by Jesse Teller
Jocelyn deflected a few hard hits, but she was not built for this. She was not a warrior crafted from the time she was three. She was not a Beastscowl or the daughter of Gerber. Jocelyn had not fought time after time with two of the most savage warriors ever to walk the city of Tergor. This wife had no way to deal with the amount of punishment Rachel was going to drop on her.
When they reached the outside, Rachel called out to the streets around her.
“Get over here, everyone. Little Jocelyn Fendis has gotten herself in a spot of trouble.” Rachel picked the woman up by her hair and tossed her forward. The citizens spread out, forming a great circle for them to fight in. Jocelyn stood shakily to her feet and swayed like a drunk.
“You have been evil to me for too long, Rachel Beastscowl,” Jocelyn said. She spit blood and looked up at Rachel with hate and wrath.
Rachel felt a strange tremble of fear when she saw the rage in the woman’s eyes.
“This ends here,” Jocelyn said. “You are done ruining my life. You are done trying to break me. You want me dead? Try to kill me. Otherwise, stay the hell out of my life.”
Rachel jumped forward and flicked her leg out like a snake flicking out its tongue. The foot connected perfectly with Jocelyn’s gut, and she flew back into the crowd.
“I’m not going to kill you, Jocelyn. I’m going to finish breaking you. I’m going to leave you to crawl back to your father and let him shelter you. You are not a Redfist. You think you are, but a marriage and a roll in the sack can’t make a queen out of you.”
Jocelyn rushed her, roaring, and Rachel stepped aside and kicked out. She hit Jocelyn in the gut and doubled her over. When Jocelyn hit her knees, Rachel smacked her across the back of the head with the broken broom handle.
“If this were a real fight, you would be dead right now, but you’re not a warrior,” Rachel said. “You’re not a Redfist, you’re not a mother, you’re not a friend. What in the name of the Seven are you, Jocelyn?”
Jocelyn mumbled something and Rachel laughed, her hate for this woman searing her soul. “You’re nothing. Nothing to this nation, nothing to me and nothing to your husband. You’re a base defiler to everything you live amongst. But I’m gonna send you home. Don’t worry. I will wrap you up when I am done beating you near to death, and I will drop you off with your daddy and his dog.”
Jocelyn rose and swung, and Rachel caught the wrist and bit into it.
Jocelyn screamed but didn’t drop the baton, even after Rachel came away with meat in her mouth.
Tougher than she thought.
Rachel smiled at her when Jocelyn stumbled back weeping.
“Crying, good, cry like a child, Fendis. Prove me right all over again,” Rachel said. She needed to end this. She swung her broom handle and connected hard with Jocelyn’s head. The handle snapped in half. Jocelyn looked up at Rachel with a bleeding face and a snarl with blood-coated teeth.
“My turn,” Jocelyn said. She launched herself at Rachel. Rachel swung her handle but it was useless. She stood her ground and felt the horrid detonation of the baton across her face. Rachel’s nose broke, her lips broke, her face went numb, and her eyes filled with water. She fought to get her balance but a second baton strike hit Rachel’s elbow. The elbow shattered. Rachel screamed out in horrid pain and Jocelyn swung again.
Knee.
Fist.
Head.
Foot.
One solid hit after the next. One broken bone after the next, and with every passing second, Rachel was slowly being shut down. She could not stand, and she dropped to the ground. She fought to drag herself away, but with every bit of energy she extended, another hit came and the power was sapped from her. The baton hit her ribs, and she felt them snap. She rolled over on her back, held her good arm up, but Jocelyn shattered it with one swift swing to the elbow. Jocelyn stood over Rachel and screamed at her. She lifted the baton and dropped it over and over again until Rachel lost consciousness.
Jocelyn was a Redfist.
V
23 Years Before The Escape
New dress, new boots, new cloak and new gloves, no one had seen Rachel’s new outfit yet. She stepped out from behind the dressing screen in Ellen’s bedroom. She spun and held her arms out, and the women in the room gasped.
“You can’t wear that,” Ellen said.
“Nice, huh?” Rachel asked. She ran her fingers the length of her body, delighting in the soft silk and the rough texture of the lace.
“That is absolutely scandalous. If you step out into public with that on, your father will have to set the entire city on fire,” Madeline said. “He will have to gouge out the eyes of every man who sees you. Gerber will be furious.”
Rachel turned to Ellen’s mirror and saw herself in full form. She liked what she saw. Her entire bodice was lace, red and black decorated with flowers and feathers, and it was completely perverse. Every detail of her stomach, chest, and neck could be seen. A thick section of lace covered both nipples just enough so she could say she was covered. The lace top was skintight, and though it itched terribly, it was worth the torture. A large section in the shape of a hand had been cut out of the bodice to expose her muscled stomach and belly button. This section of her body begged to be touched, and it fit a progetten man’s hand perfectly.
The bottom of the dress was comprised of black, silk scarves. No section of scarves was sewn together. Strips of silk swayed around her hips and down to her knees. When she walked, whole sections of her thighs and ass were visible. She wore no cloth to cover up her tender parts, and could feel herself growing moist as she stood there, the breeze of the room’s window blowing across her womanhood. She was eighteen and powerful, sexy and vibrant. When she looked in the mirror and thought about the way the men of the city would see her, she felt frustrated and angry.
“It’s not even a dress,” Madeline said. “I wouldn’t even wear that to bed.”
“I’m going out tonight,” Rachel said. “I need to show off my new dress.”
“Where are you going? A brothel?” Ellen said.
“I am going to a few places, nothing worth mentioning. I will wear my cloak for most of the night. Until it is time to make a statement.”
“Nothing worth mentioning, huh?” Madeline said.
“I need to be able to see men. I need them to see me,” Rachel said. “I am 18 years old and unmarried. Soon, I will pass the age. I need to find a man.”
“Any man in this ghetto—in this city—would slit the throat of his mother to marry you. Close your eyes, spin in a circle and point, and you have a man,” Ellen said.
“You use that word carelessly,” Rachel said. “There are few men in this city worth the boots they stand in.”
“My Tulbo was worthy,” Ellen said.
“Your Tulbo was more than worthy. Had I been older, I would have scratched your eyes out for a chance to lick his sword. Let alone tend to his…” she smiled a devious smile and laughed, “…his man parts.”
Madeline gasped. “Rachel, how dare you!”
But Ellen just laughed. “You can’t imagine what it was like being worked over by that man,” she said. “He was—”
“Respectful?” Madeline said.
“Large?” Rachel asked.
“Thorough,” Ellen said with a rare and wicked grin.
Rachel was so happy to see Ellen could talk about the good times with Tulbo now. For so long, any slight mention of the man brought her agony.
“Yes, girls, there was no man like Tulbo anywhere in this or any other city. They stopped making his ilk.”
“So jealous,” Rachel said.
And Ellen grinned. She looked happy. Sort of.
“Will you come out with me?” Rachel asked.
“I’m twenty-nine,” Ellen said. “My hard night days are behind me. I’m a widow. I’m a mother. I had better stay.”
“Madeline?” Rachel asked.
“Better not.”
“Why? You can’t wait forever. The ba
ttle has been fought; she won. We have to move on. She proved herself to us. She proved herself to me. We don’t have to like it, but Flak is married. You need to move on.”
Since Jocelyn had bested Rachel, the war had ended. The Ragoth women had begun talking to the Redfist bride and even making friends with her. Rachel had begun to show the woman respect and moved back into her papa’s home. The resulting pain to Madeline had been immense.
Madeline looked betrayed. Ellen sat with wide eyes, looking back and forth at the two women. Rachel had gone too far.
“I’m sorry. Look, you can watch all the men scramble to touch me. You can stand back and judge me the entire night. I know how that brings you joy,” Rachel said.
Madeline stared at her before shaking her head. “Go on without me. Flak can’t see me in a pub around other men. What if she passes on and he has to look for a new bride? I have to remain virtuous for him. He may come to me yet.”
Rachel felt sick to her stomach. “Fine, I will go alone, but know I will have no one to hold me back. No one to talk sense to me. I may get in all manner of trouble out there without a steady voice to guide me.”
“When have you ever listened to a steady voice?” Ellen said.
Rachel could think of only one time. “When I was five, and in a cave outside of the Stonefist village,” Rachel said. “It wasn’t very fun.”
Ellen giggled, and Rachel pulled her cloak on. It covered her lewd dress, and she smiled. She needed to wait anyway. Spring the full dress on them when they didn’t expect it.
Outside, she found the stable of the Stonefist ghetto and borrowed one of Ellen’s horses. She couldn’t take her bear. It definitely would be recognized. Summer wasn’t an option. Rachel needed to stay as hidden as she could until the last moment. It was known throughout all seven ghettos that no one was to fondle Gerber’s princess. She needed to go to a place she would not be known. She needed to find a hole in this town where they didn’t recognize her.
She rode out of the progetten ghettos and into the human section of town. She followed the sounds of revelry and shouting, ducking into bar after bar, seeing nothing worth staying for. She made her way through the roughest section of town where dark eyes peered out of the shadows to gauge her and calculate. She feared none of them. She had been raised with two of the greatest warriors this city had ever known. Her papa was the most feared man in the entire city. She had destroyed every man who had ever gotten near her. Rachel Beastscowl feared no one.
She rode on until she heard a gentle din down a dark alley, and turned in. She found herself in a dead end that held a few drunken sots and a smattering of horses tied to a post and snorting. She heard cheering and yelling through a large splintered door on a building to the left, tied her horse and walked to the door. She grabbed it and shoved it left, and the entire panel shifted like a barn door. Within, smoke from black weed, the smell of cheap ale and vomit, and a crowd screaming and pounding the floor with boots. She shoved her way in and headed to the middle of the room.
She was grabbed a few times as she passed, but when she turned, no one seemed to be there. Someone smacked her ass, and she grinned. It had long been her best feature. She wanted to break the hand that did it, but would not say she disliked it. Reminded her of how a man would smack a horse’s ass to get it going. It made her feel dirty, made her feel like a beast moving for pleasure. Made her feel like an animal.
She elbowed her way to a railing that held the crowd back from a fall of about twelve feet to a dirt pit where a man was being dragged away. He was tossed in a hole and a grate dropped closed. She had seen the man’s eyes flutter open, so he was not dead, but his body seemed to be one great bruise, and he sweat profusely. She looked around the pit. A slight man with taped up fists and ankles stood in the back corner. He was covered in blood that was not his own, held his fists into the air and crowed to the sky.
The crowd went crazy, and he jumped in tight circles. They threw gold at him, and silver. And she knew suddenly where she was. Here, men would beat each other bloody for her entertainment. A slight thrill ran up her spine. It set the fine hairs on the back of her neck on edge, and she waited, breathless for the next bout.
She watched for hours as one fight after the next played out. As men and a few women pounded on each other for pay or pleasure, Rachel laughed and cheered for her favorites. She seemed to be able to choose the winner of every bout, and began placing bets after the first five fights. She won every time and the men around her were growing angry. She did not care. She did not fear them. She sneered at them and kept placing bets. She kept winning, and kept watching.
She had never felt this free, had never felt this alive. She wanted to flip over the railing and jump in the pit. Wanted to feel the impact of the fist of her opponent. She wondered why it had taken her this long to find this place, and decided she would have to come back as often as possible.
By the time the main event came, Rachel had a bag full of gold, and was so moist she could feel herself dripping down her leg. She had never been this aroused. Had never been this desperate for a man, any man. She needed a hard man to satisfy her. Needed to feel a hard hand across her ass. She looked around for a suitable companion, when the crowd started chanting.
“Mad Dog.”
“Mad Dog.”
“Mad Dog.” She felt the need to bite something. Rachel stared with bated breath at the door where the next fighter would emerge. When it flew open to slam the walls, and the fighter stepped out, she nearly cried out loud in her desire.
He stood eight feet tall, his bulk was a thing of legend among his people. He held his massive fists into the air and bellowed to the crowd. They screamed and howled and stomped the floor. They cried out to him and whistled. She could only stare in awe at the spectacle of Whelter as he stood bulging and flexing.
Two naked women came out with him and rubbed him down with oils. Rachel hated both of them, wanted to rip their hearts out and eat them. She could almost feel the slick flesh beneath her fingers as they rode the rippling muscle of his stomach. Their thin fingers ran oil through his hair, and Rachel stuffed her fingers in her mouth for something to bite into. He roared and flexed, and she could not take her eyes off him. How had she not seen before that Whelter was a god of men? A weapon honed and perfect? How had she not seen the might and the raw power at his command? He grabbed up one of the women that rubbed down his body and kissed her. He gripped her ass and Rachel moaned.
Seven men stepped out to face him. They were human, and their hands and feet were taped. They looked like children before a father. She stared at every one of them, wondering how they ever hoped to survive this bout.
Whelter thrust his hand out left and a great mug was placed in his grip. He quaffed deep and tossed the mug into the crowd. Grown men fought tooth and claw for that mug, and licked the inside for any drop Whelter had missed. She would have done anything, would have killed any six of these men, to lick the brim of that mug, to feel Whelter’s oiled grip on the handle.
The bell tolled out the start of the fight, and every one of the seven men rushed forward.
Whelter stepped out and spun, held his arms out wide, and his fist connected with the first man. The man flew wide to slam the wall of the pit. He slumped unconscious to the floor. Whelter roared in the faces of the other men as they surrounded him to beat on his body.
He held his arms out wide and welcomed their strikes. He took their punishment and laughed. She stared in awe at him and cried out in pleasure when he began to punch, bite, kick, and spit. Men flew wide. They flew into each other. They flew away as fast as their feet could carry them. One of the biggest stood his ground, and with his bound foot, kicked Whelter in the man parts as hard as he could.
Whelter laughed.
Rachel sobbed out in desperation. She leaned against the railing, gasping.
Two men stood side-by-side pounding on his trunk, kicking him and slamming him over and over. He took it all for a long time before reachin
g out and snatching one of them up in his arms. He swung the man wide, whipping him against the other and tossing the second man away. Whelter switched his grip and held the man in his arms high above his head. He spun once and heaved with a great grunt of effort. The man flew twenty feet into the air to drop on the crowd. Rachel screamed in pleasure and gripped her hair. She writhed and churned, transfixed as she witnessed the sexiest thing she had ever seen.
When Whelter was done and the seven men lie in tatters all around him, he turned to the door he had come in, and the two naked women rushed out to him. He wrapped his enormous arms around them and lifted them into the air. They squealed, and he carried them away.
He was gone. Rachel stood, stunned and staring at the place he had been, and knew before the end of the night, she needed Whelter.
“Where is he going?” she asked the man beside her. She grabbed him up, glared into his face. “Where is the Mad Dog going right now? Is he headed back home, or does he go to a pub where can I find him? Tell me now.”
The man grinned at her. “Liked what you saw, huh?”
She snarled, and he grinned a toothless grin. “Can’t get to him, but you can have me. I’m no Mad Dog, but I’m no runt either.”
She shoved him away and gripped the railing. She kicked over the side and into the pit. The mud and blood soaked into her new suede boots, but she did not care. She rushed the door Whelter had left through and followed the tunnel he walked down.
She came to a door in a corridor lit by torches. Two men stood at the door, stepped before her and held their hands out.
“No further, little lady. This is not a place for you. This is no home for good girls.”
“I came looking for the Mad Dog, and I will have him,” she snapped.
“Cute as you are, he will not be interested. He likes his women trashy,” the man before her said with a sly grin.
She threw open her cloak and stood before them in all her glory. She held her arms over her head and crossed her wrists.
