The Bridle Path Read online

  They entered the underground system midway through that third day. The cavern system was dank and eerie, a faint illumination coming from patches of glowing moss that clung to the rocky walls. But at least the air was now above freezing point, if not by much, and the silt soil beneath her feet made walking a lot easier than pushing through the snow outside.

  Sprig scarcely gave Melina a backward glance during all this time, apart from when the party made periodic rest stops. During these short breaks he offered her water and dried meat and pushed her to one side for her to empty her bladder, but he did not speak. Neither did he remove the slave hood, leaving it in place as if to emphasise her new status the more.

  Eventually, several hours after entering the caves, they arrived at a place where the basic tunnel opened up into a wide chamber, the roof disappearing up into the darkness, a wide flat shelf of rock projecting over the embankment to one side, that would be above the water level when the river was actually flowing. Dismounting, the brigands led their horses up a steep and uneven slope and Melina realised that this was where they intended to make camp for the night.

  The little plateau, Melina saw, was littered with the debris of previous camps, including a rough circle of rocks, soot blackened from earlier fires, a few stumps of charcoal crumbling at its centre. Immediately, Mielgaard ordered Sprig to begin collecting wood for a new fire, and the young giant began untying Melina's wrists. For the first time in many hours, he spoke to her.

  'You will help,' he said curtly. 'And do not be foolish, for there is nowhere to run.' He led the way back down to the riverbed and the pair of them worked their way back and forth, prising pieces of dried branch and twigs from the soft soil, flotsam carried down on the current when there had been one. In a surprisingly short time they had accumulated a considerable stack of kindling, which Sprig began to ferry up to the camp, leaving Melina to continue scavenging for more.

  As she paused to draw breath, peering into the gloom all about her, Melina had never felt so miserable and forlorn in all her young life. Sprig, she knew, had been right: there was no point in trying to run off, no point at all. Even assuming that they did not ride her down almost immediately, beyond the caves at either end lay nothing but snow and ice. She was poorly clothed and had no food and no means of starting a fire for herself. Without these murderers she would be dead in a day at the most.

  Sighing deeply, she bent to her work once more, blinking away the tears that blurred her vision and stung her cheeks.

  'How old are you, slave?' Pecon looked at Demila, who was crouched at his feet, where she had remained for perhaps half an hour, unmoving, unspeaking, but watching his every move. The sudden breaking of the silence seemed to catch her unawares and her eyes, flickering behind the leather slave mask, looked wary.

  'I - I don't know, master,' she replied, her voice little more than a whisper. 'They think about twenty summers, but no one is sure.' Pecon picked idly at his teeth and considered this.

  'You have been a slave for most of that time?' he said, eventually.

  Demila nodded. 'For a long time, yes master,' she demurred. 'I cannot remember much of before that time.'

  'But you were not always in Daskot's household?'

  She shook her head again. 'No, master,' she said. 'For many years I was owned by a farmer - in a place they call the Vaal, which is the land where I was born, so I was told. He bought me from another when I was but a child, but I remember little of that.'

  'You were a field worker?'

  'No, master, not as such,' Demila replied, her voice now steadier as she appeared to grow in confidence. 'When I was still little, I worked in the kitchens on the great farm and then I was trained to the bridle.'

  'To the bridle?' Pecon echoed. He sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. 'Explain further, slave.' Demila's eyes showed confusion, but, after a brief hesitation, she continued.

  'My master - my master then,' she corrected, 'trained and used slaves to act as horses, or ponies. We pulled carts and carriages, taking the surplus crops to market and also conveying the overseers about the estate. The bigger, stronger slaves were also raced against each other and against the pony slaves from other estates.'

  'I see,' Pecon mused. His mouth twitched slightly, but his face remained a mask of inscrutability. 'Tell me more,' he said. 'I have heard of these things, but I have never come across them personally.'

  'There is not much more to tell, master,' Demila replied. 'I was trained as part of a team of four girls, all of about my age, but I was too slight and did not develop sufficiently as I grew older, which was why I was sold again.' Pecon studied her full breasts and flaring hips and now a smile did flicker across his face.

  'Your development seems perfectly satisfactory to me,' he chuckled. Demila's eyes flickered again and her cheeks, beneath the rim of the mask, began to colour slightly.

  'I was not tall enough, master,' she said blandly. 'Any girl who did not grow to a certain height was considered not worth training further. For the ordinary work there were always plenty of young slaves, so only the tallest and strongest were kept for racing and breeding. The rest of us were simply sold on, for other duties and purposes.'

  'And Daskot, your last master, had purposes in mind that did not depend upon your height, eh?' Pecon grinned. Demila stared down at her feet. Pecon remained silent for several seconds, finally managing to loosen a piece of meat that had been annoying him for some while and spat it to one side.

  'Stand up and remove your skirt,' he ordered, finally. Demila, still without meeting his gaze, leapt dutifully to her feet, unclipped the metal fastening at her waist and let the brief leather garment fall away to dangle from one hand. Slowly, Pecon stood up himself, stepped forward and took it from her, tossing it away.

  'Look up at me, slave girl,' he commanded quietly. Almost reluctantly, Demila raised her eyes. Pecon reached out and cupped her heavy breasts, one in each hand, drawing a small shudder from her.

  'Tell me,' he whispered, 'do you prefer me as a master - to that fat pig, Daskot, that is?'

  Demila swallowed and licked her lips. 'A slave is not permitted such opinions, master,' she replied hoarsely.

  Pecon grunted. 'A slave is permitted whatever her master says she is permitted,' he said. 'Answer the question, or shall I take my whip to your pretty hide?'

  Demila hesitated, swallowing hard again, but fear of another whipping quickly loosened her tongue. 'I am your slave, master,' she said, 'and I am loyal and obedient. My last master, as you say, was fat and smelled and almost crushed the breath from my body. You, master, are strong and handsome.' Her eyes downcast again, she seemed to be struggling for the right words.

  'You are very handsome, master,' she said at last. 'A slave girl should be honoured to serve one such as you.'

  'Then show me how you would serve me,' Pecon said gruffly. Without further ado, Demila dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out and up for the heavy buckle on Pecon's belt. Her deft fingers quickly loosened it and, a moment later, she was drawing his breeches down about his knees.

  'Remove them completely, girl,' Pecon instructed. 'A master cannot be dignified with his pants about his ankles.' Obediently, Demila crouched lower, tugging each leg free over his heavy boots as he raised a foot in turn, placing the discarded garment to one side with a care that bordered upon reverence. But as she reached up again for the flaccid organ her actions had revealed, Pecon pushed her hands away.

  'Use only your mouth,' he said. 'That is why the slave hood leaves the lower part of the face unencumbered, as you should know.'

  'Yes, master,' she mumbled, and placed her hands behind her back, reaching out and stretching her neck, until her soft lips touched his already swelling organ. Skilfully, she encircled its head, drawing it into her mouth, her tongue already darting back and forth.

  'Excellent,' Pecon sighed. His right hand moved to rest lightly on the leather-covered crown of her head, as it moved slowly back and forth between his thighs. 'Excellent,' he
repeated, as his shaft began to approach a full erection. He closed his eyes, smiling contentedly.

  'You, my little ex-pony,' he whispered, 'could well turn out to be the best bargain I have made in many a long year.'

  The single lantern had been turned down as low as the wick could permit, its dim light falling far short of the shadows that reached out from the walls of the chamber. On the bed, naked now, Corinna lay, eyes open, staring up into the blackness below the ceiling, her breasts rising and falling in time with her slow, deep breathing.

  From the open window the stillness of the night air was broken only by the occasional clink-chink of the sentries moving about on the walls below, and the plaintive hoot of the owl that had made the roof of the north tower its home. Within the castle itself all was now quiet, the two maids in the room immediately beneath Corinna's chamber sound asleep these past two hours, the drugged wine she had given them having done its work almost before she had left them.

  Tentatively, she fingered the two heavy gold nipple rings and then, in the semi-darkness, twisted them open and removed them, reaching out to place them on the table at the bedside. Gold rings, she reflected, were not suitable adornments for a slave wench, even one who had yet to be taken back into slavery, and she was certain her master would find acceptable substitutes.

  Since entering the underground riverbed they had been leading their horses, though the silted and sandy bed of the dried out course was soft enough to muffle the sound of hooves. Alanna, however, did not believe in taking chances.

  'This Mielgaard fellow apparently makes use of these caverns to camp overnight, out of the snow and ice,' she explained.

  'Sounds sensible - for a man,' Jekka smiled. She stared up at the high vaulted ceiling of the cave. 'Not quite cozy,' she observed, 'but better than waking up under half a stand of snow.' They trudged on in silence for several minutes, before Jekka spoke again.

  'How many men does this Mielgaard command?' she asked.

  Alanna shook her head. 'It varies,' she said. 'Reports say he rides with as many as a score and as few as half a dozen. We'll have need of your shooting skills, without a doubt, but we'll still need to think of something to delay any survivors from pursuing us.'

  'A few well aimed quarrels should dissuade them,' Jekka said dryly, 'but I may have a better idea, assuming we come upon them underground.' She stopped, drawing in the lead rein of her horse and moved around to one of the saddlebags.

  'I saw this used once in Testagrat,' she said. 'Two Pendorsian warlords were battling for control of the city, but the city was none too keen on being ruled by any of them. The priests and students led an uprising and a young alchemist - some claim he was a wizard - came up with a clever little ruse.' She pulled open the flap of the saddlebag and withdrew a flattened flagon.

  'I had another alchemist prepare this for me in Illeum City,' she said, uncorking the container and passing it to Alanna. Alanna raised it beneath her nostrils, sniffed and pulled a wry face.

  'It smells like some sort of wine that has badly soured,' she said. 'What is it?'

  'It's made from the green spirit that the Tamarinians are so fond of addling their brains with,' Jekka replied. 'Almost any spirit will do, but it needs be distilled over again.'

  'Ye Gods!' Alanna coughed, having sniffed the vapour once more. 'What do you intend to do, offer these brigands a drink and blow the tops of their heads off?'

  'In a manner of speaking,' Jekka grinned, 'though they don't get the pleasure of actually drinking it. What we do is this.' She took the flagon back and pointed to the neck. 'A piece of rag, soaked in a little of the spirit first, is stuffed into the opening and lit,' she explained. 'Once it is burning well, I simply throw the flagon towards our pursuers.

  'When it lands, it breaks, and the burning rag ignites the rest of the spirit. The flash from it is quite impressive, believe me, and will be more so if we can use the thing somewhere where the roof is lower.'

  'It will startle their horses, no doubt,' Alanna agreed, 'but that will only gain us a short respite.'

  'As it stands, yes,' Jekka agreed, 'but there is more.' She reached into the saddlebag again and withdrew a small skin bag. 'Inside this,' she said, 'is ground sulphur and certain dried leaves that have also been reduced to form a powder. Together they burn to produce a thick black smoke.

  'Just before lighting the bottle I place this inside, floating in the spirit. The heat from the flash will ignite the bag and its contents and, apart from startled horses, we leave behind a thick cloud through which no sane man would attempt to ride.'

  'Very clever,' Alanna said, 'if it works.'

  'It'll work,' Jekka replied confidently.

  'And how many of these little toys do you have?' Alanna asked.

  Jekka's grin reappeared. 'Just the one,' she said, placing bottle and bag back inside the saddlebag. 'Just the one.'

  The door to the bedroom had opened noiselessly and the first indication that Corinna had of his presence was when a large hand clamped over her mouth and another grasped her waist, throwing her over onto her stomach. Face down into the pillows, even had she cried out her protests would have passed unheard, and the soft wad of fabric he then forced between her unresisting lips ensured that any sounds she made would remain safely within the confines of the thick walled bedchamber.

  He worked as efficiently as she remembered from that first time. Swiftly, her wrists were chained at the small of her back, immobilising her arms temporarily while he moved to the next stage. He lifted her effortlessly clear of the mattress, sliding the slave belt beneath her stomach and lowered her onto it, wrapping the stout leather about her waist and drawing it together to secure it with the four individual buckles.

  Corinna gasped as he tightened the band, sucking air in through her nostrils and grunting as he continued to reduce the circlet still further. Finally, when he was satisfied that he had made her waist as small as was practicable, he released the chain from her wrists and resecured them individually to the leather manacles riveted at either side of the belt for just that purpose.

  Still unspeaking, he rolled her onto her back, from which position Corinna knew from experience, it would require either his assistance or a lot of effort on her own part, to either roll back or even sit up. However, neither alternative was an option as yet.

  In the semi-darkness his form was little more than a silhouette as he bowed over her feet, first placing the slave sandals upon them and lacing them, criss-crossing the thongs up to her knees and then locking the heavy leather anklets into place, drawing her legs close enough together to accommodate the short chain that joined them.

  He was ready for the slave hood now, and she had earlier drawn her long hair up into a high ponytail in order to facilitate its fitting. Twisting her long tresses into a temporary braid, he threaded them through the circlet at the crown, drawing the soft leather down and over the top half of her features, bringing the two side pieces over her cheeks and then passing the attached stiffer collar about her throat and joining it at the nape of her neck, where the small lock fastened.

  Corinna peered out through the narrow eye slits, knowing he would soon buckle the blindfold over them, but not yet, for he wanted her to see his final preparations. He moved to the lamp, turning up the wick to increase the size and strength of the pool of light it provided, and crossed back to stand looking down at her.

  'My most perfect slave,' he whispered, breaking the silence at last. He reached down, withdrawing the wadded gag from her mouth, one finger of his other hand raised to his lips, cautioning her against speaking. 'Stand, slave,' he ordered, taking her by the top of one arm to help her comply. She swung her legs slowly over the side of the bed, lowered her feet onto the thick rug, and awkwardly raised herself erect.

  Now he held in his hand something metal, something that glinted, though dully, in the flickering lamplight. Corinna shivered delightedly as she recognised the simple iron inventory tags, the small rectangular pendants onto which every mast
er or trader stamped the particulars of every slave. They were attached to thick iron rings, thicker than the golden rings that had adorned Corinna's nipples this past year, and their girth stretched her piercings uncomfortably.

  From the small bag he'd brought with him, Savatch now took a heavy pair of pincers, using them to crimp the rings, so that the hollow ends bit into the tongue ends, preventing them being removed without the aid of a similar tool. Corinna half closed her eyes, imagining herself a fully bonded slave, when these rings, the rings of the master who had finally purchased her, would be brazed closed in the smithy, removable then only by means of cutting or filing.

  The tags felt heavy, pulling at her swollen teats, clinking slightly as she moved, but he was not through with her yet. Kneeling before her, he deftly detached the small gold rings that had remained through her outer labia since the previous summer, replacing them with thicker iron copies, one of which also bore a tag similar to the first pair, and then slipped a stubby lock between the two and snapped it shut.

  'I see I shall not need my razor this time, princess,' he chuckled, running his fingers over her shaven pubis. Corinna felt the heat within rising, not just from the intimacy of his touch, but from the memories his words invoked, to that day, in another place and in another time that now seemed so far away and long ago, when a wide-eyed and frightened new bride had been forcibly shaved in her own bathtub.

  'You mock your slave, master,' she said, lowering her eyes.

  'That is a master's prerogative,' he said, 'and it is not the place of a slave to speak without permission. You have been too long without appreciating the privilege of speech, methinks.' He lifted the pear-shaped leather gag and she opened her mouth willingly to accept it, moving her mouth to adjust to its shape as he fastened the retaining straps to either side of her slave hood.