The day done, I made my way back towards our hunting claw's camp.
The fire had been lit, and the stars were coming out. Venus was still visible, and far above was the shootings shower of a landing beast breaking up as it entered the atmosphere. It did not look-I didn't think there would have been any survivors from that one.
Layla was on her knees before a large, stone, mortar. Her body gleamed with sweat as she pounded grain inside it with a pestle. She wore the crocodile tooth necklace that Fogrim had fitted her with, and a red loincloth tied with the string. It did nothing to cover her bubble-shaped behind(nor was it meant to). Her ankle was chained to a wooden stake that had been hammered into the ground.
"Wine, Master?" It was Ettun's Siberian brunette. She stood before me with an amphora balanced against her wide hip and a brass cup in her hand. She wore armlets, anklets, and a collar, all of bronze. The metal gleamed on her clear, tanned, skin. She wore a completely useless skirt made from a discarded fishing net. I held out my hand, and she bowed low as she gave me the cup.
"They have all been broken," said Duzil smiling. He sat on a box beside the fire, as the others did. They looked up and greeted me.
"Why is there another box?" I sat down on mine. There was a fifth.
"This night we get a visitor," said Duzil.
There was the jingling of a bell, and his tall, bronze-skinned Anatolian appeared, carrying a bowl of water and a rag. She knelt in front of me, her head down. Duzil had finger-painted red glyphs on her body.
"What are those?" I asked.
"The marks of Set," he replied. "It dedicates her to Him. Tonight, the camp's Settites are gathering. She and others will be used to please the worshipers."
"The Yoggites gather as well," said Fogrim. "And the Children of Cthulhu. We give our thanks tonight-such as Rindar has permitted."
"May I wash your feet, Master?" the slave girl asked.
I put my foot out in front of her. She removed my boot, lay it aside, and began massaging my foot.
"Wow. This one is a real treasure," I said to Duzil.
"Indeed, she is." He replied, smiling. "Her name is now Tahara."
Tahara dipped my foot into the bowl of hot water. She washed it with care; rubbing between the crevices and cleaning under the nails. Then she massaged and washed my other foot. On finishing, she wiped them both clean, put her head down to them, and kissed them both.
"May I clean your boots, Master?" She asked. Her large eyes were bright in the firelight.
"Clean them, Slave."
She bowed, picked them up, and rose and left behind Duzil's tent.
"She is well broken." I held out my cup, and the brunette Siberian quickly stepped up to fill it. "They all are."
"Where is your one?" Asked Ettun as he tore into a piece of meat with both hands.
"I am punishing her."
He nodded as if I had spoken of the color of the sand.
There were footsteps from beyond our tents, and Rindar appeared.
"Hail and well met!" He said to us.
We stood to show respect and sat only after he sat, on the fifth box. He took the cup of wine from the brunette, who retreated to kneel by Ettun's side.
"Pardon intrusion, Brothers." Said Rindar. "I would take time this night to sit by fires and hear the words of the men."
"The hunting has been good, as you promised." Said Fogrim.
"And the tents," leered Ettun, "have kept idle hands-and loins-very busy!"
"What news of Treygor's prowler?" Asked Duzil. "Is there substance to the story, or has keen-witted and seasoned scout, found false menace?"
Rindar sighed.
"It is yet unclear, but I would stay further men and time from search, without more definite sign or worthy witness."
"Have they been witnesses?" I asked.
"Just the babblings of slaves," he waved his hand. "Nothing of worth."
I thought of what Amber had been trying to tell me.
"I saw your woman hanging from the tree by the river," he pointed in the direction. "She is quite the beauty. Good for the harem of a lord, or a high priest! Why is she not here, lying leashed at your feet?"
"I have been-too soft with her."
He chuckled.
"The more delightful one's captive, the greater the urge to coddle her. It is natural; and towards the intent to keep, rather than sell."
"I have a question," I cleared my throat. "It is an unusual one, but one I've been wondering about," I said.
All eyes turned to me.
"Speak, and hear answer." Said Rindar.
"By what right do we take slaves?"
There was a pause.
"That is a foolish question, Brother," said Fogrim as he untied Layla's ankle. He pointed to his back, and she stood behind him and began massaging his shoulders. "Why not also ask why men may hunt? Or breathe air? I would enslave Layla's kind, as they would enslave mine. It is how it has always been, in the annals of time. It is how it always will be."
"No," said Ettun as he stroked his brunette's head. "They are naturally slaves; else they would be free, yes? They should be grateful that we feed and shelter them, and let them share our beds."
"You are both wrong," said Duzil. "They were brought here to serve the gods in their great war. If the gods regard them as slaves, who are we to disagree?"
Rindar just nodded and sipped his wine.
"And what do you think?" I asked him.
"I have heard it said, Gerard of Stone, that you do not believe in the gods?" He said. "Is this true, or the idle gossip of men of little minds?"
"Oh I believe in them," I replied, "I just don't think they're gods. Powerful, yes, but nothing more."
"That is, I believe, as well."
There was a gasp from Duzil. Fogrim looked confused.
"Do you jest?" Asked Ettun.
"I do not, Brother. That the gods exist is plain to all eyes. But, they are not gods. And, if there are no gods, then there are no rules. A man may then choose his own path, as he sees fit. Those are his rules. By that, and that alone, he may hunt, cage, and break most beautiful females to his will."
"Jean-Paul Sartre," I said. "That's existentialism. He argued there are no absolute, written rules, and it is for people to find their own meaning. They cannot take it from another person or a group. It must be a path with meaning to them, and them alone. Otherwise, their lives are false."
Rindar smiled.
"He is a wise man, this Jean-Paul Sartre. It is well that you were friends with him."
I thought it best not to enlighten him.
***
I awoke at the dead of night to the sound of a woman having sex.
It was Kosha, Ettun's brunette (we had played a drinking game to see who would name her). She cried out loud and without shame. There was the sound of flesh slapping against flesh again, and again.
Here I was; the only man in the camp without a leashed, beautiful slave busy licking his cock. I wasn't a Hyperborean, I wasn't even a slaver.
I was a joke.
Kosha's cries kept jackhammering in my head. The air was hot and sticky. I sat up and threw the fur aside; what was I doing, trying to sleep? No Hyperborean men were sleeping. They were fucking.
I pulled on some clothes and stepped out of my tent into the night.
A 21st-century man had strung Haley up a tree.
A Hyperborean would drag her back to his tent.