Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

I made my way through the refugee slum camp.

It was mid-morning: the sky was as dark as the bottom of the River Black. I passed a circle of hide tents; from within was the yellow glow of a campfire. Such glows were scattered throughout the Slumlands. Some had burned for months, fed with wood, dried pond scum, and even dried faeces. Family’s and tribes had formed around them. First, tied joined blood. Then, by choice.

Between two yurts, I saw an aged woman stirring a steaming pot with a tree branch. Her pot was balanced on blackened stones. A pair of children played beside her, their faces dirty, hair disheveled. One, a boy, had bright orange hair. He seemed delighted: the gift of the gods to every small child was that the tragedies of their parents would seem like games.

Sellers sat along the dirt road on reed mats. Their wares were lit by small lamps burning fish oil. An old, dark-skinned man waved for my attention and gestured to his goods. They were bronze goblets and pots, some iron slave-bangles, what looked like the parts of a broken compass.

I stopped to study them, getting down on one knee. He promised me great prices as I studied an icon of the god Set. It was a bronze casting of a snake's head, rising from a pool of water. Crushed, blue gems had been pressed into the surface to suggest water. Pale, green stones had been used for the water snake’s eyes. The proportions were correct; whoever had made it had seen a Titanoboa and been able - somehow - to take the time to study it.

Someone had brought icon this with them as they fled across the world. Perhaps they had picked it out from everything else that they owned. Did they wonder at its weight as it became clear it came at the expense of carrying food and water? What items did they cast aside, so this one could still be carried? Perhaps no such thought and planning had brought it here. Maybe it had been taken from a family shrine and forgotten in a pocket, as another day of stepping out to find bread had turned into a trip that would never lead home. Now here it was, available for three bronze and a copper.

Water bubbled and spilled from a small iron cup he had balanced over his little oil lamp. Holding a rag, he picked it up, poured it into a clay pot, then refilled the cup from a different pot. He balanced it back on the lamp.

"What are you doing, Grandfather?" I asked.

"I am boiling away the spirits," he smiled like a teacher who has at last been asked an intelligent question by one of their pupils. "We do this in Hatadur. It makes the water safe."

I looked about; some of the other sellers were also boiling water.

"There is sickness," said the man. "There are demons in the water."

This is why you build sewers.

I shrugged and picked out a copper ring. It was large: touch your index finger to your thumb; that's the size this was. It had a simple catch to open it. The ring held a chunk of blue-green crystal. It had been cut but not polished; it’s cleaved planes gleamed in the lamplight.

"This one," I said.

"Five coppers."

I handed him a bronze coin.

"I cannot change this," he shook his head.

"Keep it, and give me a cup of water then."

The man brightened and nodded.

At my side, on her hands and knees, was the Little Slut. Her hands and legs were grey with the dust of the dirt streets. Some mud was still caked her ankle where she had crawled over a puddle. I had leashed her with a chain; its end was tucked into my belt to free my hands. The slave girl was sitting back on her knees, palms on her thighs. Her bright, green eyes found mine, and she rose on her knees, crossing her wrist behind her head.

I fitted the copper ring to her collar. The blue-green crystal rested before her throat, where her collarbones met.

"It goes well with this one's eyes!" The old man smiled.

“It does indeed.”

It was a nice piece of slave jewelry. There was no shortage of slave jewelry in the refugee camps. It was worth next to nothing, but many had brought their best girls with them. These just ended up as mouths to feed. Masters who couldn’t afford the food sold their girls to those who could. In this little way, wealth, calories, and Darwinian selection converged in places like this. Survival of the fittest was all around me. I had become used to it, but that made it no less miserable.

"The water, Grandfather."

The man handed me a cup.

"Crawl," I commanded.

"Yes, Master," the little redhead got on her hands and knees.

I held the cup to her lips. She threw back her hair and drank. I was pleased to see that she was careful, and not one drop fell to the ground.

"There are puddles," the old man took the empty cup and shook his head as if confused. He set it away from the others - as if it was now unclean.

"I would not have the spirits sicken her."

"We haven't boiled water enough for our slaves here in Kadish," he named the refugee camp. It was one of the Slumlands’ largest. Its tents and rickety fences pushed up right against Dura's city walls.

"You should find a way," I stood. "If the slaves sicken, so will you, whether or not you drink boiled water."

I plucked her leash from my belt and led my crawling slave away.

It felt good to take the time to train a girl closely. It has that same calming effect, the same sense of accomplishment one gets from a hobby. Like satisfaction from looking back at a table one has spent the morning sanding and furnishing. Or the Zen-like calm from pruning and watering houseplants.

I had kept her in a dark, hot little cage for the night. Her only company, another beautiful, little slave, who would've told her larger-than-life stories about me - and the not inconsiderable danger of being forgotten, in a dark, hot little cage, indefinitely.

Today was a day of simple and degrading commands. The commands conditioned obedience. You do not want to slave girl putting your orders through a filter, debating what to do about them. Her first response, always, must be to obey. Let her wonder at what she's doing as she does it. Unease and discomfort are privileges. Decision-making is not.

What was as important as teaching obedience was that the training be degrading. A free woman has dignity, expectations, a sense of outrage. There are a great many delightful things you cannot expect she will ever do or allow be done to her.

All of these you can expect from, and impose upon, a slave girl. To never again wear clothing. To lick your feet while crowded cheek-to-cheek with other women doing the same. To have rings put through her nipples because you think it would be pretty.

However, every slave girl on Hyperborea begins as a free woman - whether she is a Stone Age, hunter-gatherer marsh tribal, or a transhuman from the far future brought by a Landing Beast. She begins with dignity, expectations, and outrage. She begins unsuited to the life you have chained her to.

You could just punish her. Whip her till she licks your feet. Whip her again till she takes your cock in her mouth. A third time till she swallows your seed. However, you will have none of the enjoyment a more patient man gets when he snaps his fingers at his girl and points his feet. Instead, you would have a sore arm.

That is why I was out here, making Little Slut crawl on her hands and knees through the dirt and dust of a refugee camp. After a few such crawls, being led on a leash in public would not discomfort her. It would mean her very sense of disgust and shame had shifted. From there, I would submit her to greater indignity and make it shift again. So on, I would repeat till she had no shame left whatsoever. Then she would be like Belled Pet, eager to please men anyway she could to see what it would get her.

Little Slut looked up at me and saw my eyes upon her. She smiled.

I patted her head and continued.

Kadish was a cosmopolitan camp. I heard many accents, languages I didn’t know, and some I’d never heard before till that day. It was like this whenever I came here. Kadish was like a nexus that had drawn the planet together.

I passed a Shemite man wearing a leather apron, turning chunks of meat on the grill. The coals hissed and steamed as the fat dripped onto them. Suspended above were three skewers. Two of impaled rats and insects. The third had what had once been a woman's thigh.

Cannibalism was mundane on Hyperborea. Yoggites ate slaves but only at religious ceremonies. In Shem, though, the aristocracy ate human flesh often as a delicacy. All over the planet, culled slaves were used to feed livestock - including other slaves. In a pinch, like rat meat and pigeon meat, what was good for the slave became good for the master.

The Shemite man nodded to me and gestured with his tongs to his wares.

A wave of nausea rose in me.

I forced a smile and shook my head.

The man went back to grilling.

On the ground beside me, Little Slut had a hand to her chest. Her jaw had dropped, her eyes were wide. From her angle on the ground, all she saw was the human thigh on its spit.

I saw the opportunity.

“One piece," I said in Shemite. “Rat.”

“You speak our tongue!” the man beamed.

“A little.”

“I stepped up to the grill and put down a bronze. I made sure to block Little Slut’s line of sight.

I felt a tugging at the leash chain as Little Slut drew back.

The Shemite carved meat from the fattest rat. On a wooden prep board fixed to the grill was a stack of large, fresh leaves. He put the meat into one and folded it like a burrito. He did it with the skill of someone who’d done it a great many times.

I took the leaf; it was warm in my hand. I turned to face Little Slut; she was staring at me, aghast.

“That’s human!” she managed.

My only answer was to stare back.

She rose on her knees and crossed her wrists behind her head.

"Open your mouth, Slave."

Those green eyes somehow found a way to become still larger.

She turned her head away in a quick motion. Her eyes shut tight as she winced.

“Please, Master, no!”

I took out a piece of rat meat. It was hot, greasy.

I stepped behind Little Slut. She tried to move away; I grabbed her by her throat and held her still.

"Master, please don't."

My hand went to her jaw. I pressed with my fingers to find the line between her upper and lower teeth. Then, I squeezed hard.

Little Slut whimpered and opened her mouth.

I held the meat in front of her nose. I held the meat closer, and her eyes fixed on it. For an instant, I could see her resolve faltering, betrayed by those green eyes. When had she eaten meat last? When was the last she’d had animal fat? Even before the crime committed against her people, this would've been a luxury.

I shove the meat into her mouth.

She moaned and twisted; I clamped one hand over her mouth. With the other, I pinched her nostril shut. Her whole upper body turned this way and that as she tried to break free of my grip. Yet, even as she struggled, she kept her wrists crossed behind her head and remained sitting up on her knees. It was a good sign: this was resistance, but it was not rebellion.

"You will not breathe until you swallow, Slave. Remember the bucket."

She stopped resisting.

"Eat."

She began to chew, the motion slow, reluctant. Then, her throat bobbed.

"Show," I tilted her head back and checked her mouth.

She had swallowed the meat.

The Shemite griller laughed and clapped his hands.

Her eyes gave me accusing looks.

"Do you want to be force-fed, again?"

"No, Master,” she said in a small voice.

I picked the second piece of meat and held it in front of her.

"Then eat, Slave."

In a motion absent spirit, she opened her mouth, leaned forward, and took it from my fingers. She looked away as she chewed. She paused a moment as if deciding what to do.

"Swallow," I said at once. Obedience, not decision-making.

Her throat bobbed. Unasked, she opened her mouth and showed me it was empty.

"Good Slave."

I fed her the third and final piece. She ate without protest, looking down.

"Lick them clean,” I held out my fingers.

She leaned forward and parted her lips. They brushed against my fingers, soft, warm. Then, she opened her mouth wide and stuck her tongue as far as she could. She licked upwards, tilting her whole head.

It was an exaggerated motion as if she were enjoying an ice cream. It was how Layla had licked her clean, yesterday. Little Slut had picked it up - an untrained girl learning how to survive from a trained one. She now licked the way a slave girl licked a cock.

"Come, Little Slut,"

I led her away, wondering what other opportunities I might find in the Slumlands.

***

It was on the way back home that I noticed the commotion.

A guard’s whistle rang out. Once, twice, three times. Then it was joined by a second whistle, and a third.

People began streaming past me, all heading away from the town walls. I felt my slave press against the side of my leg. I looked down; she had sat back on her heels, one hand to the ground, the other now gripping my knee. She looked about herself, eyes concerned.

"Up," I gripped her by her shoulder and pulled her to her feet.

I set off against the flow of people, towards the gates of Dura.

More guard’s whistles sounded than I could count.

***

Outside the gate was a riot.

There must have as many as 300 people outside. All were yelling. A man in his 40s shoved past me, a block of stone carried in both hands. He reached back and flung it at the wooden gates. There was a loud crash, and it scratched a dent into the heavy beams. Someone else threw a second, larger piece. There was the smash, and a clay amphorae impacted just over the gate against its battlements.

"Let us have medicine you Duran dogs!" Howled an old woman beside me. Her eyes were wild, and spittle clung to her face. "Open the gates! Azathoth take you all!"

It was then that I noticed the dead.

They lay strewn outside the gate. There was an old Armanean man in a tattered tunic. He lay facedown in the puddle; perhaps he had tried to drink from it as he died. There were stab wounds on his back; he had been running away.

An Armanean woman lay on her back, her arm twisted in an unnatural angle. She stared up at the world, eyes wide and unseeing. A pair of urchin children were going through her things. One tore a ring from her finger. The other found her coin purse and held it up like a warrior with the head of his enemy. The first child grabbed at it, and both ran back into the crowd.

"Master," Little Slut, pressed against my side, pointed to what I’d thought at first was a sack that had fallen from a cart. “Oh no. Oh no,” she pressed her forehead to my arm.

It was the boy with the orange, curly hair I’d seen playing around the campfire.

There is nothing quite as disturbing as a dead child.

"Let us in!" A young man screamed. Tattoos praising Azathoth ran down his arms. One held a sling. He reached down, found a stone, and put it in his weapon.

"Move!" I put my arm around my slave and forced her head down as I shoved my way through the crowd, away from the slinger.

There was a whoosh! and then screams from behind me.

I look to the battlements over the gate: city guards stood there in tight formation. Their round shields overlapped like a Viking shield wall. Each carried a bronze spear. The shield wall had parted; I saw the archer who had just fired stepping back again, right before the shield wall closed.

A clay pot smashed into the shield that was where the archer had just stood. Another sailed over it, landing among the packed guards.

Around us, the mob grew. I saw flaming brands and spears. Someone threw a javelin. There was a cry from a guard as it landed.

"Come on," I pulled her along beside me.

"Where are we going! What's going on!"

It didn't seem the time to point out that slaves did not ask questions of masters.

"We have to get into the town. I know another way in. A secret way."

Behind us came was the woosh of more arrows.

***

"Hold onto me. Careful where you step. Do not slip."

I struck my tinderbox and lit a match.

"Oh!" Gasped the slave.

We were inside a catacomb. It was just one of the countless vaults, passageways, and sealed-up chambers that riddled the whole region. My breedery had been one such chamber. Only some thin, bricked-up walls sealed it from tunnels that went gods only knew where...

From this bank of the River Black to the other, there had once been a great civilization. Farmers turned up their broken pots and strange metalware with every new field they borrowed from the jungle. However, these ancient builders had worked with mud and wood. Above ground, their traces were few. Along the Black, it was the raised, flood-proofed banks that Dura and other settlements had been founded on. Inland, it was the mounds of clay-rich ‘tells.’ These were like those of the Middle East; markers where settlements had been built one atop the other, for thousands of years till their ruins had left hills behind.

Underground though, they had built in stone. From horizon to horizon, this was a land of hidden chambers waiting on greedy shovels.

The walls were black marble shot with copper-green veins. They had been cut straight but not polished. Little Slut’s feet left prints on the dusty floor.

Along the sides of the chamber were the dead. They were in stone caskets, all of them smashed open. From one, earth had spilled out in a heap on the floor. At another, the casket cover had been smashed into pieces, then stacked beside it on the ground as if in apology. Another casket was bare except for shattered skull fragments, some old bones, and five lower jaws of worn-down teeth.

"Who were they?" Asked Little Slut, clutching my arm.

"No one knows. There’s a lot about this world no one knows. Likely, never will."

I led her through the catacomb. I came to a junction where marks had been scratched over one passageway. I took it. Three matches burned down to my fingers later, I came to another junction. Marks again showed which to pick. Ninety steps of stale air and dust later, I saw light shining down from a stone grill. Steps led up to it.

"The way out!" Little Slut jumped and clapped her hands.

The sound echoed through the vault. She froze, her hands stopped still in mid-clap, her eyes wide.

"There will be none of that," I took her by her shoulders and spun her around. Then, I took her wrists and crossed them behind her back. With the rope from my pack, I tied her hands next. As an afterthought, I took hold of her thick, red-brown hair and tied it in a ponytail. Her pale, small neck was bared. We were going into possible danger; I did not need her hair getting in the way.

My slave managed. I led her up the steps, forced open the stone grill, and entered the streets of Dura.

***

I had had the poor luck to emerge just a street away from where the real riot was.

Black smoke billowed from behind a row of wood and stone buildings. The air smelled of smoke and stung in my nostrils. Little Slut coughed.

Somewhere, a dog kept barking. Besides it, there was silence. Every door and window had been shut. I saw someone peering at me through a curtain - an instant later, the curtain was drawn.

"Master," said Little Slut, looking back over her shoulder. "Over there!"

At the other end of the street, lying with his back to a wall, was a large, balding man. He wore fine robes of purple and blue silk. They were tattered now, torn in places and smeared with grey-brown dust. He was bent forward, one hand to his head. Blood dripped through his fingers and onto his clothes.

I ran over to him.

He looked up, startled, holding out his hand as if to ward me off. I saw then the gold pendant around his neck: it was the seal of the apothecaries.

The apothecaries were a powerful group on the Burgher Council. The refugees had brought - and spread - their share of ailments. Without sunlight, the most precious healing herbs could not be grown. This made the apothecaries obscene wealth, even by Event standards.

"It's alright," I got down on one knee beside him. "You're safe now. Here, Friend. Let me take a look at that."

With some reluctance, he let me pull his hand aside. Little Slut gasped.

"It's not that bad," I pulled out a clean cloth from my pack. "You will need to get it stitched." I held the cloth against his head and applied pressure. The man seemed to calm. I made him put pressure on his own wound if only to make him feel he had some agency.

"What happened?" I pulled out my waterskin and handed it to him.

He took a drink, then another, much longer one. A deep breath followed. I could see events he could not quite process replaying behind his eyes.

"Those Armanean scum did this," his words were slow, grinding out between his teeth. "Human filth! We should drive them from our walls and let them drown in the Black! Every one of them!"

"Don't upset yourself. What happened?"

"A large group of them came," he took another sip of water. "They were sick. They wanted our herbs to drive away the demons in the water. We told them no, and to leave. They would not. One man tried to force his way through a shop door. There was a fight. Then," his voice became shaky, "they started smashing windows." He did not go on.

"Why weren't they sold the herbs?" I asked.

He looked up at me, his expression that a man on realizing he was talking to an idiot.

"There wouldn’t be enough for our own people! Durans have also sickened! Why should we help the Armaneans? They are the ones who brought the sickness from the filthy Slumlands!"

I snatched the water skin from his hand.

He stared at me, surprised.

"You stupid bastard," I said.

"What?"

"I said you stupid, pathetic, burgher bastard," I got to my feet. "You deserve this. You really do."

"How can you say such a thing!" His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He seemed to look for words but could find none fit to speak.

"I hope your shop burns," I tugged on Little Slut’s leash. She got to her feet. "I hope all your shops burn."

I looked both ways down the street. South was the fastest way out of the neighborhood. I set off, Little Slut rushing behind me.

"Do not go that way!" The apothecary yelled after me. "It is much worse there!"

I ignored him and carried on.

***

We cleared two deserted streets and were almost out when we came upon the gang.

In times of chaos and fear, it is organized crime, not the authorities, who are the first responders. There were seven men, a cosmopolitan crew. Four of them went in and out of a large, stone house. Its door lock had been ripped out and lay smashed in the street. Standing outside with cart hitched to two grey workhorses, were the other three gangsters. One stood to the side, holding a large club in two hands. The other two stood inside the cart.

The four men came out of the house. They carried silver and bronze cups, statues, and shrine ware. I watched as a tall, dark-haired man with a bushy beard hand a statue of Set to a pimply youth standing in the cart.

The pimply youth grinned as if he couldn't believe his luck that day. He took the statue and tossed it into an open crate. There was the clashing of metal on metal as it fell.

Lying in the cart alongside the other plunder were six young women. Four, from their nakedness, I could see were slaves. The other two were clothed; a dark-haired girl in a skirt and sleeveless tunic of blue linen and a brunette wearing a green silk wrap. The wrap was like a South Asian sari, except that it didn’t have a separate upper garment. After the event, the Hyperborean sari had become popular with free women of all classes.

All five girls, slave and free, lay on their bellies, hogtied.

Any woman is fair game in Hyperborea. In a small village, a girl’s neighbors would intervene if they saw someone trying to carry her off. In a city the rules were different; the lower and slum classes resented the power the upper ones had over their lives. As such, if a dockworker made off with a rich shopkeeper's daughter, a wall of silence would stand between him and the questions of the city’s guard... I had once stolen a (foreign) temple girl right past an old man who lived with the indignity of her alien temple’s shadow over his home.

Once these two women were outside Dura’s city walls, that would be the end of their freedom. Both had been gagged with rags. I expected the gang would go to ground, sheltering for a day or two with whoever had sponsored them. Then, after things had settled, they would make their way out with nothing changed but the free women stripped. No one would question them.

From inside the stone house, one of the men made a sudden and loud snarl.

The bushy-bearded man had just stepped back out, a rolled carpet in his arms. He looked back but too late.

A petite, dark-haired girl burst out of the doorway. She had perky breasts; they swung as she moved, the nipples dark brown. Her build was athletic with strong legs - she would have been an excellent runner. Perhaps her owner had had her yoked to a wheel to grind rice flour? She wore a bronze color cut with a zigzag design. Around her wrists and ankles were bracelets of wooden beads painted blue and white. A black zigzag tattoo ran across her shoulder blades. This was the stylized, Shemite tattoo for the giant Titanoboa.

The slave slammed, shoulder first, right into the back of the bushy haired man. He staggered forward and fell, the rolled carpet flying. She took off down the road towards us, her bare feet smacking against the street as she ran. She was fast!

A man with his hair tied in knots came rushing out, holding his arm against his chest as if it was tender.

"Catch that little bitch!" He bellowed.

The man standing outside the cart took off after her.

Pimply Youth laughed, and he produced a bolo from his belt. He swung it around several times and let it fly.

The running slave yelped as she fell, slamming chest first into the street. The bolo had wrapped around her knees. Never run from a man with the bolo in a straight line. It is a mistake a girl on Hyperborea most ever makes once. It does not matter if she learns not to, afterwards.

The slave girl looked up at me; her brown eyes were intelligent. They looked at me, pleading, for just an instant. Then, she rolled onto her back and tried to tear the bolo off. She never had a chance: the bushy-bearded man reached her, grabbed her by her feet, and dragged her back across the street. She grunted and tried to kick free. The man stopped, drew a whip from his belt. The slave brought up her hands to protect herself. She cried out as he lashed her.

He went back to dragging her by her feet. The slave clutched at the ground, but this time, she didn’t otherwise resist.

They picked her up and threw her into the cart. Inside, she rolled onto her back and tried to crawl away. She glared up at Pimply Youth, propping herself up on her elbows. He laughed, flipped her back onto her belly, and hogtied her. With that done, he removed his bolo and wrapped it instead around her neck. He had marked her: when the spoils were divided, she would be his.

The thought of Pimply Youth getting her, annoyed me. It was the same feeling when go you find that the very last of an item you wanted has just been bought by someone else. Someone who didn't deserve it.

"Master," said Little Slut. "Are we in danger?"

I stepped out of my thoughts. All seven men now stood in the street. All were looking right at me. None were smiling.

"No," I tugged at her leash chain and started walking. "They are thieves looking for easy marks. I have a sword. Nothing easy about that."

There wasn't. The advantage of sword-and-shield over spear-and-shield is considerable. It is only the high cost of swords that kept the spear in play in the world's armies.

Knotted Beard said something and jerked his head back towards the building. He went back in, followed by three others. The others ignored me.

We made our way along the street. The two free women saw me. Their eyes became wide and they screamed into their gags, tugging and squirming against their bonds. Perhaps they recognize me? I wondered for a moment if I should help them.

No. These people have brought this on themselves.

Consequences for actions.

All of a sudden, from around the back of a house being looted, came an old man. He was hunched over, his face as cracked as a buried, ancient urn. He wore white linen, a difficult and expensive color to keep clean in this simple world, but the cut was practical, like that of the captured girl wearing blue. In his hands was a wooden walking stick.

The old man raised his stick and charged the nearest thug, one with a scar across his face.

Scarface jumped back, and the stick swung through the air. Scarface man laughed as the old man tried a second time. Then, Scarface grabbed the stick and ripped it out of the old man's hands. Unsteady, the old man fell.

The woman in blue began screaming into her gag, craning her head to look at the old man.

"What's all this then?" Knotted Beard stepped back out, frowning.

"May Set feed upon your bones, you thieves!" The old man croaked, lying on the ground.

"Will he now?" Knotted Beard took a step towards the old man.

"Leave him alone, Taka," said Pimply Youth.

Taka kicked the old man in the gut. The old man groaned and doubled over, clutching at his belly. Then, Taka kicked him again, harder.

"Leave him alone, Taka!"

All heads turned back to look at me.

"Who in all the Borderlands do you think you are?" Taka bellowed at me.

How does that matter?" I tied Little Slut’s leash around a wooden post. "Are you going to leave that man alone or not?"

Taka snarled and drew his club. He began striding towards me.

I drew my sword.

Taka stopped for a moment as if stunned that one of the town's elite might care to defend themselves.

"Get him!" He yelled, looking back at his men.

I did not wait. In my offhand, I drew a dagger, and I charged, howling a Mazgar battle cry.

With a large enough shield and a decent short sword, and a helmet, there is almost no hand-to-hand battle you can lose on this world. There is a reason the Romans made sure their heavy infantry were equipped with just these.

If you don't have a shield, even a small one, a dagger will help. It will do nothing to protect you. However, it allows you to use your sword as a shield, parrying your enemy, as you step in within his guard to stab with the dagger, instead. I practiced this technique with Juskar a few times; I was not good at it. Yet, I persisted. I knew my life might depend on it one day.

Well, this was that day.

Knotted Beard and three others came at me in a line. They would mob me: two engaging while the other two got around me and made the kill.

I rushed the first man in the line.

My attackers seemed taken aback, both at my speed and that I would charge against such odds. It is human nature to do the opposite. Let them trust in nature!

The man swung a hand axe at me. I parried with my sword, stepped in, and stabbed him in the gut with my dagger.

He gasped, eyes wide as I ran back ten steps. He clutched at his belly and went down on his knees.

Pimply Youth jumped out of the cart and ran to him.

I charged again, this time at the man at the end of the line.

They were ready for me: all three advanced.

I did something you should never do; I threw my dagger. I knew it would land though, and it did, right in the man’s throat. He fell to the ground, blood gushing from a severed artery as he tried to howl. Men do not make roaring, bold sounds as they die. Instead, it is pathetic, the cries get weaker and weaker, and then they are gone.

"I'll drink from your fucking skull!" Taka came running forward; his club raised over his head to strike.

He went down as if he’d tripped over a short wall. Around his knees was a bolo.

Pimply Youth stood behind him.

"We’re done, Lightning Shield," he said, holding up his hands.

Taka stared back at him, red-faced, then at me.

"Lightning Shield?" He spat.

I kicked away his club and lowered the tip of my sword to his face.

"Go back now, to whoever is sheltering you," I said. Tell them you lost a cartload of loot, including a slave of excellent quality and two of your men. Tell him Gerard Lightning Shield gave you a chance, but you were stupid. Well? Well?" His eyes crossed as I moved to sword tip between his eyes.

"It is understood," said Pimply Youth.

"Cthulhu take you!" Taka growled through gritted teeth. "I bow to no man sword!"

He jumped to his feet, and I killed him.

He clutched at the blade in his chest, cutting his hands trying to pull it out. I wrenched it free and pushed him over.

"You should have been the one in charge," I said to Pimply Youth, wiping my blade on his former boss as the man curled into a ball and died. "Tell your sponsor I said that, as well. Now take your men and go."

"May we take our dead?"

"Of course. Even this idiot. Know that your action is why all of you are still alive,” I lied. I had been lucky beyond reason with the dagger throw - but that was it. They would have mobbed me and finished me. As long as they didn’t know that.

The thugs left, carrying their dead.

"Grandpa, are you alright?" I went to the old man.

"I'm fine, young warrior," he coughed, still clutching his belly. He must've been in his seventies.

I reached for my waterskin, but it was empty. I had wasted it on the racist apothecary.

"My daughter," he pointed to the cart with a shaking finger, "please, will you help my daughter?"

I went to the cart. It’s boards creaked as I jumped into it.

Both the dark-haired woman in blue linen and the brunette in the green sari looked up at me.

I made a guess and ungagged the dark-haired girl.

"Thank you, Lightning Shield!" She gasped. "Please, help my father! He is-"

"I am helping him," I cut away her bonds.

She jumped out of the cart and ran to the old man. What followed were tense moments of her checking to see if he was dying, with him insisting that he was fine. She scolded him for being an idiot and for always trying to help but making things worse - and why couldn’t he just listen to her, without making everyone else's life so hard? This then led to a round of Oh-but-I-don't-want-to-be-a-burden-to-you, which received a but-this-is-what-you-always-do-why-do-you-always-hurt-me?

"If you two can argue, then you're both fine."

I went back to the wooden post I had secured Little Slut to. She was staring at me; her eyes seemed filled with wonder, admiration, and fear, all at once.

"Master! Are you alright?"

"You saw everything," I tugged at her chain. "You are very excited now. All you will do is talk. I know better than to stop that, so I will permit it instead. So, you will talk all you want to about this and get it off your chest. But," I grabbed her leash where it extended, right before her collar, and gave it a hard tug. This yanked her forward, her hair tossing. "But not now, do you understand, Slave?"

"Yes, Master," she stared up into my eyes as if they showed the secrets of the Cosmos.

I lead my, for now silent, slave back to the old man and his daughter.

In the cart, the brunette in the green sari was thrashing from side to side, tugging at her bonds. Her face was red. She caught my eye and screamed into her gag, frowning.

Alongside her, naked, still, and silent, were the slaves. The little dark-haired beauty with the white and blue beads tied around her wrists and ankles watched me as I passed. Wheels turned behind her dark eyes.

"Please, help yourself to whatever is in the cart," said the old man.

"I do not need payment," I said. I felt a bit insulted; the way you do when you try to help someone who seems in a better place in life, for no reason than that you just want to help them - and as a thank you, they offer you money.

"No, as a gift to show our gratitude," said his daughter.

"You don't need to give me any gifts," I shook my head.

"I insist," said the daughter. There was a sternness to her voice. She did not seem one to suffer being argued with.

"Thank you for your kindness," I shrugged. Perhaps it would be insulting not to take something.

I climbed into the cart.

The five, hogtied slave girls were all young. The youngest looked about nineteen or twenty. The oldest could have been more then twenty five. All looked in excellent health, their skin clear, long hair shining. Three were Armaneans. The fourth had the elegant, strong-boned features of a Siberian girl brought by a Landing Beast. Prize among them, though was the girl wearing blue and white beads. She looked half-Shemite; her skin had a warmer, "Arabic" tone, while the bone structure of her face seemed more Nordic.

One by one, I cut all the other slave girls free. I gave them each a pat on the bottom and pointed to their master and mistress. They each jumped out and ran to kneel at their feet. One girl, a blonde Armanean, put her forehead to the daughter’s foot and kissed it. She looked up at her, her eyes filling with tears. If her mistress noticed, she gave no sign.

"If you want to thank me," I stood over the bead-wearing slave, my feet on either side of her waist, "then breed this one, Grandfather."

"I cannot. I am too old," he shook his head.

"Rubbish. I reached down and gripped the girl’s neck. It was warm; sweat ran between it and her bronze color. She shook at my touch, a wave running through her whole body. Her feet were small, dainty. Not as pretty as my Little Slut’s, I thought, but close.

"It is true," said his daughter, brushing hair out of her face. "My father is too old. Our girls please them as best they can."

"It's a shame not to breed this one," I gripped the slave’s foot and ran my thumb up and down the sole. She curled her toes and tugged at her bonds.

Alongside her, the brunette in the green sari had become very quiet. She was seeing her world from a very different perspective. That of a hogtied and gagged woman, quite uncertain about the future. I had every intention of untying her, and would've done so at once -- but for all her glaring and screaming. For a few moments, she could feel what it was like to not be the center of the Universe.

"This slave is clever and strong. She almost escaped."

"She is troublesome," that stern tone returned to the daughter’s voice.

"That’s because she is bored. Give her something more to do, something different. Either way, she should be bred. Don’t waste what you have here."

"Alas, I cannot," said the old man.

“Well - what if I do it?" I asked.

For a few moments, all I could hear was the beating of my own heart.

"Yes," the daughter nodded and smiled. "That would be wonderful, Lightning Shield! Please breed her."

The slave turned her head to look back up at me. Her jaw dropped, her eyes went wide.

I cut the ropes that bound her. She lay under me; leg stretched out straight. She got up on her elbows like a sphinx staring out over a desert. Then, she tilted her head back to look up at me.

Those dark eyes did not waver even a tenth of an inch from mine.

I bunched her dark hair behind her head and pulled. This forced her head back even further. Doing so immobilizes a girl. It makes her feel powerless.

I stared down at her.

She spread her legs, parting them like scissors blades.

I got down over her and pulled down my pants. The old man and his daughter exchanged looks and smiled at each other, then looked back at me. The girl in the green sari stared as if both were cast and fascinated. The other slaves looked away or down at the ground. In this deadly, rich, and wonderful world, full of life, untamed lands, and secrets, it was a wonderful thing to take a pretty young slave, lie her on her back, and filled with life. It was the single greatest value, and the most wonderful use you can put a slave to.

Except to the slaves. To them, there is no greater dignity. No more thorough humiliation. There is no state more abject to them than to be used for breeding.

They get over it.

I slipped my penis into her. She was wet; I wondered when the last time was that she had been used.

"Ai!" She gasped as I buffeting her body. I still held her hair. With my other hand, I gripped her throat. The cart began to creak with each thrust. I did not take long. A handful more thrusts and I came. I pulled her to me as I squirted, her buttock squeezed against my crotch. There, it was done!

I wiped myself on her thigh and stood. She rolled onto her back, hands reaching out to stroke my leg. Her eyes shimmered.

"Ankle."

"Yes, Master," she raised her leg up, toes pointed. Her foot was level with my belly.

I removed the anklet of blue-and-white beads. I would keep it, as a keepsake. Then, I pointed to the stone house.

She jumped to her feet, sprang from the cart, and ran into the house.

"If it does not take," I said to the daughter, "send her to the Master’s Inn and ask for Juskar. He will know what to do."

"Thank you, Lighting Shield," she nodded. "It will be good to hear the sound of a child in this house again." I nodded and turned to leave. I-

There was a loud, cursing ground. The girl in the green sari began thrashing about, her hogtied body rocking.

"I'm so sorry," I got down beside her, "I meant to untie you, but then, well - you saw."

I cut her ropes.

She shoved me away and sat up, crosslegged, glaring as she ripped off her gag.

"You brute!" She huffed. She looked to be in her early twenties. Without the gag, her expression was more the pout of a spoiled child. She had a sharp nose and a strong jawline. The lips were wide, full. "Were you never going to release me? Am I a slave to be left to be dealt with when men feel like it? Have you no manners!"

She stood, brushing dirt from her sari. The tight, green silk fabric hugged her lines well. I could make out the shapes of heavy, well-shaped breasts. Her waist was slim, the muscles at her sides developed. Her behind, I could not help but notice, was not small. She was a tall girl, about 5'9". Long, slender arms went to her hair as she did it up in a bun. There was a strength to the stance of her long legs. An imperiousness. She was the kind of girl who liked to kick her slaves.

"What are you staring at!"

"Oh, nothing. Sorry, habits."

"Help me down!"

It was not a request without merit. The sari, especially as rich Hyperborean women wore it, was not the most practical garment.

She held out her hand, and I took it. The fingers were slim, long, elegant. I stepped off the cart and helped her down.

"Thank you," she brushed away dust. "Warrior, if you would escort me to my home, my father and I would be most grateful and reward you handsomely!"

"I'm not a city guardsman, sorry. I'm hardly a "warrior," anymore. Why don't you stay with them until this is over?"

She glared - not one, it seemed, used to being disobeyed much less argued with. Her right hand twitched as if involuntarily grasping at a whip.

"My father is Burgher Sempren!”

"Sempren?" The name struck me like a hammer.

I felt a wave of emotion, the hot anger, the embarrassment, of what had happened back at the Burgher Council session. It was Sempren who had started the vote against me. Caral was the man in charge, but Sempren was his puppet. The result of their machinations was contaminated water. I remembered saw the bright curly hair of the dead boy.

"Oh, I know Sempren,” I said, my tone quiet. “I see the resemblance now."

She smiled, preening.

"You must take after your mother."

"What do you mean?"

"You were born of a slave, yes?"

"Yes," she raised an eyebrow. "Why does that matter?"

"Well, you didn't get your looks from your toad-faced father. You are beautiful. Very beautiful. Your mother - your slave mother - would have been a stunner. How old are you?"

"How dare you - what? How old am I? Look, just take me to my father -"

"She's probably dead now. Culled. Those amazing genes," I reached forward and stroked the girl’s cheek.

"Ai!" She smacked my hand away. "Don't you dare touch me, you dog!"

I grabbed her about her waist. She squealed as I boosted her off her feet and threw her over my shoulder.

"Let go!" Her fists pounded against my back. Her legs thrashed.

The old man and his daughter stared - they were no longer smiling.

"Put me down! Help!" She screamed. "Help!”

I held her like that, letting her scream her lungs out.

"No one is coming. Do you hear that? It's the sound of absolutely no one coming to your help. Do you know why?"

She said nothing.

"Because burghers like your father built this town. Burghers like your father care about no one but themselves. But you already know this. Perhaps better than I do. Every single person in these houses knows what's happening to you. They knew what was happening to them," I gestured to the old man and his daughter. “And they did nothing. No one is coming to help you."

"Please," she weaseled, no longer struggling. "Please, let me go! We will do anything! We have lots of gold! Slaves! All can be yours, but let me go!"

I patted her behind. Her buttocks felt soft, full, under my fingers. It made my heart race to think of how they would look without her sari.

“You are mine, now.”

She began screaming and struggling again.

Little Slut stared at her, open-mouthed, frozen. I wondered if she was reliving her own capture or that of her fellow Irish girls.

I took hold of Little Slut’s leash.

"Come,” I gave it a tug.

“Yes, Master,” I could barely hear her over my captive’s screaming.

Let this damned town burn. Nothing is happening to its people today that they did not bring upon themselves. My only misgivings were for the Armaneans; what backlash would they suffer for this? What overreaction by paranoid, stupid people?

Burn Dura, and burn Hyperborea. Your problems are not mine.

All I could think of on the way back home, was what I would do tonight to the spoils of my attitude had won for me.

The cost would come. Such a terrible cost. In that moment, though, I was the furthest I would ever be from seeing it coming due.