“Run!” Tol’zen said. “Run!”
They sprinted toward a slumping pile of buildings ahead of them. As they ran, Pashera could hear something crashing through the undergrowth behind them.
“Hey!” The voices were insistent now. “Hey-hey-HEY!”
A deep purple-and-orange sunset stretched across the sky as Tol’zen and Pashera reached the building. “Up the stairs,” Tol’zen said, pointing to a flight of steps that led up and into the building.
They ran up the crumbling steps. And like a tightening noose, the pursuing creatures came after them.
Up three flights of stairs, they ended up on a long-abandoned rooftop terrace. Pashera heard things scrambling up the stairwell in the deepening twilight. Looking around furiously, Tol’zen settled on the crumbling walls of the terrace itself. He pulled out two bricks and threw them down the stair. There was a yelp, and a chorus of “HEYs!”
“I’ve got more for you,” Tol’zen snarled. Pashera pried loose bricks and started handing them to him. He threw the stones down with great force, giving any creature coming up the stairs second thoughts.
There was another scream. More “Hey-hey!” and a sound of ravening tearing of flesh and unintelligible howling, as the creatures below ate their fellow.
“Maybe they’ll be satisfied with him,” Pashera said hopefully. But the look Tol’zen gave her wasn’t hopeful at all. He readied two more bricks.
“Give me one of your lights,” Pashera said. “Quickly.”
He dropped a brick to pop open a pocket on his sash and handed her the light. She twisted it into its separate halves and put them up on the edge of the terrace. She found by pressing the back of the light, she could make it pulse.
“Maybe that will bring someone,” she said.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said, and then there wasn’t time to say anything else, because a creature erupted through the stairwell, springing into the air.
It was the size of a small man, but powerfully muscled, with wide shoulders and sinewy forearms. Its hands or paws ended in claws. The head was bald, and shaped unlike either man or saurian. Instead, the nose was just two slits, the eyes almond-shaped and yellow. A shovel of a jaw dropped to show fangs on top and bottom. Its skin reflected the dimming twilight. A long whip tail lashed out as it came up, reaching and biting for Tol’zen’s face. “Hey! Hey!” it shouted.
POW! Tol’zen hit it with a brick, a blow that would leave a man senseless. The creature fell over, knocked off the course of its leap. Tol’zen leaned down to hammer the other brick right into its skull.
And that’s when the next creature leaped up through the stairwell. It soared right into Tol’zen, falling on him. Its powerful hands reached for him, but stopped as Pashera slammed her club into its neck with all her strength. The resulting “crack” thrilled her.
Another creature jumped through the stairwell. Tol’zen pushed the dead creature off him right into the new one, and he and Pashera hammered it into pulp.
The stairwell was clogged with carcasses now. The two people waited, their chests heaving. One of the carcasses was dragged off into the darkness. The sound of rending and chewing started anew.
There was a scrambling at the edge of the roof. One of the villainous creatures popped up over the roof and bolted toward Pashera. Tol’zen threw a brick and hit it right in the chest. It dropped with an “Oof!” Pashera jumped forward and struck with her club, once-twice-three times.
Below them, they heard more scrambling, as if the creatures were fleeing down the stairs. Looking off the roof, Pashera saw what scared them. It was walking up the street with heavy footprints.
“By the hells,” she said.
“What is it now?” Tol’zen asked. He sounded spent.
“Giant scorpion.”
Tol’zen rushed forward and stood beside her. “That’s not a scorpion. Downstairs, quickly.”
He stopped to get the lights she had set on the wall, and led the way, his knife in one hand, a brick in the other, and one of the lights held in his mouth.
All the carcasses were gone, but blood and offal smeared and littered the floor. Tol’zen led the way, Pashera close by his back, and quickly went down to the bottom of the exterior steps. The scorpion was right there. Pashera blinked. No, it wasn’t a scorpion.
It was the traveling machine she had seen earlier at the airfield – a traveling machine shaped like a scorpion. Part of the head opened, and a saurian in a scientist’s smock popped out. “Lord Tol’zen! What are you doing here?” he called.
Tol’zen and Pashera ran over and climbed up the scorpion’s sides. Pashera had thought the machine looked evil the first time she’d laid eyes on it; now, it was a thing of beauty. The scientist made room in the hatch and they both clambered inside.
“We got lost on a walk,” Tol’zen said. “Thank you for coming by.”
“I saw your light,” the scientist said.
Tol’zen hooked a thumb at Pashera. “That was her idea.” She beamed at his praise.
The scientist’s name was Vor’taso. He’d been taking his scorpion for a test run (“working the bugs out,” he explained) when he’d seen their light and decided to investigate.
“The scorpion walker can go where other vehicles can’t,” Vor’taso explained.
“You’ve sold me,” Tol’zen said. “Let’s build a fleet of these things.”
Vor’taso beamed.
He brought them all the way to the gates of Guadalquivir. Half an hour later, hungry, thirsty and oh-so-tired, they were back safe at home, eating stew ladled out by Sai’tan and regaling her with their stories.
That night, their lovemaking was somehow special: Slow, and lazy, and yet deeply thrilling. Pashera’s orgasms were many and intense.
Afterward, she lay on Tol’zen’s chest. “I’m sorry I got you into that,” he said again.
“I’ m not,” she said. “What a day. I got to talk to my mother. Got some prophecy that makes no sense. Saw those amazing towers covered in stars. Got to see a dragon. And battled for my life with you by my side. By the hells,” she looked at him. “Some of the best times of my life are battling for my life with you.”
He squeezed her gently. “Me too, little monkey. Me, too.”
The next day, the day before the attack, Tol’zen took Pashera along to a meeting of the war council. Pashera wore her new garment. She liked the feel, and the bouncing ride in the four-wheeled machine had made her already-bruised breasts ache again.
Besides, Sai’tan had embroidered Tol’zen’s symbol – a purple dragon against a red sun – on the front of the garment. Since she was now sporting his symbol, even Tol’zen approved.
This time, they met with King Kro’tos. He reviewed their plans. Tol’zen mentioned the alliance with the bat-people only in passing and didn’t mention the scientists’ fliers at all. Instead, he concentrated the shock cavalry led by Kro’brin and the brigade led by Commander Dal’ger.
“It is a fine plan,” Kro’tos said approvingly. Then, looking at Tol’zen slyly, he added: “And you are sure it will be enough, marshal?”
“As I said, our allies the bat-people will be there to mop up,” Tol’zen replied. “I don’t expect there to be much for them to do.”
Kro’tos thumped the table. “Simple. Direct. I wish all my counselors made such plans. Your father would be proud,” he said to Tol’zen.
Tol’zen’s face tightened, but he said nothing in reply.
Kro’tos didn’t notice. He added: “And now, we drink on it!”
More drinking. Pashera wrinkled her nose in disgust. Technically, she was supposed to wait on Tol’zen when he drank – Sai’tan had explained this in detail – but the king had an army of servants, and there was nothing for her to do. She stepped back as gaily dressed women stepped forward with wine cups and jugs.
These women were dressed and painted in Kro’tos colors – purple and gold. These humans wore something Pashera had never seen before. It was a
stiff garment that ran from waist to breast level. It was laced tight in the back, and formed the torso into an hourglass shape. Where the material should cup the breasts, the weavers must have run out of material, because the nipples were uncovered, and the half-cup just displayed the breast to full effect. Some nipples were rouged up, others glinted with gems or other eye-catching and shiny adornments.
The women each wore a purple skirt, and ribbons of gold and purple in their hair. Some had purple flowers painted down their arms and up their faces.
One of the wine servers caught Pashera’s eye. It was Amaz, the tall, muscular black women that Pashera had met that awful first night in Guadalquivir.
“Still making plans?” Amaz asked in a low voice.
Actually, the past few days had been so wild and full of adventure – and furious fucking with Tol’zen – that Pashera had forgotten her earlier plans of escape. Now, in the loathsome presence of Kro’tos, the urge to be free came rushing back.
“More than ever!” Pashera whispered. “We must talk.”
After her wine jug was empty, Amaz took Pashera by the hand and led her to a quiet alcove. “Hurry,” Amaz said. “Or I will be missed.”
“My plan is the same,” Pashera said. “It’s the wonder weapon. The one Kro’tos used that first night.”
Amaz shook her head. “What about it?”
“It terrifies the masters,” Pashera said. “If we could get our hands on those weapons, we could cause enough chaos that we could flee this place and run for freedom.” As she said this, Pashera’s heart panged for Tol’zen. But she’d find some way to make sure he didn’t get killed – maybe hit him on the head again.
And as kind as Tol’zen was sometimes – and sometimes he was not – he was a slave-master. And at the very core of her being, Pashera was no one’s slave.
Every chance she’d had over the past few days, she’d quizzed Tol’zen about the weapons. Now she knew where the wonder weapons were stored and that there were 70 of them, and that each one could fire only three times.
She told Amaz all this.
Amaz smiled, a little sadly. “They guard those weapons very closely. How could we get them?”
“That blond woman – Kro’tos’ blonde woman – she held one.” Pashera pointed to the blonde, who now stood by Kro’tos side. Her outfit was the same color as the other women’s but made of mesh or net material, and her nipples were covered in mesh stars that only added to her allure by what they concealed.
Kro’tos stopped drinking wine enough to put his huge face between the blonde’s large breasts and move his head back and forth, flapping his fat lips. She squealed.
“That bitch!” Amaz spit the words. “Don’t mention Gwettelen to me. She is a race traitor. She not only serves these demons. She wants to be one. She thinks they are so much better than us.
“Gwettelen only gets to handle such things as the wonder weapons,” Amaz said grimly, “because she would never use them on the masters. She would kill herself first.”
“Surely we can steal some of the weapons,” Pashera said. “They can’t all be guarded, all the time.”
Amaz spit again. “Maybe Tenrici knows. One of the palace guards is fond of her. I’ll send her over.”
Pashera waited while Amaz went back to the table. Soon, the pale woman with dark features came over. The one from the shores of the inland sea, who called herself Tenrici.
“There is a guard ‘round the clock on the armory where the wonder weapons are kept,” Tenrici said. “They issued all of them to warriors just today. But we could never get in there.”
“Why not?”
“Well, there is always a guard,” Tenrici said. “Even if you got past him, the masters use some kind of magic to lock the door.”
“Magic?”
“Yes, with those spinning balls they use.”
Pashera’s heart quickened. “I know the magic of the spinning balls. Send Amaz over again.”
Tenrici came back with Amaz. “I can do the magic of the spinning balls,” Pashera told them. “The balls are called pantellions. Tol’zen says I am better at using them than many saurians.”
Amaz smiled sadly. “You, a human, can use the pantellion? And use it well? Your master is jerking your chain.”
“It’s true!” Pashera insisted. “I have done this myself.”
Tenrici considered it. “After the battle, the wonder weapons will be returned to storage,” she said.
Amaz nodded. “And after a victory, they’ll have a celebration. Even the guards will be drunk.
“That,” she added, “is when we’ll make our move.”
Pashera showed her palm to Amaz and Tenrici, and told them how the Megalith of Augury had left the mark of a bloody sword in a circle. “I think it means I will win my freedom by fighting for it,” she said. “I think it means our rebellion will succeed.”
They examined her hand carefully. Pashera knew they didn’t know whether to believe her tale.
The red-haired woman called Rylo stopped by quickly to tell the other two they were being missed, so all three scurried off. But before she left, Amaz turned to Pashera and said: “Come through on this, and I will make you a princess of my people.”
Pashera smiled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Amaz grabbed her arm and squeezed it tightly. “Fail, and I’ll kill you myself,” she whispered.
Then she trotted after the other women.
The warriors had their fill of drink, and now required the favors of the serving women. Various warriors pulled women to one side or another. Tenrici laughed as a couple of warriors pawed at her, squeezing her buttocks and pinching her exposed nipples. One of them put his hand up her skirt and she cooed and wiggled her rump. Soon, he bent her over the table, lifted her skirt and mounted her right there. Tenrici moaned loudly and urged him on. But her eyes flashed a different message altogether, one of humiliation and anger, just in their corners and briefly.
Amaz showed no joy. Perhaps such deception was beyond her. But she still dropped to her knees and orally pleasured one of Kro’tos’ top lieutenants, and did it without complaint.
More women came in, shooed along by attendants with whips. Pashera realized the whips were all part of some ritual; no one actually felt the lash. This was just how the saurians showed they were the bosses. Eager hands reached out for each woman, whether they fell into them laughing or stoic, or sad-faced or sobbing. It didn’t seem to matter much to the saurians.
If anything, some of the saurians took pleasure in tears.
Pashera felt eyes on her. She turned, looking, and saw Tol’zen still seated at the table, a bit away from the orgy. His gaze made her feel guilty. Could he know what she was planning?
Tol’zen extended a finger and motioned for her to come over to him. That meant navigating the swirling, writhing, humping mass of warriors and slave girls. She nodded, and started to make her way across.
A hand shot out and grabbed her arm.
It was the queen again – the one that Pashera and Tol’zen met in the hallway their first night in Guadalquivir. Pashera recognized her because of the way her head feathers swept high above her head like a cresting wave. No longer in green, now she wore brilliant orange with ivory trim, and her head feathers were orange and ivory-white. Ivory highlights painted on her face, especially around her eyes, popped against her black skin.
Behind her were her same two human female attendants. They wore brown skirts just long enough to cover their sex, and a variation on the same kind of tight-fitting garment that Kro’tos put his slaves in. But these were leather, and rather than lace up the back, these laced up the front, with gold fittings for the laces. The material went all the way over one breast, while the other was exposed, with the material cut below the breast. The nipple of the exposed breast was covered right to the edge of the areola with material that matched the garment.
The women wore matching material, also laced up that ran from their shoulders up ov
er their noses. Holes allowed them to breathe. Their eyes were the best masks of all, pure acceptance. Dark eye-shadow matched the leather.
“You are Tol’zen’s slave,” the queen said, squeezing Pashera’s arm tightly.
“Yes,” Pashera said. She realized that with these outfits on her slaves, the queen was accommodating to the king’s dictate of exposed slave breasts at this party – but she had done it in a way to totally undercut his authority.
By the gods, she must hate him.
The queen ran her finger over the white-gray garment that the weaver had made for Pashera. “What’s this? A new fashion?”
“My breasts hurt when I went for a ride on a yast,” Pashera said. “This helps. It keeps them in place.”
The queen felt the material between her fingers. “Weaver silk.”
“Yes.”
“What is it called?”
Pashera swallowed. She didn’t call it anything. But inspiration struck. “My lord calls it a ‘bounce absorber.’ ”
“Tol’zen is very clever,” the queen said, her hands falling away. “I like this style, covering up your teats. Makes you look less like a sow and more like civilized. Give him my compliments.”
And with that, she whirled away, cutting a swath through the bodies writhing on the floor. Pashera mustered her courage, and followed close behind the slaves. It seemed the best way to get to Tol’zen.
The queen and her entourage peeled off toward the king. Tol’zen sat in his chair, a rock amongst the sea of flesh, as Pashera whisked quickly over a couple pairs of rutting bodies, jumped on the table, danced around random cups, then used his shoulder to dismount and pull close to his side.
“Enjoying the party?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Me either,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He kept a hand protectively on her shoulder all the way out the door. As soon as she could, she told him what the queen had said about her “bounce absorber.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Mammary glands. The bane of our race. Their movement attracts the male eye – we evolved from predators, after all – and yet our females don’t have them. I think it’s part of what makes them so mean.
Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1) Page 21
