I went to the butchers' area, Haley following after me with her wrists bound behind her back and a leash chain at her collar.
It was closed off by screens of black cloth stretched over wooden frames. Flanking the entrance were stakes mounted with human skulls, with oil lamps hanging from chains attached to their jaws. The skulls looked fresh.
Two guards stood outside; one was a slaver, the other was a butcher-I supposed Rindar trusted Gudea's men less than Gudea did.
"What is your business here, Brother?" Asked the butcher. He had dark hair and a beard shaped and oiled into a spike.
I yanked on the chain. Haley got down on her knees and bent over, her face inches from the ground.
"I would like to brand my slave," I replied.
"Branding takes practice, hunter," said the butcher sneering and shaking his head. "Leave your woman here and come back for her in the night."
"By Cthulhu, he can do what he likes to his woman!" Said the other guard, turning to glare at the butcher.
"Not inside there he can't," said the butcher folding his arms.
"If he wants to learn how to mark flesh, he is welcome to," I heard a loud voice call from inside. Both guards turned.
Walking up to the entrance came Gudea. He looked at me, down at Haley, and then back at me. He wore a thick leather glove over his right hand. For once, his apron seemed quite clean.
"Bring the female."
I snapped my fingers; Haley stood. We passed the guards and entered the butchery.
It was a large, open space. To one side were tanning frames arranged in lines; fair, tanned, and dark skins were stretched out on them.
Alongside the leather tanning were two wooden poles about 10 feet tall, with a metal pole about as long, running across their tops. Vicious metal hooks hung from the bar. Below it was a trough. A dark red liquid had dried and stained its bottom.
Beside this grisly structure was a large, stone wheel, grinder. It had four wooden beams that came out of it, at each was three slave girls, chained at the wrists. Their naked bodies gleamed with dripping sweat as they pushed against the wooden beams and turned the stone grinder. No overseer stood watching them: I doubted in here that an overseer was necessary.
On the other side, the branding was taking place.
On the ground in rows were the slave girls that the butchers had been corralling throughout the day. They were on their knees, bent over with their heads inches from the ground, their wrists crossed over their laps. Two butchers stood over them, whips drawn.
In front of the group of slaves were "wooden horse" devices, like those used in BDSM in the 21st century. A butcher standing at one motioned to a kneeling slave who had made eye contact. She got up numbly and walked over to him, a well-tanned brunette with light green eyes. He pulled her onto the wooden horse and bound her wrists and ankles tightly to its legs. Her chin rested on the end of the wooden beam. She tried to move, but she had been tied down quite securely. The butcher poured a clear liquid onto a rag and swabbed the brunette's right thigh with it, up to the side of the hip. I got the smell of alcohol.
In front of the branding horses were several fires. On them were heavy, blackened pots with short, iron rods in them. A butcher wearing a single leather glove gripped one of the iron rods and pulled it out. At its end, glowing red-hot, was the design of a slave brand. He put the brand back in.
"This is where iron is put to flesh, and females marked forever as meat to be traded." Said Gudea. "Has sight of such robbed mind of intended purpose?"
"Hell no," I replied. "Let's do this."
"The very well," he nodded. He seemed pleased. "Send your female to kneel with the others, and let us get started."
I unleashed the terrified Haley, and she went quickly and took her place alongside the other kneeling captives. One looked up at me: it was Amber, the Ohioan. She quickly looked back down.
"Do you have your own iron?" Asked Gudea.
I produced a soft, leather roll and opened it. Inside was the branding iron that Scar had made for me, back in Dura. I handed it to Gudea.
He looked at its end, quickly turning it this way and that.
"It is a little showy, more playful. It is good for a personal brand." He handed it back, "ours are simpler," he waved over to another butcher, who nodded and came over with a branding iron. "Here," Gudea took it and handed it to me. "Look upon this and speak what comes to mind."
I took the branding iron; it was much heavier than it seemed. It was shorter than my own one, it ended in a simple cross pattern.
"It is not as long, and the branding head is simpler. Why is that?"
"A shorter brand will not be moved as easily by a struggling girl, as metal is set against flesh," he replied. "The mark is simple for two reasons. The first is to make for clean and neat markings; none wish to buy a girl with a clumsy scar on her thigh. The other reason is that the slavers brand on the right thigh, should not shame the personal brand a man may make, on the left."
"Seems simple enough."
"Come, let us go to the fire and select an iron, so that you may brand a woman."
We went to the branding horse that the green-eyed brunette I had seen earlier was now strapped to. She turned her head and watched us, her eyes wide, mouth open. She tugged at her bonds as we neared and whined like a trapped animal. The butcher standing over her gave her a hard look, and she stopped.
"Now watch," said Gudea, "as he marks the meat."
The butcher stepped over to a fire and picked out one of the branding irons. Its head glowed red-yellow. He stepped back to the brunette who began whimpering and struggling at her bonds again. The butcher put his hand down over the small of her back and held the iron over her thigh. Then, quick as a stinging insect, he plunged the iron against her thigh.
There was hissing steam, and smoke rose instantly. The girl screamed out, and the smell of burnt meat entered my nose. He held it for several moments and then pulled the iron away.
"Look at the Mark," said Gudea stepping forward. He gripped the girl by her thigh around the smoking mark. "See how clean and straight the brand is?"
The butcher had already begun untying the girl's wrists and ankles. When he was done, Gudea grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her off the branding horse. She collapsed at his feet, crouching and sobbing.
"Go, Slave," he pointed to where the others knelt.
"Yes, Master!" She got up and limped back to her place.
"Are you ready to mark one?" Gudea asked. Some of the other butchers had stopped and were watching me.
"Yes. I'd like to try."
"Pick one," he gestured to the slaves.
I turned to face them. Before me were almost 40, naked, kneeling slave girls. I stepped towards them, looking up and down the lines.
Branding. Most slave girls that I had seen in my brief time in this world had one on the right thigh. I had lain in bed many nights, a girl chained at the throat or the ankle, lying against me, while I stroked, licked, or bit the patterns made of scar tissue. It was good to personally mark one's slaves, Uru the bartender had told me. There was no better way to teach a slave her place and that you are her master.
I caught Amber the Ohioan looking at me from the corner of her eye. Such dark, intelligent eyes.
"You," I pointed at her. "Come."
Amber stood and walked over to me. Men stopped to watch her slender, well-curved body as she came forward, the shifting of her buttocks, the swing of her breasts. She looked down as someone whistled. Such a pretty beast! If I had not already taken Haley, I would have likely claimed Amber as my slave. A lovely, shy, Midwestern girl, now a submissive, Hyperborean slut!
Unbidden, she got onto the branding horse, her chin resting on the main beam. I crouched down and tied her ankles and wrists to its legs. They were soft and cool in my hands. She stared at me as I worked, her expression unreadable. A butcher handed me the alcohol-soaked cloth, and I rubbed it over her thigh.
"Good," said Gudea, handing me a thick, leather glove. "now, you must pick an iron."
I stepped over to the fire.
The heat was almost unbearable, I squinted as I peered into the pot. There were several tongs there, most of them glowing red and yellow hot. I picked one out and studied it; the cross pattern of the branding head was precise, sharp-edged, without imperfection. I felt the heat coming off it in a wave.
I went back to Amber.
She began whimpering and tugging at her bonds like a panicked bird.
"No, Master!" She begged, "no, Master! Please!"
I put my hand down over the small of her back. Her skin was warm, sweaty. I felt her muscles tensing under my fingers. I pressed down to keep her from moving.
I plunged the iron into her thigh. She screamed out as steam hissed; I held it for a few moments before pulling it back, reluctantly. She thrashed against her bonds and screamed again. Moaning began, followed by sobbing. I studied the burn, the brand still in my hand. It smelled of cooked meat and fat.
"That was done well!" Gudea clapped his hands. "Perhaps your hands have a gift for this."
"Can I brand another?" I found myself asking.
"As you wish, Gerard the Steady Handed."
I branded eight more slave girls.
I would have kept going, but we were all done by that point. I was disappointed, but Gudea said I could help with branding the next day's slaves.
Lastly, I put Haley on the branding horse. She was as terrified as the other girls, but also as obedient in going to face the iron. I secured her so tight that the bonds bit into her skin. I stroked her hair and kissed her, then took my brand from the fire, and marked her. I held it in place slightly longer than needed, pulling it away and holding the head in front of her so she could see it. I took her off the horse, leashed her, and forced her to walk back to my tent. There I gave her no quarter; making her prepare the evening meal and serve it, before letting her lie at my feet to recover.
She kept staring at me as if seeing me now for the first time. I had never thought that I would be the sort of person to enslave beautiful women and brand them. But, as it turned out, I was exactly that person.
Discovering what you are capable of is discovering who you really are.
She put her lips to my feet and kissed them. Now, more than at any point before, I was her master.
I could not help but imagine Amber by my feet, as well.