In Thrall

by Martin, Madelene

  Leif led her to the head of the ship where there was space. A few men sat around, drinking and talking. One young man – she thought it was the boy who brought her food – sat on a bench playing a tune on a wooden whistle. They all stared at her, and she lifted the edge of her blanket to cover her lower face. The men laughed and joked with each other, but didn't come near try to touch her.

  “Can you smell it?” Leif asked exultantly, as they stood at the side of the ship looking out over the water. “That's the smell of home.”

  She thought she could smell it. There was a crispness on the air that was wholly unfamiliar. She had so many questions, but couldn't bring herself to ask. Instead she peered down at the waves and wondered if she should just try to leap over the side before he could stop her.

  Leif shouted orders to his crew, and the young man dropped his whistle and hurried to obey. He approached with a piece of fish and some bread, and a tankard filled to the brim.

  “This is my sister-son, Harald.” Leif clapped the boy hard on the back, causing him to stagger and slop some liquid over the side of the tankard.

  “Thank you, Harald.” Zahira said as she took the food, honestly grateful. Harald didn't understand her, but he stood staring at her for a good while, his blue eyes wide.

  The fish was the heartiest thing she had eaten in days and did much to settle her roiling stomach. The mug was filled with a bitter-sweet liquid she had never tasted, and it warmed her from the inside. She began to relax a little, unable to keep up the constant state of fear and anxiety she had existed in for days. She sat on a bench in the middle of the deck and enjoyed the breeze on her face and the sound of Harald's music.

  She watched Leif, too. He talked and joked with them in their own language, while they drank and ate. Out here, she could see that he had long scars in several places on his shoulders and back. His eyes were blue, his hair was long, blonde and clean and shone in the light. He looked fairly young, but the girl couldn't place his age, since he looked so foreign to her. He didn't seem like a monster, out here in the sun.

  After a while, she was put back in the hold. Harald was her only occasional visitor, bringing food. She was always polite to him, as he didn't touch her or try to frighten her. She didn't see sunlight again until after they had landed.

  ….

  Harald and a scrawny, older man came to fetch her. She'd sensed the boat pulling ashore and had been nervously waiting for some time. She felt somewhat perverse for being so relieved that they had finally reached the foreign shore. But she'd had more than enough of the dingy cargo hold, and thought anything would be better than that.

  They bound her hands together so she couldn't fight them, but she didn't try to resist. What would be the point? No one was coming to help her, and she was in a land of strangers that didn't speak her language.

  She wind was cold, and the light was over-bright after the darkness of the ship. Zahira had to squint her eyes almost shut. She couldn't make out much, but saw that they approached a huge log building. Small houses, then huts, then shacks, made up the village. All of it was situated on a gentle hill and looked to be surrounded by farmland.

  There was a welcoming party already waiting for the raiders as they came up to the village. Older men, women and children embraced their returning men. It was an oddly heartwarming scene.

  She scanned for Leif, and saw him with his arm around a stout blonde woman. Zahira stared in astonishment. The woman was dressed as a man, in leathers and trousers, with a small sword hanging at her belt. She wondered if she was Leif's wife, and how she would feel about him bringing home a harem slave.

  She had no more time to wonder, as Harald handed her off to a group of women in drab clothes. They ushered her into the hall. Zahira was so numb and faint that she didn't pay much attention to what was going on. They put her in a room, and untied her hands, talking to each other enthusiastically.

  It was obvious why they found her such an oddity. They had hair ranging from blonde to light brown, with hair in plaits or braids, or cut short above the shoulders. They were all blue eyed.

  Some of them had freckles on their faces, and some were tanned from the sun. They were built solidly – made hard and muscular with manual labor. Their hands were rough. A few of them were very pretty, in a foreign way. And they all wore thin metal collars around their necks.

  The oldest – a graying woman who was clearly the one in charge – looked her up and down critically, picked up her hair and rain it through her fingers, and touched the sleeve of her somewhat dirty finery.

  The room was very warm, for which the girl was grateful. There was a fire-pit right in the middle of the room, and the women and girls bustled about hauling water for a bath. Zahira rubbed feeling back into her wrists.

  “Clothes off.” The older woman said. Her accent was thick but she pantomimed the instructions. She picked up the clothes as Zahira discarded them. “For wash.” She explained, and took them away. They were efficient and brusque but not cruel, as they helped her into the hot water and began to scrub the dirt from her skin. Oddly enough, it felt almost familiar. And the warmth and water was comforting. She had to try not to fall asleep.

  It was probably not entirely necessary to have quite so many women in the bathing room, but it seemed they all wanted to look at the new thrall. They enthusiastically washed and brushed her hair, and brought her a dress to put on. It was a deep blue shift – finer than the clothes they wore, but still rough to touch.

  The woman, who introduced herself as Hilde, explained that she was to rest until the evening when she would be brought before the chieftain in the dining hall. She was given water and bread, and led to a tiny room with a little bed stuffed with straw. The food did little to ease her hunger, but she felt queasy anyway and wasn't sure she could have eaten more. She lay on the straw pallet. It felt wonderful to be clean, and the mattress felt like the most comfortable thing in the world after the hard floor of the boat. Soon, she was asleep.

  She was woken by the door being unlocked. Drowsily, she sat up, and Hilde came in, followed by the woman she'd seen before – the one in trousers. The woman had a handsome, yet stern face, and looked the new slave up and down. They talked for a moment, obviously discussing Zahira, and Hilde beckoned for her to follow.

  They led her downstairs, and as they opened the large double doors to the main hall, noise assaulted her. The hall was filled with Northmen. They sat feasting - tearing food apart with their hands and licking the grease from their fingers. Drinking from their huge drinking horns, belching loudly. Some stood, pushing and shoving or embracing each other. Somewhere a group was loudly singing a song.

  The women propelled her forward, walking her down through the middle of the hall. Zahira felt the heat of her face as the Northmen all turned to look at her. They laughed and called out to her, and she was almost grateful not to understand. One of them grabbed his crotch pointedly. After that, she fixed her eyes forward.

  Leif was seated on a large chair on a dais, at the back of the hall. He was talking with the men seated in smaller chairs to his left and right. To her horror, she recognized one of them as the red-bearded man she had tried to attack at the harem.

  Just like that, the protective numbness was gone, and she began to tremble in fright. The big man took a big drink from his tankard, then leered at her while liquid dripped down his beard. His teeth were crooked, some missing, some rotting. The girl averted her eyes, trying to keep the disgust from her face.

  Leif looked up at her, as the women released her arms, lightly pushing her toward him before turning to go.

  “Ah!” He exclaimed loudly, “here is my little prize!” He spoke in her language, and the men to either side laughed as though it were a great joke.

  As they watched, he took the girl by the arm and pulled her roughly toward him. He put his heavy arm around her waist while he laughed and joked with the men. Zahira could feel the heat of him through her thin layer of clothing, and the strength of h
is arm, holding her imprisoned in its circle. Somehow, it made her feel protected – at least from the other brutes who jeered and grabbed themselves.

  Leif talked with his companions, and gradually the men stopped paying attention to her. She could smell roasting meat. Watching everyone eat, her stomach began to rumble and she realized how incredibly hungry she was.

  As a woman came by with food for the chieftain, placing it on a low table, Leif suddenly turned his attention to Zahira. He looked up at her, grinned, and took hold of her with both arms. She yelped in surprise as he easily lifted her, pulling her down to sit on his lap.

  The blush immediately returned to her face as he looked at her, so close. She felt like a child's doll sitting there, both of her legs hanging between his. And she could smell him – he smelled clean, with a trace of smoke and salt.

  “Hmm,” he said, speaking to her now, “this clothing does not suit your beauty. I will have to see if I can find something better.” His eyes trailed up and down over her body. She wanted to shield herself. Her arms were bare, her feet uncovered. The neckline of the dress was very low. And of course, everyone could see her face. She felt as though she may as well be naked.

  He reached over and took hold of a wooden plate, balancing it on the arm of his throne, and took a small piece of meat. To her surprise, he then offered it to her, holding it in his fingers, in front of her face. She reached a hand up to take it, and he shook his head, pulling the food back. Then he moved it toward her mouth.

  She opened her lips, too hungry to object at being fed like a pet. The meat was tender and rare, and as she chewed it was as though her stomach awoke, demanding more.

  He fed her meat and bread and then let her drink from his drinking horn. It was the same bitter and sweet liquid she had tasted on the ship, and when she grimaced slightly he laughed.

  “Mead,” he explained. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, My Lord.” The liquid was pleasant, if strong and unfamiliar, and it warmed her. As well, it seemed to be quite filling.

  He chuckled at this, and drank deeply from the same horn. His body moved under her as he leaned to the side and handed his platter to a passing serving girl. She felt his hand on the small of her back. When he sat back, he placed one big hand on Zahira's thigh.

  She jerked involuntarily, surprised, and he laughed and squeezed her leg. She felt a strange shock like a thrill run through her at his touch, and she bit her lip, trembling. His fingers caressed her thigh as he looked at her.

  “Come on now,” He said, with a teasing grin. “Don't act as though you don't like it.” And he pushed his heavy hand up higher, the cloth of her dress sliding up with it.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she panicked. Was he going to do something to her in front of all these men? “Please, My Lord, I-”

  He laughed, and with his encircling arm, pulled her close. He pressed his lips hard against hers.

  He tasted sweet like mead, and his lips were soft. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight, and as she opened her lips to protest, his tongue forced his way between into her mouth.

  His tongue claimed her mouth, caressing hers, and she found herself responding, her own tongue tentatively searching. She raised a hand in an attempt to push him away, but instead she just left it there, resting on his hard chest. She had never felt anything like this, and the sudden pleasure that shocked through her body surprised and shamed her.

  As he drew back, he grew more gentle, sucking on her lower lip. Her lips hung open as she caught her breath. Her body felt as though it was on fire – her nipples hardened and sensitive under the rough cloth, and a warmth and wetness growing in her sex.

  “See?” He murmured, his voice low. There was hunger in his eyes. He stroked her thigh again, pushing her skirt higher. “You like it.”

  “My Lord please,” she replied, searching for words, her traitorous body still ringing with pleasure. “I am a virgin.”

  He raised both eyebrows, looking astonished. His hand stilled on her leg. “What? I thought you were one of Masad's concubines.”

  “No, My Lord. I was untouched. I... I was to be sent to the Master, but...” she trailed off, swallowing hard.

  Something darkened in Leif's eyes. “Ah.” He said, looking at her as though seeing her for the first time. “This is good to know.” He looked at her hungrily. “Hmm... Perhaps I will take my time with you after all. I will have you sent to my chambers tonight.”

  Tears welled in Zahira's eyes, but she said nothing. What choice did she have?

  “But...” she murmured, “your wife.” Did the Northmen have multiple wives or concubines?

  “My wife?” He looked shocked for a moment, then puzzled.

  “That woman, the one who dresses like a man.”

  Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed his roaring laugh. “That is my sister, Freja. Harald's mother.” He smiled. “She was once a warrior, but now she stays home with the other women.”

  “A warrior?” Zahira repeated dumbly, for the moment forgetting her fear.

  “Yes, and a fine one! But I need her at home now, to run the place while I am away.” His arm tightened around her, curling around her waist as he reached for his drinking horn. “No, I have no wife.” He took a long drink, and grew quiet.

  The girl looked out over the hall, at the men. Many of them were still drinking, some sleeping face-down on the table. She saw one molest a servant woman as she walked past. She didn't seem to mind – swatting his hand away but then allowing him to pull her close and put his hands up under her skirts. As she watched, the woman straddled the man at the table and they began furiously copulating.

  Zahira wondered what it was like, to have such a huge man filling you – to rut like an animal in the middle of a crowd. A perverse thrill ran through her, and she wrenched her eyes away, embarrassed.

  Leif laughed. “Jealous?” He asked, with his teasing smile. He lifted his hand from her leg and caressed her hair, running his fingers down the strands that fell beside her face. “Don't worry, my pet. You will have your turn soon enough.”

  ….

  She waited, pacing, in Leif's bedchamber. Hilde had been summoned to take her there, had lit a fire in the hearth and locked the door when she'd left.

  The room was large and relatively cozy, with a bear-skin rug spread out on the floor and a huge feather-bed covered with furs. Tapestries hung on one wall, and weapons on another. She briefly entertained the idea of trying to take a sword down and using it against Leif, but decided that would be a good way of getting herself killed.

  Zahira was nervous, her heart fluttering and her hands shaking. She dreaded the moment when he would walk through the door, and what he might do to her. But after an hour of pacing she sat on a cushioned bench. And after an hour more she began to get drowsy.

  She rose, and went to the bed, pressing her hand into the mattress. It was soft and dense. Weary, she climbed up onto the bed and covered herself with the soft gray furs. She watched the fire for a while as her eyes grew heavy.

  She awoke to the slam of the door. It might have been several hours or only minutes, she couldn't tell. Trying to rouse herself, she sat up sleepily, pulling the fur around her. She could see Leif standing in the doorway, untying his fur leggings and removing his boots.

  “Why are you in my bed, slave?” He asked, his voice deep and warning.

  She blinked, trying to clear her head. “I... I'm sorry, My Lord. I was tired.”

  “Get up.” He ordered. He took off his cloak and threw it on the floor, approaching the bed.

  “I'm sorry,” she repeated, flustered, as she got out of bed.

  He grabbed her wrist, and she whimpered, frightened, as he sat down on the mattress and pulled her toward him. He looked stern, and hungry.

  “You do not sleep in my bed unless I ask you to,” he growled in a low voice. “Understand?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  He roughly grabbed her then, and bent her over his
knee. He pushed her down with ease, so that her body was prone over his lap, her head hanging down.

  “What-” She began, panicked. Then she felt his rough hand slide up her leg, under her skirt.

  She had told herself over and over not to resist, to just give him what he wanted. She had prepared herself for it while pacing his room. Or, she thought she had. Now, with his hands on her and her body helplessly laying over him, her instinct took over and she began to struggle.

  “You have to learn your place.” He growled. His hand continued its journey up her thigh. Then he lifted her skirt, throwing it over her back and exposing her backside.

  “No!” She wailed, and kicked hard, trying to get free of his hands. She flailed her arms, trying to find purchase.

  He made an angry sound, and grabbed her wrists in one hand, crushing them together as he effortlessly held her arms still, right above her head. His other hand suddenly left her thigh, and then there was a shock of pain and a loud SLAP as his palm came down hard on her bare ass.

  Zahira cried out, her body jerking. Tears sprung to her eyes. The skin of her backside began to sting and burn, heat rising in the area.

  “I'm sorry!” She cried.

  He put his hand back on her, and she flinched, but he just cupped the cheek of her ass, and slowly massaged it. As he firmly kneaded, the sting started to subside.

  “You may have been some pretty, pampered ornament in your previous life,” Leif said mildly, “But you are my thrall now. You will learn your place.”

  She bit her trembling lip, and tried to concentrate on anything but the distracting feeling of his hand massaging and caressing her ass.

  Suddenly, he took his hand away, and it fell on her again, with the same SLAP and shock of pain.

  “Answer me!” He shouted.

  “Yes, My Lord!” She gasped. “I will try to please you. I'm sorry!” She squeezed her thighs together, writhing in pain and anguish.