Chieftain Ch. 04

[Author's note: This is the fourth entry in an ongoing series. The story will make more sense if read from the beginning. Themes of slavery and non-consent are present, though in a fantasy setting. Comments are welcome. Thank you.]



Ata was running, running! Her long, wet hair whipped behind her as she dove for cover on the side of the embankment. She was naked, her dress discarded on the rocks by the falls. If she could get back to the falls, she could show them who she was. They would know why she was here. They thought she was a common tribal wench. Her feet and lower legs were covered in mud from running. But she was noble born. She could show them!

She waited as the slaver's horse came to stand just at the top of the embankment, obscured from view by mere inches of rock and grass. She stilled her breathing, and took a moment to wipe her brow. Unfortunately, all this really accomplished was to spread dirt across her forehead, mixing it with her sweat. Now she really looked like a common tramp.

They raided often in these lands. It was part of the agreement with her father as governor. Men and women. She knew it didn't matter. And if she couldn't somehow show them... They would never believe her! And then it would be too late!

The horse turned, and she heard it retreating into the distance. She waited. And then she was up again, running as fast as her feet could carry her. She could hear the falls, the water crashing on the rocks below. It wasn't far! She was going to make it! Her feet hurt as she scrambled over the roots on the path, but it didn't matter. A smile broke out on her face for just an instant...before she saw the other horseman blocking her path...and he was holding her dress!

She stopped running and looked at him. She was caked in mud from hiding under the embankment. Her hair was still wet. Her breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath. This was not good.

"That is my dress!" she called out.

The man did not answer. He was dressed in dark robes. His hood was brushed back from his head, but his face was obscured by a mask covering his nose and mouth. The other slaver came up then from behind, blocking the path back up to the hillside. Ata turned to face him. His was similarly masked and robed, with a whip and a coil of rope at his side. She turned back to the man with her dress. He was armed with a heavy, curved sword. He still did not speak. She looked back and forth.

"I am Ata, born of Feylar, Governor of the East," she said, "You are holding my dress."

"Ye don't look like any noble woman to me, wretch," said the man with the whip, "Just look at ye. Dirty. Like a commoner. Yer feet tough, girl? Ye'd like to run like it."

"I..." To be true, her feet were bleeding and sore from trying to escape. Why was he saying that?

"You knew this to be by the falls, girl?" asked the man with the sword. He didn't give her time for a response. "You thought you could assume the identity of the governor's daughter? After you drowned her?"

"What?" Ata asked. Then she realized... They knew exactly who she was... And they didn't care. Her heart fell like a boulder from the falls. She stood transfixed with new fear.

"Listen, ye wretch," said the man with the whip, "Just kneel right there. Yer done. Life's about to get real diff'rent. Not so bad. Ye'll see. Fetch a high price with those eyes... Those... Tits..."

Ata felt him looking at her. She didn't like it. They were blocking the path. What was she going to do?

The man got down from his horse and uncoiled a length of rope. She ran. Not down or up the path. She tried to go straight up the bank, but as soon as she started, she knew it was laughable. She clawed and fought, but then his hand was on her ankle.

"Fightin' bitches is more fun anyway," he said. With force, he yanked her from her attempted climb. She fell to the path with a painful thud. Immediately, she tried to rise again, but he was on her. The rope ran around her chest, above her breasts, and she fought. It ran around again under her breasts, and she fought. Her arms were pulled tight behind her, crossed at the forearms. The rope ran down around her neck then, painfully pulling the lower loop up.

Her breasts were thus painfully bound, but also the instrument of their own binding. She knew that was how this tie must work. Had she been a smaller woman, the rope would have now simply slid up her chest. But instead, it constricted and lifted her breasts upward. It hurt. Her arms were useless behind her. She was forced to her knees. She screamed and tried to thrash out, but the knots of the rope bit painfully into her skin. She screamed again.

Then the man grabbed her jaw in his hands, forcing her mouth open, and looked into her eyes, now filling with tears. This was shame. She had been high born. Now she was tied, kneeling in the mud before a common slaver. The hurt ran deepest not from the rope, but from her desperate heart.

"Slave," he said, "Yer gonna suck my cock and make me happy. Later, ye can make me rich. But first, yer gonna make me happy. And listen here, slave..." He spat the word in her face. The tears spilled down her cheeks silently. How could they do this? Her father was going to think she'd been drowned by some common wench, conveniently sentenced to slavery for him! No! "Ye even think about bitin' me, and I will fucking kill you right here. Ye understand, slave?"

What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do? Her resistance slipped. She nodded.

He didn't like it. He stepped back, and in one motion, he uncoiled his whip and struck her across the chest. The pain seared through her. She screamed, bound and on her knees.

"Ye say, 'Yes, Master!' Ye hear?"

The whip came up again. She didn't think.

"Yes, Master!" She cried openly then, as she heard the words from her mouth. She didn't even know his name!

The other man slid from his saddle, and both of them removed their masks. They knew now she would not escape, and so did she. The man with the sword spoke.

"Much better, slave. Now, you are going to do exactly as you were commanded. But first, I want you to crawl to him on your knees. You will then take his cock in your mouth, and please your masters."

This was too much. She made to do so, then gained her footing, and began to run. She made it a few steps before she heard the whip. It wrapped around her ankle, stopping her short. Her arms tied behind her, she fell full on her face and belly. She was knocked dizzy, then felt herself being dragged backwards towards them. The ground scratched and stung. Then his hands were on her, and she was again kneeling before him.

"Ye went the wrong way, slave."

The man with the sword walked behind her.

"You are going to be a good slave, or you are going to be a dead slave. Either way, nothing changes what you now are."

She knew this was how it started. The Empire's methods were honed from experience. They knew how to break a person. She knew they could break her.

"You know what he wants? Answer correctly, or taste the whip."

Walls crumbled within her. Please...some part of her had to survive this!

"Y...yes..m...m..." She was quivering with fear. She was stuttering. She couldn't say it. She'd already said it! What more did they want?

"Say it, slave!"

"Yes, Master."

Her knees slid across the ground as the man removed his already hard cock. He liked her like this. She could see it on his face.

"Ye don't look at me! Ye focus on yer work!"

She moved her head forward and started to open her mouth. She couldn't believe she was going to do this. These men were beneath her!

His hand suddenly and roughly grabbed her hair, pulling her backwards. She looked up, confused.

"I said...ye don't...look...at me! Answer me, slave!"

Slowly, she lowered her eyes to his manhood, throbbing in front of her. "Y...yes...m...Master," she said.

"Good. Now suck."

"Yes, Master."

She took him in her mouth. She had never done this before. It was vile, but she didn't have a choice. What choice did she have? This was pathetic. Shouldn't she be fighting more? But there were two of them. They would kill her. She sucked, and they laughed.

...

Torches blazed in the night of the hall. Ata stood outside the chieftain's bedchamber, her hands folded over her skirt. She wore now the attire of a tribeswoman, but she would never truly be such. He might dress her, and remove her collar, but she would always be a slave. She lacked the courage to attempt escape, or to overthrow him. She aimed only to please.

Karvol approached, his footsteps echoing down the Hall of the Ancestors. He was adorned in armor, a longsword at his side, and his hair tied back in a braid. He was younger than the chieftain. In truth, he was closer in age to Ata, and had she been free to think so, she might have found him attractive.

"Where is the chieftain?" he asked.

"Within, with the Lady Leila," she answered.

"I must speak with him," he said, as he started towards the door.

"Sir, I believe him to be...indisposed," she said.

"Nonsense," Karvol said, "He asked me to bring word. I must." He threw open to doors to the chamber, and entered.

Leila rocked her hips in undulation as she rode her husband. Behind Karvol, Ata saw Leila's back and ass working hard atop him. Her hands held her hair, and she moaned in rhythmic pleasure. The chieftain's large, strong hands held her sides as they moved together in the large, ornately carved wooden bed.

"My chief," said Karvol.

Leila did not stop making love to her husband. She looked over her shoulder towards Karvol, and smiled, continuing her ride.

"I...will wait outside," Karvol said. He closed the doors

...

"This is an important matter," Leila panted. She moved her hands to the chieftain's rippling stomach, and continued fucking.

"He can wait," the chieftain said. He effortlessly flipped Leila over on to her back. Her feet flopped helplessly in the air above them as he pounded into her, grunting and sweating. She screamed his name as his pace quickened, and he collapsed upon her.

...

"You wait without," Karvol said to Ata, "Are you not now counted as honored wife?" The barbarians did not keep wives separate from each other. Often, husbands would share one bed with many wives, simultaneously.

"So I am told," she said, "But Leila is first wife. I will not challenge her or cause her jealousy. So I...choose...to wait." Choosing anything was not comfortable to her. She was his slave, not his wife.

The doors opened. The chieftain leaned beckoned them both within. He was still naked, as was Leila, lying exhausted on the bed. Nudity was not taboo among them.

"I have delivered the message, my chief," Karvol said.

"And what was the response?" the chieftain asked.

"Sakara was pleased to hear that you have accepted her offer of governorship. There is to be a party sent from the Imperial Capitol in a fortnight, bearing your throne to this hall. You are to present them with a tax offering of grain from our stores."

"As I expected. She expects us to bow, scrape, and pay for her titles. Thank you, Karvol," said the chieftain.

"I will gather men then, as you previously instructed?" Karvol asked.

"Aye", the chieftain said.

Karvol nodded, and strode from the room. A silence passed, as Ata waited for the chieftain. Finally, she spoke.

"May I sleep now?" she asked.

The chieftain eyed her closely. Leila slid over in the bed, and bade her join. Ata made to lay down.

"Ata," Leila said, "We are as sisters. Remove your clothes."

"Yes, Mistress," Ata said. She did as she was asked, and lay on the edge of the bed, turned away from the chieftain and his wife.

"I really wish you wouldn't say that," Leila said, "I have welcomed you to my bed as a sister."

Ata did not answer.

"My chief. My husband," Leila said, "Tell her this is folly."

"You and I have both told her she is a free woman among us," the chieftain said, "She may speak as she chooses. Give her time." He did not speak to Ata herself.

What was this new life of hers? And what had just happened? She thought him to have refused the Empire, as he refused her...as he continued to refuse her...to deny her. And why was he so calm about Karvol's message? He was comfortable enough, clearly, with Leila, with Karvol, and even with Ata herself. Something was amiss. But it was not her place to question.

...

By the passing of the allotted fortnight, Ata had discerned the chieftain's plan. She thought it unwise, though she would never be so bold as to question his authority. She watched from the great steps of the Hall of the Ancestors as his host of warriors rode forth from the village.

"I fear it is too many," Leila said, behind her.

"Mistress?" Ata asked. She was confused. But it was not her place to think.

"Who will protect the village, I wonder," Leila mused, "And will these people from the Empire not be suspicious of so large a welcome?"

Ata understood, or thought she did. She knew little of war strategy. But she knew the Empire.

"It is not enough," she said.

...

The large caravan was visible, many leagues in the distance, as the road wound past the pine forest. So great was their number. They were more numerous than expected, but not enough to change the plan. The chieftain waited astride his black horse, donned in full armor, his sword at his side. Kirtuk was with him, along with a small number of his household guard, all on horseback.

"Are you certain of this, my chief? They are many, and they are strong, and they are not fools," Kirtuk said.

"I am certain. Karvol's men are in position?"

"They are. But we follow your lead, my chief. Your course can still be altered. I urge you to caution."

"Come, my friend," the chieftain said, "Where is your spirit? This is a great day for our warriors."

Kirtuk's eyes watched the approaching caravan. "Aye," was his only response. Then, "Karvol is pleased."

"Yet I have you by my side," the chieftain spoke.

"So you do."

As the caravan drew near, the chieftain rode his horse forward to meet them. He was a lone rider, face to face with an army. Kirtuk was right. They were many, and they were strong. The sun, high overhead, gleamed off of the fine plated maille of their foot soldiers. Their shields covered seemingly an entire man, from eyes to ankles. Such giants moved slowly and fell hard, he knew.

Their outriders carried lances tipped with black banners. Before them was a litter born by four men, all naked and collared. The chieftain now immediately knew them to be male slaves. He noticed that unlike Ata when they had first met, the men were not shaved between their legs, though their faces were. This was highly unusual in the tribe. The chieftain himself wore a closely trimmed beard, but others, such as Kirtuk, wore their beards long, and sometimes even braided. Something else was unusual about the slaves' manhoods, but he hadn't time to consider this.

The litter the slaves bore carried only a single ornate chair, with no passenger. The chieftain knew that it was intended for him to sit upon it as these men carried him back to the village.

A single man astride a pale horse rode in front of the litter. His blonde hair was cut short, and his face was also shaven. He was younger than the chieftain, but not so young as Ata or Karvol. The chieftain did not like his face.

The man drew to a halt, and raised a gloved fist. Behind him, the marching column stopped. There was no faltering, no hesitation. Every man in unison simply brought his heel to the ground, and stopped. Many tons of armor made a single clanking sound of organized discipline.

"You there!" the man called.

The chieftain did not respond. He looked the man in the eye, judging his caliber. These people were not only well armed, he could tell. They were well trained, and he could see they had never lost a fight, for the man's eyes blazed with an arrogant hubris. Such would be their undoing.

"Are you the governor of these people?" the man asked, indicating Kirtuk and the others.

"No," said the chieftain. He took a breath. The man leaned forward in his saddle, impatient to hear an explanation. The chieftain drew his sword. "I am their chieftain."

His sword had been the signal. At that moment, an arrow caught the man in his side. His horse reared as he twisted, and in a moment, another arrow had knocked him from his saddle. The soldiers in their plate maille paused, confused, for too many a moment. From the forest and the hills, the barbarians poured forth. The chieftain caught sight of Karvol, cleaving his way into the foe's flank. Kirtuk and the other chosen warriors moved forward.

"Spare the slaves, if you can," said the chieftain. He raised his sword high, spurred his horse, and with a battle cry to echo through the centuries, he charged.

...

Again, he rode into the Imperial encampment unchallenged. He was alone, but his warriors were not far afield. Given his plans and his appearance, Karvol had objected. They had stood beside the burning flames that engulfed the bodies of their foes, along with the throne of the governor.

"My chief," Karvol had said, "It is madness. After today, they will know your true face. Send a messenger. I will go in your stead."

"Some day, Karvol," the chieftain had said, "You may be chief. This is not that day. This is for me to do." He was bathed in blood and sweat, his hair matted and his boots stained. He had clearly just emerged from battle, but there was not a wound upon him.

Karvol had flustered.

"Let him go, Karvol," Kirtuk had said. His smile had then returned, "The worst they can do is kill him." He had laughed. He always laughed. It made the chieftain uncomfortable.

And so, the chieftain now rode into the encampment. There was no sign of commotion or concern. Rather, when he reached the lavish tent at its center, he was welcomed with open arms. Sakara emerged to greet him, a smile upon her face, and her arms spread wide. She had charm, he could admit. He also noted that they were in opposite positions from their first meeting. Now it was he that was lifted high upon horse, and she, barefoot as before, walking in the dirt. And yet still...she was not diminished. He was not accustomed to women in positions of power.

"Governor! A pleasant surprise! Were you not greeted by Harka, the Imperial tax collector? I hope you did not take different paths."

As she spoke, he watched her face. She was nothing but a mask...and then the mask faded. He watched it happen, as her eyes moved to the smoke on the horizon, and then back...to the blood smearing his face. She lowered her arms, and her voice changed.

"Governor?" she asked, "Where is Harka?" Her eyes narrowed.

The chieftain reached into his pack, and withdrew the severed head of the Imperial messenger. He held it aloft, and then threw it at her feet. Her face grew red, and she shook with rage.

"We are one tribe, bitch."

He turned his steed, and galloped away to the west.

Of course, they were fast upon him. But he was the chieftain of his people. He was the fastest. He was the strongest. And despite what his wife might say, he was the smartest. He was the best of them. And so he rode like a drop of water in a rushing stream. Arrows soared past him with childish aim, and he left their fastest riders in his wake.

He reached the edge of the pine forest, leaping a great boulder, and disappeared into its shadows. The soldiers from the encampment were not far behind. They drew up before the woods, for they could find no trace of the man. However, ordered by their superiors, the cautiously crept within.

So began the second slaughter of the day. The barbarians appeared from shade and tree to kill, then vanished again with the flutter of an owl's wing. The heavily armored soldiers of the Empire were not equipped for this type of combat, and fell easily. The chieftain watched from the edge of the wood, to where he had circled behind the fray. Strategy and cunning was his role in this fight. His warriors would do what they did best.