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Prince of Slaves - The_Fifth Master & Rawr Kitten

Rawr Kitten

Rawr Kitten

Super-Earth
Joined
Jul 27, 2010
Location
Anywhere but here...
Deep, heaving breaths. Panting, even and almost laboured. Peppered with the huffing of a horse, or another voice that joined his. Price Kalfor was riding, and riding hard. Not a woman, but his horse, and carrying a large stick, pointed at someone doing precisely the same thing.
     
The field of battle was a great place to test strength, stamina and determination. And a place to bitch slap the competition when you're damned sure you'll win. And tell everyone, twice, how great you were. LOUDLY. It garnered him no friends, no admirers or even swooning maidens. Which pissed off his father no end.
     
King Filip had one son. One heir. And needless to say, he wasn't impressed with the one he had to rely on. So, there was something he could do. It seemed drastic, but it might work. Might help Kalfor become a better son, a better husband, a better King. His musings were interrupted with a superior and haughty sigh.
     
"THAT," it came, fully and completely self-absorbed, "was NOT a touch." He reined in his horse and removed his helmet. Medium length raven black hair, piercing green eyes the colour of spring leaves, and he must have been 6' 4" if he had been a foot. And in that moment, every year of 18. Or really, just shy of his birthday. "I need a decision. Now."
     
He breathed hard and deep, like he was building up for something. And soon enough... there it was. "FATHER!" he cried. "He's CHEATING!"
Hugh of Glee had come to joust. An honest, fair knight who had seen battle and the field in half as many years as the scoundrel Prince Kalfor had lived. Were it not that he came with his Liege Lord, the King of Makish, nothing would have prevented him from threatening the peace with this neighboring land. But by his honor would he have challenged the pup to a duel. Instead he sat his mount and lifted his helm. His countenance dark.
     
The King of Makish sat quietly strumming his fingers on the arm of the throne next to Prince Kalfor's father. He remained neutral in this the jousting field. Several contests today won by the Prince for want of a man unable to keep seated on his mount moments before the crash of the lance. It was not his field and by the look of those loyal to the king each time the boy stroked a victory they grew more sullen.
     
It seemed the Prince might be a favorite among some of the peasants but those that held the power in the land held their tongues. Not willing to challenge the up and rising king, yet unwilling to move a hand against him while they still could.
     
Loyalty to his father perhaps. Or fear of reprisal. There had been rumors that the boy had often been called the sledge hammer of torture. No simple task to win so great a title of fear from your own people.

King Filip leaned forward, nodding at the King of Makish and finally stood to look at the lists. They had been far too chewed up with the horse hooves and it was near dark. "Kalfor," his voice rang out strong and true. "This match is not yours." He inwardly cringed at what was about to come.   But he spoke truth.
     
The green eyes flashed in anger at the covered dais. His nostrils flared angrily and the look was enough to melt the metal caps on the sconces. But to flout the King was akin to treason. So Kalfor held his tongue and nodded once.
     
He would grudgingly concede. But only because otherwise, he might die.
     
But for nothing else. No other reason. None.

Without saying much, more a Lord loyal to King Filip shouted, "Long Live the King!! Long live Prince Kalfor!!"
     
It was more or less a cue and it rallied those lords that were ready to shout obscenities. A milder form and truer to the nature of things for everyone sake.
     
The chorus rose up among them. The first part of the cheer eagerly shouted the last seemed to lose its momentum and petered out even among the peasants watching.
     
The King of Makish pounded his fist on the arm of the throne as did those of his council in the custom of his court. He stayed seated allowing the honor to go to King Filip. It gave him a better view of the lords that cheered and those that did not. His own aide, a scholar and traveler some said a slaver marked the throng well, deciding who were friend and foe.
     
Finally the Makish King stood and with a slight nod of the head to Filip spoke, "Youth and wisdom, a mighty combination were they in the same body," He chuckled. "We were young once as well."

Filip sighed heavily. "I agree," he said and stood up and carefully. After his 18th birthday, once he celebrated within the castle walls, he would be an official successor to the throne. And he was simply not ready. Not at all.
     
"Everything in preparation?" he asked. There was a small glance in the direction of his son, finally dismounting and his squires cringing beneath the onslaught.
     
"Please tell me that you understood the full implications?"

Hugh of Glee turned his mount. Disgusted at the shameful behavior, he cantered the animal to the stables where he squire waited. The King of Makish watched attempting to understand how Filip had let the boy have so much of his head and then allow him to take the throne.
     
Insane. It would be a war no one wanted but everyone would have to choose sides. Much like Hugh of Glee; a joust without purpose or honor. The Makish King said nothing while his aide moved among the Lords.
 
"Please, your Highness," King Filip pleaded, "I need to know you understood, and that the implications will be met as they are requested. My son, after tonight's feast, will be taken from this place. And for a period, no less than 18 months, will be enslaved. To learn what he must, live as the other half lives, and suffer as they might have to."

He had laid it all out, the contract gilted; such a beautiful document for such a devious purpose. "I don't have much time; the Prince approaches..."
 
"All has been arranged Filip," The Makish King told the ruler of land then turned in that direction as the Prince came forth.

Indeed plans had been laid out. Among the King's Lords there had been some additional requests. It appealed to both Makish's sense of honor and to the situation. He need only wait for the night and some of those in the Keep would even see to it that the bundle was kept quiet as it left the gates.
 
Prince Kalfor strode out, all pomp, circumstance and completely looming. He cut a fine figure, even if he said so himself (which, truth be told, was often), and he commanded a presence amongst the people. As long as he kept his mouth shut.

He felt formidable, but lacked any of the other characteristics that might give him the ability to rule with both compassion and objectivity, and a better understanding of his people. But if you asked him, he would point to the swooning women, the well-polished armour, and puff himself up. His look was striking, and he had perfected that tilt of his head meant to impress.

He knew all of his best features and played them up for the biggest advantages. Besides, he rarely went anywhere without his friends, armed guards that he had grown up with. Mind you, he was a pompous ass. And they really couldn't stand him.

But he was the next King. And they were partial to their own status in the Kingdom rather than their personal choice of who they needed to call a friend. In truth, he would have been sold out by them in a heartbeat, and apparently, they had done just that.

Great pains were taken for his feelings of self-indulgent arrogance; it was his ball, in his honour, for his exploits on the field. And as he sat on the dais in a deep, rich royal blue velvet surcoat, he toasted himself, and laughed with a warm, deep resonance.

The courses were plentiful, and befitting his station; the wenches were wanting and ready for him as well, one stationing herself beneath the table. He was eating dinner. She was having her first course. So he was distracted, happily so, and he closed his eyes, feigning sleep as she sucked him deep in her throat.

While the guests milled around, congratulating Kalfor with polite tones and sneering faces, he was nodding in time with her mouth and rocked his cock into her further.

All distractions.

And he took another sip of wine.
 
The King of Makish nodded politely and spoke quietly to King Filip and some of the older lords. Huge of Glee was absent. He had beg to take his leave early reporting that he must get back to oversee the birthing of his child.

The King of Makish troubled by that announcement sent the knight on his way well ahead of the banquet. If there was any finger pointing it might be said that Huge of Glee looked unfavorable upon the young King and had the motive and time to delivered Kalfor to his doom.

In truth the wine and the wench under the table was serving the doom to Kalfor in delicious courses. Obviously too tempting to resist it was a bit much for the old Lords who prided themselves in some form of civilized manners while at a banquet. Especially their own.

Lusty. The King of Makish thought as he watched the Prince soon to be King sit the throne. He would do well with the plans waiting for him. He need only deliver himself into their hands by falling asleep.

It had been arranged that the Prince would be taken to his room by trusted servants at the word of the King. It had been planned that the slaver would take the Prince out the gate that very evening so that the King of Makish could be as present and surprised as everyone else who had prayed for a miracle. Hoping that the Prince would never be a King in this land or in any other.

It was just that the King of Makish had a plan to make that miracle happen. A long term plan.

So the King of Makish sipped his own wine, white for obvious reasons, while the Prince downed another mug of the red wine.
 
What a night it had been. Kalfor had several wenches, dragging each one to the darkened corner of the hall, his cock hard and full, ramming itself deep inside of each cunt... not knowing why he was so insatiable, why he was so needy, and damned thirsty besides...

After each fucking, he returned to the table, almost pacing the room like a predator in search of its next meal. That wine, in an unending flow, pouring into his tankard cooled his parched throat, and finally, after what felt like hours of fucking, he felt himself slipping a little from consciousness.

His squires were there, and Kalfor, now sure that he was drunk, heaped them with compliments and thanked them greatly for their assistance... to his room...

Somewhere along the way, Kalfor lost the power of speech, lost the power to help, lost the... way... That, that wasn't the way to his room...

And finally, lost the power to focus, and he was moved as though in a haze.
 
Savant, a slaver by trade watched the spectacle that was the prince from a dark corner of the great hall. His first though was of the virility of the Prince. Definitely vigorous enough for a breeding pen. Endurance enough for a mine. Unschooled enough for the north and the men that lived there. Far far away from these milder lands. Never to return.

With that in mind it was Savant who had also chosen to retire at the same time of the Prince. His day would begin early he assured both King Filip and the King of Makish. A curt bow and ensuring all saw him leave the hall by another way before doubling around in the dark with three of his own in search of the meandering prince.

Luck or fortune found Kalfor alone and as Savant spoke the other three encircled him and half prodding and half guiding made their way to the stable and bid him lay in the straw to rest.

The hardest part was installing him in the canvas used often in slave taking. His hands shackled behind him. His ankles manacled together. Strip to his loin cloth. They had to fold his knees to get him in the canvas and close it over his head.

Men were seldom taken in such a manner. Seldom stolen in the night. Men were on their knees surrendering after battle or a pillage and a yoke placed on their shoulders quickly so that they might pull a cart that held the women in canvas sacks.

It took three of them to dump the canvas in Savant's cart. The three would travel with him a full day to the market in Attain. He would go to the highest bidder so his fate would be known to only his new owner.

Savant gathered the reigns and clicked his tongue. The draft horse stepped lively into a trot. A decent enough gate for a full days trip.
 
Kalfor was sure that he was dreaming. He had sworn he recognized everyone in the castle, every servant that had either been whipped by him or fucked by him. But these three? He was sure that they were his trusted... but how long ago was that? His mind could no longer focus on things or even form logical thought.

He felt. Felt the straw press into his flesh. Flesh? Hadn't he been dressed? But the air hit him in the chest like a spear of ice, and his whole body shivered, threatening to cast off some of the drugged wine and he struggled. But it was half-hearted, and he felt so sluggish. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he was more than acutely aware of when he woke up.

He was in the dark; a smelly, unbecoming darkness and as he groaned with the pain in his head, he tried to stand. That was the first mistake.

He tried to stretch himself to full height, and found himself to be shackled, and unable to move fully. But he was moving... from the sway, he was in a cart. As his senses came fully and completely upon him, he also discovered that there was an uncomfortable pressure in his bladder... too much wine the night before... and now was not the time...

"Hello!" he said, muffled in a sack over his head. It almost made him gag, the smells he had pressed into his nostrils. "I have money, and lands, and I need, want, DEMAND for you to stop!" He had to take a piss, and he was unable to do anything; his semi-erect cock was pressing against his loin cloth, and there was no way to make sure he didn't piss on himself.

"HELLO!"
 
Savant heard the muffle and the movement from behind him. He turned to look at the cart and motioned for the other three on horse back to do the same.

The cart continued to move along the road. The animal trained to follow anything that looked like a path. Savant had no worries as he turned fully around to sit looking down on the moving canvas sack.

"He DEMANDS!" Savant repeated.

The roars of laughter were immediate. The three were no strangers to the taking by force of someone. The routine was the same for those of noble birth, privileged birth, those with wealth lacked the sense to be gracious even when they were trussed and helpless.

"Five coppers says he pisses himself before the cart reaches that out cropping!" said one rider.

They laughed and bantered. They took a few minutes to decide on the bet but once done they handed the judgment over to the slaver.

Savant grinned, "The pots five coppers each. The places are the outcropping. The edge of the forest, and the river crossing. Done."

Savant turned around to watch the road knowing the three men would be paying close attention to the canvas sack and any moisture that darkened it's dust covered fabric. Savant never wagered. His money was on the market. He had no doubt the prince would bring a fair price.
 
They... they didn't stop? What the hell... WHO the hell...? His body demanded, his whole being ached and he refused to relent with a raised and defiant tilt to his jaw. But where he was, what he couldn't see. It could impress no one inside of a sack. Or in the back of the cart.

His jaw worked, his eyes flashed, and his regal tones fell on deaf ears. How could they defy the crowned prince? A PRINCE? Through gritted teeth, he spoke again, expecting more humour and even more humiliation. But he didn't want to be a wager. And he did NOT wish to soil himself. A man in his position, no matter how young, had certain standards.

The cart lurched and he squeezed his ass cheeks together, willing his bladder to stop its release. Damned fuckers, he thought to himself. "Please," he said, without emotion and as a stipend for request. "Stop this cart. And I'll settle all of your wagers..."
 
"Bugrit!" said Pinch. "We ain't even made it to the outcrop yet!"

"OYIE! Canvas bitch!" said Nasty Toman, "Hold a bit more til the out cropping!"

"Aye, we've got a deal goin here yah weak bladdered cunt! Hold it until the out cropping or we'll play beat the sack ah kittens." Gnash the Diseased called out.

"Now wait a minute!" said Pinch in protest. "He can hold on longer right! Seeins how after the outcroppin there's the forest what I bet. eh!"

"Well I suppose..." replied Gnash the Diseased.

"Ifn he can wait the forest than he can wait the stream!" Nasty Toman remarked determined to win the 10 pence from the other two.

'That's the deal right, him pissin himself at the proper time! So you two bloody beggars stop proddin 'im." Pinched glanced toward the horizon.

It was a bit longer to the outcropping then pinch originally figured. The forest a bit longer still. It worried him. The five pence was the last of his precious coin til he got paid by Savant again.

" E'll piss on himself when ee's good an ready which by mi calculation should be about to the count ah TWENTY SLOWLY!" said Pinch and would have winked if the bitch wasn't in the canvas unable to see the proper signal.

"Twenty's a bit long eh?" Nasty Toman.

"E's royale, they're all a bit quick to count. No need to remove shoes after ten see. So 'is twenty is our ten right! Happy now?" Pinch replied urgently not wanting Gnash to think at all.

"Oh right!" Nasty Toman said after thinking it almost all the way thru impatiently. He leaned over and slammed his large fist against the side board of the cart for emphasis, "TWENTY SLOW YOU!!"

Pinch without a smile stared at the horizon avoiding Gnash the Diseased troubled looks.
 
Nothing they were discussing made it any easier to hold onto his own bladder. How he longed that one of them... any of them... ALL of them... were standing close enough to him to piss ON.

"And if I piss myself now?" he said tauntingly, his voice full of spite. "You ALL lose, don't you, you great sacks of shit?"

He had not been impressed with his situation; imagined that he was kidnapped, taken, and that his status was intact. Maybe even ransomed... But this change?

This wager at his expense, and as he mapped their route in his head, he really very nearly DID let go involuntarily then. They were heading to market. And his manner of travel, his solid confinement and his situation could only speak of one thing. "Slavers..." he whispered and hung his head.

And decided that the small victory of keeping any of them winning was worth the ultimate loss of his dignity in the back of that cart. He waited for another particularly harsh rumble, and leaned as far forward as he could. That tingling, that embarrasing need of mortality, but he felt that he would NOT hold on any longer, to spite every one of them.

Including himself.

The heat of embarrassment took liquid form as it coursed down his thigh. And all of them would lose, those fuckers. Once released, there was no stopping it, hearing it spatter like rain on the wooden slats.

And one interesting thought ran through Kalfor's head during the entire time: that his own dignity, his own choices, were measured in parts and pieces comparable to how much he was willing to relinquish. And how fucking spiteful he really felt.

As the smell wafted up to his nostrils and the heated urine was cooling and drying on his leg, he had a sudden realization. He was kneeling in his own waste. His whole body turned a beet red, and the anger rose from in his stomach.

When they stopped? Oh, when they stopped... Then, THEN they would see... AND PAY...
 
Pinch decided not losing was better than losing any day. The dirt on the canvas darkened and spread. The stupid lout was doin himself a wet ride. Pinch admired how much that bladder could hold. The pipes were clean on that one for sure. But it was time for some fun.

"EY NOW!" Pinch shouted in disappointment. "He's gone to it! He's pissed 'emself. An Gnash, you were so close to collectin 10 pence!"

"He dun it on spite!" Nasty Toman egged Gnash the Diseased into a fit.

"You warned him Gnash, Toman and me heard you!," said Pinch. "And I think he's mumblin something about doin your mum!"

There was a roar and a leap from horse to the cart. Gnash the Diseased exploded against the canvas sack. Fists flying and connecting without regard to where the blow landed. Gnash was in a rage.

Savant let the hulk have a go at the Prince for a while, not because it was what Savant wanted. But because Savant did not have enough men to pull Gnash off of the sack until the hulk got the first rush of rage out of his system.

It took the other two and Savant to finally pull Gnash away. And then they had to chain Gnash ankle to wrist across his own saddle for an hour or more before Gnash calmed down enough to keep from leaping back into the cart.

It was high sun before they reached the stream bank that coursed close to the road. It was over the next ridge for the slave Market where the trip ended for the new package.

Savant turned the cart off the path to a place he knew just right for preparing the slave for deliver to the market. He glanced over his shoulder at the sack.

"OYIE! Wake up. It's time to dress for the ball!" Savant said with a grin.

The Pinch and Nasty Toman laughed. A grin erupted like a break in a fault line across the whole of Gnash the Diseased face.
 
Anger was building like a fine wine in the centre of Kalfor's gut. He hung like a sack of meat, swinging and swaying and now being unhappily tenderized by a spiteful asshole. If he had been free, had his hands free...

But he wasn't. And he didn't. And he felt the blood slowly drain out of his arms and hands, pooling painfully in his shoulders... He pissed twice more on the journey, and when they finally stopped, when they finally arrived, Kalfor was stiff, sore and damned irritable.

And definitely
 
Anger was building like a fine wine in the centre of Kalfor's gut. He hung like a sack of meat, swinging and swaying and now being unhappily tenderized by a spiteful asshole. If he had been free, had his hands free...

But he wasn't. And he didn't. And he felt the blood slowly drain out of his arms and hands, pooling painfully in his shoulders... He pissed twice more on the journey, and when they finally stopped, when they finally arrived, Kalfor was stiff, sore and damned irritable.

And definitely not willing to just take this abuse. He was a Prince, going to be a King! What the fuck were they thinking, these bastards? When he looked at them, when he could see... He would struggle and he would fight his way out.

And to be woken in such a manner. He memorized their voices, and swore to kill each one to a man. With a painfully dull and skewering sword. Maybe a corkcrew. Or a flamberge. He was mentally going over the systematic disembowelment of each voice, imagining all the gore and blood and pulling internal organs to external locations...

The hood was finally removed and the muffled sounds of the market were fully assaulting his ears. Kalfor squinted up into the faces of his captors, his humiliators... in other words, dead men.

Bruises speckled his body. And his arms were almost white. The full smell of his waste rolled up to gag him, and he choked back bile as he attempted to focus. An unfocused mind would be more than just folly.

It could be fatal.
 
Market day. Not simply the selling of cattle and chickens. It was Market day. The day after the full moon when those that sold and those that bought could purchase, exchange or steal anything and everything that might be of some value.

This Nest of Nothingness, near a stream, touched on the borders of everything else important and forbidden. Although the edges of what was bordered changed from time to time from war and marriage, this place in the middle of it all was caught in time. Changeless.

Even in war it's population swelled only three days every moon. What happened in those three days kept the place alive and operating throughout the rest of the month.

Truth be told the Market existed for one purpose. Although there were many other reasons it continued to have such high attendance there was one purpose. A purpose that had been forgotten by all but those that lived here. A purpose unspoken but watched closely by the Administrator.

It was written in the Book of Forbidden Knowledge. And when that Book had been lost in a fire set by the 4th Administrator. The one who had gone mad and burned the book, his out house, a collection of anatomically correct drawings of the female body and himself as he lit a pipe in the out house after eating beans for two days. When the outhouse lifted off and exploded shit and everything else spread for miles.

The 4th Administrator's apprentice suddenly promoted to 5th Administrator went about the country side collecting the bits of manuscript and pieced that would be known as the Book of Truth from Bits of Forbidden Knowledge.

However, the 9th Administrator who had a horrible stutter, shortened the name and it was thereafter known simply as the Book of Truth.

In the Book of Truth a bit of manuscript exists. It is palm size and all that is left of the War. The Great War between the VuNish and The People. It is a contract of sorts. It has been binding thru 16 Administrators. It simple states that a Market Place of human flesh shall border the mountain range of the VuNish so that the Conquers may descend and take sacrifices during the night after each full moon. It goes on to describe how the sacrifices will be displayed but the rest is lost and the next page forbids the eating of beans more than once a week.

"OKay Gnash. Pull!" Savant the slave dealer said as he stood on the bench of the cart.

Gnash and Toman were both pulling on the chain that was connect to the shackle chain at the ankles of the Prince.

Pinch watched as the Prince was lifted feet first towards the hoist, high on a bar between two stout trees.

"Lil higher! Keep goin!" Pinch encouraged.

Savant felt eyes on him and he looked around casually. There was the hustle of the market around him. There were several buildings.

The Groping Monk Tavern of multiple delights advertising a special on a pitcher with the purchase of time with one of the slave girls. The Mill Wright with it's water wheel and carts full of grain to be sorted and bagged. The Smith with a pronounced blast of heat when the wind shifted as it did often and the tapping of hammer on white hot metal. There was one other building.

It was simply called the Tower of Calling. It was taller by a full floor than the Tavern and slender in light House fashion as if it stood on a coast warning vessels about the rocky shore during storms.

Savant didn't give it another thought as the cart lurched under his feet. "HEY Watch there you two. No need to knock him about!"

The Tower of Calling had windows. Small windows for looking out not looking into. It was in one of those window that the 16th Administrator stood eyeing the Market's Human Flesh. His hands behind him, one palm in the other as he watched patiently. Age allowed that patience. Somehow the 16th Administrator had managed to rush past his youth to sneak up on it.

"Yes?" the 16th Administrator said hearing his apprentice step quietly into the room.

"I've gotten word that Savant is here, Minster," said a voice breaking with the plague of male puberty.

"Ensure the sacrifice is displayed upside down. Give Savant the pouch and point him and his men to the Tavern. Then send word to the Smith. Fire well heated and the stable left unattended."

"The VuN....."

The 16th Administrator without turning around raised one finger in warning. "Yes. Now go!"

The 16th Administrator focused on a grove of trees and four men in a cart losing to a chained man hanging upside down by his ankles and hands manacled behind his back.

"Hold him still so's I can gag 'em!" Pinch shouted.

"Ere mind 'es teeth!" Nasty Toman warned.

"I'll turn 'em round an give 'em a good clip inna nuggets eh?" Gnash the Diseased asked Savant.

"You gonna cooperate now yah stupid bitch?" Savant asked the Prince.
 
Kalfor was ignorant, and a good thing too. He knew nothing of Administrator's, Books or Baked Beans. All he knew was the present, the pain and the sudden shifting of gravity. Why, after having been left to hang all fucking day and night, shoulders throbbing and piss stink everywhere, he had to be hung upside down.

But he had ceased to consider, or even think about tolerating such asshole behaviour. When he saw where he was, he more than struggled... he fought, and as valiantly as an almost 18 year old trained Prince with delusions of grandeur, could fight. He had clipped one, hopefully the one who had pummelled him, and if his feet were working, he would have used them as well.

But, now, he heard the Market sounds, the calling, and the cat calls as he emerged, loin cloth dangling, as well as his other bits, and with a heaving and agonizing rush, the blood returned to his arms, shoulders now screaming in protest.

He did bite. And would have scratched. He would have eaten a face off one, and spit it spitefully at the others, and try desperately to get free. Because he may not have heard of the baked beans, but he HAD heard of this place. Hell, he had managed to get a couple of the wenches they had rotated through the castle from this place. But never, NEVER in his wildest dreams or more vivid nightmares, could have pictured himself here.

And hanging upside down, no matter who the fuck you were never boded well. He almost screeched at them, claiming his noble birth and demanding his release, but something had kept him quiet in the face of it. Something called 'promotion'. He didn't want to give the others any fuel for their fire, or help garner more money for him.

He was a fine specimen; strong and lithe, hard where he needed to be and soft in others. He wasn't pliant nor compliant, and viewing the world upside down did nothing for his pscyhe or even his perception. But it did give him a literal feeling.

For exactly how fucked he really was. And Fate hadn't even given him a kiss. But with his predicament, he kind of hoped he wouldn't get one either...
 
Savant the Slave Trader felt it again. Although briefly it was that feeling of being watched. A cold finger swept down his spine and he shivered in response as he looked around him for some clue that held the answer to his question. Who?

He saw the Monk and on the second glance realized there was a youthful hairless jaw on the cowled figure approaching. It was then he noticed that gangly limber stroll as though no particular bone in the body was connected or working in any way with any of the others, and at any moment threatening to tumble into a pile of robed chaos.

Fascinating to watch. So fascinating that Savant took his eyes off the Prince and focused on the pouch in the hands of the cowled figure. The figure was heading directly for the cart and more directly toward Savant.

Payment, Savant though, and smiled as he dropped off the cart to meet the cowled figure known only as, The Apprentice.

"AAYYYYIIIEEE!!" Nasty Toman shrieked in agony. "Get him off!! GET 'EM OFF ME JOLLIES!!!"

Savant stepped closer to The Apprentice ignoring the small disruption in the cart behind him, "Your Apprenticeship Sir, a fine day."

The cowled figure stopped abruptly but kept his hand back from Savant. His head immediately went to the fracas in the back of the cart. His eyes widened as he watched.

"Now can I hit 'em in thu nuggets?" Gnash the Diseased asked rather impatiently.

"NOOOO!!" Howled Toman hysterically.

"Stick yur fingers in between 'es jaws an take thu pressure off, Toman!!" Pinch urged, "I'll fetch a stick to wedge!!"

Pinch hopped off the cart while Toman danced carefully on his toes and Gnash held his fist strategically just above the upside down hanging man's waist.

The soprano to baritone voice in the cowl asked with some concern, "Is that slave biting your man's fingers and family Jewe..."

"They're a bit of a distraction. Don't mind them 'appens all the time. They're use to it. Professionals and all." Savant said in a hurry to return to the pouch.

"So, May I be so bold as to ask if that pouch if for me?"

But the cowled figure was open mouth staring at the cart. His hands clutched the pouch against his chest in a knuckle white grip. His brows nit in sympathy from time to time.

"I mean, it ain't no big loss is it! Why the tiny prick Toman uses can't hardly write a mark inna snow eh!" Gnash complained. "Wouldn't be missed cept peein I suppose."

"AHHH!! E's eatin mi fingers!! E's tearin me heart out!!" Toman howled in utter agony.

"Let me pop 'es oysters once!!" Gnash the diseased asked moving impatiently from foot to foot waiting for Pinch to return.

Pinch leaped on the cart with two possibly suitable limbs for wedging between teeth. He aimed between the fingers that look as though they were hanging by a tendon and Toman's cod piece.

"Hold still Toman I'll just give it a shove quick like!" Pinch barked and grabbed an ear of the Prince to steady the slice.

"NOOOO!!!" Nasty Toman shrieked breathlessly.

"Shouldn't you help?" The Apprentice asked.

Savant read The Apprentice eyes and knew there was only one thing to do if he was going to get that pouch anytime soon. He snapped his head and barked.

"Gnash, give 'em ah light rap. Light, mind you!!" Savant said but Pinch was also in motion.

Gnash snapped his knuckled fist the size of a large caste iron skilled down upon the Princes' personals while Pinch jabbed a stick into what was still connected to Toman's cock and fingers.

Toman scream broke four fine blown glasses and killed a goat with the high pitch of it. He instantly became an opera soprano before falling backward with his hands over his mangled cock and two good fingers and a thumb. He landed with a thumb and his eyes closed.

Savant stepped in front of The Apprentice's field of view of the cart and said hopefully, "Beggin your pardon your Apprenticeshipness, you were gonna hand me the pouch?"

It dropped from The Apprentice hands and into Savants. "He's bleedin!"

"I'll have 'em clean it up afore we leave your Apprenticshipness," Savant said with a low bow.

"Will he be alright?" The Apprentice finally said out of horrified curiosity.

"Right as rain in ah day. Slaves what get rapped inna nuggets get use to it," Savant said feeling the weigh in the pouch and guess how much was there.

"You must be busy with your doings Your Apprenticshipness," Savant said and tucked the pouch into his own belt. "So we won't keep you!"

With a nod, the Apprentice walked with his legs almost crossed oddly back toward the Tower of Calling. He was clearly unnerved. No one had ever screamed high enough to kill a goat before.

Well there was a mention of it just once in the Book of Truth. The section on Omens and Signs of the Revelation. The coming of the Prince of Slaves.
 
There was biting, and grinding and gnashing of teeth. There was the taste of blood in his mouth, and the gentle prodding of his gnards being tapped rather soundly because of aforementioned teeth gnashing.

But all of that sort of took a back seat to something a little more pressing than that. If he hadn't lost most of the feeling in his upper body over a day long trip where he hung from his hand and had the blood pool into his feet, that might have caused a stronger reaction. But what clinched the rather pale visitation of pain? That would have been the sudden influx of blood as he was upended.

It wasn't so much that he hadn't meant to bite them, because really, to be honest, Kalfor believed that they each deserved it. What it was is that he hadn't meant to bite so damned hard. That taste was going to stay with him for a while... trail dirt and some other undiscernable taste that he didn't even want to worry about. Because vomiting while in his present state and condition would end his concerns pretty quickly.

And that sudden and complete feeling of nerve endings reawakening was not just agonizing. It was downright unbelievable. His body was alive with it, and overwhelming his senses with it. He had heard of salted springs that contained effervescent bubbles that broke against the skin to add to pleasure. But this? Was not like what he had heard. This was like all of the blood rushing from his feet to his head in one fell swoop.

That swoop finished the Prince's consciousness. When the blood had managed to finally heat and cool his skin simultaneously while threatening mutiny, he slipped into restless but complete slumber. And he would have a nasty headache when he awoke, but at least, he would have all feeling in his body.

Far be it from me, dear reader, to try to convince him that that might be a bad thing. But it is early yet. And the young pup has time to discover his error...
 
They were the things told to children to keep them in their beds at night. The monster under the bed. The monster outside the window. They were never called VuNish. But depending on where you were raised they were gremiks, ekgins, Rorks, and the thump in the night.

It was said that The VuNish ( by one of the other names) had almond-shaped eyes. Eye colors varied from amber to lavender.

Hair that was curly, and colors ran from charcoal to blue silver or yellow grey and kept very short.

VuNish were said to be beardless with a large handle bar moustache. The older the VuNish the more the mustache would curl towards the ears. Pride and age.

Their skin the color of red clay. The mark of the VuNish was their nearly-nonexistent eyebrows and a strong chin. They were humanoid. They were said to be three foot or better and no one had ever seen a VuNish female.

The VuNish were the conquers that didn’t care to occupy kingdoms and preferred that others stayed in their own like reasonable neighbors. VuNish had learned over time that humans were simply insane and must have a constant reminder why they should stay in their own neighborhoods.

In the minds of the VuNish that was the purpose for the Nest of Nothingness and the Market of Human Flesh.

[It fights] came the thought of Gyth Rune Runner to the plump Oather True Seeker.

[You will be seen] warns Oather True Seeker. [Let Black Arvir have a look.]

[It will be my mount. It is strong] hoped Gyth Rune Runner.

[You will be seen. There is one looking even now] warns Sark the Hunter.

[ Tied and upside down. It fights. It is strong.] Black Arvir grinned and put a hand on Gyth Rune Rider’s shoulder.

[I can remember when they all fought] remarked Oather True Seeker. [They died well. They were good mounts. Trusted. And the mares whelped ever other year]

[Gyth! See to the Xul] instructed Oather True Seeker.

Sark the Hunter glances over at old plump Oather. Pride and age revealed in the whisk of mustache that curled round both ears. The thick head of hair gone yellow grey showed the passing of time. Time earned leading men to claim their mounts and then tame them.

Sark hoped one day to be a Truth Seeker. He hoped on day to curl his mustache around his ears and mount a mare until she whelped.

Black Arvir was almost as old. To tell the truth he might be older but did not go the way of the True Seeker. He turned to the shadows. He turned to the old ways. To the caverns of the earth. He returned above ground only seldom. This was the mid year moon and Black Arvir said it was important although he couldn’t explain why or how.

Sark didn’t really care he was glad for the company and glad that Black Arvir came along. He was good with the earth and with other things. A lot like Gyth Rune Rider.

But Gyth had a gift. They said he’d been born on the same day that his father’s mare whelped. The old queen said it was a sign but died before she bothered to say what sign. So here was Gyth Rune Rider, middle age and never married. Never had a mare whelp. Never went anywhere or did anything except ride from outpost to outpost delivering messages to those watching for trouble. Not even important messages unless mail from mum counted.

Gyth was here to get his first wild mount. His friends here to help and guide him.

So when night fell and the moon shone bright. The group of four walked to the grove of trees where three hung upside down.

Gyth was waiting by the big stallion when Oather True Seeker came with the extractors. It took a few minutes of measuring before Oather and Black Arvor had the four molars out. Gyth himself set the head harness and adjusted the snaffle bit in place. It took a moment more to hood him.

Gyth Rune Rider straightened [He is ready for the cart, Sark back the Xul up.]
Oather looked at Gyth [He should be branded]

Sark was moving the Xul into position to put the big animal in the cart with the other two.

Black Arvir came around the cart to stand by Oather [Do you wish to brand him yourself, Gyth?]

[Well...I..]

Sark the Hunter grinned. [Course he will, he put up a years gomber for the kits and hire]

They lowered the big stallion into the cart with the other two.

Oather grinned [Hip?]

Sark shook his head [Shoulder, right?]

Black Arvir glanced over at Gyth, [Where will you put that brand Gyth?]

[Well ... I..]

Oather patted Gyth Rune Rider’s shoulder [Let’s have a look at the brands shall we?]

Sark lead the Xul with the cart [ Shoulder, right?]
 
Kalor had felt that prying feeling at his lips, coming back to himself with the first wrenching agony of the removal of his teeth. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but whoever had done that was either a dentist or very experienced.

Or both.

What was strange was that he hadn't heard a single word exchanged. Through thinly slitted eyes, he watched them work together like a well-oiled machine. And one of them, the one who kept walking around him and prodding... he seemed to be there for him.

It wasn't easy to figure out who they were; not upside down. But after a few moments and coming back to himself as the bit was shoved into his mouth, almost flinched. Those bogie men. It couldn't be... but it was.

After having lived, well-sheltered and with his whims met at every breath, now was at the unfathomable mercy of the VuNish. It was wrong. And he, despite his height, his advantages and his strength, was scared half to death. He tried not to shake. He tried to remain calm. But no matter which way you cut it, he was a lonely kid with no way out. They lumped him in the back of some cart, stretched out for something, and he was feeling grimy. And soiled. And... oh how much he hated to admit it... helpless...

The final nail on that coffin was a heated feeling, it played over his skin... between two solid points that painted a heat flush in its wake. Shoulder blade... hip... Shoulder blade... hip... Shoulder blade... "Unnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhh..."

It was burning flesh, he smelled it, like cooking meat but it was HIM. The thick part of his shoulder was being marked... permanently... and tears collected in the corner of his eyes, from pain. From humiliation. From his complete situation.

He was lost. And as he got packed off with a tender shoulder and a stiff set of muscles... hungry... thirsty... bruised... His original thoughts of kidnapping were being replaced by his actual predicament.

The blood and metallic taste in his mouth... VuNish.

He had to find the strength inside of him to fight. He was a PRINCE. And with a sinking feeling in his gut as he slowly felt a thick fog of pain overwhelm him, that the word that seemed to be even more important... WAS.

He had never had to rely on himself. He had always called for Father. And now? There was Kalor... and he had to learn how to find a place where he could call on himself. But he was weary. And in agony. He leaned away from the branding site and curled into himself, bridle jingling and mouth sore.

He would not CRY. Females CRIED. And he... WAS a Prince. Would be a KING...

But not today.

No, Kalor.

Not today.
 
The white hot brand struck three times. Three times it seared flesh. Three times the unmistakable cooked flesh smell hung in the air. Three times was there muffled screams, panic in wild eyes, struggling. In the end there were three fresh brands. Two scaring hips and one along the meat of a shoulder blade.

Gyth Rune Rider regarded the three in the cart. Three strong mounts to be sure. All well muscled. All lean without more than the normal old marks of past battles.

The one of the far right had a wheat colored mane, dark eyes and long legs. The middle was the smallest but only by inches of the one of the right. The mane dark oak and eyes deep blue, the build of a sprinter for sure.

Black Arvir moved closer to the foot of the cart. He too regarded the mounts. His eyes scanning for faults and points. The hiss of the brand nearby as Oather dipped it in the cool bucket had both VuNish glancing over.

Sark stood at the brazier waiting quietly. Watching soundlessly as Oather worked. Noting details. Memorizing sequences for the time when Sark the Hunter might be allowed the privilege of leading the quest.

The cart stirred and Gyth’s eyes dropped to the three mounts as the stallion curled.

[He is in pain] Gyth thought.

Black Arvir looked back to the mounts in the cart [No more than necessary.]

[There is salve] Sark tossed the pouch at Gyth meaning for him to use it.


Gyth moved closer, stepping along the side of the cart. His hand gently resting on the big stallion’s hip.

He uttered a sound that he knew soothed them when they were anxious.

”Ssshhhhh” Gyth said near the stallion’s shoulder.

His hand in the mane of the big head, patting gently. His other hand with a smear of snot like gel. The overpowering smell of Witch hazel and Night Wart filled the air around Gyth fingers. Enough to make Black Arvir snort and take a step away.

Sark‘s hands on his hips as he saw the size of the dose. [Hey don’t waste it!]

But Gyth’s hand was already on the bridled to keep the stallion from jerking his head. His other applying a smear of the stuff on that brand without touching it. He gave the big mount a pat on the head in approval when done and moved away.

He applied the goop to the other two. They were all in need as far as Gyth was concerned. Then and only then did he toss the pouch to Sark.

[My thanks!]

Black Arvir grinned at Gyth and looked over at Oather as the proud and aged VuNish hung the cool brand on the hook VuNish height on the wall.

Oather turned to the others [Let us be off. It is a full night’s walk to the Mudsell Bog]

Sark was already leading the Xul cart out of the stable and in a westward direction. He led the way but his thoughts were on the cart. His eyes had been on that wheat maned mount and he wanted to get this over with before he started to act like Gyth.

Gyth walked beside Oather [Mudsell Bog. That place is known for carbics. They run in packs there. Why do we go there. It’s isolated and dangerous. If a mount escapes the tether. If they try to escape and run into a pack of carbics]

Black Arvir placed a gentle hand on Gyth’s shoulder [ Do you think your stallion will try to escape?]

Gyth looked from Black Arvir to Oather then to the cart. [He is wild untamed]

Sark glanced over his shoulder to the other three [He fought well without weapons while chained upside down]

Oather leaned on his walking stick as the cart moved up a slight incline. [He did not thrash and smear the heat of the brand. He is smart]

Black Arvir looked at the cart [Do you think your stallion is smart and fights well?]

Gyth nodded with confidence [Yes]

Sark nodded [The bog is the first stop. Do you think he will try to escape?]

Gyth looked to Sark [Yes]

Oather nodded [The carbics will run him]

Gyth looked at Oather [He is smart]

Black Arvir saw the fork in the road up ahead [He has no weapon]

Gyth‘s eyes fell once again on the green eyed stallion [He has me]
 
He hurt all over. Inside and out.

Keeping his eyes averted so that none could see, and hoping that his raven black hair might partially cover his bruising face, he weighed his options. They were few. But if he was at the mercy of the VuNish, the bogey men that now materialized from the collective nightmares... he would need to leave.

Before they killed him... before they...

Fingers. Pressing. Against his shoulder, his head, holding the jingling... bridle, he could only assume... and a thick swath of something slid across his flesh, acrid medicinal smell assaulted his senses. Were they healing him? Soothing him?

A sound like something he recalled from childhood came from somewhere behind him. That slow, steady touch deceptively gentle. But Kalor knew... had heard... had been told of their brutality, and their strange feeding practices. Perhaps they were seasoning him.

A simple decision was made. He wasn't a meal, or an appetizer. And no matter how tenderized they had made him, he still wasn't out of the running.

Kalor's heart beat faster and he almost jumped as the cart jostled him. They were moving. And he was planning... thoughts racing in his head. He watched where they were going, as well as he could from his position.

There was a lot that Kalor was not going to be today.

A woman. A king. And now, a meal.

The flesh throbbed and he shifted slightly to alleviate the pressure.

There was a lot that Kalor was going to be today.

And the primary focus of that expectation was one word.

FREE.
 
The Fork in the Road. They turned the Xul cart towards the gorge. It wound switchback and climbed upward then twisted, it was mean for a road. The Xul loved it. Plenty of hoof holds. Oather not so much. He used the walking stick more. Grumbled more but without a thought to the others just huffed along at a decent pace beside Sark while Black Arvir and Gyth came along behind the cart.

They passed the great arch just after full moon. Their journey half way complete. Already the vegetation creep over the road in places. The footing had more give. By the time it was false dawn, the grey of dawn, the distinct smell of wet vegetation sprang to the nose like a bad soup.

Even Gyth was looking around cautiously. There were no signs to strangers warning about Mudsell Bog. A clean Xul skull tipped on it’s side and a dagger made for a human hand lay at the edge of a pond on the right.

Gyth moved to his stallion [Stop the cart.]

Sark stopped the Xul, and his hand went to his own weapon as he stopped and crouched. His eyes ahead. His companion behind him were to protect his back. He trusted that and them.

Oather not seeing any recent signs of danger glanced back to Gyth at the cart.

Gyth grabbed that big stallion’s head by the bridle and slapped him hard enough to turn his head twice. He jerked that head to face the pond and pointed. The skull and the dagger should mean something to his mount. He should see it as a warning.

Black Arvir watched curiously as Gyth turned the black maned beast’s head toward the pond. Arvir did not bother to move the smaller mount in the middle. That head was already turning. The wheat maned mount on the end glanced over then turned to lay back down as though bored.

Sark saw the reactions. His eyes narrowed at the wheat maned mount’s boredom. Did it already know and understand, or did it not care, Sark wondered.

Gyth waited as he watched to see any sign of understanding from his big stallion. He waited hoping for the skull and dagger to warn his stallion that when he runs there will be others that will be hunting him also and those other will be hunting him for their next meal.
 
There it was; that slap that woke him. The cart had stopped. His face directed by the one who was flavouring him to look... to see...

Now all he had in his mind and thoughts was the pond, the dagger, and whoever or whatever was dumb enough to get him or herself killed. In other words, that clean skull.

He was still cocky enough to run, and young enough to imagine himself immortal.

So, he needed no additional prompting, and slid off the end of the cart.

Black hair flying, green eyes flashing, his feet hit spongey ground, and he almost tumbled and fell. But with a slight adjustment of his knees, he regained his balance and took off like a shot. Yes, he was a Prince. But he worked out every day. And didn't believe in not taking care of himself. That meant he was actually fed well, and despite having missed meals and liquid, he felt his mouth parch more as he looked at the pond.

The skin pulled as his arms worked, using the ground as leverage to propel him as forward as he could get. He had only one thing in his head... that dagger. Because the weapon spelled Freedom.

And the VuNish spelled Death.

If he had lived anywhere outside of the castle walls or been outside of the protected forest, he may have understood the laws of the savage land. But he had not.

So, he would find that there was a veritable thesaurus for Death...

And thus, Kalor's education had begun.
 
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