Indeed, it was this psychological element upon which he’d counted to win the day against such overwhelming odds, but regardless, the booty now belonged to the piracy. A bit more mopping up, securing the various drifting vessels, finding adequate transport for all the gold and so forth and they would be home free, the open sea ahead of them, the nearest Talassian naval station some six days’ sail or better behind.
Surely this would satisfy his critics, Rodrigo chief among them. There would be women aplenty now, and he himself, if he wished, could trade yellow-hair for some luscious Talassian court slave, or even the submitted body of one of its ladies - the princess herself if she had managed to be among the survivors.
For some reason, though, Marcellus, king of pirates, did not wish to do this. He was growing rather fond of the irritating and quirky seer. A dangerous emotion for a pirate, to be sure. It was one thing to favor a slut like Drusia who wore a brand on her arse and who could be as easily traded or disposed of as a pair of boots, but to fawn upon a free girl, even a captive, that was asking to become captive himself. Pirates had no mates. This was a known fact. His father had none, nor had his grandfather. Their women were concubines, used for sex, to bear children or give pleasure as the case might be. His grandfather had been the greatest whoremonger on the high seas. He was well into his nineties and still sporting with hapless wenches, making them squeal and beg in delight. Likewise he had kept his slaves in line, mastering women half and ultimately a fourth his age with a will of iron, his shriveled flesh conquering their nubile curves with devastating efficiency.
It was Marcellus’ grandfather who’d been led to the Isle of Dreamers. He’d half joked it was his libido led him there, to that place invisible to all who sail, untouchable to all who plant flags in the name of cities and nations. Young Marcellus had heard the story so many times that he had it memorized. The way the old man had seen the far off lights, glowing green, beckoning, after the shipwreck in which his crew had all been lost. Clinging desperately to a rum barrel he kicked with all his might, following its call, like some mysterious lighthouse.
He’d collapsed of exhaustion on the shore, scarcely sure if he’d lived or died and gone to the lands of the next world. The next thing he remembered there were hands at his face, delicate female hands, and murmuring voices, curious. They were young and they had no clothing. He was instantly hard at the sight of them under the light of the moon, mixed with the eerie white and green light from the mountain behind them. They wore shell necklaces, their bodies were perfect and beautiful and he wanted more than anything to be putting them to his pleasure, using them as the comely wenches they were.
‘Not yet,’ said a new voice, that of an older woman, her face and body concealed behind a black robe and hood. ‘They must first be prepared. Then you may have them. As many as you like.’ Thus was Marcellus’ grandfather introduced to the Isle of Dreams. That place where there are no males and where children, laughably, are said to be born from thin air.
He impregnated a dozen of them in the next two days. The efficiency of his seeding was due to the old woman’s insistence that every load be deposited in the womb of one of the females, though in preparation he was allowed to make use of their other orifices. At first the girls were frightened and had to be held down by the others, but after a while they grew eager, literally begging to be chosen for implantation. The old woman gave him herbs in a foul-tasting beverage, which aided in his prowess. Through its influence he was able to stay hard almost continuously and his ejaculations numbered two, even three times an hour.
One of the more interesting aspects of the process was how, after being seeded, the girls were tied down on their back, their hips elevated above their head. The old woman explained that this would help the seed to penetrate, thereby enslaving the womb. The woman had measuring devices of some sort and was able to tell instantly if he’d been effective. If he had not he would mount again, the nubile body still in bondage. Some required multiple attempts, and these he grew the most acquainted with. One of them, afterwards, did not wish to leave his side.
The impregnations took place in a cave, beside an underground river, very similar by its description to the spot where Marcellus had warmed the insolent, pretty arse of Tesra prior to bringing her to his ship. It had occurred to him at that point the girl might even be his own half cousin, a generation removed, though the odds were remote.
According to his grandfather, neither he nor the females were supposed to remember what had transpired. There was magic surrounding the event, and presumably the old woman, as well as the others of her kind who came to help in the final stages, must have been quite powerful as to be able to control the pregnancies and the sex of the babies, so that no unwanted males would be born. The spell was cast on him in his sleep. The fact that he remembered must have been a sign of its failure.
Among the things he recalled was the leader explaining how men were brought periodically for this purpose, and how the females were going to be sequestered for the duration of their pregnancy so as to conceal the truth. Some nine months to the day then, after the sailor’s departure, there would a ceremony of deliverance, the goddess being praised for another seemingly miraculous group of appearing babies, their mothers smiling, another spell having rendered them completely ignorant of the fact that the squirming, tiny girls so safely ensconced in their maternal arms had just a short while ago resided completely inside them, in the very chamber once flooded by the sailor’s seed.
What had struck Marcellus’ grandfather most in all this, the incredible sexual experiences aside, was what he had felt when the old woman touched his brain seeking to erase his memories. Though it had come to him only as a dim recollection when he’d awakened, he was quite sure that through the old woman he had touched the pulse of creation itself, seeing it by means of an inner eye, ever circling, never blinking.
‘It’s the pirate blood in my veins, boy,’ he would say, ‘kept me forgetting it all.’
To his dying day he remained convinced that he would somehow return and that by this power he would become the richest, most powerful pirate who ever lived. Marcellus’ own father inherited the mad dream, though he seemed never quite fully convinced of the reality of the quest. A somber, melancholic man, given to fits of temper, Marcellus’ father kept the best of himself for the rum, his one true friend. A fierce fighter and able leader he did prosper, though he remained largely alone till the day he died. Marcellus scarcely spoke a dozen words to him in the last decade of his life and his last words were a curse, condemning both his own father and Nephisis for giving him a yearning he could never satisfy.
The legacy came in turn to Marcellus, his only son, who combined the best traits of his father and grandfather and had used them well, catapulting himself all the way to the kingship. A title that, if for no other reason, he had earned here and now on account of this battle.
‘Majesty,’ called Montrego, limping upon his one twisted leg, his body fit as a fiddle nonetheless, ‘we have located the Talassian flagship. Its colors had been taken down to disguise its identity.’ This was a not uncommon occurrence in the game of pirate and prey.
‘Indeed, and what have you to report?’
‘We have the princess, sire, bearing her weight in Scornian gems.’
Marcellus nodded. ‘Excellent.’
The gems of Scornia, dug from the black mountains were so rare as to be found in veins of white silver, their color so brilliant that a single one of them, blue, purple, green or red could light the sky for half a mile.
‘And the wench herself; is she as easy on the eyes as her dowry?’
‘Hard to say, sir. She is rather heavily clothed, as are her handmaidens.’
‘We shall attend to that oversight shortly, eh?’ Marcellus grinned, giving the man a hearty slap on the shoulder.
‘By the Sea Lord, we shall,’ the gnarled pirate chortled. �
�And won’t that just be a kick in the crotch to the emperor.’
‘I’d say we’ve grabbed his balls good, and given them a healthy twist.’
‘Shall I bring the wench aboard?’
‘Yes. And have the yellow-hair brought up as well. I think she should find this instructional.’
The prospect of having the delicate Tesra observe the brutal enslavement of the Talassian women stirred the king mightily, though once again it made him wonder if we were becoming too fixated on her.
Perhaps, he mused, he would do well to put her to the iron today as well as the others.
‘Breathe a word of this to the men,’ whispered Drusia in her ear, replacing the cover over Tesra’s much exploited body, ‘and we shall do worse to you later on. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘One more kiss goodbye.’ Vorra held the shaft to Tesra’s lips, and she did so, obediently, passionately.
‘Hide that thing, you imbecile.’ Drusia shot dagger eyes at her fellow slave. ‘Do you want us to end up drawn and quartered?’
Vorra frowned but did as she was told, stuffing the device under the mattress.
‘Get a move on, sluts.’ One of the men poked his head in the doorway. ‘The king wants the yellow-hair on deck. Right away.’
‘Bitch,’ Drusia sneered at Vorra, grabbing one of Tesra’s arms.
‘King’s toy,’ Vorra retorted, taking the other, and one woman on each arm they dragged her out of bed.
‘Move it,’ Vorra shoved her in the back as soon as her feet were planted, and Tesra stumbled forward.
‘My legs are so weak,’ she complained.
‘Oh stop being so dramatic.’ Drusia smacked her naked arse. ‘You don’t have to deal with a tenth what we do. Sleeping up here in luxury, laying in a bed all day.’
Vorra yanked her by the hair to the door. ‘One day you’ll be back in the hold, then you’ll learn your place again.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she cried. ‘Didn’t I already submit to you?’
‘And you think that’s the end?’ Drusia scoffed, the girl’s naiveté amusing her greatly. ‘It’s only the beginning, slut. Submission is like blood to a shark; one little smell and you want more and more. Why do you think men enjoy owning us year after year without becoming bored?’
‘I never bore the masters,’ said Vorra. ‘I know how to please them.’
‘Bully for you, Vorra. Now help me get her up the stairs.’
The sunlight was overwhelming, as was the sensation of the open air on her sallow cheeks. Tesra wanted to cry at the feel of it, of being outside once again. Though it might not be her beloved island she was once again under the sky of the goddess, wrapped in the cloak of roaring ocean. Even the boat, with its gentle swaying seemed to reinforce her joy in being alive, given a second chance after her near death at the edge of the Wall.
But what was this? They were far from alone on the deck. In fact, she had never seen it so crowded. To one side stood the pirates and the slaves. Some men she knew from Marcellus’ ship and others she took to be captains from the other vessels. The men all stood proudly, though their faces and bodies bore the signs of recent exertion from the battle. The girls were on their knees, heads to the deck, as was fitting females of their station.
On the other side of the boat, looking more than a little wary and afraid, stood a party of richly dressed females accompanied by a small party of men, two dressed rather foppishly in velvet, feathered hats and high velvet boots with curled toes. Three others looked to be soldiers, in mail vests, heavy strapped boots and tight leather breeches, uniform blue, though they were at present weaponless.
‘Ah, my little Yellow Pelt,’ the king proclaimed. ‘Just the person I was waiting for. Now we can begin. Drusia, Vorra, kneel with the others. Tesra, come here.’ He snapped his fingers, and handed her his cloak, wrapping it about her shivering, naked shoulders.
‘You will never get away with this,’ said one of the females, dressed in a long red gown covered in a cloak of green, her hair elaborately trussed, dark rivulets running down the sides of her face. ‘My father will see you all impaled from the walls of Talas City if you do not release me at once.’
‘Clearly,’ noted Marcellus, ‘you are Teranos’ daughter. I recognize the bark.’
‘Wait until you encounter the bite,’ she threatened.
‘Is that any way to speak to your future husband?’ mocked the pirate king.
‘What nonsense is this?’ She stiffened, her black eyes seething with contempt. ‘I am destined for the king of Cartishia.’
‘You are destined,’ Marcellus scooped one of the gems from the barrel full of them, ‘for whomever sees fit to collect your dowry. And at present that is me. And, of course, this man as well.’
He tossed the yellow coin-size jewel to Montrego, who caught it, blowing the girl a kiss.
‘Now you are his,’ Marcellus declared. ‘And,’ he threw a blue one to the man next to him, ‘his as well.’
There was laughter among the crew as he threw them each a glass stone of Scarnia. The symbolism, Tesra suspected was important both to the pirates and the Talassian woman herself.
‘You are mad. Have you any idea of the value of those gems?’
Marcellus threw a handful over the edge into the ocean. ‘Greater, I suspect than you yourself would fetch in any slave market.’
‘Guards,’ said the princess, her voice more shrill than regal. ‘Charge at them. Kill them all.’
The three soldiers held their ground, eyes darting back and forth at the grinning, predatory faces of their captors.
‘Your highness,’ said one of the velvet-wearing fops, a quivering mutton-chopped man with red hair, ‘it may not be in our best interest to anger them any further.’
‘Be silent, Torixar!’ She stamped her foot, small and dainty in the sandal. ‘Or I shall have your bare behind scoured with rods... again.’
The fop lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed in front of the pirates. ‘Yes, highness,’ he muttered.
‘Trillonodon,’ said the princess to the other fop, a taller man with a red-feathered cap. ‘Remove my outer gloves that I may address these men more comfortably.’
‘Do not,’ said Marcellus to the man, his hand already poised to pull the cloth from the girl’s small, arrogantly proffered hand. Trillonodon looked at the pirate king. ‘Onboard my ship males do not serve females. Females serve males.’
‘This is absurd.’ The princess stomped her foot once more. ‘I will have no more of it, do you hear me? I am Ameliadora Versatia Hyronomia Crysalos, fourteenth daughter of His Imperial Majesty, Teradon the Fourth, supreme overlord of all Talassia as well as - ’
‘The fourteenth?’ Marcellus interrupted. ‘Do you hear that, lads? The bastard is so cheap he won’t even expend a daughter in the single digits! Best gnaw a bite from those gems and make sure they are real. Perhaps the girl is a scullery maid for all that.’
‘Guards!’ she shrieked, grabbing at their sleeves. ‘Why are you not defending my honor? Go and kill them, give up your lives for my honor, you simpletons!’
The soldiers ignored her, their eyes still poised on the pirates. These were warriors, and if and when they fought would be on their own terms.
‘You,’ said Marcellus to the one called Trillonodon. ‘Tell the princess to cease insulting her men-at-arms or else you will be required to cuff her quite soundly.’
‘I - I could not, sir,’ stammered the fop, turning pale.
‘Very well,’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Montrego, kill him.’
The thrown knife was in the heart of Trillonodon before he could draw a protesting breath.
‘Torixar,’ said the pirate king to the first fop as the second collapsed dead onto the deck, ‘convey that same message to the princess
.’
He did so, his voice shaking.
‘How dare you speak to me that way!’ she cried. ‘I shall have you skinned alive. I demand you fall and kiss my foot at once, begging forgiveness.’
‘Silence her,’ warned Marcellus, ‘or you shall die with your friend.’
Torixar pleaded with Ameliadora to be silent, but her refusal earned the velvet-hatted man a pike through his midsection, thick enough to skewer him.
‘Who is senior among you?’ Marcellus asked the three soldiers.
‘I, sir,’ stepped forward a man with a thick scar, from his left ear across to his mouth.
‘Silence her,’ the pirate king commanded.
‘Princess Ameliadora, I can give but one warning,’ the soldier said, his face darkly edged.
Princess Ameliadora looked him full in the eye and spit upon his face. ‘Here is what I think of your cowardice,’ said she.
The soldier struck her across the face, hard. The maids gasped, stepping back. The princess was stunned, looking at the blood on her hand from the corner of her mouth.
‘Tell her now,’ instructed Marcellus to his willing mouthpiece, ‘that she is not to speak without permission again, and if she does so she will be flogged. She is to nod if she understands.’
The soldier repeated the words, though obviously she knew them already. Promptly, though warily, she gave her assent.
‘Her handmaidens are to take their clothes off now, for our inspection,’ Marcellus said, still not deigning to speak to her directly.
‘Do it,’ Ameliadora snapped at the huddled girls, more than happy, it seemed, to sacrifice her servants.
The handmaidens clutched at their robes, clearly terrified to be naked in front of all these men, most of whom had stiff cocks visible beneath their breeches.
Dream Captive Page 12
