Disclaimers: Please see Part 1 for disclaimers.
Two
Azrael wore clean black breeches, belting her sword over a sleeveless ivory tunic. She braided her thick hair, using a strip of leather to tie it off. Pausing to inspect her bracers, she frowned at the blood still caking the leather. Rather than wear them, she slid the knives usually sheathed at her wrists into soft boots.
Striding out of her tent, the general stopped to look over the camp with a judicious
eye. Most of her soldiers were going about their chores - cleaning weapons and
armor, seeing to horses and gear and attending guard posts. A significant number
were still missing and Azrael could only assume that Atol's cohort was still
burning bodies. The surgeon's tents looked calm, a positive mark in Azrael's
books, as she made her way to them.
Ducking inside, she was pleased to note several empty pallets. Across the room,
she could see her surgeon working on a soldier, several assistants holding down
flailing limbs as the patient thrashed against the pain. There was a grunt and
the clank of metal as a bloody knife tip was dropped on a table.
"All right, lad, we're almost done," the surgeon said. "That
was the hard part." Indeed, it must have been, for the patient stopped
fighting, panting heavily, his face the color of curdled milk. "You're
lucky it lodged in your rib and not your lung. Let me stitch you up and you'll
be good as new."
Azrael moved closer, startling one of the men into standing at attention. "At
ease," she murmured, coming around the table to watch the proceedings.
If the surgeon was nervous at his new audience, he didn't indicate it. After
sprinkling powdered herbs into the wound, his hands firmly sewed the jagged
edges together. "He's the last," he said. "Everyone else has
been treated."
"Casualties?" the general asked, gaze dispassionate.
"Other than the three you took care of?" the surgeon asked, raising
an eyebrow. He smirked at the silent stare. "Just one other. Neck broken,
probably from a fall."
"Wounded?"
Finishing the stitches, the surgeon tied them off. "Seven walking with
assorted bumps and broken bones. Three, including this fellow, who'll need to
stay down for at least a few days." He set his instruments aside and waved
at a pallet. "Take him over there and give him wine," he ordered his
assistants.
Azrael followed as the surgeon walked to a worktable, washing his hands in a
basin. "Are you prepared for tonight?" she asked.
Grimacing, he shook his hands to remove most of the water, scooping up a clean
cloth to dry himself. The surgeon turned to glare at her. "Yes. I've heard
about your little celebration," he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I'll
be ready for the upcoming bruises, lacerations and rapes."
"Good." The general refused to rise to the bait. "We'll be on
the road in three days. I want all of them ready to travel."
The surgeon knew nothing he could say or do would change the evening's plans.
With a pensive expression, he bowed his head. "As you wish, Lord."
Satisfied, Azrael left him, moving to the occupied pallets to check on her men.
The sun was beginning to set when Azrael finished in the surgeon's tent. She'd visited with all the wounded, speaking to each about their injuries and how they were incurred. Though her manner was harsh, she instilled them all with a sense of dignity and accomplishment before she left, giving them words of encouragement and praise.
Outside, the scant clouds on the western horizon turned red and gold. A bonfire
was being built in the central clearing and the cook tents were doing brisk
business preparing for the upcoming festivities. The camp's population had grown,
indicating the last of the troops had returned from their assigned duties. Azrael
had only a couple of things to do before she could relax.
Approaching her tent, the general noted an increase in the number of her personal
guard; her officers were no doubt waiting inside. She answered the soldiers'
salutes as she passed, stepping inside her quarters and waving the captains
back into their seats after they leapt to attention. Midia had returned and
lit several lamps before making herself scarce. Azrael could see the dirty armor
was no longer piled on the floor. It was no doubt currently being cleaned. The
tub had been removed, as well, and a full complement of drinking cups was at
the table.
"All is in order?" Azrael asked, moving around the table to settle
into her chair.
"Aye, Lord," they answered, nearly in unison.
Azrael waved at one of them to fill the cups from a large ewer. "Report."
Indonatra, a tall, muscular man and captain of the First Cohort began. His hair
was a wild mass of kinky brown, tied back with thick bands at regular intervals.
"Not much to report, Lord. During the attack, we engaged the dissidents
at the inn where four of my men were wounded and one died. Nomi was rushed in
the hall on the upper floor and thrown out the window. It was just bad luck
he landed as he did." He pulled at his full beard, faintly shrugging. "The
fighting was fierce. I have no doubt we had the best of their swordsmen against
us."
"I noticed," the general said, taking one of the cups of wine being
passed. "Which is why your cohort was allowed to return early."
"They appreciated it, Lord. I made certain they knew it was reward for
their courage."
"Good." Azrael's eyes fell on the Second Cohort's captain. "Razzu?"
Thinner and shorter, Razzu was a whip of a man. His face broke into an easy
grin, transforming the narrow features from brooding to pleasant. "We had
no injuries during the battle. Our sweep went well - the men went out a full
league. We came across an old priest herding four children and brought them
in. No other stragglers were found."
"Where's the priest now?"
"Left him with the prisoners. He's genuine; has the tattoos all up and
down his arms and back. Didn't see a reason to execute him." The Priesthood
of Ishkay was notorious for their pacifistic and anti political views. That
the captured man was not involved in the rebellion was a given - they abhorred
violence in all its guises.
"No one else escaped the village?"
"No, Lord. No indication of anyone getting through our cordon."
"Atol?"
The tension in the tent shot up as the third captain swallowed. He was the shortest
of them all, barely reaching Indonatra's sternum. Though his face was younger
than the others, his black hair was fast receding. "The… uh…
bodies have been burned, Lord," he said, clearing his throat. "The
Punished still stand. We stumbled across much weaponry at the smithy while searching
for the dead; they had enough arms for a cohort from the looks of it."
"And what of your three casualties?"
Atol drew deep breath, blue eyes unhappy. "They were burned with the others.
I saw no reason to bring them here for a hero's funeral."
"No reason at all," Azrael agreed. "Perhaps you can explain why
they disobeyed orders?"
Sweat beaded on Atol's forehead and he looked everywhere but at his general
and peers. "No, Lord, I cannot."
Azrael raised an eyebrow. "I believe I can," she said, her voice dropping
to a growl. She saw two of the captains wince at the tone, having been recipients
of her anger before.
"Lord?" Atol asked, peering at the dark woman.
"They disobeyed my orders because you didn't train them properly."
The captain swallowed again and dropped his eyes. "Aye, Lord," he
whispered.
Not one to mince words, Azrael rose. "Five lashes for each man," she
ordered. "Will you submit?"
Atol's shoulders drooped in resignation. "Aye, Lord. I will." Standing,
he removed his light cloak, draping it across the back of his chair, his tunic
following. Despite his small stature, his body was thick with muscle. He went
to the central pole of the tent and firmly grasped the wood, spreading his legs.
Azrael collected a whip from one of her chests and unfurled it, making it snake
across the canvas floor as she took up position. "Prepare yourself."
Gritting his teeth, nails digging into the pole, the captain nodded. "I
am ready, Lord."
She brought the whip forward with a snap. A welt blossomed across Atol's shoulders
and he jerked at the contact. With careful precision, Azrael created a latticework
of red lines across the pale flesh, each gently welling blood. Her goal was
not to maim, simply to ensure Atol would be more diligent, and the lashes weren't
as powerful as they could have been. The captain remained steadfast, neither
flinching nor crying out against the pain, though anyone within earshot would
know full well what was transpiring.
After the final lash, Azrael coiled the whip and stepped forward. Atol remained
in place as he gathered his strength to move. He found himself looking into
the cold black eyes of his general.
"Pay attention to your men. Do not neglect their discipline again."
He croaked, stopping to clear his throat before repeating with a shaky voice,
"Aye, Lord."
The eyes warmed. "It takes great courage to submit, Atol. You've done well."
He sighed, his body finally relaxing. "Aye, Lord. Thank you."
Azrael returned to her chair, tossing the whip onto the table. She knew that
Atol would now be more observant of his men and a stronger officer. As if the
flogging had not occurred, she took a gulp of her wine and looked at the captain
of the Fourth Cohort. "Tenango?"
Atol walked steadily to his chair and eased into his tunic with a grimace. The
others ignored him as they listened to the woman speaking. There would be no
further mention of the incident. Their general despised the backstabbing chaos
within the ranks of other armies and had no tolerance for it under her command.
"Unfortunately," Tenango reported, "fire in the bakery destroyed
everything there, significantly damaging the structures on either side. We collected
quite a bit of foodstuffs from the cellar of the headman's house." The
captain scratched at an old scar on her upper arm. "As Atol mentioned,
we've plenty of arms from the smithy. I would suggest a systematic sacking tomorrow.
We can scrounge enough wagons for the goods."
"You've left a guard?"
''Aye, Lord. They've orders to kill looters." Tenango shook auburn hair
away from her eyes. "Don't think it'll be an issue until tomorrow night.
Anyone in the area with any sense will no doubt steer clear until we've gone."
Azrael nodded, finally turning to the last captain. "Suma?"
As tall as Idonatra, the leader of Azrael's personal guard was of fair complexion
and clean-shaven. His long, blond hair was braided as his general's and he held
himself at attention almost as second nature. "The prisoners are counted
and we've documented them." He slid a parchment from his belt and handed
it to Azrael."There
are twenty-four women and eighteen children to include those brought in by Razzu."
"Where's the priest?" the general asked, glancing at the list.
"Held separately. I thought it best to keep him detained until we leave."
While the religious order abhorred violence, the priest would give his life
attempting to sneak prisoners from impending danger.
"Good." Azrael tossed the list aside. "Separate the women from
the children for tonight."
"Aye, Lord."
The general looked around the table. "Anything else?"
An assortment of negatives answered her.
"All right. Keep a guard on the village. Tomorrow, Razzu and Idonatra,
I want your men to sack it."
"Aye, Lord."
"Atol, see the surgeon tonight and make certain we have a wagon reserved
for the wounded. We'll be moving out in three days. Also, your men will be in
charge of perimeter duty tomorrow."
"Yes, Lord."
"Tenango, you'll run sweeps for the day. Make yourself highly visible to
discourage the curious."
"Aye, Lord."
Azrael's gaze swept over her officers. "Enjoy tonight's celebration but
keep close eye on your men. I've authorized unlimited ale. Hopefully, the majority
will get too drunk to play slap and tickle with the prisoners - there aren't
enough to go around."
"We still have quite a few whores among the camp followers," Suma
reminded her.
"Truer words." Azrael stood, the captains following her lead. "I
want your written reports here by midday tomorrow."
There was a chorus of agreement.
"Dismissed."
Once her officers were gone, Azrael blew out a breath. She rolled her head,
trying to ease the ache in her neck and shoulders.
The tent flap was pushed aside and two women entered, each carrying pieces of
leather armor. After a glance at her slaves, Azrael sat down and began preparing
a message for the king. In the meanwhile, Midia directed Ursula in the proper
placement of their mistress' armor, laying it out on linen to dry.
Quill scratching lightly on parchment, the general finished her missive, a short
acknowledgement of their triumph scribbled on a long, thin strip. Azrael capped
the inkwell and gently blew the writing dry. Rolling it into a tiny tube, she
rose to see her slaves kneeling before the table, awaiting her attention.
"Midia?" she asked.
The blonde bowed her head and looked up. "Would you have us bring you food,
Milady?"
Azrael considered the request, ears catching the sounds of soldiers enjoying
newfound entertainment. "No, Midia," she finally said. "It's
not safe tonight." Her eyes fell on the new slave. "Ursula, come forward."
Head ducking in surprise and fear, the slave silently rose and approached, her
bare soles whisking lightly across the canvas floor. She paused in confusion,
uncertain of the proper protocol, before dropping back to her knees at Azrael's
feet.
"Stand, Ursula."
Doing so, the brunette found herself being circled by her harsh new mistress
and she trembled.
Midia had done a fine job finding clothes for her new acquisition. The dress
held more purple than burgundy, but it would do until something else was found.
It was of a heavier material than Azrael cared for, but it clung in all the
right places, bringing out Ursula's well-rounded attributes. "You clean
up well," she said once she completed her circuit.
A blush crept up the slave's neck.
Azrael felt an answering flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment. Stepping
around Ursula, she went to the entrance and stepped out.
The flames of the bonfire were beginning to take hold, dancing orange light
bathing the revelers. Azrael could smell roasted meat from the cook tents. The
women prisoners were being forced to serve the meal and their cries and whimpers
were drowned out by soldiers' laughter.
Turning to one of her guard, Azrael held out the message. "See this gets
out immediately," she said.
"Aye, Lord."
"Have someone bring food for three to my tent." She paused. "And
bring a pallet from the surgeon's."
"Yes, Lord, as you wish." The soldier saluted and ran off, another
solidifying out of the darkness to take his place.
Azrael entered her tent, pleased to see Ursula had remained in place during
her absence. Seating herself at the table, she waved Midia forward with a murmured,
"Attend me." As her body slave poured fresh wine, the general continued
gazing at the brunette standing before her. "You say you have been a slave
for two years."
Ursula whispered, "Yes, Milady."
"Yet you have few scars. Were you so good that beatings were unnecessary?"
After taking the cup from the blonde, Azrael pulled Midia onto her lap.
"I… Apparently so, Milady," the blonde said, blushing.
Azrael drank from her cup, setting it down to free her hand. She caressed Midia's
bare thigh as she spoke. "Who owned you? What were your duties?"
"I was owned by a man who had me stay with his elderly mother, Milady.
She… she was a seamstress in the village and I helped her sew. She wouldn't
leave her home to join her son on his farm." A loud roar of excitement
from outside caused Ursula to flinch.
"No worries, girl. They don't have the heart or balls to come in here."
"Aye, Milady," Ursula said, her shaking voice barely above a whisper.
"Lord Azrael!"
"Enter."
A soldier held aside the tent flap for three of his companions to bring in their
burdens. One carried a large platter of food, the roasted meat still steaming.
Another bore a tray with various fruits and two ewers. The third dragged in
a pallet.
"Put the food and drink on the table," Azrael ordered, "and the
pallet next to my bed."
"Aye, Lord."
Once all was in order, she sent them away, pushing Midia from her lap. "Fix
my plate and then eat," she instructed.
Smiling, Midia paused to kiss her mistress on the cheek. "Yes, Milady.
Thank you."
"Ursula, eat your fill."
"Yes, Milady." Despite the order, the blonde waited until Azrael had
been served and Midia waved her forward. Hands shaking, Ursula took only a tiny
portion of roast and an apple, pulling back from the platter.
"I don't withhold food, girl," Azrael growled, dark eyes flashing
her displeasure. "You certainly cannot survive on that. I said eat your
fill."
Ursula's voice was barely a whisper. "Aye, Milady." She edged back
to the platter, adding a wedge of yellow cheese and steamed vegetables to her
plate.
Satisfied, the general began eating her dinner, looking over the reports littering
her table. Midia settled at the other end of the table and, after a moment's
hesitation, so did the brunette. Silence reigned, diametrically opposed to the
chaos on the other side of the thin tent walls.
Stomach full, Azrael stretched her back before shoving her plate toward the
nearly empty platter. She drained her mug and scooped up the fresh ewer of wine
from the tray before rising. "Ursula, you'll sleep on the pallet. Wait,"
Azrael said, stopping the brunette from discarding her half eaten dinner. "When
you're finished eating and not until. Understood?"
"Yes, Milady." Ursula sank back into her chair.
"Midia."
The blonde's face slid into a slow grin. "Yes, Milady," she said to
the unspoken command.
Azrael moved to her bed, setting the ewer and cup on one of the chests. Removing
her clothes, she sat on the mattress, untying her braid and brushing out it
with her fingers.
Midia helped Ursula clean up their dinner, bringing the platter to the door
and handing it to a guard. As the new slave timidly approached the pallet near
her new owner, Midia set about snuffing the lanterns.
In the darkness, Azrael felt the warmth of her slave sliding onto the bed and
she sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Turning her head, she searched
for and found welcoming lips.
On the floor, a few feet away, Ursula curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes
shut at the sounds of pleasuring from both outside and in.