The stone battlements felt cold under the Lieutenant…of the royal army/legion… as he leaned over the merlon. Below him, the main gates of the southern side of the royal estate… a few distances from the palace… groaned open, the massive iron-reinforced wood shuddering in its frame as the counterweights dropped.
Five hundred thousand.
That was the number of men marching out the estate.
The Royal Legion.
The soldiers moved with practiced precision, a well-oiled machine of war stepping out to meet the threat.
The lieutenant spat over the edge, watching the glob of saliva fall until it vanished into the churning mass of helmets and spears.
“Look at them,” a voice rasped beside him. The lieutenant didn’t turn. He knew the voice. It was Jerry, a veteran of too many border skirmishes, a man whose face was a roadmap of scars and bad decisions.
“All shiny and eager to die.”
“They are going to be crushed like ants.”
Ahead the southern hills were gone.
Where rolling green slopes and patches of dense forest had stood just an hour ago, there was now a solid, heaving mass of humanity.
The horizon had been erased, replaced by a wall of flesh that stretched.
At the front of the great army on the high side of the hill, stood a small camp.
The commander of Barlon's army tent. Inside, the world was reduced to the heavy breathing of the man and the quiet, rhythmic movements of the girl kneeling between his spread legs.
She was a slight thing, her skin pale against the dark furs piled beneath the commander’s cot. Her eyes were downcast, fixed on the task at hand with a submissive, practiced focus. She was his property, a war prize from other campaigns.
The commander sat on the edge of the cot, his boots discarded, his tunic unlaced to reveal the hard, hairy muscle of his chest. He leaned back on his hands, his head tilted slightly back, watching her through half-lidded eyes. Her small, cool fingers wrapped around his soft cock, lifting the heavy, flaccid weight from his thigh. She leaned in, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face, and parted her soft, pink lips. She intended to take him into her warm mouth, to nurse him until he hardened, as she had done a hundred times before.
Just as the wet heat of her breath ghosted over the head of his cock, he shifted. A large, calloused hand descended from the air, fingers tangling gently but firmly in her hair to stop her descent.
“No,” he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, vibrating in the quiet tent.
The girl froze, her lips hovering inches from his shaft. Her body tensed, a flinch of conditioned obedience waiting for correction. She looked up through her lashes, confusion widening her eyes.
He murmured, guiding her head lower with a pressure on her scalp. “Suckle on my sac.”
He released her hair and leaned back further, spreading his thighs wider to grant her access. His balls were heavy and loose in the heat of the tent, hanging low beneath his soft prick. The scent of him was stronger here….musk and sweat and man.
The girl hesitated only for a heartbeat before she lowered her gaze to the sack before her. She leaned in, nuzzling her nose against the wrinkled skin, inhaling his scent deeply. She extended her tongue, pink and wet, and gave a tentative lap to the underside of his sack. The commander groaned low in his throat, a sound of approval that vibrated against her lips.
Encouraged, she opened her mouth wider. She took one of his testicles into her mouth, being careful with her teeth, and began to suckle gently. Her tongue rolled the heavy orb against the roof of her mouth, bathing it in saliva.
The sensation was overwhelming. The wet heat of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her tongue, the sight of her dark head bobbing so subserviently between his legs…it unraveled him. But it wasn't just the physical pleasure that broke his composure. It was the intimacy of it, the quiet devotion she showed even in slavery. She didn't just service him: she cared for him.
He looked down at her, at the way the light caught the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her neck. He watched the way her eyelashes fluttered as she concentrated on pleasuring him.
“I want you to marry me!” he said.
The girl stopped. She didn't pull away immediately, but the suction ceased, her tongue stilled. She held his testicle in her mouth for a frozen second, the reality of the words failing to register. Then, slowly, she let him slip from her lips with a wet, audible pop.
She sat back on her heel. She looked up at him, her face a mask of stunned disbelief. Her mouth was wet and swollen, glistening with her own saliva and the taste of him. Her eyes, usually so averted and submissive, locked onto his, searching for the mockery she expected to find. But there was none.
“Huh?” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, cracking with disuse.
The commander reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip.
“I love you,” he muttered, the conviction hardening his voice. “I don't want you as a slave anymore. I want you as my wife.”
The girl trembled, a violent shiver that ran from her shoulders to her hands. She stared at him. The concept was alien, impossible. Slaves did not become wives. High ranking men did not marry property.
“I am going to marry you,” he continued, his eyes roaming over her face as if memorizing it. “I will build you a house. You will never have to kneel on furs again unless you wish to.”
His hand slid down her neck to her shoulder, gripping her firmly. “Look at you. You are the most beautiful thing. Your body…” He let his gaze drop, tracing the curve of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the softness of her thighs. "It drives me mad. I want to spend every day worshiping it, every night inside it.”
He leaned forward, his intensity crowding the small space between them. “You are a princess. You should be treated like a queen. You will want for nothing. Fine clothes, jewels, the best food from the markets. But mostly, you will have me. Completely.”
“We will have children. Twenty. Thirty. A whole tribe of our own. Strong sons, beautiful daughters. Little warriors with your eyes and my spirit, running wild in fields of our own
The girl’s breath hitched. She was paralyzed, caught between the ingrained instinct to lower her eyes and the desperate need to believe him. She stared at him, her lips parted, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Thirty?” she whispered. “I... would any woman survive bearing thirty children?”
He looked at her with a deadly seriousness, his gaze raking over her body.
“Of course you would. You…”
The tent flap ripped open.
A warrior stood there, tall and broad, his face flushed with urgency. “Commander! Th….”
Instantly the commander scrambled backward, his hands snatching at the heavy wool blanket draped over the cot and threw it to the girl. She dragged it up to her chin, clutching the coarse fabric against her skin.
“Did you see her?" he roared, the veins in his neck bulging. "Did you see the nakedness of my princess?"
The warrior blinked, taken aback by the sheer volume of the shout. He shifted his weight, clearly not understanding the gravity of the error he had just made. He glanced at the lump of wool under which the girl hid, then back at his commander with a shrug.
"Commander," the warrior said, his tone dismissive. "She is a slave. What does it matter if I saw her nakedness?."
The commander’s face darkened. He stood up fully, his imposing frame towering over the subordinate. He did not bother to fasten his trousers. He simply stepped closer, invading the warrior's space, radiating a threat of immediate violence.
“Did you see the nakedness of the girl?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more threat than a shout.
"No," the warrior said quickly, his voice firm. "No, commander. I saw nothing."
The commander stared at him for a long, tense moment. Then turning back
"Why do you burst into my tent without announcement?"
The warrior seized the change in subject gratefully.
"Riders, Commander. The king’s men."
The Royal Captain had rode ahead..toward the camp... Beside him, a younger soldier, Ser Joric, kept shifting in his saddle, his eyes darting nervously.
“This is folly.” Joric muttered, his voice low. “We should wait for night. They are just sitting there. They seem to not want to attack. Perhaps they fear we might kill their Lord and women. It is the perfect time for an ambush.”
The Captain didn’t look at him.
“We try to negotiate. Barlon’s army at our gates is worse than Barlon in our dungeons. We offer the carrot before the stick.”
“The stick would be more effective,” Joric persisted, his hand resting on his sword pommel. “A quick, sharp strike while they’re drunk and distracted from their waiting…”
“Enough, Joric,” the Captain snapped. “You guard my flank and keep your opinions behind your teeth. That is your only duty here.”
They crested the final rise on the hill, and the camp sprawled before them.
It was less a military encampment and more a chaotic, living organism of fur, leather, and muscle. There were no neat rows of tents. Men…no, giants of warriors…lounged on hides, sharpened axes the size of small trees, turned spits over roaring fires lit in the day. Some were bare-chested despite the chill and heat, despite the fighting that might occur, bodies a tapestry of scars, runic tattoos, and corded muscle that gleamed with oil and sweat.
As the royal party descended, dozens of pairs of eyes, pale and dark, tracked their progress with a predatory stillness.
He guided his horse toward a large open tent , where a man…the commander… sat surrounded by some warriors. He was as massive as the others.
Beside him, a girl knelt on a woven mat, her head bowed, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wore a simple, thin shift, the fabric clinging to her skin in the heat.
The Royal Captain dismounted staring at the girl.
Such barbarians. Bringing a woman into war. He thought. Women are for hearths and homes, not to be dragged through the mud and blood of a campaign.
The girl kept her eyes on the dirt floor of the tent, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She could feel the heat of his stare, the weight of his and companions judgment pressing down on her shoulders.
“I come under the banner of King Theron. I seek the captain of this host.”
The commander took a long, slow drink of his ale, his eyes never leaving the Royal captain’s.
"You have balls, royal,” he rumbled.
"Or you have a death wish. Which is it?"
The Royal captain cleared his throat.
“The King offers terms. The trai… Lord Barlon will be released. You will take your Lord and your men, and you will return.”
A beat of silence.
The commander face split into a grin. He looked at his men, who began to chuckle.
“And what of Lyssa and Anya?”
"The King will not release Anya. She belongs to the King and is a royal now. You will soon address her as Queen Anya. Lyssa’s marriage as I presume was arranged long before this conflict began," The royal captain replied. "She is betrothed to Lord Corvus. She will also remain." He refrained from telling them of Corvus’s death.
The laughter died. The commander’s eyes turned cold.
The girl felt a tickle on her ankle, then another. Ants, marching in a relentless line from the dry earth, had found their way onto the mat. One crawled up her shin, its tiny legs prickling against her skin. She suppressed a shiver, unwilling to draw attention to herself.
Another ant bit into the soft skin of her knee. The sting was sharp, immediate. She couldn't help it. She shifted her weight, twitching her leg to shake the insects off. The movement was small, a reflex against the crawling nuisance, but the fabric of her shift was old and loose.
As she raised her leg slightly to brush the ants away, the hem of her shift slid downward, caught by the gravity of her movement. The fabric pooled around her hip, leaving her leg exposed. The pale skin of her thigh gleamed in the shaft of sunlight and for a brief second, the shadowy darkness between her legs was visible.
Ser joric saw it. His gaze locked onto the flash of skin. He stared, his eyes widening as he took in the curve of her thigh and the shadowed promise beneath. He didn't look away quickly enough. He drank it in, a dirty, voyeuristic moment of theft.
The girl froze. She saw the direction of his eyes… he is going to die… She quickly dropped her leg back down, yanking the hem of her shift over her knees. She smoothed the fabric frantically, adjusting the clothing to cover herself.
Thwack.
Ser Joric’s head left his shoulders in a spray of crimson. It tumbled through the air and landed with a dull thud, eyes wide. His body remained upright for a horrifying second before slumping sideways to the ground.
The attacker leaned back on his weapon, wiping a spatter of blood from his cheek with a thick forearm.
"He dares," the commander said, his voice barely a whisper. "Your men dare gaze at what is mine!"
The Royal Captain stood frozen, the hot blood spray cooling on his armor. His remaining three soldiers were white-faced, hands on their swords but not drawing them. To draw now was death.
With a grunt, the commander stood, unfolding to his full, terrifying height. He stretched, his spine popping, and took two steps forward until he was a hand’s breadth from the Royal Captain.
“You look like a fit man. Strong in the arms. Not like these other palace kittens.” He jerked his head at the trembling soldiers. “So why waste yourself in the king’s army?”
He leaned in, his breath hot and beer-laden.
“You should fight. Let us see what the king’s men are truly made of…my men haven’t had a proper bit of sport in days.”
A circle had formed around the Royal Captain. Grinning faces, bearded and scarred, lined the perimeter. A warrior shoved a round shield into the Captain’s hands. It was old, the leather covering scarred, the iron boss dented. An axe followed, thumping into the dirt at his feet.
"You fight with those."
Another large man…the third in command… the third man…took a long pull of his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting. “Girl,” he shouted.
Another slave girl… a small party had raided a nearby village just as soon as they arrived and came back with ‘spoils’ … behind him flinched. Her stomach tightened. Just more groping, she thought. The public fondling. With a trembling breath, she pushed herself up and stepped forward her mind already retreating to that numb, distant place.
She stopped before him.
But instead of reaching for her, he planted a hand on her back and shoved her into the center of the circle. She stumbled, the hard-packed earth scraping her bare feet.
Huh!
A warrior from the circle lifted a shield. A massive, oval thing of layered wood and thick leather, rimmed with a strip of iron. The warrior grunted as he hefted it, then let it drop. It landed in front of the girl with a heavy thud that kicked up dust. An axe followed, clattering beside it.
“Pick them up,” the Third man commanded, his tone leaving no room for question.
The girl stared at the weapons, her mind blank with terror. The shield was taller than she was if stood on its edge.
“Wha..”
The third man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, terrible growl.
“You pick up that shield, whore , or I will butter your buttocks and make you squat in the fire. And we will all watch your buttered buttocks roast and pop like suckling pig. Pick. Them. Up.”
A whimper escaped her. Tears blurred her vision. The warriors cheered, the sound a brutal wave.
“Go on, sweetmeat!”
“gods, look at the jiggle on her when she trembles!”
One warrior, a young man with fiery hair, was so enthused he unlaced his trousers and pulled out his thick, ruddy cock, pumping it in his fist as he shouted. “For Barlon! Kill the king’s whore girl!”
Trembling, the girl bent at the knees. Her fingers closed on the shield’s leather grip. She pulled. It didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth, putting her whole body into it, and managed to lift it an inch off the ground. With a grunt of effort, she hauled it up, the immense weight making her arms scream in protest. She had to use both hands just to hold it steady before her. The world narrowed to the weathered wood grain an inch from her nose. She couldn’t see a thing in front of her.
The axe lay forgotten in the dirt. She had no hands left for it.
Tears spilled over, cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. She stood there, dwarfed by the slab of wood, her legs on either side of the shield. The warriors howled their approval.
The Royal Captain watched the trembling girl stagger forward.
THWACK.
It wasn’t a blow meant to kill. It was a testing strike, hitting the shield dead-center. The impact vibrated up the girl’s arms, rattling her teeth. She cried out, stumbling back two steps, but she held on.
He struck again. THWACK. And again. THWACK.
Each soft blow was a concussive shock that traveled through the wood and into her bones. She didn’t fight. She hid shuffling blindly in a pathetic, weight-laden dance, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the sweat and dust.
The warriors were in a frenzy. They chanted. They hurled obscenities laced with desire.
Suddenly, she slipped. Her arms, exhausted and numb, couldn’t compensate for the shield’s top-heavy weight.
It was a slow, graceless collapse. The shield tipped forward. She fell with it, pulled down by its momentum.
Her buttocks, which had been modestly clenched in her fear under her shift, were now presented in full, breathtaking glory. The fall had jolted them into a furious, jiggling bounce…a ripple of soft, succulent flesh that trembled like the finest pudding. The sun gleamed on the perfect, full curves, the cleavage between them shadowed and inviting.
The circle of warriors fell utterly, completely silent. Dozens of mouths hung open. The man with his cock in his hand froze, his eyes wide. Another made a soft, choked sound. One older warrior with a grizzled beard slowly raised a hand and made a sign of blessing over his heart, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Another moment of silence passed.
Then, the noise returned.
A roar, a unified shout.
“BLESSING! BLESSING FROM THE GODS!”
“DID YOU SEE? DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?”
“HOLD ME BACK, BROTHERS, OR I SWEAR I WILL MOUNT HER RIGHT NOW!”
Two warriors actually had to grab a third by the arms, holding him back from leaping into the circle, his eyes wild.
Slowly, shaking, the girl pushed herself up. The movement was agony on her bruised arms. She rose to her hands and knees. The fabric of her shift strained, outlining each lush cheek, becoming even rounder, even more defined. A collective groan of appreciation swept the circle.
The commanders laughter cut through the noise. A great, booming, genuine sound of delight. He moved, still chuckling into the circle. He ignored the Royal Captain, who stood panting, axe lowered stunned and shocked.
The commander looked down at the girl. He grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. He pulled her, stumbling out of the circle, through the wall of warriors who tried to reach out to pat her flank, her buttocks, her hair as she passed.
“Enough fun,” he rumbled.”
The circle of men roared, a frenzied, blood-thirsty choir. Their boots stamped the packed dirt, their fists slammed against shields, their voices a single throaty scream.
“Pretty armor for a pretty corpse,” The third man growled….he was the one fighting the Royal captain now…
The royal captain spat, his eyes sharp.
Beat..
The third man struck first. He didn’t swing his axe. He charged, shield leading like a battering ram. The impact wasn’t a crack, but a deep, shuddering thud that stole the breath from every witness. The Royal captain’s shield held, but his body was driven back three stumbling steps. The warrior didn’t pause. He hooked his axe low, a vicious upward sweep aimed at the captain’s thigh. The captain twisted, the axe-head grazing, but the third man’s follow-through was a shield-edge smash to the jaw.
A tooth flew, a white speck in the mud. The Royal captain’s head snapped back, a spray of blood misting the air. The crowd’s roar peaked, a wave of savage approval..
“First gift,” The third man snarled.
The Royal captain answered with his own axe, a desperate, upward hack that caught The third man across the cheeks. It was shallow, but it parted skin and drew a red line. The man grinned, the pain a fuel. But the royal captain was on him again. He hammered his shield forward, the edge cracking into the third mans jaw. Teeth flew.
Not a moment was wasted. The captain lunged forward, inside the warrior’s guard. His shield became a weapon again, its boss driving into the third man’s solar plexus with a force that folded the giant man inward. Third man gasped, the air leaving him in a wet, rush. The royal captain’s fist, followed. One, two, three blows to the same spot on the man’s jaw.
But Third man’s eyes, wild and furious, never lost focus. As the captain drew back for a fourth punch, the warrior’s axe, which had been falling, reversed its momentum. The man brought it across in a short, brutal arc. Aimed at his leg. The axe blade met it piercing through the armor.
There was a sickening, wet crunch… it didn’t cut through the leg completely…The captain screamed.
The advantage was absolute now. Third man advanced, a predator sensing the kill. He slammed his shield against the captain’s, catching his nose and forcing the wounded man back, until the captain stumbled and fell onto his rear. The shield broke into pieces from the blow.
The circle of cheering men roared with laughter.
The Royal captain tried to stand straight. He couldn’t. His leg buckled, a spike of agony shooting from his knee to his hip. He dragged it through the muck, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that bubbled through the blood streaming from his flattened nose. It painted his lips and chin a glistening, crimson mask.
His shield was a splintered wreck. In his hands, he held the axe. His grip was white-knuckled, desperate.
The circle of cheering men roared with laughter.
“Look at him hop!” A warrior with the braided beard barked, spitting.
Third man circled with lazy, confident strides, his own axe held low. “You hear them, Captain?” he taunted, his voice a gravelly rumble. “They’re singing for you.”
“He’s pissing himself, I can smell it from here!” another warrior jeered, earning another round of laughter.
Third man grinned. He stopped circling. He turned to look at the commander.
“This is what happens when you send a courtier to do a warrior’s work!” he bellowed to no commander but the men.
The commander was not where he had been standing.
The cheer that answered him was deafening. Third man soaked in it. He turned his head again, nodding at the cheering men, his guard down, his axe almost dangling.
With a scream born of pure survival, the Royal captain lunged from his knees. He gripped the axe upside down and aimed.
With a thrust born of every ounce of remaining strength, a thrust powered by shattered pride and the will to dominate utterly, the Captain drove the rounded, wooden handle into the cleft between The third man’s buttocks.
The ash wood was hard, unyielding. It tore the cloth and met tight, clenched resistance. The captain leaned his whole weight into it, a sharp, brutal invasion. There was a moment of impossible pressure, a barrier of muscle and body refusing. Then it gave.
The handle penetrated, forcing its way inward, deep. Third man’s body arched, a shockwave of violation tearing through him. His scream was not of pain alone, but of profound, shocking invasion. It was a sound the crowd had never heard... high, stripped of all warrior’s pride, pure animal shock.
The captain shoved it deeper, grinding it inward, the wood becoming a part of Third man’s body. He felt the internal pressure, the way Third man’s muscles convulsed around the foreign object. He kept pushing, until the base of the handle was flush against The man’s body, buried to the hilt.
The crowd fell silent watching in utter shock and disbelief.
A whistle.
A cluster of arrows landed then, thudding into the earth in a tight, deadly pattern just a few yards away.
A shout of many men followed.
The Royal Captain looked up, vision blurred.
“Who…” he muttered, his voice a ragged whisper. “Who told them to adv…”
His legs buckled. He collapsed face-first into the ground, unconscious.
A few minutes earlier…
The roaring circle had left a deliberate space for the Commander. No one was behind him. No one was in front of him.
The girl was with him.
“First gift,” The third man snarled.
Her mind was not on the brutal spectacle.
I love you.
Did you see the nakedness of my princess?
I want you as my wife.
She raised her hands to her face, fanning herself. The air she pushed against her skin did nothing to cool the flush.
A soft sigh escaped her, barely audible over the cheers. She felt a swell of affection, a dangerous thing for a slave to feel for a master. It made her want to reach out, to touch him.
But then, a sharp, insistent pressure from below shattered her romantic reverie.
Her bladder, full and heavy gave a violent throb inside her lower belly. The need had been a dull ache while she was seated in the tent, easy to ignore in the heat of the moment, but standing up had let the fluid settle, and now gravity was doing its work.
She shifted her weight slightly, pressing her thighs together, but the movement did little to alleviate the ache. The movement caused the liquid inside her to slosh, a sensation that made her breath hitch in her throat. She bit her lower lip, hard, trying to anchor her mind on the pain of the bite rather than the pressure building between her legs. It was a losing battle. The urge was rapidly transforming from a manageable need into a desperate requirement for relief.
"Is something the matter?" the Commander’s voice rumbled, deep and resonant. He was now looking at her.
The girl flinched. She quickly forced her legs to unlock, though every fiber of her being screamed to hold herself tight.
"No," she stammered, her voice breathless and higher than usual. "It is just... the heat."
It wasn't a total lie. The sun was beating down on them. She clenched her internal muscles with all her might, fighting a losing battle against her own body.
The commander leaned in whispering in her ear.
“You do not need permission to go relieve yourself my love.”
The girl froze, staring into his eyes. Then, with a bow, she slipped away from the crowd.
The commander waited a heartbeat, ensuring no eyes had followed her, before he detached himself from the spectacle.
The girl moved toward their tent, every step a delicate, torturous negotiation, a desperate clench and release of muscles that were beginning to tremble with the strain.
There were no privies here. She moved behind the tent a few paces, finding a shadowed spot between a supply cart and a stacked pile of firewood. It was private, shielded from the main pathways, the circle and the massive army now camped below the hill.
The commander didn't follow her behind the tent. He hung back a silent guardian ensuring that the privacy she desperately needed remained inviolate.
The girl looked around quickly, confirming she was alone and then, she hiked up her shift.
The fabric bunched around her waist, exposing her legs to the cooling air. She wore no undergarments…slaves rarely did…and the sensation of the breeze against her inner thighs made her shiver. The air was cooler here.
She squatted low.
She let go.
The release was instantaneous and overwhelming. It wasn’t a trickle. It was a sudden, hot release, a rushing stream that hissed loudly onto the packed dirt and dry grass below her. Heat radiated from her core, the relief so intense it was almost pleasurable. The tight pressure in her bladder vanished, replaced by a warm, emptying sensation that spread through her lower abdomen.
She closed her eyes for a moment, just feeling it. The physical urgency leaving her body, the warm liquid creating a small, dark patch on the ground.
On the other side, the commander stared straight ahead at the bustle of the camp, but his ears were tuned to the soft sounds behind him. He heard the hiss of the stream, the quiet sigh that escaped her lips, and the rustle of her clothing as she adjusted her weight. He did not turn. He did not peek. To him, her privacy was a mandate. He stood rigid focusing on the two men in front of him arguing over meat.
She let it flow until the stream tapered, then stopped. A few last drops fell. She remained squatting for a moment, the cool air now touching the wet warmth between her thighs. She felt empty. Relieved.