Authors: D Jordan Redhawk
Midia stood, head lowered.
Taking the slave’s chin, Azrael tilted her head up and looked into smoldering blue eyes, her thumb brushing a full lower lip.
“Lord Azrael?” called a soldier from outside.
Black eyes flashed displeasure. She proudly noted her personal slave didn’t flinch. “What is it?” she demanded.
Hearing the muted anger in her voice, the soldier cleared his throat. “The woman from the village, Lord. I was told to deliver her to your tent.”
“Kemplak’s hells,” Azrael cursed, releasing the blonde’s chin. “I’d forgotten about her.” With a regretful sigh, the general realized it would be a while before she could ease her battle lust. Duty called. “Bring her in then leave.”
The guard swung the flap aside and entered, pulling the peasant woman inside. He deposited her two strides into the tent, saluted his general and immediately retreated.
Barefoot, Azrael approached the woman who trembled uncontrollably though she had stopped crying. Her amber eyes seemingly vacant, it was an expression the general recognized, knowing the rest of the surviving villagers wore similar. Azrael circled, studying her new acquisition. With a frown, she twitched a ragged piece of cloth aside at the woman’s shoulder, noting a tattoo. “You’re a slave.”
“Aye, Lord,” the woman whispered, dropping her eyes.
“Call me Milady. Only my soldiers call me Lord.”
Shoulders hitched to avoid a blow. “Aye, Milady.”
Azrael pushed aside more of the tattered rags, examining the olive flesh beneath. “How long have you been a slave?” she asked. “You’ve hardly any scars.”
“Not long, Lo... Milady. Only two years.” Again she cringed.
Unable to help herself, the general caressed the woman’s waist and hip, sliding over the curve of her buttock and finding it pleasing. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Ursula, Milady.”
Azrael spent a few moments exploring the brunette, checking the lay of muscle and bone, wrapping fingers in thick mahogany hair to tilt her head from side to side as she inspected her property. “Your luck is good, Ursula,” she said.
Turning, the general waved her body slave closer. “Midia, bring Ursula to the slave tents. Get her cleaned up and fed, some decent clothes.” Pausing, Azrael looked the new woman over with a critical eye. “Something in burgundy if you can find it. Return when you’re finished.”
“Yes, Milady.” Midia curtseyed and took Ursula’s hand.
“Ursula.”
The blonde shivered. “Yes, Milady?”
“Obey Midia. She will instruct you on what I consider acceptable behavior.”
“Aye, Milady.” Ursula gave a shaky curtsey.
The blonde asked, “Will you need anything before I leave, Milady?”
Cupping her slave’s cheek, a faint smile twisted Azrael’s lips. “No. Do as ordered. We’ll continue later.”
“Yes, Milady.”
Azrael watched the two leave before sighing. Regretfully, she returned to the tub alone and finished undressing.
Chapter 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.