"Let's try this again now, shall we?"
My blonde, Siberian slave, stood before me. Her wrists still tightly secured behind her back, a short rope ran between her ankles, allowing her small steps but not the ability to run. Her body gleamed; sweat pouring down her large breasts, flat belly, and long, long legs. Her feet were dusty from walking. I had pulled her hair back in a high ponytail, to keep it clear of her oval face-and to bare her long, graceful, neck.
I held the end of her leash in one hand.
In the other, I held my whip.
There were red marks across her thighs. Her light-blue eyes glared at me.
"Kneel, Slave," I pointed to the ground with the whip.
"Yes, Master," she spoke the Common words with a strong accent. Yez Mahster.
She got down on her knees, sitting back on her ankles.
"Stand, Slave."
"Yes, Master," She got to her feet.
"Kneel."
"Stand."
"Kneel."
Each time, grudgingly, she obeyed and spoke the words. She gave me another death glare. I looked her directly in the eye, and she looked away.
"Why do you walk her in circles around the pit?" asked a Darfuri pit guard standing nearby. He was one of four men tasked to the Blue Pit.
"I'm training her to obey, is that not obvious?"
"It is, but if you threw her in the pit, she will learn much sooner. Trust us with your woman."
I looked down into the pit. Sitting, lying against the dirt walls, or collapsed and trying to sleep, were seventy young, naked, women. None spoke; talking got them whipped. Even sobbing could earn a lashing.
"No thanks."
"She is your meat," the man shrugged. "And it is most pleasant watching her buttocks move as she walks."
It was early afternoon: across the pits, new pit guards began arriving to relieve the old. A stern-looking Shemite took the Darfuri's place. My slave studied him as he took a swig from his water skin and drew his whip. He noticed her gaze and leered at her, nodding. She quickly looked away.
"See?" I gave her leash a gentle tug. "Not so bad, at the end of this rope."
I would have preferred to have kept her caged until later, but I was worried about what might happen to her if I let her out of my sight.
The guard suddenly stood to attention, his eyes straight ahead.
Coming towards the pit, was Gudea.
He was with three other men, also wearing aprons, with hatchets and cleavers tucked into their belts. They dragged a small cart with them and left it the larger pits. The pit guards threw down ropes, and the butchers climbed down them. The slaves shrank away from them; except the sick. I watched as the butchers lifted up heads and kicked bodies. Those that didn't respond, they tied to ropes, and hauled out.
"What are they doing?" I asked the pit guard.
"Gathering the day's dead." He replied. He could have been talking about the weather.
"The day's dead?"
"Landing Sickness. A few more will die tomorrow. Then, maybe some the day after. But after that, it will be over."
"And then no more deaths?"
"No more deaths from Landing Sickness. This is a slavers camp, Friend. These girls will leave eager to wear a collar and lick a man's feet-or they will not leave at all."
My Siberian captive studied our interchange. I was glad she didn't understand it.
***
The afternoon passed without incident. The hunting claws were largely left to their own devices; we had done our work, and the slaves had all been secured in the pits. Guards patrolled them with watchful, experienced eyes. If they saw anything they didn't like, they drew their whips and thrashed down.
After a few more circuits, I marched my Amazon back to where our claw was camped. It was four, large, black tents arranged around a campfire. Wooden chests to one side stored weapons and supplies. Blue-black smoke rose from an opening in Ettun's tent; it smelled like charcoal mixed with cinnamon. This was crimson lotus being smoked. Its leaves grew in the mountains and when ground up and smoked had a similar effect to marijuana, but not as strong.
Duzil's tent was empty, but his leather armor was laid out on a mat, at its entrance.
The flap to Fogrim's tent had been pulled back all the way. Inside and well displayed, was his petite, Bharaji girl. The slave was on her back, over a crate that was waist height. Her wrists and ankles had been pulled down to the ground, arching her body. Taut chains held them, fastened to iron pins that were rammed into the dirt.
The chocolate-skinned girl lay with her head thrown back. Fogrim stood with his penis in her mouth, holding her face and throat. He pressed it in deep; the girl choked, and he pulled his penis out. Drool gleamed and spilled out of her mouth. She gasped for air, her chest rising and falling.
"Ah!" she cried out as he slapped her.
"Again, you slut!" he shoved his penis back into her mouth.
My blonde watched, eyes wide in horror, staying behind me.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I am training her not to choke, when I deep throat her," he said while thrusting. "You must keep the girl's chin as far from the neck, as possible."
The Bharaji slave began choking again. He pulled out and let her breath. Then, he pinched a perfect, dark nipple so hard, she screamed and jerked at her chains.
"Again," he slid his penis back into her mouth.
Deep throat training; I would remember that.
I peeled back the flap of my own tent. Inside the ground had been covered with reed mats. To one corner was a thick pile of furs for sleeping.
"Inside," I pointed, speaking to her in Common.
The Siberian froze, then stared at me, wide-eyed.
"You will obey!" I grabbed the leash just beneath her neck and yanked it downwards.
"Oh!" she cried out as she stumbled forward.
"Inside!" I shoved her into the tent, and she fell onto the mats, face forward.
"You should have obeyed, Slave," I got down on one knee and forced her legs together, one ankle crossed over the other. "Now, you will be punished."
I retied the ropes, hogtying her. Then I grabbed her by her hair and forced her head back, to look at me. She gritted her teeth glared at me with those mesmerizing blue eyes.
"Not comfortable, is it?" I leaned my head close to hers, till I could feel her breath on my skin. "You put up a good show, but I've fucked more than a few of you tundra sluts these past few months-"
I pinched her nipple, she cried out loud, her face flushing red.
"-And I know how submissive you really are. It's in your genes."
I let go of her hair. She looked away, sullen.
I could not help but admire the long, athletic, elegant lines of her body. Unbidden, a name came to me.
"Your name now is Haley. Say it. Say ‘Haley.'"
She stared at me.
I slapped her. She winced and turned her head away.
"Haley," I snapped my fingers in her face. "Haley! Say it!"
"Hey-Lee!" full lips formed the sounds.
"Good Slave," I stroked her hair. It was soft and thick like warm silk. "Now don't make a sound, Haley," I got up and stepped outside the tent. "Or Fogrim might come in, and train you to deep throat. I can't say that I'd mind much."
***
I left our tents, eager to explore the camp further.
The slaves in the Blue Pit looked up me, warily. They sat in the dirt, holding their hands over their eyes against the sun. Their bodies glistened with sweat; they had been given no food or water. I saw Amber sitting with her knees up, her head leaning against the pit wall.
"Drink, you barbarian sluts!"
Two guards came walking up to the edge of the pit, sloshing buckets of water in each hand. One tipped his bucket over, and the water splashed down into the pit. Most of the slaves got up and rushed to that end of the pit. The guards laughed and poured the rest down the pit walls.
The naked slaves got down on their knees, shoulder to shoulder, and dipped their hands into the water. They raised dripping handfuls and drank. One of the guards pulled down his trousers and pissed over the edge. The slaves didn't seem to care.
I looked over to Amber; she was at the far end, watching.
I pointed to the drinking area. She stared at me, blank.
I left; she would learn, or she would die.
***
Towards the very center of the camp, I saw an unusual sight. It was a huge ring of black, basalt stone blocks, cracked and misshapen by time. Hieroglyphics had been carved on its sides, but they were too faded to make out. Buckets were lined up beside it, and a wooden frame had been thrown up across it. Several, long, hemp ropes ran down pulleys into the giant well.
I went to the edge and peered over. Ferns and climbing plants crawled up the sides, framing the blackness. I could not make out the bottom.
"Be careful," I heard from behind me. I turned and saw a guard. "Those old stones are treacherous. One may easily slip-and fall."
"This is ancient," I stepped away from the well. "Isn't it? Are there more structures like this?"
"Not in camp," said the guard. "But there are old stones and temples scattered throughout these lands. Not all built by the hands of man.
"How old are they?"
"Who knows. How old are the gods? They have been at war longer than man has existed. They will still be at war, long after we are gone."
I regarded the well. It plumbed not only water, but deep time.
I left, humbled.
***
There were two other main areas of camp. As far as possible from the hunting claw tents, was an area closed off by black drapes, thrown over wooden fence posts. Behind these closed drapes were where Gudea and his aproned followers worked. I had no desire to see what went on there.
Near the center of the camp were several, large, large yurts. Crates and barrels were stacked beside them; the expedition's supplies. Beside one yurt, was a tall, wooden, banner pole. Fluttering from it was a red banner with a crude, black, hieroglyph of and eye. This was the banner of Rindar's slavers.
Four men came out of the yurt, none of whom were smiling. One was Fogrim. I waved over to him, but he did not notice. The other men began arguing back and forth, but Fogrim shook his head. Presently, all of them they dispersed.
Rindar stepped out afterward, arms folded. He watched them leave but then notice me standing there. He smiled and beckoned.
"What was that?" I asked.
"Come inside, and I will tell you."
We stepped inside his yurt. It was quite large; enough for perhaps 10 men to sit around on cushions and eat, smoke, and tell stories into the night. To one side was a writing table with stacked scrolls, an inkpot, and a set of quills. Across from it was a weapons rack with a heavy hunting bow and a cudgel. A small fire burned in the center, smoke rising up through a hole in the ceiling that also admitted light. Kneeling before it was a pale, dark-haired slave girl, the only one we had brought with us on our expedition. The beauty wore nipple rings of dark metal and a red, silk, sash tied around her waist-that concealed nothing. Locked around her throat was a black iron collar. A hieroglyph eye had been branded on her thigh, and a black one tattooed between her shoulder blades.
She bowed her head low as I walked in. Rindar snapped his fingers, and she rushed to a corner to fetch wine.
"Those were worshipers of Yog," said Rindar sitting on a large question. "Their leaders, anyway. There are 22 Yoggites in our camp."
"They didn't seem pleased."
"They want a slave to sacrifice to Yog, to give thanks for our good fortune. Six girls will likely be dead of Transport Sickness by tomorrow. They wished for one."
I said nothing. His slave handed me a goblet of wine.
"Is sacrifice not the way of your gods, Gerard?"
"I have no gods," I sloshed the wine around the goblet. "May I speak frankly?"
"As always."
"Human sacrifice is barbaric. I understand Hyperborea is overrun with terrifying creatures, and that death may come at any moment. I will live among barbarians. I'll kill men for money. And I drag beautiful women in chains and sell them in a market. But I will not sacrifice a human being, Rindar."
"So we agree, but for different reasons?"
"No. Transport Sickness is a bad way to go. A dagger under the throat would be a mercy. What harm is there in giving one to the Yoggites?"
"There is no harm," he took a sip from his wine. "But what about when the Settites want a sacrifice? Or the followers of Azathoth? Of Cthulhu? Or of Dagon? On that account, you are not popular among the camp's Dagonites."
"That's too bad. If they have a problem with me, they're welcome to bring it up, anytime."
"No, not while you, or they, are under my employ."
"Fair enough."
"We don't have enough slaves, healthy or ill, for all the gods who thirst for their lives. It is better to disappoint their followers, then to return as poor men."
"That's funny. I didn't think you would be so pragmatic about faith."
"I believe in the gods, Gerard. As should you. However, within the spikes and ditches of this camp, I am a God. All these females I will sacrifice for coin, in the slave markets. There will be no slitting of throats."
"I will drink to that," I raise my cup, as did he.
It was at times like this that I felt that there was some connection, some middle ground between myself and the average man of Hyperborea. This was a savage, barbaric planet and its people were well fitted to its ways. Even as I (sometimes happily) accepted many of them, anywhere that I found some shared humanity-perhaps kindness shown to a slave, or an enemy spared in battle-I would find light. As much as I had become a creature of Hyperborea, I was still from 21st Century Earth.
On leaving Rindar's yurt, I was reminded how very far I was, from that place.
***
As I made my way back, I saw Gudea's men came out from behind their enclosure. They carried wooden frames between them that looked a bit like drying racks for clothes. Except, it was not clothing they had on them.
One rack was set down in front of the Red Pit. The slaves inside cried out when they saw it. I stopped and stared; it is one thing to understand, and quite another thing to experience.
Stretched over the drying rack and fixed in place with little nails, was the raw pelt of a girl.
They set up the frames two to a pit, one on each side. I watched a Bharaji and a Shang, racial enemies, turn and hug each other. A Siberian collapsed onto the ground and started sobbing, on her hands and knees. An Iberian beaker Began screaming, staring at a hide she recognized until the pit guards whipped her into silence.
Then Gudea came along, with two men carrying what seemed like bundles of sticks wrapped in heavy cloth. They stopped at the Red Pit and one unrolled the cloth on the ground. Inside were skulls impaled on sharpened stakes. Most of the sculls were still bloodied from butchering.
With a gleeful grin, Gudea forced a stake into the ground in front of the pit. He angled it forward, so all the slaves inside could see it.
The skulls were placed opposite from each other, and at 90° angles to the tanning racks. There was nowhere a slave could look, without seeing one or the other.
"Gerard, are you well?"
I turned; it was Duzil.
"No," I looked down from Gudea's handiwork. "No, I am not."
"It is not pleasant," said Duzil, "but it is important work."
"Important?" I spat the word. Duzil took a step back, eyes wide. "How the hell is this important? This is terror. Gudea is a psychopath. He's terrorizing the slaves, just because he can, and they cannot fight back. Just look at him, laughing! This made his day!"
A couple of pit guards walked up to us, exchanging glances.
"What the fuck do you want?" I demanded.
One held up his hands, and they turned away.
"Do not raise voice," said Duzil sternly. "One does not show dissension in front of unbroken meat."
"They're not-"
"They're not meat? I know you are from a different time, Gerard, but that is your gift. Do not let it be your curse. There is no room for weakness in this world.
"If these females do not learn their place," he continued, "then the men who take them to their beds, will strangle them. Do you know why they are here, at all? Because the gods brought them to use in their endless war. Do they look like fighters to you? Big, rough, killers? What do you think they are used for, across the Mist Wall?"
I looked away, sullen.
"These are the lucky ones whose beasts landed short. These ones are lucky enough to have been captured. Otherwise, they would have been dead within days.
Gudea and his men turned and left, clapping each other on the backs and laughing.
"Those were the slaves who died of Transport Sickness," said Duzil. "There can be no waste. The skins become leather. The bones become tools, and the fat is turned to lamp oil."
"And the flesh?" I asked. "Is there going to be a big, cannibal, party tonight?"
Duzil looked disgusted.
"We are not savages, that plainly is what you see when you cast eye upon us."
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "I didn't mean to insult you. You and the others have been good to me, I don't mean to sound ungrateful."
"It is a matter behind us and forgiven," his face softened. "And yes, the flesh will not be wasted."
"No?"
"No. It will be used to feed the slaves."