The strong female odour was obvious as he presented it to her, as was the glistening wetness. How could the others not notice? Or were they merely pretending not to, allowing themselves to be used in some larger scheme of humiliation directed against her person?
‘Please,’ she whispered when he put the tiny green morsel to her mouth. ‘Don’t make me.’
Not even bothering to look in her direction, he thrust the juice-soaked fruit to her lips, forcing her to open, to take it in. Her lips trembled as she chewed, the flavour reminding her of the whip handle in Senelek’s hand. It was a sensation that belonged to another world and yet here she was at her own table tasting herself like a slave at the command of a cruel and stupid man.
‘Lick them,’ he said, extending his wet fingers. One by one she did, slowly and sensually, feeling like a wanton whore, not caring which of the men were watching or even if all of them were. At this very moment it did not matter, for were Telos to command it she would, without hesitation, strip off her red dress and fall to her knees, naked. To each man, then, she would crawl allowing him to fill her mouth with his hot hardness, and ultimately with his salty jism.
‘So tell us, your majesty,’ she heard Remik say, the man’s voice every bit as acerbic as she remembered it. ‘It must have been difficult, to say the least, being in the captivity of the Rashal. It is said they abuse their female prisoners, treating them like animals.’
Telos leaned close to her, adding an injunction of his own just as she was on the verge of answering. ‘Place this inside yourself,’ he whispered, pressing the small cube of ice against her belly under the table. As if in a dream Caralissa took the frozen chunk, her hand trembling as she slid it under her clothes, moving it steadily to her pulsating sex.
‘The Rashal are not civilised,’ she replied, the ice having reached her throbbing lips. ‘Their ways are not ours.’
‘All the way in,’ Telos coaxed, as he thrust the goblet to her lips.
Caralissa slurped greedily. Still the fluid came too fast, running in rivulets down her front.
‘Forgive me,’ cried Telos, as though mortally wounded. ‘You,’ he bellowed to a nearby servant, ‘take the queen at once and help her to clean herself.’
‘No,’ Caralissa protested, not daring to move in her current state. ‘I am fine.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asked, his face a picture of deep concern. ‘But won’t you at least allow me to dry you off?’
‘No,’ she hissed, even as the ice bit her with teeth of commingled pleasure and pain. ‘Do not touch me.’
‘Is something the matter?’ she heard Norod call out, the man obviously having no clue as to the real nature of this ‘breakfast’.
Telos eyed her, his gaze conveying the nature of his latest blackmail. If he were to open his mouth there was no telling what he might say, or what Norod might believe.
She flushed red. It was another trap. ‘No,’ she said, knowing herself beaten once more. ‘It is only a small stain. Telos is going to help me.’
Telos was smiling smugly, like a boy about to pull the head off of an insect. The servant handed him a rag, the thin scrap of cloth being a simple pretence to molest her in yet another form, this time upon her bosom.
Telos’ hands beneath the rag were vulgar and coarse. Running them over her bared upper chest he took his time, lingering at her breasts, working her nipples into painful readiness. That the men were saying nothing even at this juncture indicated she was already beaten, her case lost before it could be even argued. In their eyes she must already be something less than a queen, and perhaps only a little more than the sort of female one finds under one’s table begging for scraps in a pleasure-house.
Her only question was why they were persisting with this charade. Couldn’t Telos simply have possessed her upon her return, declaring her to be his slave? Or was it true that his power was limited and that he needed Norod, needed the legitimacy of his ruling? What Romila’s role was up to this point, Caralissa could not say. Did her absence bespeak complicity, or did it indicate that she too, like her sister, was under some form of duress?
So many questions. Straining against the melting ice and roaming hand, she fought to keep her concentration. The line of pleasure and pain was on the verge of disappearing again just as it did in the Rashal camp under the distinct yet equally potent influence of Varik and Senelek.
‘I for one, say the queen should be commended!’ Norod exclaimed, having begun some conversation in his own head. ‘She survived the Rashal and managed even to remove them from our lands.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Remik, ‘she did survive. Though I can’t help asking what she did to earn that survival.’
Caralissa shuddered. She could not believe this was happening to her, that she could find herself in such a state in her own dining hall, in the middle of her own castle. She wanted to tear their eyes out, yet at the same time she was fighting the urge to tear off her clothes and beg the men to use her.
‘One does what one must,’ she said proudly, determined not to sink to the man’s level, ‘to make a stand for the honour of one’s country.’
Remik gulped the rest of his cider, throwing back his head. ‘To making a stand,’ he pronounced, holding up the empty goblet. ‘Even if it means doing so on your back.’
‘I agree,’ said Norod. ‘It is good to have Caralissa back.’
‘I think I speak for us all,’ interjected Telos, ‘when I say that no one thinks ill of our lovely queen. But we must know the truth, mustn’t we?’
All eyes were on Caralissa, who at present was allowing Telos to place a carrot stick in her mouth. The ice was melted by now and she was praying that he would not compel her to take another cube of it between her tortured legs.
‘Lick it,’ he said, moving the shaft-like object in and out of her softly inviting mouth.
Caralissa sucked the carrot like a slut. Would they find her sufficiently arousing to make her lay for them - right here on the marble floor? Or would she be found wanting? In that case they might well punish her, in the Rashal way. Telos would not be above spanking her or even whipping her. The others would happily join in, most especially Remik.
‘Stand up, now,’ Telos told her. ‘Tell us what you have become. Tell us in your heart what you are.’
Caralissa rose to her feet. She could not deny the man, nor could she hide what was inside, what she felt at this moment. For despite her indignation she was wanting to submit, needing to, in fact.
‘Tell us, Caralissa,’ Telos pressed, the smell of victory in his nostrils. ‘Take off your clothes and tell us. Strip yourself and make yourself free.’
Her mouth was dry. Fingers weak and trembling she moved to grasp the end of the crisscrossed string that tied across the bodice of her dress. She was going to do this, she really was.
‘Caralissa, why are you standing up again?’
It was Norod, trying in vain to grasp the implications of what was about to happen. His doddering voice and nasal whine were all the impetus she needed to return her to her senses. She must get away! It was her only chance. Pushing back her chair, fending off Telos’ flailing grabs, she made for the doorway. None of the guards moved to stop her. She would go to the stables, get a horse and ride. It was not a logical plan, but the time for logic was no more. It was about survival now.
No one followed her, though she knew he would come for her. Trajor.
‘Leave her to me,’ she heard him say as she fled the room, no trace of bragging in his voice. ‘I will bring her back.’
Caralissa was adept at riding. Since she was old enough to walk she’d ridden her father’s horses, both with and without saddles. She knew a way into the stables through a loose board. She also knew the fastest horses, and the ones that knew her best. She chose a grey mare with a thick mane and hoofs that struck the earth like thunder. The horse responded to her c
ommands at once, accepting her presence as she leaped on its back. There was no time for a saddle or even a bridle and reins. Kicking off her leather shoes, tearing away the hem of her long dress, she dug in her heels, readying herself for the ride of her life.
Using the horse’s mane for steerage and calling her name, Grey Cloud, she shouted the animal into fighting frenzy. The handful of groomsmen scattered like insects as Caralissa and her mount burst out of the front of the barn, none of them were equipped to follow. Capitalising on the element of surprise, leaping over three fences in rapid succession, she soon found herself alone on the main road. Caralissa did not know where she intended to go, only that she would ride with the wind, her hair flying and her freedom intact for as long as she could manage.
To the border perhaps, and from there across to one of the nearby kingdoms. Or else she might try to get beyond the valley entirely by escaping into the Forest of Night. Yes, that would be the one place she could go where no one would dare follow, least of all the coward Telos. A pang of guilt struck her as she thought of her sister. What if Romila were in trouble? Oughtn’t she try to help? Then again, if she were recaptured what good would that do anyone?
Childishly, she thought now of Varik. What if she could ride to him and beg him to help her? Would he not champion her cause, swooping down into the valley with the host of his army, striking terror into her enemies, magically solving all her problems? Caralissa shook the foolish notion from her brain. Varik did not want her. Why couldn’t she grasp that? How clear did he have to make it? Would she be in this predicament now, a fugitive in her own land, if he cared for her even one iota?
Caralissa heard the sound of the rider behind her almost as quickly as did Grey Cloud. No sooner did the horse’s ears prick up than she herself was turning to look over her shoulder. It was a black mount, bearing down, it’s rider low to the saddle, kicking its side like a man possessed. Like a demon from the mythical pit of fire into which the wicked are cast after death. There was no need to see the glint of silver or the spray of golden hair to know who it was. It was Trajor, coming for her.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She was quarry, vulnerable to the swifter more powerful male. It was only a matter of time till she was caught unless she did something to even the odds. Pulling from the main road she took one last desperate gamble. If she could lose him in the woods, in the royal hunting reserve, she might yet win her freedom. She retained the advantage, having ridden in these woods all her life. There were hidden trails, places to hide, places a large man could not go.
Caralissa ducked to avoid the low branches. Grey Cloud was nervous and needed reassurance. ‘Hold steady, girl,’ she promised, ‘and we will find you the biggest bucket of oats in the Forest.’
Or whatever passed for oats in the Forest of Night.
It was said the Forest was full of demons, and that no one who crossed its borders lived to tell the tale. Maybe demons were what she needed, though. Maybe they were the ones who would champion her cause, find her sister and rid the valley of the interlopers who dared sit at her table, drink her fruit wine, eat her food and mock her honour.
Twice the horse nearly lost its footing. They were going down the side of a hill, the path crisscrossed with exposed roots and twisted underbrush. If she could get below the canopy of umbrella trees at the bottom of the old streambed she could ride for hours, virtually undetected. She could not hear Trajor behind her any more. He followed her as far as the first trees, but appeared to have lost his way at one of the many double-back turns she’d made. Her trail would be unreadable now and in a just a few short minutes she would be out of reach of any of them. Allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction, congratulating herself prematurely, she tucked her head to the horse’s mane, evading thereby a branch, a foot thick and craggy with aged bark.
There was no way the larger, bulkier warrior on his huge steed could follow this path!
‘Good girl,’ she told the horse, even as Trajor dropped on her without warning.
He’d been hiding in the tree above her, having somehow anticipated and cut off her escape path. He landed behind her, his chest pressing her back, his thighs gripping the horse’s flanks. With one hand he clamped her waist while with the other he compelled Grey Cloud to an immediate stop. This accomplished he kicked hard into the horse’s side, issuing a single command, imperious and harsh, compelling the hapless mare to turn around.
Silently they re-ascended the hill. Caralissa voiced not an utterance of complaint, not even when he made Grey Cloud stop in front of a large oak in a grassy clearing at the edge of the woods. For several moments he looked at the tree, then dismounted, having satisfied himself on some score. Pulling Caralissa down after him he tossed her over her shoulder, carrying her effortlessly to the base of the tree.
‘Put your arms above your head,’ he ordered, as soon as he deposited her on the ground.
Caralissa gripped the black earth with her bare toes. The wispy grass tickled her calves. After a second’s hesitation and no more she did as she was told. There was in his eyes a harshness, a glint of steel not unlike that which she’d seen in the eyes of many a Rashal. It was almost a relief as he removed her dress, leaving her naked in the open air. He regarded her, her place and his now clear. She was woman and he was man, she was captive, he was captor.
At his belt he carried rope in a long coil. Tossing one end of it overhead he looped the rough and fibrous coil over a high branch. Fashioning a slipknot he tied it off then used the free end to secure her hands. In a matter of seconds he had her bound, on tiptoes, her body stretched humiliatingly, enticingly.
Unable to move a muscle she watched as he searched among the smaller branches lying about the ground. Discarding several, having tested them first by slashing the air to and fro, he finally settled on a medium-sized one. Employing a knife he stripped away the bark till it was smooth and bare.
All this he did in plain sight, taking his time, allowing her to know that she was in his power absolutely.
‘You were a prisoner of the Rashal,’ he said, placing the stick beneath her chin, raising it to eye level.
‘Yes,’ she replied defiantly.
There was, of course, no need for her to have answered. The fact of her captivity was well known by both of them.
‘I, too, was their captive,’ he said soberly.
The revelation shocked Caralissa more greatly than the surprise of having Trajor leap upon the back of her horse. ‘You?’ she managed. ‘Were a prisoner?’
Trajor nodded. ‘My people were neighbours of the Rashal,’ he told her, tracing a line with the tip of the switch in the valley of her breasts. ‘We were conquered. Most of our men were killed. I was still a boy. I was allowed to live. When I came of age I devised a plan. I escaped into the mountains and became a mercenary. My skills and my knowledge proved quite valuable in the service of those opposing the Rashal. Most recently I have served Norod.’
Caralissa enquired no further. From his tone it was clear no more would be said of the matter - particularly with regard to the details of his escape and prior to this the means of his survival among brutal foes. It was enough to know they shared something in common once, but that now their positions were in opposition. It was nothing personal. He was doing a job. For gold.
The switch played freely over her curves. Trajor was playing with her body, and yet with each touch, light as it was, she shuddered, for she knew what the switch might do to her. She suspected that Trajor, too, had felt such pain. That the experience would somehow weaken him or cause him to cower from his duty to punish her was, however, an impossibility.
Trajor was a warrior. A man of codes, a man of honours.
‘I do not permit the escape of those I am entrusted to guard,’ he told her, the tip of the freshly carved wood resting at the juncture of her thighs. ‘Were you male I would slay you for the attempt, though the act might cost me my
own life at the hands of my employers.’
Caralissa’s breath was heavy. ‘I deserve punishment,’ she declared, allowing the device to graze her clitoris. ‘I beg you to punish me, Trajor. I beg you to whip my bottom.’
Trajor slashed instead across the flesh of her breasts. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do,’ he warned.
Caralissa lowered her tear-filled eyes, the pain stinging her consciousness. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Were you my woman,’ Trajor informed her, compelling her to raise her lowered eyes yet again. ‘You would be taught obedience. As it stands now, you seek to command your masters, dictating the terms of your usage.’ He looked at her more deeply, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I find that surprising, given where you have been of late.’
Caralissa could not resist the opportunity to brag. ‘Varik, the Rashal chief, loves me,’ she told him. ‘Beware that you do not invoke his wrath when he returns for me...’
Caralissa’s arrogant words melted into a scream as Trajor struck two blows to her belly, savage and efficient, one upon the other. Horrified and shocked she looked at him, then at the angry marks across her flesh. For an instant she contemplated opening her mouth to protest, but when she saw him poised, implacable, ready to do it again, she stifled herself, opting instead to lower her head in silence.
He regarded her. ‘This time,’ he told her, ‘you are denied permission to scream.’
The Orencian queen bit her lip, bracing herself. She’d seen it coming, his arm moving, slowly, deliberately as he positioned himself with perfection. She prayed he would not strike her sensitive sex lips. He did not, opting instead to level a slice on the tender skin across the front of her thighs. Throwing her head back she choked on her own agony, killing thereby the impulse to cry out. Long painful breaths came instead, and a low groan followed by a submissive whimper, but not one scream did she emit.
Caralissa's Conquest Page 17
