Slavemaster's Woman, The (2 page)

Lavidis rubbed his forehead. The woman was
nothing but an ache to the neck—a perpetual stone-pick in his ribs
since the dawning he bought her. He hoped he would finally be rid
of her. The cost of Cushla’s keep had well exceeded his investment
in her and if she kept up this sort of behavior he might have to
kill her himself, but he was a stubborn man, as stubborn as the
wench herself. Come hades or wild waters he would find someone,
anyone who would not only buy her, but keep her.

Perhaps he should have her stamped with a no
return seal. ‘Use at your own risk.’ Ah, but alas, she was still a
beauty and such a label might decrease the interest in her as
buyers always want a slave who is well-trained. Shaking his head in
dismay, Lavidis watched his guards drag Cushla away. She said
nothing more to him, though he knew it was no sign of defeat. Not
in Cushla.

Her silence was stoic.

The king must like feisty woman,
he
thought, hoping it would be the last time he had to deal with the
wench. No matter. Lavidis had been honest with his Majesty about
her unruliness, and he’d bought her anyway. King Mecor was duly
warned.

Chapter Two

Tarken stood on the hill and looked out over
the fields. His slaves were busy this dawning, carrying out their
assigned tasks. A yowl in the distance caught his ear. Someone was
yelling as if in pain, and his attention drifted to the quarry
where the more capable slaves excavated for muartzin, a galactic
rarity whose properties contributed to creating breathable
atmospheres on planets and satellites that were typically
uninhabitable. Mecor was making a hefty profit selling the
stuff.

“Master, master.”

Tarken looked down at his feet, where a
female now wrapped herself. “What is it Sheren?”

“The pari fruit is ripe.” She peered up at
her slavemaster. “The children they would like…” Her head dropped
to a submissive position and she studied the dirt.

Crouching down, Tarken lifted her chin with
two fingers. “How many baskets have you filled this dawning?”

“Nearly thirty, master.” The slave cast her
gaze downwards, refusing to look him in the eye--obedient
conditioning. No slave looked a superior in the eye unless invited
to.

“Then you have already earned a portion for
yourself.” Tarken stood and gazed down at the thrall.

He bedded her last moon cycle. It was her
first time and she cried, but he allowed her to stay in his bed
that eve, comforting her, and she was better by the dawning. After
that, she came willingly and trained well. He was glad he kept her
from the king until she was ready, for it was rumored that Anzer
Mecor found sadistic pleasure with shredding a woman’s hymen. And
when he was done with her, often the king tossed her to his guards
to do with as they pleased.

The thought of such mistreatment made the
slavemaster sick. He wasn’t particularly fond of bedding virgins.
There was little pleasure to be gained. Nevertheless, Tarken often
hid a female slave’s chastity from the royal, taking her for
himself first, doing his best to prepare her both physically and
mentally for any sexual assault that may come her way.

Sheren experienced it just recently, when
she was passed around amongst six of the king’s guards a few eves
ago, coming through the violation unscathed.

As much as any woman might be unscathed
by such a repulsive act.
Tarken frowned. Gently, Tarken smiled
down at Sheren and bent to cup her chin, but there was another
yowl, and Tarken looked up. He scanned the area training his sight
to where the yelling was coming from. The slavemaster’s mouth
twisted.

His apprentice was slapping Kleb around
again. He didn’t much like the trainee King Mecor assigned to him.
The young man was cruel and had a vicious nature in his manner. But
who was Tarken to judge the decisions of the king? “Tell the
children to pick one more half basket each and then they may have
two pieces for themselves.” Tarken’s attention shot off in the
direction of the quarry, his shoulders flexing backwards as if to
stretch tightness there, ready to take action. “The older ones will
help the little ones, who may have trouble.”

“May I rise, master?”

“Of course, Sheren. Return to your chores.”
He turned his head and watched the girl scurry off, but abruptly
snapped his attention toward the quarry and quickly made his way
down the hill, his eyes riveted to the apprentice. “You can cease
now, Durnin.” He moved with a sharp gait toward the offending
apprentice.

“He’s a disgrace, m’lord.” Durnin spat on
the man. “Worthless.”

“He’s old, Durnin.”

“And worthless,” Durnin muttered once more
beneath his breath. “I should give him a dose of the slave band.
The pain will bend him to my will.”

Tarken reached down and helped Kleb to his
feet.

The older male slave had been in servitude
even before Tarken arrived some eight solars back. Kleb never gave
him an atom of trouble, always attended to his deeds without
complaint or argument. He was a healthy aging man, still strong
though he was nearly sixty-five. In fact, the elderly slave was
probably stronger than the puny apprentice, who thought he was
inflicting grave harm,

Tarken knew how much the slave could take
and would never have allowed Durnin to even come near to the brink
of Kleb’s pain tolerance. Still, the man was aging, and Tarken
understood that he would be less and less useful as the solars took
his strength, physically or otherwise. It bothered him
immensely.

The king typically ordered the execution of
slaves that were incapable of giving him more gain, or he sold them
cheaply to masters who from what Tarken had heard, treated them
quite horribly. Secretly, Tarken loathed the king, but departing
from Buranis wasn’t in his future. By choice, the slavemaster was
here to stay. He would probably die on this planet. It was his
reputation as a trainer and talent at gaining more productive labor
that had the king offering him triple the pay he would earn
elsewhere. Enticed by the proposition, the slavemaster
accepted.

Over the course in time however, something
inside of the slavemaster had changed. No longer was it the credits
that kept him on Buranis. He was there because he felt an
obligation to these slaves. He’d witnessed the abuse they’d endured
at the hands of the prior slavemaster—scars from beatings,
malnourished children, sickness and disease with no offer of
treatment.

Death without dignity.

Most of that changed after his arrival, and
it wasn’t an easy task convincing Mecor that compassion toward the
slaves would equate to larger profits. He wasn’t granted everything
he wanted, but Tarken was working on it. “He will be less useful if
you keep beating him as such.” With a sigh, the slavemaster shifted
his attention from Kleb to Durnin.

Durnin scoffed. “You’re too soft with these
scums.”

Tarken’s spine went rigid. How dare the
subordinate speak to him in this manner, and in front of one of the
slaves, no less? His expression grew stern and feral as his eyes
locked onto the distasteful trainee. “May I remind you, Durnin,
that you would be listed amongst these scum had you refused to kiss
the king’s ass.”

It was the truth Tarken spoke.

Durnin was an inhabitant of one of the
nearby planets that King Mecor conquered in the recent past. Those
who refused to bend to the king’s ways became his slaves. Those
conforming were granted their freedom in a limited way.

“Go back to work, Kleb,” Tarken told the
slave without looking at him, his attention still trained on
Durnin.

Kleb obediently left them after bowing to
only Tarken.

“You see?” Durnin continued. “He gives me no
respect.”

“Learn quickly, apprentice,” Tarken paused
as he glared at Durnin’s face, knowing that the apprentice would
ignore the value in his words. “Respect is to be earned, not
demanded.”

Durnin snorted in return. “We’ll see about
that, slavemaster.”

Tarken blew out a gust of air. Teaching him
was a waste of time. He would never understand. “Go to the
storages, and oversee the cleaning of the harvest.”

At Durnin’s defiant stare, Tarken took an
angry step forward, twisting the front of the apprentice’s shirt in
his hand and jerking him closer. “Don’t try my patience apprentice
or you’ll have the king to answer to.”

“I’ll have your position some dawning
m’lord, and then we’ll see how much more obedient your slaves will
be.”

“That remains to be seen.” Tarken released
his hold on the apprentice. “For now, do as you are told or you
will find yourself on the receiving end of your own whip.”

Durnin straightened his clothes as he backed
away from the slavemaster. “Your threats are idle ones, Tarken.” He
turned and walked away.

“And keep your cock away from the virgins!”
Tarken warned, wondering how far the arrogant, little bastard would
push his tolerance. The slavemaster had more of a yen to beat the
crap out of the apprentice than he did any of the king’s
thralls.

“His Majesty requests your presence,
slavemaster.”

Tarken turned to the voice which spoke from
behind him. It was Meth, one of King Mecor’s royal guards. “Did he
say the reason?”

Meth shrugged as his eyes fell to a pretty,
little slave picking
cremali
puffs in the field. Saying
nothing else to Tarken, he strolled over to her and grabbed her
from behind. The thrall gave a quick squeal as Meth yanked down her
pants, released his shaft and promptly began rutting on her.

Tarken didn’t stop him. He knew that female
well. She could handle the royal guard on her own. In fact, he
suspected the female was a bit smitten with the guard, her
objections to his advances were less than, well—objective.
Secondary to that, Meth would take his pleasure and then leave the
girl alone. He was not prone to abusing women.

Taking a quick glance around, Tarken
determined that all was in order. He left the field and headed for
the castle where he would find the king, his curiosity peaking at
what his Majesty may want of him. Rarely was the slavemaster
summoned.

The gates to the inner court were thrown
open as he approached an indication that he was expected. He made
his way along the path leading to the castle’s entrance,
acknowledging the noble woman, Juliada who smiled at him prettily.
She was the one who snuck into his chamber two full moons ago. He
found her in his bed, wearing nothing but a lusty smile, wantonly
seeking his services. Royal be damned, it mattered not. Irritated
with the brazen intrusion into his private space, he‘d yanked her
from the mattress, thrust her clothes into her arms and shoved her
naked out of the door.

She apparently whimpered to the king,
because the next thing Tarken knew he was being scolded by Mecor
who told him that if he had to listen to Juliada’s irritating
blubbering about Tarken’s rejection of her any longer, he might be
so inclined to take out his irritation on the slaves. Knowing
better than to take a threat of Mecor’s lightly, Tarken eventually
obliged. Three dawning’s after his reprimand, she cornered him in
one of the hallways of the palace and beckoned him to her. He took
her hard and fast against the castle wall and made every effort
after that to avoid her.

With an apathetic nod, Tarken acknowledged
he’d seen her but didn’t wait for a returned response. Turning his
head forward, he continued along the path until he reached the
entrance to the palace. The doors were pushed open granting him
admittance. He knew where to go and proceeded there unescorted. It
pleased the slavemaster that he was in such a position of
trust.

“Tarken, come forth,” the king beckoned as
the slavemaster stepped through the door of the king’s inner
chamber.

“You’ve summoned me your Majesty?” Tarken
bowed respectfully, one hand placed to his stomach, the other
turned outward at the small of his back. He refrained from showing
a loathing expression when he realized Juliada had followed him
in.

King Mecor lifted a turn-up palm. “Yes,
well…I have called you here.”

Rising, Tarken stood still before his
Majesty, waiting for him to speak once more. He ignored Juliada who
slithered to the front of the chamber taking a seat on the stairs
leading to the throne.

“I purchased a slave, Tarken,” King Mecor
paced in front of his throne, hands clasped behind his back, a
regal arrogance in his stride. “A female. She’s at the Rystral
trading post.”

The slavemaster eyed his Majesty
speculatively as he listened to his words, wondering why he was
being informed of this. In the past, newly acquired slaves were
merely deposited in front of Tarken to train. Rarely did he have
knowledge of how or where they were acquired or even when they
arrived on Buranis.

“You’re my best trainer Tarken.”

“I’m your only trainer, your Majesty,”
Tarken replied.

Mecor turned abruptly to his slavemaster,
but said nothing in response as his glare slid up and down Tarken
in a condescending manner. “Durnin will see to my slaves while
you’re away.”

Inwardly, Tarken winced, images of broken
bones and bruised bodies entering his brain. “While I’m away?”

“Yes, you will deliver her to me.”

Tarken’s expression remained indifferent
though curiosity slid into his brain. “Why not send your guards
to—?”

“Silence!” The king held up a hand, ire
clearly etched in his expression. Behind him Juliada snickered, and
he spun to face her. “Shoo, Juliada!”

The amusement in her face faded quickly and
her eyes widened. She sprang to her feet and hastened from the
chamber.

Again Mecor spun, his gaze narrowing on
Tarken. “You dare to question my directive?”

“No, your Majesty.” Tarken kept his voice
even. Instead of submissively lowering his eyelids as most of the
king’s drudges would do, Tarken fixed a deliberate gaze on the king
while crossing his arms over his broad chest. He intentionally
flexed his biceps, and as an added bonus his right
pec
muscle twitched.