Death without dignity.
Most of that changed after his arrival, and it wasn’t an easy task convincing Mecor that compassion toward the slaves would equate to larger profits. He wasn’t granted everything he wanted, but Tarken was working on it. “He will be less useful if you keep beating him as such.” With a sigh, the slavemaster shifted his attention from Kleb to Durnin.
Durnin scoffed. “You’re too soft with these scums.”
Tarken’s spine went rigid. How dare the subordinate speak to him in this manner, and in front of one of the slaves, no less? His expression grew stern and feral as his eyes locked onto the distasteful trainee. “May I remind you, Durnin, that you would be listed amongst these scum had you refused to kiss the king’s ass.”
It was the truth Tarken spoke.
Durnin was an inhabitant of one of the nearby planets that King Mecor conquered in the recent past. Those who refused to bend to the king’s ways became his slaves. Those conforming were granted their freedom in a limited way.
“Go back to work, Kleb,” Tarken told the slave without looking at him, his attention still trained on Durnin.
Kleb obediently left them after bowing to only Tarken.
“You see?” Durnin continued. “He gives me no respect.”
“Learn quickly, apprentice,” Tarken paused as he glared at Durnin’s face, knowing that the apprentice would ignore the value in his words. “Respect is to be earned, not demanded.”
Durnin snorted in return. “We’ll see about that, slavemaster.”
Tarken blew out a gust of air. Teaching him was a waste of time. He would never understand. “Go to the storages, and oversee the cleaning of the harvest.”
At Durnin’s defiant stare, Tarken took an angry step forward, twisting the front of the apprentice’s shirt in his hand and jerking him closer. “Don’t try my patience apprentice or you’ll have the king to answer to.”
“I’ll have your position some dawning m’lord, and then we’ll see how much more obedient your slaves will be.”
“That remains to be seen.” Tarken released his hold on the apprentice. “For now, do as you are told or you will find yourself on the receiving end of your own whip.”
Durnin straightened his clothes as he backed away from the slavemaster. “Your threats are idle ones, Tarken.” He turned and walked away.
“And keep your cock away from the virgins!” Tarken warned, wondering how far the arrogant, little bastard would push his tolerance. The slavemaster had more of a yen to beat the crap out of the apprentice than he did any of the king’s thralls.
“His Majesty requests your presence, slavemaster.”
Tarken turned to the voice which spoke from behind him. It was Meth, one of King Mecor’s royal guards. “Did he say the reason?”
Meth shrugged as his eyes fell to a pretty, little slave picking cremali puffs in the field. Saying nothing else to Tarken, he strolled over to her and grabbed her from behind. The thrall gave a quick squeal as Meth yanked down her pants, released his shaft and promptly began rutting on her.
Tarken didn’t stop him. He knew that female well. She could handle the royal guard on her own. In fact, he suspected the female was a bit smitten with the guard, her objections to his advances were less than, well—objective. Secondary to that, Meth would take his pleasure and then leave the girl alone. He was not prone to abusing women.
Taking a quick glance around, Tarken determined that all was in order. He left the field and headed for the castle where he would find the king, his curiosity peaking at what his Majesty may want of him. Rarely was the slavemaster summoned.
The gates to the inner court were thrown open as he approached an indication that he was expected. He made his way along the path leading to the castle’s entrance, acknowledging the noble woman, Juliada who smiled at him prettily. She was the one who snuck into his chamber two full moons ago. He found her in his bed, wearing nothing but a lusty smile, wantonly seeking his services. Royal be damned, it mattered not. Irritated with the brazen intrusion into his private space, he‘d yanked her from the mattress, thrust her clothes into her arms and shoved her naked out of the door.
She apparently whimpered to the king, because the next thing Tarken knew he was being scolded by Mecor who told him that if he had to listen to Juliada’s irritating blubbering about Tarken’s rejection of her any longer, he might be so inclined to take out his irritation on the slaves. Knowing better than to take a threat of Mecor’s lightly, Tarken eventually obliged. Three dawning’s after his reprimand, she cornered him in one of the hallways of the palace and beckoned him to her. He took her hard and fast against the castle wall and made every effort after that to avoid her.
With an apathetic nod, Tarken acknowledged he’d seen her but didn’t wait for a returned response. Turning his head forward, he continued along the path until he reached the entrance to the palace. The doors were pushed open granting him admittance. He knew where to go and proceeded there unescorted. It pleased the slavemaster that he was in such a position of trust.
“Tarken, come forth,” the king beckoned as the slavemaster stepped through the door of the king’s inner chamber.
“You’ve summoned me your Majesty?” Tarken bowed respectfully, one hand placed to his stomach, the other turned outward at the small of his back. He refrained from showing a loathing expression when he realized Juliada had followed him in.
King Mecor lifted a turn-up palm. “Yes, well…I have called you here.”
Rising, Tarken stood still before his Majesty, waiting for him to speak once more. He ignored Juliada who slithered to the front of the chamber taking a seat on the stairs leading to the throne.
“I purchased a slave, Tarken,” King Mecor paced in front of his throne, hands clasped behind his back, a regal arrogance in his stride. “A female. She’s at the Rystral trading post.”
The slavemaster eyed his Majesty speculatively as he listened to his words, wondering why he was being informed of this. In the past, newly acquired slaves were merely deposited in front of Tarken to train. Rarely did he have knowledge of how or where they were acquired or even when they arrived on Buranis.
“You’re my best trainer Tarken.”
“I’m your only trainer, your Majesty,” Tarken replied.
Mecor turned abruptly to his slavemaster, but said nothing in response as his glare slid up and down Tarken in a condescending manner. “Durnin will see to my slaves while you’re away.”
Inwardly, Tarken winced, images of broken bones and bruised bodies entering his brain. “While I’m away?”
“Yes, you will deliver her to me.”
Tarken’s expression remained indifferent though curiosity slid into his brain. “Why not send your guards to—?”
“Silence!” The king held up a hand, ire clearly etched in his expression. Behind him Juliada snickered, and he spun to face her. “Shoo, Juliada!”
The amusement in her face faded quickly and her eyes widened. She sprang to her feet and hastened from the chamber.
Again Mecor spun, his gaze narrowing on Tarken. “You dare to question my directive?”
“No, your Majesty.” Tarken kept his voice even. Instead of submissively lowering his eyelids as most of the king’s drudges would do, Tarken fixed a deliberate gaze on the king while crossing his arms over his broad chest. He intentionally flexed his biceps, and as an added bonus his right pec muscle twitched.
The action pulled King Mecor’s gaze to the solid wall that was Tarken’s chest.
Tarken smiled inwardly and with satisfaction as he watched the knob in the king’s neck bob up and down with his hard swallow. He had the sense that Mecor was intimidated by him, though the royal’s expression remained inscrutable.
Mecor cleared his throat and dragged his attention away from Tarken. He again, paced in front of his throne, hands clamped together at the small of his back. “Word from the slave trader is that she’s unmanageable.” Abruptly he turned, his stride taking him
up the three steps of the dais supporting his throne. He settled into the plush seat, sinking into it and then shifted left to lean an elbow on the armrest.
Tarken stifled a snort.
The large and ornate piece of furniture did not suit the king. It seemed to swallow the pompous royal, making him appear as small and weak as a child. The image was deceiving however, for Mecor was in truth, a powerful king. He ruled not only Buranis, but held rulership of two nearby planets, Mecoridom, as it was renamed by his ancestors, and Plestus which was another family name. Both worlds were conquered by his kin centuries ago, and it is written in the tomes that the battles were violent and bloody. Continuing his family’s legacy, Mecor also conquered Shetasi and Orboka, two planets situated at a nearby wormhole.
Many hated the king and his lineage, but though he had plenty of enemies, he had just as many followers—bootlickers would describe them more accurately. Tarken had no opinion. He was there only to do his job and do it proficiently, though some might think the same of him as well. He really couldn’t care less what others thought however.
Yanking back from his wandering thoughts, Tarken realized he’d been blocking out the king’s blathering. What was he saying? Ah yes, the girl. Whoever she was, she must be a novice of slavery. Otherwise, her strength in will would already be broken. If not her will, then the lack of obedience would certainly have earned her a broken body or death even. Though Tarken wasn’t one who believed in beating a slave into submission, there were many who did. Most did.
“…therefore I’m sending you.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Why bother with this particular slave when so many others were already properly trained? Tarken had to wonder.
He’d been serving his Majesty for many solars, and knew King Mecor always had a motive for his actions. The girl, whoever she was had to be extraordinarily desirable or possess some special powers or talents that the king planned to use, or rather abuse.
“Retrieve her.” King Mecor pierced the slavemaster with severe, black eyes. Evil eyes. “And bring her to heel.”
“As you wish, your Majesty.” Tarken tipped his head in a relenting pose.
Maybe she’s a virgin. Suddenly Tarken felt sorry for the female. “When do I leave?”
“On the morrow, so make ready. You will meet the crew at the Moon Crasher, come sun’s first peak.”
“What liberties do you give me with this slave?” Tarken was probing for information.
“Whatever it takes.” The king snorted callously. “Fuck her, rape her, beat her for all I care. As long as she’s obedient by the time she arrives.”
The comments gave Tarken a smidgen of relief. “Very well, your Majesty.”
Apparently, the woman Tarken was retrieving was not a virgin, otherwise Mecor wouldn’t have given him permission to fuck her. He’d heard of the king’s penchant for taking virgins by force, that he took sick pleasure with hearing them scream in pain when he pierced their hymens. It was the reason Tarken tried to get to them first, as he always took care with the untouched.
“Dismissed Tarken.” The king waved him off with the back of his hand.
The slavemaster bowed before turning to take his leave, his shoulder bumping against one of two royal guards posted at the grand chamber entranceway. Nothing more than a placid grunt was exchanged between them.
* * * *
Mecor watched the slavemaster as he exited. Standing, he descended the stairs in front of him and stopped.
“Close the doors,” he ordered his two sentries posted at the grand chamber entranceway. “Remain outside and see that I’m not disturbed.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” they responded in accord, both bowing as they backed out of the room. There was an echoing clanking as each tugged an iron loop, dragging the double doors until they thundered together as they were fully shut.
“You summoned us your Majesty?” Scoac emerged from behind the massive velvety curtains framing Mecor’s throne. He bowed respectfully to his king. Rube, his younger brother was just behind him.
“Why is that the first thing all say when they come to my chamber?” Mecor glared at them. “Obviously, if you’re here I summoned you. Otherwise, you would not be here.” He pivoted and his pace stretched to the other side of the room.
Scoac didn’t answer as he followed the king to his table and then waited for his Majesty to sit down first. Rube followed behind both of them, taking a stance nearby.
The king stared at them and then scowled. Pressing his palms to the table top, he leaned toward them, his body at an ominous angle. “Well!” he boomed loudly in a voice he knew was intimidating. The king had no tolerance for ambiguity.
Scoac, snorted. “Well, what your Majesty?”
“Why do all who enter this chamber ask if I summoned them?”
“No one comes here willingly, Anzer.” He addressed the king by his first name. “Only when summoned. Your subjects fear you. Perhaps it’s a way of reassuring themselves that they had indeed been summoned…Less they lose their heads.”
Mecor bawked, and then after a short pause he laughed uproariously. He liked being feared. It made him feel almighty as it should be. He was the king after all—highest ruler. His subjects should worship at his feet. “Sit.” The king lowered to his chair.
Scoac obeyed, taking the seat to the right of Mecor with Rube sitting to the other putting his brother between himself and the king.
“You leave on the dawning.” Mecor hesitated, eyeing Rube suspiciously. “I don’t recognize you underling. Who are you?”
“He is my younger brother, sire,” Scoac answered in his stead. “He has lived on Trinitrese with my mother since the time she left my father. He has only recently returned here to his birth planet eager to carry on as a loyal patron and blood descendants to the kingdom of Buranis. I assure you, Rube can be trusted.”
If eyes could burn, Mecor’s surely would’ve disintegrated Rube on the spot. “I had a brother once.” The king then snickered. “Brothers cannot always be trusted.”
“I assure you, sire.” Rube gulped before forcing an arrogant facade. “I am here only to serve Buranis and my king.”
“It won’t be pleasant to have your head sawed from your body inch by agonizing inch, should you betray me,” Mecor commented. “How can I be assured to trust you, subservient?”
“I was raised in the royal courts on Trinitrese, sire.”
“Yes, yes Trinitrese is one of my allied holdings. “Though not as secured as some of my other planets in the Adar Rhiannon Galaxy.”
“I pledge that I am wholly loyal and pleased to serve, to keep the rulership of this kingdom with the bloodline that deserves it. I am of your bloodline and quite proud of what my mother has taught me of it, and of your fierce dedication to the well-being of the Mecor kingdom.”
“Then your mother has done well with you.” Mecor shifted his attention to Scoac. “Once you have obtained the slave, keep a careful eye on her behaviors at the various ports, for I’m sure she’ll unwittingly betray herself.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Scoac answered, bowing dutifully.
“And let no one stand in the way of delivering what I want. Kill whomever you must, to give me what I want.”
“Does that include the slavemaster, Anzer?” Scoac asked.
“That includes the slavemaster.”
Chapter Three
Tarken entered the Rystral trading post, tired and sweaty from his travels. He studied his surroundings—not upscale, but not tawdry either. It would be a comfortable place to stay for a few dawnings.
Heads in the lobby turned toward him, and then immediately turned away at his less than friendly glare. He'd chosen to wear plain, non-descript clothing and scowled at the king’s cousins, Scoac and Rube who stood to either side of him.
They were adorned in full-dressed Burani colors, both in regal vestments as overt as formals worn during ceremony on Buranis. Their formal attire blatantly revealed their identities, bolding announcing
that royalty had arrived. Even worse than that, the guards, ten in all that had accompanied them were also flaunting about as if prudence was the last thing on their minds. It would surely make them targets of thieves and scammers, or encourage harassment by enemies of the Mecor domains.
Their entire accompaniment and procession would produce a situation Tarken wished to avoid.
On spotting them, the hotelier scurried from his place at the receiving counter.
From the look on the man’s face, Tarken thought he might lick their boots he seemed so eager to please. His features told Tarken he was from the planet Zurka, apparent by his pointy ears and pointy teeth, long skinny body and fingers nearly ten inches long. His skin had a yellowish hue that made him look a bit sickly, but it was quite natural to his race.
“Welcome m’lords! We’ve been expecting you!” he announced.
Tarken tipped his head in question at the comment.
Scoac cleared his throat. “I sent word ahead that we were due to arrive.”
“My name is Toob’ri, and I am at your beckon call.” The hotelier bowed.
“Just show us to our rooms,” Tarken replied. So much for discretion. It appeared as if the whole damn place had been informed of their upcoming arrival.
“At your request, yes, yes!” Toob’ri turned snapping his finger for a hopper to carry their bags.
With a hover cart in tow, a younger Zurkan hurried over to them. “Right this way!”
Toob’ri’s enthusiasm was disgustingly overzealous as far as Tarken was concerned, but from Scoac’s and Rube’s expressions, they seemed to be basking in it, offering a short wave or nod to every patron they passed on the way to their rooms. Flaunting their presence was making Tarken uneasy, and he attempted to distance himself from the pair by snatching the security clip from the Zurkan porter. He hastened his pace and went directly to his reserved room on the second floor.
Unfortunately, Scoac and Rube were given occupancy in the chamber next door.
Groaning, the slavemaster rued the king’s law that only royals be permitted to pilot the star vessels. Otherwise, he'd have brought his own crew. He had to wonder how Mecor would react if he knew that Tarken was skilled at piloting. Having arrived on Buranis by commuter ship, it was something the slavemaster kept secret however. One never knew when a quick egress from the planet should arise, and it was always unwise to reveal all of one’s skills unless necessary.
Slavemaster's Woman, The Page 2
