik sliced away the ropes to announce that he would lay hands on her never again. Once freed she continued to beg him, on her knees. Fists clenched, sweat beaded at his forehead, veins protruding from his forehead, Varik lifted his head to the unseen sky and cried a man’s cry, the unrestrained roar of the wolf or perhaps some unknown beast, noble and surefooted, sleekly furred of the sort that roams the plains of purer lands as yet undreamt. Naked and splendid, hair wild about his shoulders, he screamed his troubles to his gods, or hers, or perhaps to no gods at all.

  Chapter Three

  Varik thrust the gag into her mouth, having swathed it first between her outstretched legs to catch the prodigious juices, hers and his. His eyes were cold and distant. He did not even bother to fetch clean material, employing instead the sweaty handkerchief of a nearby soldier. The action was meant to spurn her, to douse their flaring passions, but its effect was quite the opposite.

  As he gave the order to deploy the massive machine to which she was bound, Caralissa strained at the thongs, offering herself with muffled whimpers. How could he deny what was between them, how could he deny that she was his now, as fully and absolutely as if she were his slave?

  And yet deny it he did, ignoring the whimpers, the pleading eyes. It was, of course, a splendid Rashal joke, rolling the queen of Orencia home, naked and spread-eagled on the front of a battering ram. Its symbolism would be unmistakable, both to his troops and hers.

  The afternoon sun was golden upon her skin, which still burned from Varik’s touch. She laid her head back, so that her hair whirled in the breeze.

  Closing her eyes she prayed to the goddess, seeking things of the heart too deep for words. It mattered not, the lust-filled eyes of his warriors, the thousand takings she endured in their minds’ eyes as the ram rolled slowly past their waiting ranks. It was irrelevant now, too, what might happen in the future, of no import whether she returned to her old life or died instead in the midst of battle.

  All that lived in her mind were the memories of Varik’s possession of her. How wild he had looked, the heat in his eyes beyond reason as he took her.

  They brought the ram to the edge of the Rashal camp. Varik and Senelek, mounted on their stallions waited beside the machine, flanked by a picked number of men, cavalry and foot soldiers. Riders were sent ahead to the castle, some forty minutes’ hard ride to the east, with orders to summon the senior Orencian leadership for an immediate meeting with regard to the queen. It would be Romila who would come, no doubt with members of the royal council. It was a smaller council these days, a number of them having been sent packing by Caralissa along with the halfwit Telos.

  It infuriated her still to think how she’d found four of them in the council chamber, holding down a hapless serving girl over the oak table while Telos rammed in and out of her squirming body. They were supposed to have been in session, looking for solutions to the impending Rashal invasion.

  It was this incident that set in mind her own determination to deal with the Rashal in her own way: alone, in the way of her father.

  Then again, there was no telling what the headstrong Lysanis might have done. Truth be told, he was said to favour serving wenches himself and even, upon occasion, to have visited the pleasure-houses much as she was wont to do herself. Needless to say, however, it was likely King Lysanis did more on these outings than observe.

  ‘What is taking so long?’ she heard Varik ask, with uncharacteristic impatience. ‘They should be back by now.’

  Senelek allowed a moment’s silence, which she knew now was his way of exposing weakness. ‘Perhaps they are having trouble catching the Orencians,’ he observed at last. ‘The sight of even a handful of Rashal warriors has likely sent them fleeing clear to the Forest of Night.’

  Caralissa clenched her captive fists. It was one thing for her to criticise her own people, but it was quite another coming from the mouth of an enemy. Then again, she thought with shame, Varik was her enemy and she was doing something with him far worse than running away. Colour came to her face as she entertained the possibility that her recent behaviour might smack more of treason than of passion in the minds of her subjects.

  There was a cheer from the right, and as Caralissa looked she saw it was some of the soldiers, raising their spears and swords in joy at the sight of an approaching column of mounted riders. She thought at first it was the castle delegation, but as she looked more closely, she saw it was another Rashal scouting party. The horsemen were riding slow and lazy, as beside them, on a long chain, hands bound before them, each one attached to the waist of the one ahead, was a line of women. Though the warriors were only trotting their horses, the captives were forced to run to keep up.

  They were all of them young and beautiful in their Orencian peasant dresses. Some were fair-skinned blondes, others raven-haired or chestnut-haired. As they came closer the fear in their eyes became palpable.

  ‘You would stand a better chance to get your hundred thousand gold coins for one of them than for the queen,’ observed Senelek, as the party passed quite close on its way back to the camp. ‘Ask any merchant. Used merchandise inevitably requires discounting.’

  ‘Stick to religion, Senelek,’ Varik replied curtly, digging his booted foo
t into the side of his horse. ‘Economics is not your forte.’

  Varik galloped past her, a look of dark intensity on his face as he headed back towards the camp ahead of the column.

  ‘Did you hear that, majesty?’ Senelek called to her once his brother was out of earshot. ‘My abilities have been called into question. But you and I know better, don’t we? Varik may understand steel, but he knows nothing of the difference between copper and gold.’

  He was referring again to his earlier remark about her being a whore, with only the value of the cheapest copper coins, the kind that can be thrown upon an oak table in exchange for the having of a hapless pleasure-house slave whose life consists of the endless serving of ale in the common drinking area betwixt trips to the pleasure rooms, the mats thick with the scent of stale sex and fermented hops.

  She’d imagined such rooms, and the things that happened within them many times; even as she watched the doors slam shut, excluding her eyes. And yet on all those occasions, she never dreamed she herself might one day be evaluated in anyone’s mind as chattel, her value being that of her flanks, her worth tied integrally to her ability to writhe under a whip.

  As for Senelek’s insolence, were she given license to speak she would certainly have told this sorry excuse for a holy man that he might pray all he wanted, but he would never have her heart or her soul, much as he might lust after her. For these belonged to Varik and Varik alone.

  Though Senelek said nothing more, she was infinitely relieved a few minutes later when she heard over her shoulder the resounding hoof beats of the chieftain’s returning horse.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Senelek asked, after his brother resumed his place beside him.

  ‘I was instructing the camp watch commander to treat the women as our guests, to provide them with food and drink,’ Varik replied.

  Senelek brushed a bit of dust from his arm. ‘Such generosity,’ he noted dryly. ‘Coming from a chieftain; I do hope the Orencians arrive soon, as I fear we will need their capital if we are to finance any more of these new invasions of yours.’

  Varik ignored the insult. ‘You there!’ he shouted to an officer at the head of the cavalry line. ‘Send fresh riders! Find those messengers and get them back here with the Orencians!’

  ‘I think that will not be necessary,’ Senelek interjected, inclining his head to the horizon.

  All eyes focused on the tiny dots, rapidly enlarging. There were eight or nine in all, some in Rashal armour, others in the brilliant colours of the Orencian court. As they approached Caralissa recognised Romila, in a hooded cape of red. Beside her was a man in a uniform of light blue, richly decorated in gold. She thought for a moment her eyes were playing tricks on her, and then it dawned like a blow to the abdomen.

  The man was Telos! He was back, and worse still, he was wearing the uniform of a general!

  Desperate for an explanation, her eyes scanned the remaining three of her people for familiar faces. They wore the cloaks of green reserved for the royal council, but she knew none of them. Not one. As the party approached the Rashal escorts fell to the rear, allowing the Orencians to approach their chieftain directly. It was Telos who galloped to the lead, taking the vanguard place.

  ‘Greetings, Your Lordship,’ the man bowed with a ridiculous flourish. ‘The nation of Orencia welcomes its liberator, the feller of tyranny, the new sun upon our cloudy and oppressed land, the great and noble chieftain of the Rashal!’

  Caralissa stiffened in her bonds. What nonsense was this buffoon spouting and why was he speaking for the state?

  Varik frowned. ‘Your words are unclear to me.’

  Telos wrinkled his nose, causing vibrations in his short black moustache. Across his forehead a pile of black hair poured forth from under his gleaming, tufted helmet. ‘Why, the tyrant Caralissa,’ he laughed. ‘But you are jesting, obviously. The Rashal, we know, are renowned for their sense of... the absurd.’ Telos had paused briefly before concluding his thought, his eyes having fallen blatantly and lustfully upon the body of the bound queen. Behind her gag, Caralissa screamed at him in rage.

  ‘We are most grateful,’ Telos continued, seeing that Varik had nothing as yet to say. ‘As are the people of Orencia, our humble peasants, whom the cruel queen has bruised so heavily beneath her iron fist.’

  Caralissa shook her head frantically. It was a lie. All of it. It was Romila and Telos who wanted to increase the taxes and impose levees on the peasants, not her. The people loved her, as they’d loved her father.

  ‘The queen seems to take issue,’ Senelek said, noting the squirming girl. ‘Personally I think her a bit puny to wield an iron fist.’

  In a rare show of commonsense, Telos said nothing.

  ‘Either way,’ Senelek continued, interposing himself for his strangely silent brother, ‘Lord Varik has no interest in the internal politics of your regime. He merely seeks to bestow upon you terms for the release of your queen. And they are, I might add, most generous terms, unprecedented in the history of our people. My advice to you, then, is to identify yourselves to his lordship and then wait humbly upon his pleasure.’

  ‘Forgive our boorishness,’ Telos effused, with another bow of the sort more appropriate for the comic stage than the battlefield. ‘I am Chief Regent Telos, Commander of the Home Militia and Royal Consort to her highness, the Princess Romila, soon to be Queen Romila.’

  Caralissa looked at her sister. There was upon her face no emotion, no sign of recognition.

  ‘We await your terms, Lord Varik,’ Romila said, employing the bravery of cold reason. ‘Our lives are in your hands. We have nothing to lose.’

  ‘Lord Varik requires the sum of one hundred thousand gold pieces,’ Senelek declared. ‘To be delivered by sunset tomorrow. Upon receipt of it your queen shall be returned to you.’

  Telos smiled in a failed attempt at irony. ‘That is a good deal of money, gentle sirs.’

  ‘Enough, Telos!’ This came from Romila. ‘We shall bring the money,’ she said to Senelek. ‘Precisely as you say.’

  Senelek curled the right side of his lip, revealing to Telos and the rest the true nature of irony. ‘We have no need of your words, princess. Everything you own is already ours.’

  ‘This meeting is at an end,’ Varik declared, breaking his silence.

  ‘Go home,’ said Senelek to the Orencians. ‘Go home and give prayers of thanks to your gods. Apparently they have been watching over you of late.’

  Romila bowed her head, rapidly, mechanically. Before she turned, as she seized upon the reins, her eyes met her sister’s for the briefest second. Caralissa felt a chill down her spine as she saw in them the truth. Romila hated her.

  ‘Good day to you, esteemed ones!’ waved Telos over his shoulder as they galloped off; a gesture Caralissa was convinced was done solely to allow the man to burn into his brain one final image of her ripe and helpless body.

  ‘So,’ said Varik, some time later, his mouth full of fruit as he addressed the kneeling and obeisant Caralissa, her head to the dirt at his feet. ‘It seems you are a tyrant just as I am.’

  ‘When I return home,’ the naked queen informed him, maintaining her position of subservience, ‘I will have my sister and her blue-suited pet monkey executed, along with every one of their allies.’

  Varik reclined upon the cushions, taking another bite of the apple, complements of a nearby Orencian orchard. They were in the Tent of Pleasures, the place in the camp where Varik and his chief officers gathered for celebrations. There were guests today, in the form of a dozen captured maidens. Their laughter could be heard, bright and sweet as the soldiers fell upon themselves to impress their particular favourites. A few of the girls seemed already more than impressed, having descended to various states of undress in the arms of would-be lovers.

  Varik extended his goblet, signalling Caralissa to refill it from the pitcher by her side.
His stomach was filled with wine and it was beginning to tangle his thoughts. Or perhaps it was the girl, with her unique power to drive him into a blinding rage at one moment and then at another to pluck from him the most peculiar protective and nurturing instincts. He’d hoped putting her upon the battering ram would end his growing addiction for her body by reducing her in his eyes to a mere object, a pawn with political purposes only. Were he a pragmatic man he would have her chained in a dark tent, out of sight till the Orencians saw fit to bring him his gold. Or else he ought turn her over to his men, to remove her entirely from his thoughts. Instead, he had lain with her again and brought her to a feast. His Little Flame. The fire that burned too hot even for a warlord.

  ‘You have not answered the question,’ Varik observed, renewing the verbal banter for which he was rapidly developing an insatiable appetite. ‘Are you or are you not a tyrant?’

  Caralissa curled her lips, a sparkle in her eye. ‘My Lord Varik has possessed me to the depths of his soul. Can he not tell this for himself?’

  ‘All women are tyrants,’ he replied, gulping the sparkling beverage. ‘Until they are mastered.’

  ‘I serve the goddess,’ she said proudly. ‘And in her name, justice.’

  ‘Indeed. This can be verified, you know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By means of a character witness.’

  Varik signalled to a nearby guard, one who’d drawn the lonely job of watching over the feasters. ‘You there, bring me one of the Orencian wenches. Any will do, they all seem equally overjoyed to be witnessing their queen’s degradation.’

  He fetched a buxom blonde, her bosom sharply accented in a low-cut dress of yellow with white trim. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips engorged, presumably from kissing.

  ‘Yes, milord?’ she chimed pleasantly, her pitch and volume indicative of having consumed a fair amount of the sparkling wine herself. Either that or the girl was in shock from having been kidnapped by ruthless barbarians only to be invited to a sumptuous feast. Chalk it up to the legendary Rashal sense of humour, he told himself.