Mistress of Death

by Jeya Jenson

  “You’ll not escape,” her captor grunted angrily.

  Bending down, he swiftly slid an arm under hers, bodily lifting her onto the horse and settling her neatly in front of him. She squirmed, but he grasped her wrists and stayed the attack with effortless grace. Despite her almost hysterical anger, she felt her perfidious body responding to the hard, dominant pressure of his chest, hips and thighs. Against her will, she uttered a few soft sobs of despair. When he spurred the horse into action, she had no choice but to hold on or risk falling to be trampled under the thundering hooves. Her arms reflexively went around his thick neck, clutching tightly, so close to him that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, smell the sweat on his skin, and feel its intense heat. Butt naked, wearing only a coat of sticky blood, she was grateful for the warmth he offered as they galloped across the landscape, each beat of the horses’ hooves taking her further away from her home territories.

  Chapter Eight

  The ride through the night seemed to go on for hours.

  Daring to open her eyes and peer out, Dria attempted to take in everything as a chilling fog thinned enough to give brief glimpses of the land. She recognized almost nothing. To her eyes, the outlying peasant settlements were skeletal, plundered. A vast expanse of steppes stretched toward a gathering of monolithic peaks leading toward an obscure region she was not familiar with. Majestic in height and breadth, their jagged crowns ruled absolute over the desolation. These wastelands belonged to the outcasts and outlaws, the nomadic bands of warriors known only as the Raiders. Driven from their own cults for breaking tradition or occult law, these wild hunters lived hard and desperate lives, scraping or stealing whatever was necessary for survival. Travelers through the outback territories were easy targets that seldom had a chance to defend themselves against a people for whom killing was a way life. Violence was a constant threat. The Raiders despised and defied the worship of Ouroborous. For centuries, they had fought a long and bloody war against the Dragon’s legion.

  Another hour’s ride brought them to the settlement. Scouts ran ahead of the returning war party to warn the others of their arrival. The horse slowed to a canter and then stopped completely.

  Dria felt herself dropped. Trying to gain her balance, she stumbled, falling to her hands and knees, feeling the teeth-clattering jolt that followed a hard fall. She winced as spikes of pain shot through the wrists that bore the brunt of her weight. She felt damp, crumbly soil beneath her hands, becoming embedded under her fingernails when her grip tightened. For a moment, she looked oddly like a woman grasping the ground in the event that gravity should desert her. Dazed by the unfamiliar sensations flooding every fiber of her physical being, she did not move for several long minutes. Without really focusing, her eyes blinked in rapid succession and she gulped for breath as though the air was an alien substance. In her struggle to breathe, she tasted bile in her throat, sour and burning from the fear churning in her gut. Blood pounded in her veins, dizzying her, and she fought to ward off the encroaching paralysis. Perspiration dotted her brow, the cold atmosphere turning her skin clammy. The drugged wine she had consumed earlier was still causing a temporary distortion of her reflexes.

  Gaining a semblance of control over her ability to think and react, she pushed herself up on her knees. Her face bore an expression of open-mouthed bewilderment. Her eyes brought images of the primitive village into her brain, but what she saw was limited. Though the sounds of horses and men’s voices filled the night, in her head there was only the sound of her own labored breathing and a subtle whooshing sensation reminiscent of cotton being rubbed against her ears.

  The other men dismounted their horses, the women they’d captured close at hand. Herding the females toward a bonfire in the center of the camp, the men made them kneel down in a rough circle on their knees. At least it was warm beside the snapping flames, and the women gratefully held their hands out toward the heat. All in all, about ten women had been taken.

  Dria’s captor gave her a prod. “Get up,” he ordered.

  Head still spinning, Dria tried to drag herself to her feet. Her body was sore and stiff from the long ride, and she was too slow in responding. Bending, the warrior grabbed her arm and dragged her to the circle. Dria quickly twisted out of his grip, settling on her knees on the ground. Beside her, Jai shivered, her arms crossed over her bare breasts.

  “What do you think they will do with us?” she whispered sotto voce. Mai’s own pale face echoed her twin’s words, her eyes round with fright.

  Dria held her hands out toward the fire, welcoming the light and heat. “The Raiders are killers,” she whispered back. “We will surely be murdered.” Looking around at the women’s frightened faces, she realized that of the females taken, she was the only one of the priestess grade. Surely, they could not have mistaken her as one of the breed caste. She was right in the middle of her taking ceremony when they’d attacked.

  Rubbing her hands together, trying to take the numbness out of her fingers, Dria made the quick symbol of the Dragon over her chest, silently asking her god for protection from these heathens. A hard clout across the back of her head brought her resoundingly out of her thoughts.

  “The Dorcha makes the sign of the Dragon and looks to him for her salvation,” a male voice heckled. “Has she not learned the Dragon answers no prayers?” All of the men laughed.

  Rubbing her head, Dria glared angrily at the warrior, her eyes wielding the daggers she wished she had in her hand. He was not one who had been part of the raid or even the one who had taken her. Her eyes searched for her original captor, but he was leaving the circle, walking away from the group. In his place was a short barrel-chested man. His dirty blond hair hung in shreds around his bearded face. Dressed in a sleeveless tunic, leather trousers and books, he looked more to be a wild animal than a man. This was Graeymon, the second elder leader of the Raider tribes. His hand shot out, his great paw settling on the cap of her skull to wrench her head back.

  “I know your kind,” he snarled. He tightened his grip on her skull, as though he could crush it with a single hand. “Hungry to take men as slaves and put their women and children to sacrifice. I shall enjoy seeing you put to death, Anam-myngh, one less priestess to serve.”

  “Even in death I will gladly serve!” Dria hissed, twisting away from his hold. “You are nothing, a heretic unfit to serve any. It is no wonder you have been cast out.”

  Graeymon answered her words with a hearty slap. “Your senses have been poisoned by the foul things that gave birth to you. You are blind that the god you serve is a false one.” He clapped his hands and summoned two of his men.

  “Take this one and tie her up,” he said. “I will look forward to taking her life—just as her kind took the life of my woman and child.”

  Two men grabbed her. Jai wrapped her arms around Dria’s waist, trying to prevent the men from pulling her away. A warrior quickly wrested her loose from Jai’s grip, and Dria was dragged toward the rear of the camp. She fought and twisted, but could not escape their rough hands. It took only moments for them to lash her to a post, pulling her hands roughly behind her and tying her wrists with a thick cord. She was not even given the luxury of being able to sit down. Her arms were stretched almost to the breaking point, and the rough bark scraped against her back each time she attempted to move into a more comfortable position. Naked, bound, chilled to the bone, she was in for a very uncomfortable night.

  The two men left her, ambling back to the main group. Eyes narrowing, Dria watched them go.

  They’ll rape the women, she thought, fully expecting to witness a terrible assault. To her surprise, the opposite happened. The captured women were given clothing and food. Their status had changed in an instant from prisoners to honored guests.

  The Raider men want wives, she realized, shocked. Instead of forcing the women into sex, these rough and brutal men were attempting to court them. Watching the mating dance progress, she felt a strange stirring in her soul. There
were not enough women for all the men, so many were forced to compete for the women who caught his fancy. To her surprise, the women seemed to be not only participating, but were also enjoying the attention. When a woman had made her choice, a strange warm thrill went through Dria’s body as she watched the way the new couple touched, beginning a tentative exploration of each other. It was more than the cold that caused her nipples to rise into bead hard tips, the strange curl of desire on her belly, the flood of warmth between her legs.

  Though she didn’t want to admit it, her eyes searched the group, looking for her captor. To her disappointment, he was not among the men competing for a woman.

  It did not take long for all the women to be claimed. The losers groused and consoled themselves with lhune-roie, a bitter, stout barley based ale that quickly deprived a man of his senses. The drunker the men became, the more eyes began to be cast her way. The carnal leers at her naked body caused her to shiver.

  Two of the men got up, staggering over.

  “She will be executed soon,” one murmured. “Her life is worth nothing.”

  The second man nodded. “Why not enjoy the fruits of her body?” He shifted his own body, coming closer.

  Dria felt his hands on her breasts. She drew in a breath. He was standing so close now that she could feel his warm breath caress her cheek. Her tongue snaked out, tracing her lips, wetting them. The instant disgust of his rough touch nauseated her. Her head was spinning. Despite her aversion to his touch, she could not help the fluttery feelings that spread through her pussy when he bent down to suckle at one nipple. She tried to twist free, feeling the cruel bite of the leather thongs around her wrists. She whipped her head to one side when he tried to kiss her. Her heart beat faster. Catching her under the chin, he turned her face to him. His mouth covered hers in a deep sloppy kiss, his tongue thrusting through her lips to invade her mouth. His breath was sour, reeking of ale almost as badly as his body stank of sweat and grime. She felt sick to her stomach. Her lungs were scorched from the quick, hot breaths she’d inhaled. Most frightening was the sense that she had no control over what was happening to her. She couldn’t even lift her arms to defend herself. Feeling his erection pressing against her stomach through the leather trousers he wore, her legs trembled. She could no longer stand upright, and would have fallen were she not tied up. Near to gagging, she bit down hard, her teeth tearing a piece of flesh out of his lip.

  The man roared, drawing back and rubbing his perforated lip. “Bitch,” he hissed. His hand flew to her throat. He began to squeeze.

  The second man knocked his hand away. “Kill her not, Toma,” he warned. “It is too hard to fuck a dead woman.” He pushed his friend aside and took his place. Squeezing her breasts, the second warrior began to tug at her nipples. His hands slid to her hips. He pushed his body against hers and began to move his hips. Already his cock was rock hard, looking for action.

  Her attacker grunted. “Are you wet, strega, whore of the Dragon?” He slid a hand between their bodies, pushing his hand between her thighs. He placed his fingertips against her pussy, searching drunkenly for her clit. He thrust one leg between hers to spread her thighs wider apart. By now the other men drinking around the campfire had noticed what was happening. A couple more drifted over. Rubbing their cocks through their leather trousers, their intent was clear. They also intended to have a turn at her.

  Writhing against the pole, Dria tried to escape the second man’s touch. She scrunched her eyes tightly shut when he stroked his fingers up and down her tender inner lips. She cried out in pain and shuddered when he pushed two fingers roughly up inside her pussy. She was still sore from losing her virginity.

  She clenched her eyes shut and prayed the men would use her quickly.

  Chapter Nine

  While the rest of the camp’s attention was on the newly acquired women, there was one man among them whose expression—or lack of it—indicated to the most observant that his thoughts were troubled by the present celebration. Rutola sat away from the others, his features lit by the dancing flames of a second smaller fire. His eyes were never still. He glanced at the sky above their heads, then back down to his fellow warriors. A worried frown creasing his forehead. He sat motionless. Some distant object seemed to beckon his attention. The women meant nothing to him. Rutola had a wife, a family.

  Reading trouble in the elder leader’s face, Ardan slowly approached him. He tried not to swagger too much. For now he was a hero among his fellow tribesmen, giving them a chance to bring new blood into their shrinking gene pool. Only time and the women’s favors would tell if the effort was a successful one. He sipped from the tankard he carried. The bitter brew was not usually to his liking and he rarely drank it, but this night he felt the need to indulge liberally. He still had not worked up the courage to walk over and take Dria for himself. As the leader of the raid, the choice of women should have been Ardan’s. Still, he hung back. What if Dria rejected him, refused him as her mate? To do so would be signing her death warrant. No matter her beauty or status, none of the men wanted a priestess of the Dragon. They would never trust her.

  They would execute her.

  But not before they’d used her. Well.

  Rutola noticed him, nodded and motioned for him to take a place at his side. As the elder leader, Rutola was one of the oldest among them. His own familial clan had once been very powerful and had stood against the rise of the Dragon’s legion. Though an immortal, Rutola shunned the arts. He was a man of direct action, not spells and counter spelling. His own father had held a position as one of the original thirteen members of the council of justices. And when the council had agreed to an alliance with Xavier in the name of preserving an almost non-existent peace, Rutola had abandoned his clan in disgust. Appeasing Xavier, giving him time to rebuild his legion’s strength was a mistake, he argued. It was better to join the rogue tribes than to be a part of the poor politics the council saw fit to indulge in. None of it helped Sclyd’s people.

  Though one who did not age as humans did, he was not invulnerable to injury. This made him a careful man. He made no move without great consideration, thinking out all angles and how it would best benefit his people. Unlike others born to live a life that spanned ages instead of mere years, Rutola had a great respect not only for humans, but also for life in general. He understood that a strong mortal populace could strengthen an immortal’s bloodlines, preserving the ancient legacies instead of destroying them. The occult was a very real phenomena and magic was a very fragile art too long abused by those hungry to be gods. Few understood the complexities—many minds could not comprehend them at all. Still more had their eyes closed, couldn’t see or believe such could exist. Few saw both worlds as Rutola had.

  “You always watch the skies,” Ardan said.

  Rutola nodded. “It is going to happen. Soon.”

  “Then you truly believe the old litanies of the three worlds coming back together?”

  “I not only believe,” the elder leader answered. “I witnessed the closing of the veils the first time.”

  It was Ardan’s turn to look to the sky, study the stars. He had never understood the positioning of the stars the way Rutola seemed to, but he knew why they looked continually to the skies, hoping with each passing year that Sclyd would soon be free of its shackles.

  Chilled by the cool night air, Ardan held his hands out to the fire. A bit of the ancient litany he had learned as a child passed through his head.

  As the gods ordained at the time of creation, the separation will not last for the three worlds are meant to be a single entity, he thought. Parted, they must, like magnets, be drawn back together.

  Dipping back his head, he cast his gaze toward the night’s sky. The twin moons fought to spread their light through the blurry veil of the mist.

  “The star maps are changing,” Rutola said quietly, his voice not to be heard by others. “The dimensions are realigning and the celestial seals are coming apart at the seams. For every ac
tion, there is one to oppose it. Time was all that was needed, and time has been granted. With each passing year, the three worlds are being drawn back together as the god’s battle to shift the heavens back into place. It is only a matter of time before Sclydian entities will again be dimensional travelers.”

  The promise of the Dragon is, indeed, a true one, Ardan thought, then winced. No, he did not want to believe that Ouroborous would be the victor when the skies fell to darkness and the souls were divided among the gods.

  “And you believe the old wars will start again?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Rutola said, taking a drink of the lhune-roie in his own cup. “I know it.”

  Both fell into silence, listening to the sounds of men trying to persuade the new women that they were worthy mates. Getting over their fright, the women were beginning to enjoy the attention of being courted as desirable females. He almost enjoyed the sound of laughter, of joyous voices. That alone gave him hope that Sclyd might yet survive its twin devastations.

  Ardan’s gaze cut to the edges of the camp. Hovering like a hungry dog, yet not quite advancing to where bonfires burned to chase away its presence was the ever-present night mists. For some unknown reason, it did not penetrate where there was any source of illumination, which is why fires were kept burning through the night. When day came, it would recede, creeping back into the ground to rest. Each time it emerged it seemed to do a little more damage, rising like a horde of locusts to ravage the land.

  No one was old enough to remember why the mists that often blotted out the land had come. Many swore it was a punishment for delving into secrets best left to the gods. At night, the luminous haze oozed up from the ground, almost smothering in its weight and breadth. The mist, called the marbh-sol, had somehow mutated into a force that devoured both physical and psychic life. Vast parcels of land, particularly those in the Northlands, had grown unstable. The terrain was barren, barely habitable. There seemed to be no stopping its advance, either. Like a virus, each passing year saw the spread of devastation. More devastating, though, was that mortal people were beginning to suffer from sterility, becoming unable to reproduce. In another century, maybe two, humans would die out.