The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1)

by Warren Thomas

  Danica gasped, back bowing as she stared incredulously at nothing. Her mind was in shambles, unable to think coherently. It felt like her body was winding up tighter and tighter, and she struggled to hold herself in check. Give the enemy no pleasure, no satisfaction. Give Raf nothing.

  And then the sweetest tingling heat flowed into her thighs.

  Danica recognized it, groaning with despair and pleasure, and then her body erupted. Raf hooted with glee when she came, gasping and crying out as she bucked and writhed beneath him. A moment later she felt him stiffen, and then release deep inside her.

  Raf let out a gusty sigh and slowly pulled out of her. Danica groaned, unable to stop writhing as the aftershocks of her climax quivered and quaked deep within her belly. She shot him an incredulous stare as Raf rose to his feet and started dressing.

  A roar of angry shouts and accusations erupted from the Clan Council. Danica's turbulent emotions along with the jumble of voices wouldn't allow her to understand what they were arguing about. She desperately wanted to listen to their conversations, to help her ignore what Raf had done to her, had made her feel and experience.

  Suddenly grabbing her face, Raf yanked her to her feet, kissed her long and hard, and then roughly pushed her back to the ground. To her surprise, he stood over her and glanced nervously back toward the arguing voices.

  "Later. Right now I don't want to miss the council."

  With that, Raf was gone. Danica lay in stunned silence, shaking and sobbing softly, thanking every God she could think of for this reprieve. Even Lyss and her demented offspring, the God Eshu.

  When no one else came in to use her, Danica turned her attention to the braided leather cord binding her to the tent pole. She started chewing. It was thick and tough, but she was confident she could severe it. Unfortunately, she had to stop when other slaves started returning to the tent and bedding down.

  Danica lay her head down, deciding to wait for them all to fall asleep before she returned to working on the cord. As she lay there, all of her aches and pains demanded her attention. Soon, the rough day began catching up with her, and she tried in vain to fight off the lethargy that enfolded her with blackness and oblivion.

  * * * * *

  Danica eyes popped open. Glancing around the tent, she held her breath and listened to the slow steady breathing of the other slaves. She had heard one of the other slave girls stirring in her sleep, mutter incoherently. Her enhanced Elven sight allowed her to see in the near absolute blackness remarkably well. Slaves were scattered thickly about the floor on the thick, boldly colored rugs the nomads were known for. None of the others were moving though. Reassured, she started to gnaw on the leather cord securing her neck to the center tent pole.

  The clan had retired for the night. She was relieved that neither Raf, nor anyone else, came to pay her a visit after the meeting broke up. But she didn't think it would take Raf long to hunt her down in the morning.

  After being soaked with spittle and gnawed on by her strong, sharp teeth the braided leather cord separated relatively easily. As the last strand parted, she rolled up to a sitting position and again scanned the tent's interior. Then, with her hands still tightly bound behind her back, she slowly worked her way through the sleeping slaves and wiggled under the tent flap on her belly then started looking for the sentries.

  After several tense minutes, she finally spotted two warriors guarding the sleeping camp. One to the east, towards their hereditary enemy's graze, the Taag, and the other to the west guarding the string of saddled horses. She had expected more sentries, but then recalling their recent losses, decided that they were fielding all they reasonably could. They couldn't have all their warriors on guard all the time.

  Noting the location of both sentries, she went in search of something sharp to free her wrists. Anything would do: sharp rock, discarded spearhead, knife, javelin...

  She eventually found a small fire pit bordered by largish rocks. Kneeling with her back to them, she began rubbing the leather cord against the sharpest edge she could find. It was harrowing, expecting to be discovered at any time, but the cord finally parted and she was free again.

  After a short but unsuccessful search for clothes, she gave up and decided to just escape. She'd worry about clothing later.

  Staying downwind, she eased up close to the saddled horses and studied the sentry. He seemed alert. It would be difficult to sneak up on him, especially with the horses present.

  Not seeing any alternative, she bunched up her legs and darted in at the startled warrior. As he reached for his hilt, she kicked him in the groin. When he bent over, she elbowed him across the face and sent him back against a horse. She stepped in and straight finger punched him in the throat, cutting off any cry for help. Then she brought her knee up hard into his jaw as he slumped to his knees.

  Though she successfully stifled the Jordani's cry of alarm, the horses were pulling at their reins and screaming shrilly as only horses can.

  Seeing the other guard charging her way, she jerked the unconscious nomad's steppe sword out of its sheath and hacked off the end of the picket rope holding the whinnying horses. After running to the other end of the short line, she untied the reins of the last horse, cut the other end of the line, and swung up into the saddle with a tight grip on the picket rope. She noted with an instant of pleasure that there were fat saddlebags, hopefully with rations and a change of clothes. Then with a wild cry, she kicked her mount into a run, pulling the string of horses along.

  Bearing northeast, she continued to kick the horse into ever greater efforts. Pulling the other horses along was a chore, but she couldn't allow the Jordani to retrieve them. It would take them a good while to round up more mounts and pursue. And she had no doubt that they would pursue. She expected to be chased all the way to Samulla, and maybe beyond. Nomads could be quite tenacious when spited.

  She was soon riding past the clan's herds of cattle, horses, and sheep, all quiet in the night. A shout, then another, to her left told her she had made a grave error. In her desperation, she had forgotten about the herd guards. There would be several, mostly young men nearing the age to bear arms for the clan.

  She released the string of horses, then veered right and headed due east. She kept the moon to her rear. The Bloodmoon was past, but was still a taint of red.

  With her fresher horse and lighter weight, she hoped to outrun the herd guards and lose them in the night. In daylight she could never hope to evade them, but there was a slight chance of success in the night.

  "Run, baby, run!" she cried, kicking the horse urgently and whipping it to greater efforts with the long reins.

  She could see the shadowy Jordani following, crouched over in their saddles and whipping their mounts with their reins. Few steppe nomads used spurs, preferring to urge their beloved mounts on by using their long reins as whips. It was too dark to tell if they were gaining, and the ride too frantic to count them. It was enough they were following, and not too far back either. Soon the seasoned warriors would join the chase.

  She turned down a dry wash, hoping they would lose sight of her. Keeping low, she rode up the wash past a low hill and cut out. Heading west, she rode a short ways before cutting back north into another wash. The confused shouts of the herd guards gave her renewed hope.

  Riding hard up a rocky, dried up creek bed, she kept a close watch to the rear. She half-expected to see Jordani rounding the bend behind her at any time. It was almost impossible to escape from one of the nomadic tribes. Even with the horse and her knowledge of the steppes and desert, she only gave herself even odds.

  "Gods!" she cried as the horse crashed headfirst into the ground.

  Danica was thrown clear and rolled to her feet, looking about wildly. The horse was on the ground screaming in agony and flopping like a fish. Even without looking she knew it had broken a leg. Off in the distance, she heard the shouts of her pursuers and then the low rumble of approaching horsemen.

  The horse's agonized
screams and bellows had alerted the Jordani to her location. She ran up and brought her sword down across its neck just behind the head. It was as much to end its suffering as to silence its screams.

  Turning, she started running up the wash. The small, sharp stones cut at her tender feet. Trying to ignore the stabbing pains shooting up her legs, she cursed the sorceress for her pampered lifestyle as she ran.

  Within minutes there were half a dozen horsemen storming up the wash after her. Leaving the wash, she sprinted to the top of a low hill to make her stand. The first rule of combat: Always take the high ground. The riders followed with joyful cries of victory.

  The first to reach her received a nasty cut on the leg before she kick his horse in the nose. She pulled the second one out of the saddle and chased him halfway down the hill. Several others made passes and were brutally rebuffed.

  Holding the slightly curved, two-handed sword with both hands, she watched as the Jordani youths began circling her warily. She rested, sucking in much needed air. The brief skirmish was a close one. Only the boys' inexperience had saved her.

  Snorting, she muttered, "I seem to have taken some of the arrogance out of them."

  "You best surrender now, slave," one of the boys called. She didn't recognize the voice. "It'll be a lot better on you."

  "Come up and make me surrender," she shouted. Nothing like a little bravado to shore up one's courage. "I'll carve you up and jerky your scrawny asses."

  None of them took her up. They sat their mounts patiently. Waiting. Time was on their side. Soon the adult men would arrive, the warriors. They would surely make short work of this arrogant elfmaid.

  Gods, she thought with a grimace as she spotted the approaching mass of horsemen. I only made things worse. I'll be lucky if they don't hamstring me on the spot and cut my pointed ears off for a trophy.

  She watched in grim silence as the warriors approached. One of the herd guards went out to meet them and explain the situation. The warriors also came to a halt at the bottom of the hill. They all studied each other a moment.

  Danica, on a hunch, relaxed and fixed her eyes intently on the dark mass of horsemen. Within seconds she spotted the swirling mist lights that she saw around Red Bull earlier. No one else had these strange "auras" about them. She marveled at this discovery a moment, turning it off and on almost at will now that she knew she could do it. Then two warriors separated from the group and rode confidently up after her, startling her out of her reverie.

  She watched them approach with a tightening throat.

  The best thing to do would be surrender. At the very least I will be whipped or beaten. Of course, they might decide I'm too much trouble to bother with and simply slit my throat. The more trouble I make, the worse off I'll be.

  "I'm going to hate myself for this," she mumbled and lowered the sword.

  She watched wide grins spread across the warriors' faces as she lowered her guard. It was obvious to everyone she had surrendered. Then she realized the smiles had turned into leers as they reined up before her. Visions of gang rape leapt into her overly fertile mind.

  "No!" she cried and the sword snapped back up.

  Before they knew what was happening, Danica kicked one horse in the mouth and hacked the other's right front leg off. She thrust her blade deep into the belly of the first horse as it reared up. Then darted over to the fallen horse and ran its rider through before he could disentangle himself from the thrashing animal.

  "Stinking Elven slave bitch!" the other warrior cried, charging in.

  She parried a quick flurry of cuts and thrusts, then launched her own attack. He was the stronger, but she outclassed him easily. Both knew who would win within seconds.

  Driving the tip of her blade into his sword hand, she gave it a flick and sent his sword flying. But as she raised her sword for the death blow, a rope encircled her wrist and jerked her off balance. She lost her sword.

  "Seems your luck has changed," Dett said from out of the darkness.

  Grabbing the rope with both hands, she jerked the young herdsman out of the saddle. Before she could take three steps, two more lassos leapt out of the night and ensnared her. One caught her left wrist, the other her right ankle. She heard someone running in from behind and tried to turn to meet him. He hit her at full speed, driving her down into the grass. Several more men quickly joined him. Before she knew it she was subdued and her wrists bound together behind her back. Not until after she scored several good kicks, and drew blood from more than one bite on cursing Jordani.

  At first, Dett and Red Bull ignored her, instead heading straight over to their downed kinsman. The wounded were collected together not ten pace from her, while Red Bull started chanting his healing spells. Danica quickly shifted into her newfound "sight" and watched in fascination as the mist lights swirled about him and the wounded Jordani. There was no longer any doubt she was able to see his magic. She didn't know if it was because she was an elf or because Talar had overlooked something, but thought she might be able to use it if she ever got free.

  While Red Bull tended to the wounded warriors and herd guards, the War Chief began administering mercy blows to the two mortally wounded horses. Thoughts of the three dead horses made Danica cringe. Nothing sickened her more than when forced to attack innocent animals, especially horses.

  And nomads practically worshipped horses. Her mind wouldn't let her even think about what was about to be done to her. She knew the nomad's mind-set well enough to know what would be coming shortly. First their kinsmen would be avenged, and then the horses. Danica prayed she would endure her punishments honorably and stoically.

  After dispatching the wounded horses, Dett came over to glare at her some more. He was good at glaring, she decided. He had lots of practice. It was the same reaction Danic had elicited upon announcing he had no intention of marrying Hara. Danica smiled at the memory.

  "A warrior indeed," Dett said, seeing her smile. He then put all his considerable strength into the punch to her belly. Danica's breath explode out. "That's for trying to escape." Again he hit her, "That's for killing the horses." Then hitting her in the jaw, "And that's for killing my kin!"

  Chapter 7

  Danica let out a tiny gasp of pain. She gritted her teeth as her fingers clawed the sandy soil, the stiff grasses jabbing into her inflamed back. The pain was still hard to believe. As a man, she had driven away all concerns about pain while still a youth hard in training to become a knight. She had not been prepared for this soft female body and its total lack of endurance. For the hundredth time, she wished for at least a blanket to lay on.

  Rolling over onto her belly, she let the gentle evening breeze piercing the flapping tent cool the wicked red stripes crisscrossing her back. It was her first whipping as a woman. And it was humiliating. Not the actual whipping, but the way she had screamed and cried and begged them to stop. Apparently willpower had very little to do with controlling tears and sobs as a woman.

  One more humiliation Talar will have to answer for.

  She was exhausted. The Jordani had worked her mercilessly all day. They used riding quirts on her to vent their anger. The short, braided leather whips could cause considerable pain. If she hesitated in carrying out any order, or so much as looked at anyone wrong, she received another ugly red welt.

  After being recaptured, the men had returned her to camp where she was tied spread-eagle on one of the looms and whipped into unconsciousness. She was then left hanging till dawn, when she was cut down to help pack up and move the clan. The weakened clan was dangerously close to their enemy's graze and wanted to put a safety zone between them. Danica had been the only person, slaves included, that wasn't allowed to ride. She spent the day running back and forth between wagons and horses relaying asinine messages to amuse her tormentors.

  If their plan had been to make her too exhausted to try another escape, it worked.

  "Damn chains," she mumbled as the bronze collar bit into her neck. Its short chain was attached t
o a stake driven deep into the sun-baked ground. "I'll wrap them around their bloody throats someday."

  Every time she was about to slip into much needed sleep, another slave returned to the tent and revived her with the noise. The other slaves all had free run of the encampment. They didn't sleep in chains, or were bound in any way. Only Danica suffered that indignity.

  Finally dozing off, she was rudely awakened by a foot prodding her buttocks. Someone was saying something to her.

  "What?"

  "Wake up, slave." It was one of the warriors. "We have use of you tonight."

  Use? Me? Oh, Gods.

  "I'm too weak, master," she begged softly, and truthfully. And hating herself for it.

  Snorting, "For this, you don't need to do anything but lay down with your legs spread. I'm sure you'll manage."

  And then die of humiliation. She, fought back the tears that threatened to humiliate her further.

  The collar around her neck was removed and the warrior lifted her up in his arms. She wanted to scream, to kick, to do anything to stop what was about to happen, but didn't have the strength or willpower left.

  "Is it possible for me to get drunk first?"

  "We don't waste good kumiss on slaves."

  Danica lay limply in his arms as he hurried through the darkened camp. She could hear a faint drumbeat getting closer. It was somehow familiar. Then as they entered the brightly lit tent she realized what was happening. Rites of Passage.

  All the warriors were present in their ceremonial robes. They sat in a wide circle about the Clan Shaman. Along the back of the tent were the four oldest boys. The boys were also wearing robes, which meant they had already been tested and passed. Their first act as men would be to use a female captive. Normally, they would be expected to go on a ritual-shrouded raid and each capture his own woman for this ceremony, but that wasn't an absolute necessity.

  She was dropped at the Red Bull's feet and pushed to her back. The warrior that had fetched her quickly untied her wrists and pulled her arms over her head and held them down.