Avarice Desperation Valley Ch 06

Golden Goddess.

It was many hours later when Carlos awoke to the rough hands of two of Bennett's henchmen as they dragged him from the comfort of his resting place. He was now alone, Selene had long since departed with the new dawn to seek the shelter and protection of her secret, high places. Leaving him to rest in his bed of rank, badly cured furs.

The injured slave grunted in great pain as the pair of uncaring men extricated him from his hiding place. Causing fresh blood to issue forth from some of his deeper cuts. The bright daylight searing his vision. His only ruling desire to retreat to some dark place like a wounded animal, to lick his wounds and recover, until he could bear to function again.

His struggles to resist the men's strong grip were futile, further aggravating his many injuries, and he could barely feel his fettered hands, just the sensation of numbness which panicked him. A feeling of nausea and incredible weakness robbed him of the will for further resistance. Just as Carlos believed the pain could get no worse, he screamed as he was hauled upright to his nerveless feet, with his knees threatening to buckle beneath him, and once again the mercy of unconsciousness closed in.

Raissa tearily observed all, standing but a few short paces from her broken and beaten lover. The sight wrenching her heart. Bennett had ordered her to see what could be done, and with that came the relief that her beloved was indeed still alive. Her buoyant hopes however soon died as she sighted his horrific injuries. The beating had been delivered with savage precision, designed to break the spirit and demand future compliance.

Raissa was an expert healer, and she sadly knew that her love would bear the scars from this experience for the rest of his days. Dutifully she followed the warriors to Bennett's abode, where the unconscious man was placed unceremoniously on the floor, next to the mattress. Then the two men retreated after removing the handcuffs. Though not so far as to not hear and observe anything of interest that transpired between the two. Sven's instruction she was sure.

Raissa knelt beside him her eyes appraising him closely, the bruising was extensive, the myriad of grazes and cuts would in time heal. Though some would require sutures. However of most concern to her was his shallow, pained breathing. All her healing experience told her that something was amiss inside. She began with warm water, cutting loose the blood soaked shirt, removing his worn boots and faded jeans. Gently sponging away the clotted blood and filth that mottled his tanned skin. Lovingly she brushed the hair from his eyes, it too was dirty and matted with dried blood.

During this, much to her surprise and wonder she felt the first stirrings of the growing life inside, and she sat silently for some moments focusing within. Yes, it would be his she thought with conviction, and she was determined she would give this child of their forbidden love a better life. Though she knew not how. Back she went to her work realizing ruefully that this would now be her only probable chance to caress his familiar, handsome body, saddening her deeply. Crying within that the physical love they shared could be no more. She would have to endure as though nothing had happened between them, with her love continuing his existence here, as a beaten, lowly slave, freedoms gone and his pride as well. Bennett would see to that.

Knowing all this she took her time, working deftly, cursing the lack of medical supplies, and improvising where she could to achieve the desired result. During her ministrations he sometimes regained partial consciousness, though she was not sure he recognized her. Then just as suddenly he would pass out again as she continued with her task. The young woman was indeed skilled in the healing arts, despite having no formal training her inquiring mind and sensitive hands often worked healing wonders. There were scores of souls who owed their fortunate recoveries from the bane of sickness or injury to Raissa's abundant knowledge.

Though she was only a slave every man in this camp valued her usefulness, her skills being in constant demand, despite her tender age. At last she seemed satisfied that she had done all she could, finishing by bandaging his torso tightly, that being all she could do for his possibly fractured ribs, and suturing the worst of his cuts. Requesting the men to then move him onto the mattress, overseeing that he was at last comfortable.

Taking one final, loving, look at the forbidden object of her desire so peaceful in his sleep, she turned then to leave. Horrified as she almost collided with the solid form of Bennett who she had no idea had positioned himself directly behind her, avidly scrutinizing her every action. The ever present fear of this great man paralyzed the young woman in her tracks. His magnificent stature and dark presence never ceased to enhance Raissa's sense of unease. It did not help either that perhaps she was seen by him as competing for what was plainly his. She squirmed, too afraid to look up, not risking meeting the penetrating, icy gaze now leveled at her. So she stood there dumbly, eyes submissively downcast, waiting for him to react. She felt the heavy hand on her shoulder, impossibly big, still she could not steel herself to look up. "Will he fully recover?" He inquired, his bland tone revealing nothing of his inner feelings to her.

"Y...y...yes." She quavered.

"He'd better." Came the menacing reply, chilling her blood. She felt the powerful hand guiding her out the door, and she took the hint and left quickly. Almost running now to seek the comfort of the other slaves, eager to busy herself with the day's chores.

When Carlos finally awoke that day, it was deep dusk. Just the faintest hue of rose coloring the west. There was not the slightest whisper of wind, and it was as though the rain had awakened the sleeping land. Loud was the cacophony of a million insects filling the usually subdued desert nights with vibrant chorus. For a time he lay unmoving, sensing acutely his surroundings and his bruised body. Thankfully he was alone, gingerly he surveyed his bandaged ribs, finding that movement caused him intense pain. Still he did feel marginally better than he had that morning. Reveling in the knowledge that at least his hands were now free, plus he was clean and almost comfortable.

Abruptly he remembered the ring. Did he still have it? His fingers sought its comforting familiarity, thankfully still suspended about his neck. As he did so he encountered more than he had bargained for, a length of sturdy, welded link chain fastened around his throat with a padlock. A despairing sigh escaped him then as he eased his tortured body back down into the comfort of the furs. Realizing then he was too weak to attempt anything else.

Even with the rapidly failing light, and his reduced vision, a cursory observation revealed a mass of ugly bruises and cuts. Never had Bennett done anything like this to him in all his long captivity. However his resolve of non compliance to the brute's sick wishes would stand. Presuming he would either be killed or survive to escape, praying that it would be the latter of these two options. Though for now he could do no more than just focus on getting well, then it was paramount he must engineer a successful escape, lest he be severely maimed making his plans impossible. So with all this running through his head he listened to the sounds of the encroaching night, lapsing again into the arms of restorative, dreamless sleep.

Bennett lounged by the central hearth looking west at the dying sunset staining the sky crimson. His hard unfeeling gaze masking perfectly the tumultuous chaos reigning within. Not since he had first claimed this valley in those early days, followed by a handful of loyal men from its original inhabitants, had his task as leader been so demanding and downright difficult.

There was the irksome matter of how to gain entry to the fortified city so newly discovered. As yet he had no inspiration on a precise plan of attack. With his men growing ever restless over his dalliance on the matter. He would have to provide something concrete soon, or he could find his leadership contested. Not a good time either carrying the wounds he had sustained, for they were far worse than he had let be known. He could feel them smarting now as he eased his muscular bulk into a more comfortable position, seething with anger for being played the fool. Until last night he had never contemplated the scenario that his gorgeous captive would have dared to take him on in a duel.

A feeling of rare discomfort rose as he also realized that Carlos would have killed him if he had been given the chance. No, he could not trust further that fear would be enough to ensure perfect compliance. This was a new and frightening, yet fascinating concept. One he had never had to face before, and for the first time in his very violent life Bennett was finding it extremely hard to see in black and white. What to do? He mused, as he took another draught of numbing alcohol. At least it took the raw edge off the pain for a while.

He had the option of wholly breaking his captive, but it did not seem likely that this method would succeed. Carlos had resisted copious quantities of torture before, and on the off chance that he did succeed? Would he still appreciate the fine young man then? Part of him knew already that it was the defiance he craved, such attitude in an attractive young male never failed to inflame his desire. Everyone here was afraid of him except his long suffering prisoner, who alone could look him levelly in the eye full of defiant, burning hate.

Possibly he had gone too far with his wild display of anger and retribution yesterday evening. Still he had to save face. The men would expect no less, failing to act so savagely would have demeaned him in their eyes. So he had done what he knew he must. Though this morning as he had surveyed Carlos' bloody countenance, privately he felt remorse. Staring absently into the bottom of the battered silver tankard, thinking perhaps he has learned this time. Though deep down Bennett knew, this would not be over.

Frances was a rare beauty in this new blood forged age. Perfection of a kind rarely glimpsed in times of peace. Let alone in these times of terror and trial, as a new order strove to rule in this blighted world. Skin like milk, soft and unblemished by the effects of harsh desert exposure, hands elegant and fine, uncalloused by hard labor, with nails manicured and painted. Her hair the color of morning gold, full and lustrous, falling to her curvaceous hips. Small waisted yet amply bosomed, a beauty beyond compare, fragile and exquisite, with eyes of the deepest indigo hue. Plump lips and a captivating, seductive smile, a goddess spun in gold. All fell under her spell, for her beauty shone also from within. She was benevolent and kind, with a soft voice never raised in anger, and all about her the sweet scent of roses.

At the tender age of just eighteen summers she was about to undertake her biggest trial, and trepidation dogged her every hour as she traveled ever further southward to meet her warlord betrothed. In truth she was very afraid, though her demeanor did not show it. As she had dreaded the match since it was announced when she was but sixteen years of age.

My the years had passed all too quickly since that traumatic day, and she found herself trembling as she envisaged this man, a man she hardly knew, many years her senior, soon to be her husband, for good or ill. Her father had said it was for the best, though she had sensed both his, and her mother's sadness at this planned union. She did this for them, and the future of their beautiful valley. An alliance to benefit all those she had left at home, and loved. A pawn in the game of diplomacy, the only one her father had to play.

So here she was traveling through this dangerous land, with her three handmaidens, Lissa, Sarah, and Kate, all of who she loved as sisters. Along with a handful of her father's men, to escort her safely to her awaiting lord. The young woman could visualize him now, older, late forties, the cares of age already etched on his solid frame, steel grey in his short dark hair. Seeming to her both blunt and intimidating, caring little for the beauty and pleasantries her parents had taught her to value.

He was a military man, well versed in the ways of war, never had she sighted him without all its trappings. The creaking, glinting armor, forged from hardened leather and steel, and the sharp short sword and dagger that girded his thick waist. Yes, she had to admit that she was afraid. What would they have in common? How would he treat her? He had seemed courteous enough on his few initial visits, and had brought her beautiful gifts to woo her. However he always seemed so serious and world weary, his mind on other things far away. He made her feel very unimportant, she felt like some glittering prize in his must have collection. Frances wished with all her heart that she did not have to marry this cold, seemingly unloving man.

There was nothing she could do to alter her destiny, if ever there had been. Tomorrow she along with her entourage, and substantial dowry, would enter the city gates. Frances shivered as she recalled Lord Lothar's gloomy standard. The black wolf on the blood red field, that would announce her journey's end.

The beautiful young woman sighed softly as she looked out from her litter's gauzy, curtained sanctum, at the almost darkened sky, the stars showing brightly forth, promising a cool clear night in the rain's wake. It had been yet another long and arduous days travel for the small party. Already they were bedding down for the night. Frances could discern the inviting amber glow of the men's fire, hearing clearly their conversation interspersed with the laughter of her women, and the chink of the horses harnesses. Sound carried far in this place. Never in her life had she felt so bereft and alone. So with her many troubles she settled down amongst her nest of silken pillows, and feather covers, hoping earnestly that sleep would arrive.

Gareth had maintained steady vigilance since his leader's departure, missing nothing that occurred in the intoxicating enigma of the fortifications below. Witnessing many interesting events along with his force from their concealment, ensconced in the rocky slopes above. Some of which alarmed him and boded badly for any plan of attack. The entire party observed just yesterday at dusk an attempted raid by a war party, presumably from lands further south.

Their demise was swift and certain, with all but a handful of attackers in the thirty strong raid party being cut down in a murderous hail of arrows and spears, delivered with pinpoint accuracy from the heights of the fortified walls. Of even more concern was the frightening realization that mounted squarely above the massive gate's portal was a deadly flame cannon. Its range was considerable and the damage it inflicted was horrific. Then just as the battle was seemingly over, the gates opened wide revealing a detachment of disciplined, armored cavalry. Butchering any unfortunates that had survived with ruthless efficiency.

After bearing witness to this gruesome massacre the warriors zeal was somewhat dampened, after all as good as they were they numbered no more than the unsuccessful attackers. Their wily leader's cautious wisdom again proven right, indeed more thought would have to go into this, if they were to make their bid for conquest of this seemingly impenetrable place, and take the bountiful prizes housed within. So they had awaited their leader's return patiently, but things did not proceed as they had hoped or planned. With the failed attack prompting the fort's residents to become decidedly jittery, and much to Gareth's alarm, regular patrols were dispatched to scour the surrounding, rock strewn landscape for further signs of threat.

Quickly he and Aran had ordered a swift retreat, and fortunately they remained undetected. However this meant that they would have to lay up further away from the darkly brooding walls, thus compromising their observations. They could also not risk lighting an evening fire. Eventually it was decided that they would have to take alternative watch, moving their camp some distance to the southeast. Where they could observe in reasonable safety and comfort.

The battle scarred Gareth sat high up, scanning the far horizons as it was his turn at the watch. To the southwest he could sight the ominous glow of the fortresses' evening lights. This would be a true test of their warring abilities he ruminated. His beaten, heavily tattooed countenance searching for every possible sign of interest, or threat from his lofty perch. That was when he first spied the faintest glow of a fire, just the tiniest trace of light on the distant rocky plain away to the east. Most would have overlooked the telltale sign. Gareth however missed nothing, perchance an easier mark lay there for the taking he reasoned? He would mobilize some men and see.

The party left behind one warrior on watch should Bennett return. With the remaining seven setting off almost immediately the sighting was proclaimed. The experienced, well coordinated group covered the treacherous terrain swiftly, and in silence. Each man mentally preparing for the massacre they hoped would come with predawn, and the pleasures of spoils to follow. The pinpoint of the fire's telltale glow grew steadily larger in their hungry sights, until at last some hours later they circled their unsuspecting quarry, wolves going in for the kill. Silent, efficient, and deadly, each man knew his place and awaited the signal to strike.

Aran assessed the slumbering camp carefully, his tall, lean body unmoving atop a flat high rock. A slight breeze disturbed his ample, straight, blond hair, cut neatly just below shoulder length, and his glinting green eyes had the hardness of a predators as he waited for his force to gain their positions to attack.

Looking at this he reasoned it would be easy, only four men that he could see, and his tally seemed supported by the presence of three fine horses, and in addition two cart mules. Still he would not be tempted to take stupid risks, as his prey would more than likely be well armed. However the thing that gladdened Aran's heart the most was the sight of a number of women, rare and welcome prizes. His starved sexuality at once coming to the fore, forcing him to make a conscious effort to focus on his task. Time for that later, he reprimanded himself, as his men waited for his signal all positioned silently in a circle of awaiting death. He could just make out everyone of them, poised, weapons at the ready. Satisfied he gave the signal, and in true guerrilla fashion each warrior soundlessly converged on the sleeping circle of dammed souls.

The small encampment stood no chance, with two of the men swiftly dispatched. Throats cut, choking on their blood before they even had the time to wake, let alone mount any kind of serious defense. These poor men presented little challenge to the rabid band led by the handsome Aran. Extreme hardship had forged them into skilled and ingenious killers, ruthless in their intensity. With the two remaining defenders knowing they were done for, now back to back making their last desperate stand. It was all over in a few hectic moments of terror in the dark, with one of the remaining defenders taken alive, the other going down butchered beneath several zealous slashing blades.

Swiftly the women were herded together, three beauties in all, the men barely concealing their long frustrated lusts. Meanwhile the injured, vanquished male was bound, to be interrogated later, hopefully revealing some useful knowledge that would benefit them all. Aran quickly appraised the rest of the hoard, the horses were fine animals, and the mules would certainly prove quite useful.