The Queen of Sambia

The gray granite cliffs towered above the skiff, the waves threatening to dash the small craft against the rocks as the thirteen passengers, ten of them dressed in simple prison tunics of red wool, fought to stay upright.

One by one, the prisoners were forced to the front to the skiff and made to catch the rope ladder hanging down from somewhere far above. Looking like a string of holly berries, they clung to the ladder, the stiff winds swinging them into the cliff-side and back out over the open ocean, the weathered wooden rungs slick with salt and sea spray.

The last prisoner unloaded, the skiff rowed for the waiting ship, neither captain nor oarsmen casting a backward glance at the unfortunate prisoners or their island prison. Wool tunics growing cold and heavy with moisture, the men struggled towards the cliff top, the first quavering scream ringing out as one lost his grip and plunged into the sea below. He surfaced once, as all who stopped to catch their breath could see, then the sharks came, the sharp white fins cutting through the steely water as sure as jagged teeth cut through flesh and bone.

When the blood-slick thinned the men moved on, one hand, one foot above the other, knowing too well that the penalty for failure was death.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hands raw and bleeding, Lian scrambled up onto the muddy ground, the stiff grass trampled flat by many boots. Her arms and legs aching, she lay in the muck and stared up into the pale gray sky. Birds screamed and wheeled overhead, somewhere the wind rattled leafless branches, and all around she could hear the roar of the ocean.

"Get up, boy," growled a one-eyed dwarf, and heavy dwarven boots landed a solid kick in Lian's ribs. Rolling to her feet, she staggered away on legs that shook like a foal's, leaning against a scarred and twisted tree to keep from falling. How had it come to this? she wondered, her eyes flicking from one cruel and hardened face to another.

Crack!

The snap of a whip rang out, and a murmur ran though the assembled prisoners. Lian leaned around the tree and watched them shuffle back as four men dressed in blue marched into the center of the group. Each one carried a long black whip, with each handle wrapped in a different color; blue, green, purple and yellow.

The man with the blue whip cracked it again and leaped upon a weathered boulder, his flowing silver hair streaming out behind him. Definite elf, Lian decided, taking in the lean, wiry body, thin angular face and pointed ears. Only the eyes were wrong, gold instead of violet, as if he were a Kirra.

"Welcome to Sambia," he said, looking out at each and every one of them. Lian cringed as his eyes passed over her. He was Kirra, all right, everything about him screamed vampire. "This is the men's prison of the entire eighth sector, so you'll probably see a lot of strange faces. Take a good look, because from this moment on, you're no longer human or elf, dwarf or troll, ichthian or dragon. We're all prisoners. No one is equal here, but it will not be race that divides us." He leaped off the rock and another took his place, the man with the yellow whip.

"We are the four kings of Sambia. We have earned these places with the blood and pain of others. We will not give them up easily. Shortly, you will be divided among us, and you will become our property. With hard work, a little luck and a lot of backstabbing, you may move up in ranks and enjoy greater privileges, but until then, you are nothing." He scowled down at the prisoners, the great expanse of forehead rising above his brow betraying his trollish background.

Uncoiling his green handled whip, the tall, black skinned king stepped forward, bearing the sour disposition of a dishonored Dracorian. Barking orders, he chased the nine surviving prisoners onto line. Lian was shoved in between the surly dwarf and a horned azalian man. The four kings stood across from them, talking among themselves while the prisoners shifted nervously.

"I am Errin Mar," the first king said when he finally stepped forward. He held his blue handled whip with the ease of much practice and when he spoke, Lian could see the glint of his sharp fangs. He walked the length of the line, studying each one before moving on. Don't pick me, don't pick me, Lian begged silently, holding her breath until the vampire moved on. He came back, though, stopping in front of Lian, a thin smile playing on his bloodless lips.

Behind Errin, one of the other kings made a noise in his throat. Errin looked at Lian once more, the smile gone from his face. His lips moved slightly, forming the words 'I'm sorry', then he turned and pulled the dwarf out of line. Lian looked across at the man who made the sound, the fourth king with the purple on his whip, but his face was hidden by the hood of his blue cloak.

Without introduction, the Dracorian king paced the line, stopping before Lian and grabbing her by the back of the neck. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You looked so tasty, too," then he let go and chose a human from the other end of the line. Lian swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest.

With fingers gone cold, she touched the hem of her tunic, feeling the wax paper packets sewn within. At least that was all right. Without the salve to keep her breasts from swelling, she would no longer pass as a man, and then every horny bastard on the island would be lined up to rape her. She shuddered and looked up to see the king in the blue cloak striding toward her.

He did not walk the line like the others, but came directly to her, his gloved hand falling heavy upon her shoulder. Somehow, the hood made him the most frightening one out of all the ugly faces around her. Lian looked up into the dark circle of the hood, trying to see his face, but saw only the sharp gleam of narrowed silver eyes before he backhanded her.

She stumbled as he shoved her across the muddy cliff top, the ache in her face doubled by a fierce burning. When she touched her jaw, her hand came away bloody. She looked again at the hands of her new king, the long fingers gloved in black sharkskin.

The rest of the men were divided up, the vampire, Errin, taking the last, ninth man. Lian and the other prisoner selected by the hooded king marched through the mud and sharp grass, following the cliff edge to the river, which cascaded from the heights in a violent, white laced display. Then their ruler pointed them upriver, having not yet said a word to either of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

No walls or fences surrounded the prisoner's village, just dark damp forest and a stretch of cold gray river. Several large, long buildings, built of wood and stone, lay scattered around a squat stone hall, the slate roof green with moss and lichen. To one side of the buildings ran barren fields, the dark earth turned over in crooked and ugly rows. Lian's father had once beat her brother senseless for plowing a furrow half that poorly, and the sight of those mangled rows made her flush with anger.

The king marched them through the center of the village, the other prisoners pausing in their various tasks to watch the newcomers pass by, but they didn't gawk long. Into the stone hall they were directed, past rows of wooden tables and benches, to a small chamber at the rear. Once inside, Lian and the other man stood in silence as the hooded king closed the heavy wooden door.

The little room was warmed by a crackling fire on the hearth, the cheery golden light mingling with the wan winter sun that filtered in through the poorly made glass of the windows. Below the windows lay an assortment of pillows and cushions, the cloth coarsely woven and dyed in garish shades of red, brown, green and yellow. Against the far wall sat a massive throne carved from a single block of dark red wood. It didn't look very comfortable. The king turned his back on them and finally spoke.

"I am Karis Mirrik," he said in a quiet, scratchy voice, like a man who drinks too much whisky. He pushed his hood back, revealing close-cropped white hair. He must be an old man, thought Lian. King Mirrik now removed his cloak entirely and tossed it over the back of the throne. His lean, strong body was clothed in black hide, from his heavy boots to his long-sleeved jacket. Lian found herself holding her breath as he took his place on the throne and finally allowed them to see his face.

Hideous was the first word that occurred to Lian. Scars lined and mottled his face, long, thin pale ones and raised, round red ones, scars that ran up into his hair and down his neck into his collar; whip scars, burn scars, spell scars, scars she couldn't even tell what made them. She didn't realize she was staring until he flicked his whip in her direction.

"Name," he demanded. She took a breath and looked down at the floor.

"Lian Daren," she said, trying to sound gruff and manly. Mirrik stared at her a moment, then turned his cold silver gaze on the man beside her.

"I'm Nechar DeVarence, your majesty," the prisoner said with obvious contempt. Mirrik's grim expression never changed, but he struck out with his whip, thin hide scoring a bright red streak down Nechar's cheek. Grunting in pain, the big man stumbled back, reaching up to stop the blood that flowed down his jaw and dripped onto his tunic, leaving dark spots on the much brighter red cloth.

"You will fear me," King Mirrik said, in the same quiet voice. "Nechar, house two. Lian," and here his voice softened, almost like a purr, the sound sending chills down her spine. "House nine."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Welcome to the harem," said a cherub faced youth as Lian stepped inside the high-ceilinged barracks house. Rows of beds filled the huge room and fires burned in the hearths at either end. "I'm Barribi," he said.

"Lian," she said, not sure what to make of this cheerful boy. He didn't look much older than she was.

"C'mon, Lian, I'll show you around." He led her down the rows of beds to one in the middle, a thick gray blanked folded neatly on the lumpy mattress. "You're new, so you sleep here. Those that've been here longest get the ones nearest the fires." He took her to a window and pointed out a small building with high windows of frosted glass. "That's the bathhouse. Water comes from a hot springs. Very nice. Over there," and he pointed to a row of shacks, "are the outhouses. There're more behind the hall and on the far side of the fields. We're very civilized here."

"What is this?" Lian asked, looking around at the dozen or so young men lounging around inside the barracks. None looked over twenty-five, with most only a few years older than her.

"I told you, this is the king's harem," Barribi said. "There're no women on the island, so..." He shrugged. "If you have any problems with giving another man a hand job, I'd get over them quick. The king doesn't like to be denied or disappointed. So, where're you from?"

"Earth," Lian said, feeling her legs start to shake, "though I was arrested on Caderaal."

"You go by ship or gate?" he asked.

"Gate."

"It's the only way to travel," Barribi said. "I went to Earth once, years ago. I was ten, I think. My step-father took me to see a football game. You know football, right?" Lian nodded. "Great game." He paused a moment. "I was arrested on Relr-ashitu. That's a gryph colony, you know."

"What did you do?" Lian asked, unable to imagine what heinous crime this chatty young man could have committed.

"I killed my step-father," he said, then gave a dry chuckle. "He raped my little sister, but that doesn't seem to matter when you chop someone up with a ax. How 'bout you?"

"I was found holding the sword that killed three imperial guards," Lian said. She could close her eyes and see the bloody corpses, the wide and staring eyes, and the jewels glittering in the hilt of that sword. Oh, why did she pick it up! "I didn't kill them though."

"It's fine if you did, doesn't matter if you didn't," Barribi said with a shrug. "You're here, you're guilty, you're one of us. C'mon, I'll introduce you to the others."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Meals were taken three times a day in the stone hall. A handful of prisoners, those with any cooking skills whatsoever, were in charge of preparing what little food remained this late in the year. Many days, it came down to scraping the lichen off the roof and boiling it into a thin green soup. Squishy, wormy potatoes were a luxury reserved for Tuesday and Friday evenings. Gamy seabird meat in the soup was a rare treat. How anyone on the island survived was beyond Lian's knowing.

Serving the slop fell to the newest arrivals, and on her third day, Lian found it her turn to serve the king. Mirrik had not spoken, or even looked at her, since the first day, but now she could feel his chilly silver eyes watching her every move as she poured water into his goblet and ladled soup into his bowl. As she turned to go, he grabbed her by the arm, his rough gloves scratching through the sleeve of her tunic.

Lian stood with her eyes downcast, not daring to look at him. The scratch on her face was scabbed over, but the scabs kept catching on her blanket and pillow and ripping off in her sleep. King Mirrik let go of her arm, but she stayed where she was, a dark sense of foreboding telling her that he wasn't through yet. He took a flat loaf of brown bread out of the basket on his table and tore off a piece, which he held out to Lian.

She hesitated a moment before reaching for the offered treat. Bread was reserved for the king alone. Mirrik grabbed her hand, however, before she could take it. He did not take back the bread, though. Wanting nothing more than to run away, Lian dared not refuse him, for to anger the king was suicide. Disgusted with herself, she leaned down and took the bread with her mouth, careful not to let her lips brush the harsh gloves.

Mirrik released her and turned to his meal. Lian carried the kettle of soup as far as the kitchen, then slammed it down on a table and ran to the sink and promptly vomited. She was rinsing her mouth out when Barribi came up behind her and smacked her heartily on the back.

"Look who's the new favorite," he said, grinning at her as she dried her face on a grubby dishrag. "Lukos used to be the only one to get bread, boy is he going to be pissed."

"I didn't mean to," Lian said, not sure if she was going to vomit again or not. "I don't want--"

"It doesn't matter what you want," Barribi interrupted. "It only matters what the king wants. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

~*~*~*~*~*~

One week after the bread incident, Barribi pulled Lian out of the spinning room. Of all the men assigned the task of spinning cotton fiber into weavable yarn, Lian was the best, something which she was not proud of. Her tight, even strands brought critical looks from the others. She tried to do worse, but poor yarn brought severe beatings back home. This wasn't home, she reminded herself again and again, and if she didn't try harder, she would be found out. So she was relieved when Barribi came for her, until she found out why.

"The king wants you," he said. "Here's your chance to distinguish yourself." They walked into the empty hall, Lian going cold at the sight of that heavy door at the far end. "Just relax," Barribi offered. "Listen carefully and do what he says. Whatever he says." A young man pushed past them nursing a bleeding hand.

"What happened to Cason?" Lian asked.

"He didn't listen," Barribi said with a chuckle, giving Lian an encouraging shove toward the door. Lian put one foot in front of another, each one heavy as stone, the door looming up before her much too quickly. Not to go would be suicide, to go; a fate worse than death. She raised her hand to knock and the door swung open, leaving her standing dumb in the doorway.

"Enter," commanded Mirrik's voice, though she didn't see him sitting on his throne. She stepped in and shut the door behind her. "Lock it," came the voice again. Feeling like she had just stepped into a dragon's den, Lian obeyed. "Come here."

With every fiber of her being trembling like a leaf, she walked into the room, searching for the evil king. She found him reclined on his pile of cushions beneath the windows, his blue cloak wrapped about him.

"Y-yes, your majesty?" she asked, stopping at his feet. He wore his heavy black boots, even now. She didn't see the whip anywhere. One black gloved hand slithered out of the cloak's front and pointed to a place at his side.

"Sit," he said. Swallowing down the bile that rose up the back of her throat, Lian sat. Mirrik threw back the cloak now, revealing his lean, naked body. Only the gloves and boots covered him. Lian refrained from gasping, but had to turn her face away. "Look at me," the king ordered. She closed her eyes, unable to bring herself to look upon that horribleness again. "Look at me," Mirrik repeated, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. Remembering Cason, she opened her eyes and looked, trying to find one inch of flesh not scarred and mutilated. Did he do it to himself? she wondered. Only his manhood lay unscarred, a pitiful, wilted thing against his thigh.

"What do you see?" he asked. It was the longest sentence she'd heard him speak yet. A thousand truths ran through her head, along with a thousand lies. The truth would anger him and he'd know if she were lying. She swallowed hard, her mouth gone dry.

"I see...my king," she said at last. This seemed to satisfy him. He didn't hurt her, at least.

"Take it in your hand," he instructed. Lian set her jaw and reached for him, but her nerve failed her and she faltered, hesitant to touch the thing. Mirrik grabbed her by the wrist, for once not hard enough to hurt, and guided her hand into position. She tried to look at it as something other than what it was, something not attached to a cruel, sadistic, evil man, and set about this task as she would any other.

Whatever instructions he gave, she followed to the letter, be it faster, harder, slower, tighter. The limp bit of flesh in her hand hardened into a velvet covered stone. She paid no attention to the man, didn't hear his breath quicken, didn't see his skin flush, didn't notice his muscles tense. It wasn't until her hard work yielded a thick jet of white fluid that she came back to reality. Lian looked down at Mirrik's cock in her hand, then at the cream soaking into her tunic. She somehow made it to her feet and stumbled across the room. She was outside before she realized she had unlocked the door, and running to the river before she knew where she was going. The smell of him was all over her and she could still feel him in her hand, the solid softness of him.

Lian made it to the river and finally allowed herself to lose her lunch, heaving until she ached from the effort. She watched the water carry away the mess, then began splashing through the shallows, following the river downstream. Cold and wet, she made it all the way to the falls, standing at the edge and staring down at the tumbling white water as it crashed upon the rocks below. Death would be nearly instant, she told herself.

"Don't do it," said a soft voice to her left. She jumped and spun about, nearly losing her balance and falling over the cliff anyway, but a strong, pale hand grabbed her arm and hauled her back. "Others have jumped," Errin Mar, the elven vampire said, leading her back into the trees. "They didn't die right away. They had to lie upon the rocks, some in summer sun, some in winter snow, and wait for the tide to rise. Some drowned, some the sharks got." Lian didn't care, she just wanted to die.

"If it's death you really want," Errin said, "I am willing to provide, and it would not be nearly so painful." Lian would rather have been flayed alive by Mirrik than have a bloodsucker sink his fangs into her, but she didn't say so.

"No, thank you," she said. "I wasn't going to jump. I just need to wash this tunic." Errin looked down at her and she felt her face burn. "It's not--" she began, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.