The female Karil was taken past each of the slave males, after which was she returned to the place from which her journey had twice begun. Lost in thought of plans for the new fey, I knew naught of her return till her scream rang out, bringing much laughter to the slave males within their enclosures. Again had the female been thrust closer to the males, enough so that her womanhood was now within reach, and quickly did the first male accept the offer of her previously forbidden softness. The chains upon his wrists clanged as the female threw herself about in the grip of my warriors, her movement attempting to dislodge the hand between her thighs and the other upon her leg. Her head thrown back, her screams were filled equally with desperation and fear. The male had penetrated her to no more than a small degree, yet she, never having known even so slight a penetration, seemed wildly fearful.
“For shame!” laughed the male, looking down upon the writhing female beneath his hands. “Surely this can be no high lady before me, whose body flows with moisture at the smallest of touches. Surely this is no more than a slave wench, a hot, lusty, helpless female slave sent, to her shame, to serve the needs of men. Your baubles are lovely, little slave. Bring them nearer so that I may examine them more closely.”
“No!” wailed the female, beside herself with mortification. “I am not a slave! You lie! You are the slave, and you may not touch me so!”
“Do I lie, wench?” asked the male, penetrating her a bit further. “Is this body I touch dry and unresponsive? Are those pointed breasts I see soft and unexcited? Do you seek to escape that which merely begins to enter you—or to impale yourself upon it?”
Choking and shuddering, caught up in bodily excitement as never before, the female found herself incapable of so much as denying the male’s words. How well I knew the sensations brought by the touch of a male, the weakness, the burning, the impossible need to be taken in his arms and used fiercely again and again. It had ever been part of a warrior to desire the use of a male, yet had Mida caused me to feel, during my capture by the male Ceralt, a need so great it had been well-nigh crippling. The least touch of his hand upon my body, the sound of his voice, the mere fact of his presence, the smallest of glances from him, even no more than the thought of him—any of those had made me his upon the instant, filled with shame so great it knew no bounds, yet undeniably, unarguably his helpless slave. Much had the male gloried in such power over me, often using me for his pleasure, at times denying me an end to the agony of need as punishment, through it all taking the decision of which would be done as his alone. Now, after having known the touch of Sigurr the foul, the unnatural need no longer burned within me. No need of any sort for males burned within me, save the need to meet and best them with swords. Males were fools, and blood enemies to Midanna, and wished naught from warriors save their use; much use would they have from this Midanna, yet no more than sword-use.
As the female Karil writhed to the touch of yet another male, I rose from my seat to pace the cool stones of the chamber’s floor. The pain of my wounds was not to be acknowledged, yet the throbbing ache of my shoulder had grown despite the lessening of the flow of blood. The thrust had been a cowardly one, from well to the side the while my sword and attention had been engaged with the male directly before me, yet had the male who had done me so ended with my sword in his vitals. The other wounds were mere scratches, beneath the notice of one who had known them many times before, yet the greatest intruded upon my awareness, already stiffening the arm and hand with weakness and pain. There would indeed by much difficulty for me should it continue so to the time of departure upon the journey to the south
“That wound should be seen to, wench,” came the voice of a male, intruding upon my thoughts. “I have seen men die from the blackening sickness, which comes from lack of care of such as that.”
Slowly did I turn to regard the male, he who had spoken. In some manner it came as no surprise that it was a Sigurri male, one of the four who stood enchained within their enclosure. The others stood to the far side of the enclosure, their hands upon the lines of metal, their eyes upon the female Karil as she moaned and screamed, their voices raised in laughter and encouragement of him who now toyed with her. This male before me was the red-haired one, his light eyes regarding me soberly, his large left fist about a line of metal, the strength of his broad body disregarding the chains fastened upon him. I felt annoyance that he would speak to me so, as though I were city slave-woman, notwithstanding the fact that the fates of Midanna and Sigurri were entwined.
“I am Jalav,” said I, speaking coldly, disallowing the reach of my right hand to my left arm to rub at the pain. “Jalav is war leader to all the clans of Midanna, therefore is she no stranger to wounds. She has no need of the council of males, male, least of all of those who stand in chains.”
“The same council was given you by your own, wench,” said he, his deep voice calm, taking no note of the balance of my words. “Should you continue to disregard the advice of those about you, you will soon find yourself in the arms of Sigurr, which would be the greatest of wastes. That body of yours was made to give pleasure to living men first, before becoming the eternal property of the dark god. Should you fail to—”
His words broke off as though cut through by my sword, which was poised at his throat between the lines of metal. So great was my rage that nearly did I open his throat, allowing his warm, bright blood to spurt and flow to the flagstoned floor. To say that I would be the eternal property of Sigurr, to serve him forever in the abominations I had once already been made to endure, was to bring the insanity of unbridled rage upon me. Sooner would I see my soul lost forever in the limitless dark, to spread and fade and be no more, than to again face the touch of the dark god.
“You are mistaken, male,” I rasped when I was again able to speak, my point having remained at his throat. “Never will I be the property of the dark god, never will I serve his desires. Should you ever speak so again, your life is forfeit. On this you have my word,”
The male stood unmoving, no fear to be seen in the light eyes of him, yet was he not so foolish as to tempt my anger with further words. Easily did he see that the fury had not gone from me, and well did he know that my vow was not an idle one. He stood unmoving and in silence till my point was withdrawn and I had begun to turn from him, resheathing my sword, then did his hand rise to the place my blade had rested. A small drop of blood gleamed there, yet was one drop far superior to a greater flow.