The Bridle Path Read online

  'And do you know why masters make such use of the slave hoods?' he went on. 'I'll tell you why. If he has a pretty slave, then he doesn't want her face to be admired, rather that men look upon her tits and arse, so that she might be just any other piece of woman flesh.' The look of horror on Erin's face deepened.

  'And,' Bal said, relishing her discomfort, 'if he has a plain slave, then no one need know that's all he can afford. Men can look upon a featureless wench like this one and imagine what they will. Beneath that mask she could be the most beautiful woman in the world, or she could be the most repulsive. Either way, she is treated the same, as it should be.'

  'But even a slave girl is a person,' Erin protested, though not loudly. 'Even this poor creature surely deserves to be treated for herself, as an individual.'

  'But why?' he countered. 'She is bought, owned and has no rights, save that her master may not kill her without showing just cause.'

  'Not much different to being a wife, then,' Erin replied, pensively. Bal seemed to ignore her observation.

  'This creature,' he said, waving a hand at Corinna, 'is almost certainly a barbarian, without knowledge of her letters, without any civilising influence, save the collar and lash. Such as she are little better than the wild animals and worse than the pigs, sheep and cattle, for they are domesticated by nature and accept their station easily.'

  'Yet so-called civilised men take so-called barbarians such as this to their beds,' Erin pointed out. 'So who, then, is the animal?'

  'I said she was no better than an animal, not that she was one,' Bal answered. 'And in her hood and collar she can be made to perform like a civilised woman - maybe better,' he added, with a snicker. He turned to the girl and grinned down at her.

  'Perhaps,' he said, 'it is the collar and lash that have the most beneficial effect on all women.' He met her indignant stare without a flicker. 'And perhaps,' he continued after a lengthy pause, 'we should explore that possibility at some later stage.'

  Moxie's keen young eyes spotted the gruesome spectacle hanging from the battlements as she and Pester were emerging from the woods. For several seconds, as her horse continued walking, she could do nothing but sit in the saddle and stare in horrified disbelief, but self-preservation is an even stronger instinct than horror. Hardly able to speak, she reined her mount to a halt and wheeled it about, leaning across to seize the bridle of Pester's pony.

  'Quickly!' she gasped. 'Back into the trees!' The young page, whose attention had been anywhere but on what lay ahead of them, almost toppled from his saddle, only the ropes about his ankles preventing such a painful disaster, and he cried out in alarm as he lurched in the saddle. Moxie, however, realised that every second was crucial and did not waste even one in explanations until they were back deep inside the cover of the trees.

  'No, I don't know what's happening, you stupid little oaf!' she snapped, helping Pester to dismount from his precarious perch. 'All I know is what I saw - and you'd have seen it too, if your mind had been anywhere but below your middle!' Briefly, she repeated to Pester what she had seen and the youth stared at her, slack-jawed.

  'But why?' was all he managed. Moxie barely managed to control her exasperation.

  'I don't damned well know!' she stormed. 'All I do know is that Lady Dorothea would never be a party to Agana being treated like that, not in a million years.'

  'You're sure it was Agana?' Pester persisted. Moxie wanted to slap him, but realised it would do no good.

  'Of course I'm sure,' she said slowly. 'You tell me what other woman could ever be mistaken for that black bitch, eh?' She turned away, looking back down the trail along which they had fled. 'No, that was Agana all right, and I can think of only one reason for what I saw.

  'Fulgrim,' she said, looking over her shoulder to where Pester stood, still bound in his slave garb and still apparently unable to grasp what was happening. 'That evil bastard is behind this,' she continued, 'which means he must somehow have escaped. But then surely the guards...' Her voice tailed off, her forehead furrowing in concentration.

  'The relief guard detail,' she said at last, her words barely audible. 'That has to be it. Somehow, I don't know how, they must have been Fulgrim's men, though the gods know how.'

  'I think I might know, miss,' Pester ventured. Moxie rounded on him, her eyes narrowing. Pester wilted visibly, but continued, his words tumbling out on top of each other.

  'He asked me, miss,' he said, 'about - well, months ago, it must have been, when I was duty to take his meals down there. He offered me money - all the gold I could ever dream of, he said - if I'd get someone to take a message for him. He said there was a man in Illeum City and that this man would take care of everything, including me.'

  'Yes, I'll wager he'd have taken care of you, my pretty boy,' Moxie growled. 'But you refused, of course?'

  'Of course!' Pester replied indignantly. 'I wasn't going to help a monster like him, not for all the gold in the world.'

  'Not to mention what Agana would do to you if she discovered you trying to sneak out and make it to Illeum City,' Moxie added sourly. 'But someone was tempted, or I'm a smithy's labourer. Have any of the pages gone missing of late?' she added. 'I haven't heard anything myself, but then that would be Agana's territory and half of you look the same to me anyway.'

  'Pages and maids go missing every few weeks anyway,' Pester said. 'Some are caught and returned, but I don't think Agana is ever that worried. She just picks new ones from whatever the slavers have on offer.'

  'And pages and maids taken from across borders and mountains are less likely to run off than those of you with families and friends in Illeum,' Moxie muttered. 'So, if someone was lured by dreams of Vorsan gold, no one would have been suspicious at the time?'

  'No, miss,' Pester said miserably. 'I wish now I'd said something at the time.'

  'So do I,' Moxie agreed, her usually full lips drawn into a thin line, 'though not half as much as I suspect Agana does right now!'

  The girl, Erin, had refused to rise to Bal's bait. It was obvious, to Corinna, that there was supposed to be something between them - they were probably betrothed under the sort of arrangement that was common among the rural families - but that something was most definitely not love.

  From what she had seen of the female half of the village population, Erin, Corinna thought, was a fair average in appearance. Country life and presumably generations of inbreeding did no favours to a woman's appeal, and most Corinna had seen were much the same. Sturdy of build, strong of back, but few would turn a man's head in the streets of Illeum City. The former tavern wench, Moxie, now Lady Dorothea's favourite, had been a remarkable exception, but then, from what Corinna had gathered from the girl the previous year, her mother had been some sort of dancer, with roots originally in one of the warmer southern countries south of the Sea of Vorsan.

  Bal, it seemed, was well aware of his intended's shortcomings on the beauty front and excited, without doubt, by Corinna's appearance, even though the slave hood concealed her features. And, unless the unfortunate Erin was careful, there was little doubt he would eventually have her reduced to the role of playing his personal slave maid.

  Reduced? Corinna sighed, ignoring the trickle of saliva that dribbled from one corner of her gagged lips. Yes, it was reduced, but she had been only too willing to enter the role. But then, she told herself, unlike Erin, she did not have a life of toil and hardship ahead of her - behind her as well, in all probability - so it was hardly the same.

  Was it?

  She wondered what the plain peasant girl would say if she knew the true identity of the poor helpless creature she had looked upon so pityingly? She would be shocked and shocked beyond anything that Bal could say or do to her, but understand?

  Never.

  No, Corinna thought, someone like Erin would never understand, nor could she ever be expected to even sympathise. Rather, she would despise her, hate her, show nothing but contempt for someone who had chosen to allow herself to be abused and
displayed so shamelessly.

  Only minutes after Bal and Erin had finally left, the sound of voices from the general direction of the tavern heralded the appearance of Melik Ar Fenook, followed by a growing phalanx of village people, with Savatch walking slightly to one side and affecting an air of detachment. Peering sideways and watching his approach, Corinna wondered if he could really be as calm as he appeared. The whip Melik carried, coiled in his two hands, proved that Savatch clearly intended to go through with this, but how could he stand by and watch whilst another man whipped her?

  Her eyes growing round behind the mask, Corinna felt herself beginning to sweat, her legs shaking as the crowd came up to her and began to fan out, jostling for the best vantage points. She saw Savatch approach Melik and bend to whisper something in his ear and, for a brief moment, believed that he must be about to call a halt, but such a vain hope was quickly dashed.

  Slowly, Savatch himself mounted the steps to the dais, approached the pillory and removed the lock, swinging the top timber clear and grasping the back of Corinna's collar to haul her upright. The muscles in her back and legs screaming in protest, she barely heard his first words, but as she focused upon them she realised there was to be no reprieve.

  'Is this what you wanted, princess?' he whispered, as he turned her towards the whipping post. 'Well, this is what you shall have, to understand the true status of slavery, where a master can order a slave thrashed by the hand of any he nominates.' He thrust her across the few paces between pillory and post, drawing down the thick hemp to bind her wrists before her.

  'See now how they all gawp and wait?' he hissed, knotting the rope tightly a second time. 'Look at them, slavering like wolves, near to baying even and there's not one male among them who wouldn't gladly get himself between your pretty legs, or even take the whip from Melik and flay you himself.' He jerked on the bindings, checking they were secure and then hauled on the free end of the line, forcing Corinna's arms high above her head until she was standing, barely on tiptoe, her bare breasts thrust against the rough timber.

  'And they'd gather for the spectacle, princess or pauper,' Savatch snorted, fastening off the rope and stepping back slightly. 'All are equal under the lash,' he added, his face twisted peculiarly. He reached out a hand, patted Corinna lightly on her right buttock and nodded.

  'Enjoy your whipping, slave girl,' he muttered, and turned away for the steps, which Melik was now already ascending. The two men paused opposite each other and exchanged words that Corinna could not hear, and then Savatch climbed down to take up a position in the front row of the crowd, who suddenly fell silent as the bailiff began to address them.

  'Friends!' he bellowed, raising the coiled leather braid in one hand. 'Friends, the good captain here has decreed, upon the orders of the Lady Corinna Oleanna herself, that this worthless, errant slave slut should be publicly punished for her ingratitude, insolence and disobedience. By the authority invested in me by that decree and by the authority of the office to which the State of Illeum has appointed me, I shall now execute that part of the sentence deemed to be carried out in our village.'

  He stepped back, out of Corinna's line of vision, and she heard the sharp slap as he shook the whip out over the stone flags that formed the top of the scaffold dais. She closed her eyes, biting hard into her gag, as the first hiss of displaced air signalled the flight of the leather serpent he wielded.

  The oiled braid snaked across her shoulders with a crack like splintering twigs and instantly the line of fire speared from shoulder to shoulder. Corinna squealed through the gag, her whole body bucking and writhing, her feet swinging clear of the ground so that she hung by her wrists momentarily, until her scrabbling toes found a new purchase.

  Dimly, she registered the murmur of approval from the onlookers but, by the time the lash fell for a second time, their noise had merged with the roar that now rose to fill her head.

  The bushes at the edge of the woods finished more than a hundred paces from the foot of the castle wall and the small postern gate, and as she lay under their cover, at first Moxie did not recognise the sorry looking female being dragged out towards the heavy timber post that the first soldiers had set into the ground. Only when she heard the woman's defiant voice did she realise, with horrified disbelief, that the bald, naked female was none other than her mistress, Dorothea.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Moxie studied the men. There were eight of them in all, ordinary looking troopers, all of whom, she presumed, had entered the castle as the supposed relief duty column a day or so earlier. Then they had been wearing the livery of Illeum, but now, she saw, their tabards bore a crest she had last seen upon the bestial Lord Fulgrim's attendants, a year since.

  High above, trapped inside what appeared to be a human-shaped metal cage, dangled the helpless, outstretched figure of Agana, the big black woman silent but watching the proceedings below with an intensity that belied her own perilous position.

  Gripping the handle of her switch so hard that her knuckles must surely have turned white inside her leather gloves, Moxie also bore silent frustrated witness, as the brutish fellows thrust Dorothea up against the post and tied her bound hands to it, high above her head.

  One of the men was carrying a coiled whip, leaving little doubt in Moxie's mind as to what the ultimate intention of all this activity was, but there was nothing she could do to help her mistress, for she was outnumbered and the soldiers were all well armed. Round eyed with the sheer horror of the scene, Moxie remained transfixed, like a rabbit caught in the flare of a hunter's torch.

  It seemed they were in no desperate hurry to begin, however; instead, the small group formed a ring about their captive, jeering at her, making obscene gestures and taking it in turns to fondle her. For her part, from what little Moxie could see of her face, Dorothea was struggling to remain impassive, ignoring their crude jibes and steeling herself not to flinch at their rough handling.

  At last, seeing that the noblewoman, despite what had been done to her, would not give them satisfaction in any other way, the rowdy group seemed to tire of their game. One of them, whom Moxie recognised vaguely as having been just another of the relief guard group, but who now wore some sort of officer's insignia on his shoulders, indicated the man with the whip.

  'Give her ladyship three stripes,' he guffawed. 'Space them well and then Pengrom can try to lay another three between them.' His words brought a general round of laughter from his men as they stepped further back, making room for the whip man to take up a suitable position and stance. The officer, meantime, peered up at Agana.

  'Look well, you black heathen whore!' he roared. 'Watch how your mistress dances for the common soldiery and then see how she squirms on the end of a few honest cocks!'

  Hands spread upon Pecon's muscular chest, Demila slowly raised herself, until only the tip of his organ remained within her. Dreamily, she gazed down upon him, eyes hooded with passion behind the slave mask. Pecon sighed and reached up to take her breasts, one in each hand, fingers kneading the firm globes and sliding down to meet and grip about her elongated nipples.

  With a strangled cry Demila let herself fall back again, every sinew in her straddled thighs stretched to its limit, as her pubic bone ground into his and his full length was once again embedded in her to its hilt. Her vaginal muscles contracted fiercely and instantly he began to climax, his hot seed spurting high towards her womb like sharp arrows.

  He bucked fiercely, but she held onto him with the strength of her contractions, her fingernails clawing his flesh as her own orgasm swept up and over her. Her eyes closed, opened again, yet she saw nothing, knowing only that she was falling into a yawning abyss and that if she never emerged from it again she was beyond caring.

  'Money well spent.' His lazy drawl jerked her back to reality and she opened her eyes to see her latest master grinning up at her. He stroked her hanging breasts affectionately, as he might have petted a favourite dog, and Demila understood that he was reminding her of her true
status.

  'Thank you, master,' she murmured dutifully, but with no little genuine gratitude. She made to lift herself clear of him, but he grasped her hips and held her down, keeping himself sheathed within her. On a whim, she forced the walls of her tunnel to contract again and was rewarded by a widening of his smile.

  'Keep that up,' he said, 'and I may just have to think about keeping you.'

  'I would like that, master,' Demila whispered truthfully. After the obese Daskot, any man would surely have been an improvement, but Pecon was more than just that. He raised his eyebrows, mocking her.

  'Should I worry whether my slave likes anything?' he asked, though his tone was gentle. Demila lowered her eyes.

  'No, master,' she said, but could not resist demonstrating the power of her love muscles once again. Pecon's response was to laugh and slap her playfully across both breasts at once, drawing a small squeal from her lips.

  'Enough, my little whore slave,' he said. 'Much as I could enjoy another performance like the last, the road ahead awaits and there are places I should be. Take your hot little scabbard to the stream and cool it down.' Demila lifted herself clear and then hesitated, hovering above his glistening shaft as it fell back across his stomach.

  'Master?' she ventured.

  'What?'

  'Might I wash my hair and face?' she asked. Pecon looked up at her, considering this request.

  'Are they dirty?' he demanded.

  Demila shrugged. 'They are not as clean as my master deserves,' she replied carefully. 'And this mask makes everything so hot.'

  'You wish to remove your slave mask, is that it?' he said. Slowly, avoiding his gaze, she nodded.

  'And when your mask is unlocked, perhaps you might seek to slip away into the forest, no?'