Men In Chains

by Virginia Reede

  “That’s better,” said the Ra-drine. “Do you not agree…what is your name again?”

  “Jeryl,” he replied automatically.

  “Ah, yes. Jeryl.” She walked to the bed and, placing both glasses on a table, stood next to it and beckoned to him. “Why do you not sit down, Jeryl? You look tired.”

  “Yes,” said Jeryl, and he realized he was tired. Achingly, desperately tired. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a week—a month—on that soft-looking bed with the thick furs, near the lovely fire. He walked over and eased himself onto the furs, groaning with pleasure at the sensation. He closed his eyes and stretched luxuriantly, wincing only slightly at the pain in his ribs, which seemed to have all but disappeared.

  Bloduewedd sat on the bed next to him and put her hands on his chest. “You may not fall asleep yet, outlander. Your Rahntadrine has need of you.” Jeryl smiled but did not open his eyes.

  Jeryl was not yet asleep, but felt as if he were dreaming nevertheless. How could he have thought her scent unpleasant? It was perfect—musky and sweet. And the pressure of her hand on his chest was just right, especially as it moved down his belly and stopped…why had it stopped?

  Jeryl opened his eyes lazily and saw Bloduewedd was untying the silky cords that held his trousers in place. Unaware he was looking at her, her face no longer held the sweet and lazy expression it had carried since she entered the room. Instead, she looked like a hungry cat about to lap the blood of an unfortunate mouse. His eyes widened as she finished her task and reached her hand into his trousers, closing her fingers around his shaft.

  Jeryl perceived he was fully erect. How had he become aroused without even knowing it? He should stop her, but his arms and legs felt strangely heavy. The only sensation he could feel was her hand beginning to stroke him rhythmically. A tingling sensation started to move from his groin to his belly, followed by a rush of heat. Suddenly, he remembered the angel in the street outside the slave market. This felt the same, only somehow unclean compared to the liquid light the red-haired woman had poured into him. This heat was dark and hot, like the rush of blood from a wound.

  Summoning all of his will, Jeryl struggled to think clearly. This woman was not seducing him—she was bewitching him. He fought the lassitude in his arms and legs as he saw with horror that Bloduewedd was pulling the slippery fabric of the pants out from under him so his manhood was fully exposed and very, very rigid. She lifted her robe, naked underneath, and he realized it was her intention to straddle him. She slid one leg across his thighs and grasped him again.

  “Ah, outlander, you do not disappoint,” she said, and her voice had changed. It was husky and unpleasant, and she almost panted in her eagerness. She started to position herself so as to slide over him. Just as he saw the head of his phallus about to enter the wet chasm that peered out below a dark mass of hair, he felt the rahnta break, as if her concentration had been suddenly severed and he had been abruptly released from invisible bonds. Instantly he scrambled backward, causing her to lose her balance and slip off the side of the bed. He tried to leap off the opposite side but was hampered by the tangle of his pants around his thighs. By the time he had managed to yank them up and get his feet under him, she was up and around the edge of the bed.

  The illusion of beauty was completely gone now. She looked like an angry wildcat, hissing in fury at an aborted kill. Her eyes blazed with a dark fire. “You will not refuse me, outlander. Not if I want you,” she spat. This time he felt it clearly when the strange cloudiness tried to reach for his mind and with a little effort he shook it off. Apparently she felt him reject her power and her face darkened in fury. She laughed unpleasantly as she circled him. “So, your mind is not yet bent to the ways of the rahnta? I can as easily take you by force. Grenda!” she shouted toward the door.

  Grenda came through the door so quickly that she must have been waiting outside. “Yes, my Ra-drine?”

  Bloduewedd stepped aside. “Get out your sword. It appears that Jeryl here,” she spat his name out scornfully, “needs a little extra encouragement tonight. Get him back on the bed and make sure he remains still until I am finished with him.”

  Grenda grinned and unsheathed the sword, advancing toward Jeryl, who was trapped between the bed and the wall. He backed up, looking desperately for something he could use as a weapon. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at Grenda, missing her by a wide margin. She laughed and continued to come toward him, circling the end of her sword as if to taunt him. He grabbed another pillow and this time she had to duck to avoid it. He took advantage of the second’s distraction and launched himself over the bed, slipping as the silky trousers met the fur. He regained his feet and found himself face-to-face with Bloduewedd. Her hands were extended and he felt her power rush at him like a stream of murky water. He did not know if she would be able to entrap him with it again, but he did not want to find out. He lowered his head and charged at her like a bull.

  Both Bloduewedd and Grenda were caught by surprise. Whatever they had expected from Jeryl, it had not included a physical attack on the Rahntadrine. As Grenda scrambled to avoid the cushions and tables scattered near the end of the bed, Jeryl hit Bloduewedd in the center of her chest, sending her airborne and crashing onto a table. The decanter was thrown into the fireplace and shattered, filling the room with smoke and the strong smell of spirits.

  Bloduewedd’s head hit the floor with a loud thump and, even though a rug cushioned it, she appeared to be dazed. Jeryl tried to regain his feet, but slipped in the spilled brandy and fell to his knees, cutting one knee and the heel of one hand on small pieces of the broken decanter. He tried to scramble in the direction of the door, but Grenda had managed to get around or kick aside all of the obstacles and Jeryl felt the steel of her sword pierce the skin at the back of his neck. He froze.

  The sounds of the mêlée had drawn all members of the household. Running feet and shouts could be heard beyond the chamber’s door and soon several sets of feet slid into Jeryl’s view. Before he could see who his—or more probably Bloduewedd’s—rescuers were, Grenda kicked him hard in the back, sending him to the floor, where he lay facedown in a puddle of brandy, the pain from his violated ribs preventing him from feeling the small shards of glass sticking into his naked chest.

  “Mother!” screamed a voice, probably the woman Bloduewedd had earlier called…what was it? Bethany? Bettina? His face still pressed into the floor, Jeryl saw feet rushing to where Bloduewedd lay stunned amidst the ruins of the small table. Apparently heedless of the broken glass, she got to her knees and tried to pull her mother’s head and shoulders onto her lap. Jeryl still could not see the young woman’s face. He saw Bloduewedd blink drunkenly and try to push her daughter’s hand away.

  Grenda’s voice shook with fury. The point of her sword was now pressed against the place where the back of Jeryl’s skull met his spine, and he could feel blood trickling down his neck from where she had pricked him. “Do ye even know what ye have done?” she yelled, spraying Jeryl’s back with saliva. “Ye have struck the Rahntadrine! Ye will die for this, outlander, and I will enjoy spillin’ yer guts!” She drew back the sword point, and Jeryl felt sure she was also drawing back her arm to strike the deathblow.

  “Wait!” interrupted Bloduewedd groggily—beginning to emerge from her stupor. “Wait, Grenda.” From his spot on the floor, Jeryl could barely see her again impatiently pushing away the other woman’s hands. “Stop pawing at me and help me up, girl,” she snapped. Another set of boots, which Jeryl recognized as Aeron’s, hurried to help her do so.

  Once on her feet, the Ra-drine took an audible breath. She sounded as if she was struggling to regain control. Jeryl tried to turn his face to look up at her, but Grenda’s foot moved firmly to stop him, and he froze.

  Bloduewedd addressed Grenda. “He will die, Grenda, but you will not soil my carpets with his entrails.” Grenda was probably not happy with this order, but she resumed her position with the sword sticking into the top of Jeryl�
�s spine. “You will die, outlander, but it will not be quick and it will not be private. It has been some time since this village observed the consequences of a slave striking his mistress. You will die tomorrow in the market square, and everyone will see it.”

  Bloduewedd’s bare feet turned toward Grenda. “I am sorry you will not be able to collect your quarter share. At least I can do you the favor of letting you make the killing stroke. Now get him out of my house and back to the sheds. Aeron, prepare a bath. I need to get this outlander’s stench off me.”

  Grenda stepped back and motioned for Jeryl to get up. He made it, shakily, as far as his knees, but Grenda’s fist in his hair prevented him from lifting his head. He saw Bloduewedd’s legs from the knees down as she strode toward the door, a little unsteady, followed by two other sets of legs, presumably those of Aeron and the still unseen daughter. Knowing it was unwise but unable to control his anger, Jeryl called after her.

  “At least I’ll go to my grave without having to remember the feel of my shaft in your foul hole!” he shouted, and was answered by a blow to the back of his head from the hilt of Grenda’s sword. Darkness descended before he even hit the floor.

  Chapter Five

  Delinda awakened refreshed. She stretched and looked around at the cheery room where Korin had convinced her to spend the night. The two of them had talked late, long after first Ostyn and then Letta had bid them goodnight. At long last, Delinda had heard the full story of how a young Bloduewedd had deceived Morenna and seized the seat of the Rahntadrine, and how the ever-increasing power of the Eye of the Goddess had come to dominate the life of almost every woman and man in the sector.

  They had moved on to lighter topics and Korin had related stories of Morenna’s girlhood and youth that made Delinda happy and sad at the same time. She had never known the lighthearted and mischievous young woman of whom Korin spoke. By the time of Delinda’s earliest memories, the cares of leadership and the disappointment of loss had turned her mother into a serious, circumspect woman.

  Delinda arose and dressed in the clothes Letta had laid out—there were advantages to being the guest of a clothing merchant—and went down to the smell of strong tea being brewed in the kitchen. She found Korin listening to an animated Letta, with Ostyn sitting at the table, his face white. “It’s to be at midday,” said Letta excitedly, “and the word has been sent out the shops are to be closed so that everyone can be there.”

  “Even the Rahntadrine does not have the right to force everyone to view such a disgraceful spectacle,” said Korin, “nor to require merchants to close their shops.”

  “I know, but Grenda was saying Bloduewedd would be very disappointed in anyone who did not agree, and you could tell by the way she was saying it that she meant there would be trouble if…” She trailed off, seeing Delinda in the doorway.

  “What is going on?” Delinda asked. She put her hand on Ostyn’s shoulder and he jumped involuntarily. “Ostyn, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  “It is an execution,” said Korin bluntly. “A slave has, if we are to believe the stories, struck Bloduewedd, and he is to be killed at midday in the market square where the slave auctions are held.”

  “According to one of Grenda’s soldiers,” said Letta, “Bloduewedd was actually injured and Grenda wanted to kill him on the spot, but the Ra-drine would not let her and said there must be a public execution.” Letta was a bit breathless with a combination of horror and excitement. “All of the males in the village are supposed to be there, and Grenda is going to perform the beheading herself! The slave who hit Bloduewedd is an outlander, and the fruit seller said—”

  The flow of information was cut off abruptly when Letta gave a little gasp and started toward Ostyn. At the word “beheading” he had slid from his chair to the floor.

  It took the three women a few minutes to get Ostyn revived and on his feet. They walked him into the front room and helped him onto a sofa while he apologized profusely for causing trouble. “Nonsense,” said Delinda. “It is no trouble at all. And do not worry, Ostyn, I have no intention of sending you to watch some poor outlander get his head cut off.” At these last words, Ostyn turned pale again but Delinda was suddenly struck by a thought.

  “An outlander, you say?” She turned to Letta, curious. An idea was starting to form in her head.

  “Yes, Miss,” Letta replied, happy to continue with her tale. “The fruit merchant says she was walking back from the stables in the middle of the night, coming back from checking on her horse that was about to foal, and she saw Grenda and some other soldiers riding down the street with a man thrown over a horse and he was wearing some kind of fancy clothing like slaves wear in a breeding house.” She blushed, but continued her story. “And they took him to the slave market, where there was a lot of shouting and waking everyone up. Then this morning Grenda and her women were going about putting up notices of a public execution and saying everyone must go. I saw Blenshi putting one up and I asked her what it was all about. She told me they caught an outlander yesterday, and Bloduewedd took him to her house, and then something happened and he got in some kind of fight with her and she got hurt somehow.” Letta stopped, having no more information to impart. She also needed to breathe.

  “Something happened, all right,” said Korin wryly. “The dark rahnta from the Eye of the Goddess may be useful in controlling slaves, but long exposure to it makes it difficult for them to breed, if not impossible. That’s one of the reasons outlanders always get a good price at the market—they haven’t yet lost all their starch.”

  Seeing the effect this conversation was having on Ostyn, Delinda led the women back to the kitchen, where they sat at the table with their cups of tea. Letta and Korin discussed the upcoming event, deciding to open the shop as usual. Delinda tuned out their talk as she ate her breakfast without tasting it.

  An outlander. This must be the very man she had helped in the street the afternoon before. When she had formulated her plan, she had never even considered the possibility—outlanders were rare and quickly broken in as slaves. But a brand new outlander, who had always lived as a free man—this was a gift beyond price! It could take weeks off phase one, maybe months. Why she had not thought of it when she first saw him, she did not know, but she needed that outlander.

  “I have to get to the slave market,” said Delinda, rising abruptly and interrupting Letta and Korin’s discussion. They both turned to her in surprise.

  “The execution is not for more than three hours,” said Korin. “And in any case I am surprised you want to watch it.

  “I’m not going to watch it. I’m going to stop it.”

  Letta and Korin both stared at her. “Just how are you going to do that?” inquired Korin, seriously.

  “I have no idea,” admitted Delinda. “But I must think of something. I need that outlander.” She checked her pockets to make sure she had picked up all of her personal items. She was about to take her leave when Korin spoke.

  “Wait just a moment, if you do not mind,” she said. “Letta, go open the shop—I’ll be there after I have a few words with our guest. And do not mention what Delinda has just told us to anyone, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Korin,” said Letta, obviously disappointed, although whether at having to miss the rest of the conversation or having been forbidden to share this exciting new gossip, it was hard to tell. After the door banged behind her, Korin resumed.

  “I do not know why you need this man,” Korin started. “But if you are going to run off with the intention of thwarting the plans of an angry Rahntadrine, you had better have a plan.”

  Delinda sighed impatiently but she knew Korin was right. Sitting once again, she racked her brain for something, anything that would prevent this prize from slipping through her fingers. “What if I just offer her a great deal of money for him—two or three times what he would have fetched if she were to auction him?”

  Korin shook her head. “Bloduewedd has no need of money. All who u
se the Eye of the Goddess must pay her a tribute. She has already shown her willingness to lose the money he would have brought her for the satisfaction of seeing him killed.”

  Another idea occurred to Delinda. “That gray-haired woman, Grenda, said when he was sold, she was to get a share of the money.”

  “When was this?” asked Korin sharply.

  “Yesterday afternoon, after I left your store. She was pulling him down the street on a rope, behind her horse. He fell and I helped him up.” She drummed her fingers on the table, speculating. “She said he would bring a good price, and part of it was hers. Bloduewedd might be happy to give up the money, but maybe Grenda is not.”

  “Even so,” said Korin, “it is not Grenda you will have to convince.”

  “No, but it’s a start. And maybe something else will occur to me once I get there.” She saw Korin’s skeptical look. “I have to try something. How often does an outlander show up here? And even if I did not need him for my pl—for my estate, he was probably just defending himself, if I am any judge of character.”

  “How is it that you have any idea of his character?” asked Korin.

  “I meant Bloduewedd’s character,” said Delinda. “But when I used the rahnta to help him up, I did not feel any evil in him.”

  “You used the rahnta on an outlander in the middle of a public street, in front of Grenda?” Korin was starting to grin. “You do like to live dangerously.”

  “Not really,” said Delinda, grinning back. “But it does seem to work out that way a lot of the time.” She stood up. “Speaking of which, I had better be getting over to the slave market. I do not know how long it will take for me to do…whatever it is I am going to do.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Korin, getting to her feet.