The Bridle Path Page 7

  That would account for three of the men and Alanna's own crossbow would down another meantime. Four would remain then - two for each of them - but Jekka could reload that smaller bow with astonishing speed, so it was likely they would be facing three survivors against the two of them. Alanna nodded, satisfied. Those were good odds, she thought. Good odds indeed, and if she could take even one more out of the equation before the real fun started, it would all be almost too simple.

  The guard on the gate at Garassotta Castle had been drinking, from what Corinna could hear of his speech, and on another night, she knew, Savatch would have made certain the man was severely disciplined for such a breach of regulations. Tonight, however, her 'captor' had other business on his mind and was eager to put as much distance between themselves and the castle in as short a time as possible.

  However, Savatch being Savatch, he could not let the incident pass by completely un-noted. Through the muffling leather of her hood, Corinna heard the exchange quite clearly and could imagine the expression on the unfortunate sentry's face as he squirmed with embarrassment and no little dread as to the possible consequences.

  'Tell me, soldier,' Savatch said casually, 'do I smell something in the air here, or is it just this damned head cold playing tricks with my nose?'

  The man shuffled his feet, quite audibly. 'Er, perhaps it's something in the moat, sir,' he ventured, just a little tremulously. Corinna heard Savatch give a little cough and then sniff again, quite deliberately.

  'Ah, yes,' he said, with slow deliberation, 'it's definitely something rotten, something I most definitely shouldn't be smelling. Remind me upon my return, man, and you can spend a day down there skimming the surface and dredging for any animals that might have fallen in there and died, right?'

  'Er, right... yessir,' the soldier acknowledged. 'Shall I organise a working party?'

  'No, I don't think so,' Savatch drawled. 'One man should be more than sufficient. No need to waste the efforts of more than that.'

  But for the gag distorting her mouth, Corinna would have smiled. The errant soldier might almost have preferred a week's stoppage of pay, or almost have opted for a short disciplinary flogging, rather than face the prospect of an entire day wading about in the murky waters that surrounded Garassotta Castle. For one never knew exactly what one might find down there, except that it would be guaranteed to be either dead, dying, or something that merited killing instantly anyway.

  At this time of the year, when the springs that fed the moat were running particularly slowly, the low water level in the moat prevented it from draining and filling properly, and the warming effect of the sun produced in it an ideal environment for all manner of unspeakable growth. The apothecary spent many hours concocting solvents to pour into the glutinous mass, but these generally served only to mask the awful stench, rather than to deal with the actual cause of it.

  The thin-soled slave sandals offered only a minimal barrier between Corinna's feet and the uneven track beyond the bridge. She had assumed that Savatch would have a wagon, or small cart in which to transport her, but it now seemed he was determined to put her through as harsh an ordeal as possible, for they proceeded on foot for what seemed an eternity.

  At last, after what she guessed was a distance of at least two miles, he halted, drawing her close to him by the leash and pressing his chest hard against her quivering breasts. Corinna let out a stifled little moan and leaned into him, eagerly.

  'Ah, a choice little slave, as ever was,' Savatch murmured. His powerful hands cupped her heavy globes, thumbs gently massaging her hard nipples. 'And such a wilfully shameless little slut, too,' he chuckled, teasingly. 'Such a show of public wantonness is totally unbecoming. Perhaps I shall find a village large enough to have itself a beadle and get him to give you a public flogging.'

  Corinna shivered violently and shook her head, but the thought of being punished before a crowd of ogling rustics instilled other emotions, as well as fear, and she knew that Savatch was well capable of carrying out his threat. If he did, well, she thought, as he pushed her gently from him, it had been her idea. This charade and the agreement between them had been that she would receive nothing that any other slave might not expect from a strict master.

  She felt his fingers parting her lower lips and fought to remain silent as one digit slid easily in and out of the lubricated tunnel, for this had quickly become a contest of wills and she knew precisely what was in his mind now. Here, somewhere in the small garrison town probably, standing helplessly at the roadside, Savatch was determined that the sometime Lady Corinna Oleanna, daughter of the Protector of Illeum, the single most powerful and respected man in the entire western continent, would come like the wanton little slave she so often yearned to be.

  'It's a large old castle, uncle,' Paulis muttered, peering up at the towering walls of Garassotta from the cover of the thick undergrowth that marked the edge of the woods, 'and well guarded, too, from what we've seen so far. If our man is in there, it would be suicide to try to kill him.'

  'To try to kill him inside the castle, yes,' Jorkan agreed, 'but we shan't try to do that, shall we? Our friend has duties that bring him outside those high walls and the information I was given was that he oft times rides out with just the lady for company and never with more than a couple of guards for appearances sake.

  'In the morning, when the castle is awake and people are coming and going, we shall approach the gate, in the manner of any ordinary traveller and seek to buy provisions. They will probably send us on to the town, but it will give us a few moments in which to take our bearings.

  'Then, in the town, we can find an alehouse. There is a garrison billeted there, so there should be no shortage of drinking holes, and soldiers love to talk, especially after a season or two stuck out in a place like this. And, when they drink and talk, soldiers like to brag, to show a couple of poor yokels like us just how important they are in the scheme of things.

  'An hour or so of convivial company and I am confident we shall know a lot more about our friend's regular habits. We may have to wait a few days - several, even - but that is often the way of these things. Eventually, we shall corner our prey where there are no bolt-holes and no guards to protect him. And then—'

  Jorkan made a gesture with his fingers across his throat and chuckled. Paulis shivered, for he had begun to realise there was a side to his uncle's character that none of the family or neighbours back home could even begin to suspect, let alone understand.

  'Don't worry, boy,' Jorkan growled, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the dark walls, 'you shan't need to cut any throats yourself, not this time. But if we take the lady as well, then you can have your fair share of her noble charms until we deliver her to our patrons.'

  Mielgaard went down with Jekka's first shot, the iron bolt piercing his neck through, but he did not die quietly. His bellow of pain mixed with rage and surprise echoed around the cavern as he crumpled to his knees, fingers clawing at the shaft protruding from beneath the left side of his chin.

  Jekka ignored him, hauling back the bowstring and thrusting a second quarrel into the waiting groove. The bandit chieftain was already a dead man, even if it might yet be a minute or two before the life finally ebbed from him, and if he succeeded in pulling the bolt free from his neck he would simply hasten his end, for the stream of blood that was now trickling from the wound would become a torrent.

  Dropping to one knee, Jekka raised the bow again and drew the trigger back in a smooth motion. The string shot forward with a sharp twang and the projectile hissed across the thirty paces or so to the knot of confused figures. One of them whirled around, a shriek of agony dying on his lips, and pitched into the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

  A second, on the fringe of the group, threw up his arms, Alanna's first bolt taking him between the shoulder blades, its tip emerging like a red finger in the centre of his chest. Transferring her larger bow to her left hand, Jekka snatched up the smaller weapon. Usually she ca
rried this strapped to her forearm, hidden within the sleeve of her robe, triggering it with the special device that curved around to fit into her fist, but for speedier loading she had decided to operate it in the more conventional fashion.

  She took five paces towards the melée, aimed and fired, already reloading even as her target fell, the short bolt embedded in his right eye. Such was the speed and surprise of the two-flanked attack that the bandits were still in utter confusion. Seeing their leader dead, or dying, they drew themselves into a small knot and, in doing so, forfeited any slender chance they might have had of any of them surviving.

  Jekka's fourth quarrel found its mark in the heart of one man as a sixth jerked and toppled with Alanna's second in his thigh. The warrior princess, taking advantage of their opponents' slow reactions, had paused to reload and fire again, and now only two figures remained on their feet in the flickering firelight.

  Unfortunately, one of them now had a knife at the throat of the other, and the smaller figure he held before him as a shield was the girl.

  'Lower your weapons!' he snarled. 'Lower your weapons, or I'll slice her throat asunder.'

  'Go ahead!' Alanna called back. With slow deliberation, she stepped forward, dropping her crossbow and drawing the gleaming sword from her belt. 'Kill her by all means,' she invited. 'Why should we worry about the death of one more slave girl? You'll be as dead as she soon after, anyway.'

  The man's eyes darted wildly from Alanna to Jekka and back again. Slowly, he began to retreat, struggling to keep the terrified girl between himself and Jekka's bow, all the time not daring to take his eyes off Alanna's blade for more than a second or so at a time.

  'If you want gold,' he said, his voice quavering, 'we have very little, but what there is is in the saddlebags nearest the fire. Take that, and there are some jewels there, too. They are not very fine, so I am told, but they will fetch a few telts in the nearest town.'

  'So will this girl,' Alanna retorted. 'Let her go and drop your weapon and I'll spare your life. We've already got what we came for.' With her sword, she gestured towards the pile of corpses. 'One of those is the one they call Mielgaard, is that not so?'

  The man nodded. Jekka laughed, raising the small bow she'd reloaded yet again.

  'Kill the turd,' she said, simply. 'I can take his eye out from here before his hand can make a move.'

  'No,' Alanna cautioned. 'Even in death he could inflict a mortal wound on the wench, and I see little point in spilling any more blood - even his. He's little more than a boy, can't you see?'

  'Not with his trousers on,' Jekka laughed. 'It's hard to tell.' She lowered the bow again and stood easily, her eyes never blinking. 'Let the girl go and show us your little boy cock and maybe I won't kill you.'

  'Why should I believe you?' Sprig retorted.

  Alanna's eyes blazed. 'Because we are Yslanders,' she snapped back. 'Surely your eyes don't lie to you?'

  'And what difference where you come from?' he sneered.

  Alanna looked across at Jekka and shook her head. 'The boy's an imbecile,' she said. Turning back to him, she sighed.

  'An Yslander's word is her bond, and the word of an Yslandic Princess is double bonded. Now, put down that pricking stick, go find your horse and get yourself out of my sight. I shan't ask again,' she added. 'My redheaded little friend over there is just itching to prove how good her aim is.'

  Chapter 2

  Lady Dorothea had kept her awake long into the depths of the night, but Moxie felt far from tired as the first fingers of the dawn began to creep over the distant hills. Leaving her mistress snoring heavily, she crept from the bedchamber and slipped up the winding staircase to her own, less ostentatious quarters.

  Stripping out of the flimsy shift, she stood naked before the long mirror for a full minute, considering the possibilities. Dorothea, Moxie knew, would not expect anything further of her until nightfall, at least. However demanding she could be in some respects, she was sensible to the needs of her maid and bed companion and respected the younger woman's requirements in the matter of having time to herself and the freedom to enjoy it.

  Initially, Moxie had been very wary about letting Dorothea have even the slightest inkling about her growing desire for intimate male company, fearing jealousy would bring about all sorts of retribution. But, provided that Moxie limited her liaisons to the youthful pages and kept the older, rougher guards at arms' length, her mistress was more than happy to turn a blind eye and, on occasions, actively encouraged her.

  'Males should be put to good use,' she remarked, on more than one occasion. 'So long as we use them and not the other way around, that is how things should be.' She had even given permission for Moxie to instruct the household seamstresses in the making of an outfit that was modeled on Agana's favourite garb.

  Moxie was terrified of the huge black woman, but there was something almost regal about the way she strutted about the palace, whip at her belt, dark eyes ever on the alert for any misdemeanours among the pages and maids. And the first time Moxie laced herself into her own thigh high boots and tight corset belt, she began to understand why.

  Now, slowly and savouring every moment of the ritual, Moxie began to dress herself. Boots, corset, the brief leather skirt beneath which only the thinnest scrap of chamois covered her shaven sex, and the leather bodice that almost managed to restrain her magnificent bosom, followed by the studded collar and the long, soft gloves.

  Scooping up her hair, she tied it high with a short thong, adding the pin with its glittering bauble, and then turned for the door. She had yet to add the colouring about her eyes and on her lips, but such was not a task worthy of a powerful woman, not when there was always that fawning little idiot Pester ever willing to pander to her every whim.

  Pester now slept in a small room by himself, a privilege Moxie had contrived some months since, and he showed no surprise at being roused at such an hour. Seeing Moxie regaled in all her leather glory, his eyes shone momentarily, but he knew better than to show too much enthusiasm. If he appeared too eager, Moxie was quite likely to send him to find another less willing participant in her intended charade, and the fearsome Agana would be around before long, rousting the youngsters from their beds to start the day's chores. To be deprived of the attentions of his beloved Moxie and left to the humdrum labours of the morning was too awful to contemplate.

  There were two horses. Whether they had been arranged beforehand, or whether he had simply taken advantage of a situation, Corinna did not know for sure, though she was fairly certain that the former would be the case. Savatch believed in leaving little to chance, and even the most spontaneous seeming events had often proved to be the results of his careful preplanning.

  The saddle on the horse into which he lifted her now most certainly could not have been there fortuitously and, as the thick dildo slipped into her yawning sex, Corinna let out a hiss of pure lust. She remembered a day when to have been mounted on such a device would have horrified her, and smiled to herself inside the secret security of her slave hood.

  She was wicked, she knew that, and no doubt there was a god somewhere waiting to exact retribution for her shameless sins in some other world. But for now, as Savatch threaded a thong between her ankle cuffs, pulling it tight beneath the horse's belly, Corinna was past wondering about the afterlife and the possibility of unending purgatory. To leave her most base lusts unsated in this existence would be purgatory enough.

  Moxie waited until they had arrived in the private stables before preparing Pester, not wanting to arouse the sort of comments that his appearance would be sure to provoke. From here, however, there was little chance of them being observed, except by the odd sentry on the walls high above, for there was a separate entrance to the outside, the keys to which were held by Dorothea, a duplicate passed discreetly to Moxie not long after her arrival here.

  Without speaking, Moxie stripped the young page, wrapping a slave belt about his slender waist and cuffing his wrists to it at either si
de. A standard slave hood and collar quickly followed, a stubby, cock-shaped gag fastened between his jaws. The boots were her own special favourite, copying the design of the most feminine footwear, the tapering heels adding inches to his height and instability to his posture and gait. Forcing the pages to mince around in such impossible footwear was a favourite pleasure of Moxie's and now she spoke for the first time, ordering Pester to parade up and down across the uneven flagstones, stifling giggles at his awkward progress.

  'Enough,' she said at length. 'Come here and let's do something about that pathetic worm between your legs.'

  Working with a deft expertise that would have amazed the patrons in her father's tavern, convinced to a man as they were that the buxom serving wench would never permit any man to have any really intimate contact with her, let alone have such contact with a male herself, Moxie quickly brought Pester's drooping shaft to attention and slipped the soft leather sheath over its length.

  Tightening the laces, she wound the specially adapted strap about the base of his column, hampering the blood flow and ensuring that his ball-less manhood would remain erect until she required the use of it.

  'Dirty little thing!' she said accusingly, and gave his organ a sharp flick with her gloved fingers. 'I think we should punish you for the unclean thoughts you so obviously harbour.'

  Through the eye slits he watched as Moxie saddled the brown pony, Rollo, his unblinking stare never wavering from the slim shaft that arose from the middle of the polished leather seat. Satisfied that the girth strap was tight enough, she turned back to Pester and nodded.

  Understanding exactly what was required of him, he shuffled his feet wider apart and bent over at the waist, waiting expectantly for the touch of her warm fingers and the cool oil they would apply to effect an easier entry for the waiting dildo. As he finally settled into the saddle the polished invader embedded to the hilt within him, its leather covered, flesh and blood engorged twin standing stiff before him, Pester would have been astonished if he could have seen the events taking place many miles from Varragol, and filled with sheer disbelief if he had known the true identity of that other slave who sat mounted in almost identical fashion.