Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 02

Lord Jonas Cinder led his pale-skinned, hot-bottomed new slave out of the bowels of the dungeon and into the open-air court much the same way he'd led her from her cell, bound on a leash of rags. She still felt fear as he led her into the courtyard, arms secure behind her back and as bare as the day she was born but she tried to hide it. There were so many people gathered here that she felt completely defenseless. In truth she had never been better protected in her entire life.

The sun had come up on what promised to be a nice day. The sky had already become a healthy blue, with thin wisps of clouds drifting high in the air above the town. A dawn that Glankis sorely needed to bring a new feeling, a new light as it were, to the tired eyes of the citizens. The town had suffered since the War, when the whole section of town outside the old wall had been looted and burnt by the H'Nurt tribes. Then to fall prey to the C'ar V'in raids of the next five summers, as did most of the southern provinces. When money, troops and materials for reconstruction went East to the H'Nurt frontier, Glankis felt the bite but held on as best as they could. When Duke Victor returned at the head of a small mercenary army, things seemed to improve. They were protected by proven troops and the father and son refused to let the tired town collapse. Then his father died and life in Glankis during the War seemed comforting in comparison to the present day. Even in their Noble's Day best, the people seemed ragged and beat down, now even a bit terrified that they had just traded one evil for another.

All eyes of the assembly fell on them as he led her to the post placed on the ground before and just to the right of the three-step dais. He knew she'd need time to become accustomed to appearing naked before outsiders, especially such large groups, so he ignored the faltering steps she took. She had the potential to be amazingly graceful, almost cat-like in her movements once taught new skills like dancing and swordplay. Not just new skills either, but things about herself she was already beginning to understand.

Although he didn't show it outwardly, he was quite pleased with her so far. She was responsive and eager, aroused by the restraints and excited by her own helplessness. And she did have the potential to become so much more accomplished than a mere thief-come-alley whore. By making her his slave, taking her body and freedom, he'd opened the world to her.

Nice to see that a long lifetime of practice in judging people hadn't failed him entirely in spite of recent events.

The post was a pillar of polished oak standing four and a half feet high and mounted on a circular platform of the same wood about three feet across. Long, sinuous carvings of sensuous women had been cut into the wood of the post. The mountings, chains, and bindings were all silver, lovingly polished and shining brightly in the sunlight. A contrast to the rusty and dirty pieces that Duke Victor had on hand for the public displays of his cruelty. A wooden platform that stood against one wall of the courtyard, darkened with the blood of those damned souls that were dragged up the steep stairs to die in horrible pain before the terrified eyes of their loved ones as he flayed them alive, slowly. A rack loomed menacingly against the wall at one end while the pivoting martyr's cross marked a giant 'X' over the spot of death. A headman's block, two pillories and a chain still holding the remains of a hand all added to the repulsive nature of the place. No one approached within a dozen feet of it. The detestable thing would be burned, and soon.

He made her stand with her back to the post, facing the gathered crowd of wide-eyed townspeople. Well cared for leather cuffs lined with velvet held her ankles securely to a bar through the base of the post, keeping her feet a little more than shoulder width apart. With her shoulders back and spine pressed against it, the cool wood nuzzled against her burning ass soothingly. He locked similar bindings around her wrists- these bolted to the back of the post from where she stood, again forcing her to pull her shoulders back and thrust her breasts out like an offering. Around her thin neck he fastened a wide, hard leather collar that effectively prevented her from looking down, forcing her to look out at the crowd and hooked it by chain to the top of the post. The warm blush of shame colored her tear-stained face. Shame at her nakedness before all these strangers and at the aroused heat she felt under their awestruck scrutiny. It was as if she could feel the scores of eyes on her skin as if they were hands- some groping, some soothing, some curious, some possessive; but all touching her with some sense of familiarity; a sensation that she found immensely arousing. He'd wiped her thighs clean before untying her from the table, but she felt the sticky gravy cooking in her cunny once more.

Lord Cinder brushed a few stray locks of her hair out of her face before giving an approving nod and mounting the steps to the throne. Carter Stanton stood on the first step, just behind and to the left of the girl on the floor. Even though it was unlikely, if the crowd rioted he would be the first to her side. She may have been nude, but she was in no way naked and unprotected. The man-mountain's very presence and patronly visage could calm the unruly. Failing that, his fists could crush bones like a mace. Someone had passed a hasty cleaning rag over the big general's armor, wiping away dust and flecks of blood and put a comb through his hair. The general looked, as always, a sturdy rock amidst a stream of chaos. Cinder realized that he probably should have done the same, but it was too late for cleaning up now.

On the same step but on the opposite side of the throne was another such man. While not nearly as tall or as massive as Stanton, Jason Halpeitr gave off the air of a hungry mountain lion on the verge of attacking at all times. He stood tall and calmly let his woodsy eyes roam over the nervous crowd. As the captain of Cinder's personal Guard, his attire was similar to his lord's, a black chain shirt split for riding, leather pants and hard boots- but he wore no gloves and didn't carry a flogger. Instead, a hand-and-a-half bastard sword hung across his back and he gripped the thick haft of a tall, broad-headed poleaxe. In most hands the poleaxe could be a formidable weapon, but Jason could split a man's spine from top to bottom by pushing it with his powerful shoulders. A tabard of black covered his barrel chest, depicting a black tower on blue flames, detailed in silver thread. His squared-jawed face stern and impassive and framed by tightly drawn back black ponytail, he bowed in a salute that mirrored the one Stanton gave in the dungeon hall.

On the next step up and closer to the throne were Lord Cinder's real bodyguards- his Women. Both were skilled mages, although this was not always the case and neither held the normally coveted sanction of the Magister's College of Odgred. While most nobles kept sturdy warriors like Stanton and Halpeitr or college sponsored mages close at hand for protection, Lord Cinder was twice as skilled in martial pursuits than both men combined and unconcerned by magic. Instead, Cinder's Women served not to protect him, but to guard others from him.

On his right as he mounted the dais waited Quinlin, the more skilled in war magic of the two sorceresses, a battle-witch. She stood a few fingers under his height, a slender whip of powerful muscle. In the nine years since joining him, she had not lost her aura of innocence- a soft face wrinkled only by a tiny half-smile, her smooth and graceful limbs, and a healthy glow to her light brown skin. Her closely cropped brown hair remained tousled by the short battle in the city, and her silvery-gray eyes seemed to contain some amusing secret she kept all to herself. Her sparse green satin attire flagrantly displayed not only her athletic and slender body, but also the intricate dragon tattoo that decorated it. Beginning just above her right knee, its tail wound up her thigh, joined the body at her hip, climbed across her bare midriff, parted her firm, full breasts and ended with its horned head on her left shoulder. The beast appeared to breath flame down the length of her arm, which gradually changed into a twining rose bush that wrapped completely around her left arm, ending with an open rose on the back of her hand. One wing was folded down her left side, ending just below her hip, while the other was unfurled across her bare back. On her feet were knee-high, laced sandals of a soft colored dun leather. A casual observer could see the gold ring piercing her navel and the golden chains looped onto it- one wrapping around her waist like a belt while the other disappeared into her brief, narrow breechcloth. She wore bracelets, ankle bindings and a collar made of small gold, silver and platinum diamonds riveted to a soft leather backing, each piece set with a silver ring whose mounting also served as the piece's lock. The collar had a large square setting containing a thumb-sized moonstone surrounded by two dozen small rectangular diamonds set over a large silver ring that rested in the hollow of her throat. She held a silver-shod ironoak staff topped with a glowing beryl the size of a hen's egg and wore a long leaf-shaped dagger in a leather scabbard on her right hip.

On the left stood Anastasia, an exotic beauty with a curled mane the color of the sunset's burning sky, tumbling down her back to tickle her buttocks. There was something marvelously wanton about her, the way her long curly hair fell over an eye, the way the sun played over her almost bare shoulders, the outline of her fleshy thighs. Her magic was in tantric fire- both magical and passionate, and the whole of her being radiated its instinctive knowledge of pleasure. To her, sex was more essential than food or drink and she proved to be a true connoisseur. Her whole body was a marvel of nature, slender yet curvaceous. She stood with her hands on her hips, seductively arching her back and drawing back her shoulders, greatly increasing the dramatic upward thrust of her magnificent breasts. Heels lengthened the appearance of her long and smoothly contoured legs, thrust out her compact heart-shaped ass, curved her back and further emphasized her breasts. The diaphanous red silk of her dress stretched pleasingly over the pair of high standing, smooth mounds with the pierced nipples dark and just visible through the cloth, inviting the eyes of all those who knew desire for the female form. Her dress was no more than a filmy, transparent narrow tabard of silk joined at the hips front and back by a trio of gilded chains, leaving free her arms and legs and providing a view of bare side flesh from shoulder to ankle. The center of the three chains supported a thumb-sized emerald mounted on a small golden arrowhead hanging below the outline of her crotch, which could just be seen through the translucent film. The dress' neckline dropped to a point just below her navel, shamelessly exposing the inner curves of her breasts, with only four tiny golden chains holding the bodice closed to any degree of modesty. Under her hair, the dress was backless, revealing the smooth plain of her back from shoulders to just above her rump. She could shrug just right and there would be a pile of silk at her feet. The emerald had two mates; one glued in her navel just above the same golden ring and dropping chain as Quinlin's, but without the waist chain, and the other mounted in her collar. The jewels gleamed even brighter when seen in contrast to the exotic brassy cast of her silky skin, almost as if she had been made entirely of gold. Her bright green eyes flashed him a come-hither look when he passed and she licked her pouty lips with a lusty hunger. She had high cheekbones that tapered smoothly down to her chin. On her lips shined a thick coat of crimson gloss made bright by the passage of her tongue. She also wore the bracelets and anklets of precious metals and bore a long slender knife chained to her right hip, the scabbard soft, golden brown leather stretched over wood.

He mounted the final step and paused, staring down at the Duke's throne. It was an unattractive but utilitarian chair with a high wooden back, covered with velvet cushions, a variety of furs, and a tapestry that should have been on a wall somewhere. He truly detested these things- thrones, the Noble's Day court, and the assorted trappings of rule. His holding of Shadowholm had no court to hold, had no throne, and- most importantly- someone else to run things. He lashed out and kicked it, sending the chair crashing over the back of the dais to the floor. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the nervously waiting crowd.

If only the little thief hadn't forced his hand. Someone else would have done this in his stead if he'd been able to wait. Two long weeks until this burden was taken from him...

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Lord Jonas Cinder; the Everflame's Shadow, Duke of Shadowholm, Marshall of the Northern Scilogthar Mountains, Punishing Hand of the Empire, with dozens of other names and titles from various points touched by the Empire, sat behind a long table of polished black ash, drumming his fingers on its dark surface. He remembered the first time he saw this table, the first time he saw this room, the first time he met the Emperor. Now the Grand Imperial Palace housed the new Imperial Council.

His grim, expressionless eyes narrowed as he surveyed the dozen richly dressed figures seated across from him. In spite of their brightly colored clothing (cut by master tailors), intricate laces (in the latest styles), jewelry (passed down), stylish hats, decorative weapons and dozens of other little details making the difference between nobles and this freeman's son apparent, in his simple black mail and dragon-hide cloak he dominated the room. Behind each high-backed chair stood a tall staff bound in long ribbons of silk dyed the colors of the respected House. His own pole was an eight-foot shaft of black ribbons, like a monolith of night in the light of the room.

Some of the faces opposite he recognized, but too many of those with him in the plush chamber were new to him. Noble men and women stared back with expressions ranged from concentration to awe to thoughtful concern to jaw-clenched anger. The last he could sympathize with, he felt it himself most of the time. Thankfully, now he was simply annoyed.

He'd come out of his mountain home to visit the great capital, mostly on business related to Shadowholm. As a matter of course, he had ridden east with the active troops of his Shadows, intent on giving them some in the field training and getting them out of the garrison. In his train had been wagons full of samples of the goods he would trade for vital supplies. By the afternoon his wagons would be on their way home bearing supplies for the summer. Meeting the Council had not been part of his plan, but he knew that they might wish to see him. He generally had to make at least a courtesy appearance before them every time he made the trip. Some times it was social, others it was not. This time, it was not. Sitting on the table before him, like two poisonous vipers, sat two scrolls of vellum bearing the intricate seals of the Empire.

The two were a Writ of Execution and a generous but unnecessary land grant.

The writ he would take up easily, gladly in fact. He had no qualms in the least in delivering the vengeance of the Ruling Council on those who violated Imperial Law, he done similar things often enough in the past. Some of those sitting opposite him did so because he'd opened their seats for them. But the grant of the title and lands belonging to the man he was to remove- that constituted a deep insult. Not unforgivable, but still fairly deep. He had a home, a refuge that suited him quite well.

"What is this?" he asked flatly, gesturing to the grant. "You know my terms. They are non-negotiable." In all the years he had led his Shadows in the service of whomever he decided best served the Law and Custom, it had been infrequent that his demands had been inadequately met. This was one of those rare times that they had been ignored altogether. He never accepted lands or titles, not since taking control of the Northern Scilogthars, land he nominally controlled from ten miles east of Shadowholm all the way to the border of the Joten Kingdoms some fifty or more miles through the maze of unexplored mountains to the west. For years he had been trying to find a trail through the mountains, but thus far unsuccessfully. He also had nominal control of the mountains themselves for a score of miles north and south of his holding, but few actually lived there to his knowledge. He never bothered to collect taxes.

"The Cinder Family has served this Council faithfully for decades without adequate reward," the youngest of the Odgred Ruling Council spoke up eagerly. Cinder thought his name might be Conover, but he couldn't place his father's features on that soft young face. He did sit under the Conover colors of red, white and black cord. "We felt that it was time to do so. The Scilogthar Marches don't allow much in the way of political influence, so we felt that the Duchy of Glankis, with its trade importance and voice in the Imperial Court, would be a start at repaying our debt to your family. As well as giving you an opportunity to find representation in the Imperial..."

"This was your idea then," Cinder interrupted, not really caring who he insulted or to what degree. The boy would get over it or he wouldn't, it made no difference to him. "Read the records again, son. Only one member of the Cinder family has ever directly served this Council." To emphasize his casual point, he lay a flat hand on the table and stroked his lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of the other.

"The eldest male of each generation I understand." The young Conover seemed genuinely eager to show off his meager knowledge to his peers, all who were older and should have been wiser. He must have been the one who proposed and pushed for the land grant. Cinder hated to drive home this lesson again, but someone should have dissuaded the young man. He'd been away too long once again, letting others handle the meetings and they had forgotten whom...and what he was. Once a generation it seemed he had to go through this foolishness.

"No, only one." He rose and pushed the scrolls away. "I apologize. I can't accept serve the Writ if I have to take the city. I don't want it."

"What? You dare refuse the Imperial Council?" Conover slapped his hands sharply against the table and leapt to his feet. Only the quick reflexes of those seated to either side saved his chair from toppling to the floor. Now Cinder was sure that he was indeed a Conover, he had his great-great-great-grandfather's fire.

"Look into my eyes boy, and tell me what you see," Cinder ordered, leaning across the table toward the fuming young lord, trapping him with those strange, colorless eyes. Huffing and fuming, Conover accepted the challenge. The line between bravery and foolishness blurs when you have no idea who's challenging you.

The longer he looked, the shakier his knees felt. Staring that hard into Cinder's eyes was not unlike staring down a very, very, very deep well. Darkness is all that can be seen, but when there is a glimmer of light at the bottom, it is hard to tell if was really there or just a trick to keep the mind from reeling from intense vertigo. Finally, the blood drained from his face, he sank back into his chair with a haunted groan. The rest of the nobility shifted uncomfortably while Conover shook almost in terror. It took the kind hand of Old Duchess Daighton to bring him back to the assembly.