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Bride Price
Victor Krosse did not like making these excursions, he usually sent another trusted man in his stead. A man Like Greyson or Hawkins. However on this matter his Lord had been most insistent Victor attend personally.
As always it was over a woman, an unattainable woman. Yet another flower in the long procession of endless beauty that was for whatever reason always unacceptable to his dour Lord. She was not a virgin, she spoke too much, she was not as beautiful as her photograph. The list of faults Lothar found in his prospective brides were endless. His aide and second in command had long ago tired of the game.
The price was ridiculous and so was the summons. A turbaned black clad messenger had arrived bearing an artist's hasty rendition of even to his eyes what promised to be a very spectacular woman. Oh we have reentered the medieval days! The Doctor thought sarcastically; as he again unfurled the portrait in his black gloved hands on its ragged canvas. How did he know this likeness was even accurate? It was probably just some demented artist's flight of whimsy, but sadly he must act on it.
Perhaps this will be the last time Victor sighed, as he rode his raven mount under the portcullis and out into the dunes that stretched for an infinity before him. A three day ride in the cold on an ailing man's fancy did not appeal.
He would not worry over his Lord's condition during his absence, his capable fawning understudy Merton would be quite adequate to administer his Lords care. The man would blindly do anything that the good Doctor ordered, and being never formally trained in the vast and complex field of medicine he would do anything he was told. Victor smiled at the thought, even in his absence he still had the capacity to pull the strings of his puppet on the throne.
He did not ride alone, he had six very capable men with him including Major Hawkins a man he implicitly trusted and valued. Perhaps it would not be all bad. Master Jacques did routinely hold some very stimulating entertainments after all. A smile again lit his bitter features as he grimaced into the cold wind thinking on the blood sports he so enjoyed but did not have the leisure to witness.
Victor was sure he would get a private viewing during his visit. Deciding the week's break may just do him good, he had been too long cloistered within these walls. He pulled the high collar up about his neck on his thick, wool military style overcoat. The gold buttons gleamed on the field of stark black, and his put his silver spur to his ebon mount's flank urging it to an easy gallop. His men followed suit.
*****
Three days of hard riding and rough makeshift camps, Victor was glad to see the gates of the adobe walled structure part before him. The trip had been uneventful, a blessing in these dangerous times. Tonight he would enjoy the luxury of good food, fine wine, perhaps a hot bath followed the carnal delights of a well trained slave girl.
He and his men reigned in their tired horses before the water trough, servants and stable boys hurried to break the ice on the water before the thirsty animals.
Aran in chains and under heavy guard had been allowed the rare freedom of exercise up top in the open compound. His guards had secured him when the riders had ridden in. The handsome heavy horses and fine livery drew the eye, but in Aran's case it was none of those things. He was drawn to the blood red standard and the black wolf centered on its crimson field. The Wolf Lord's standard, that adorned the fine horses livery.
It had been over a year since he had at last fought this resilient foe. Remembering the great victory over the knights and crushing the Wolf himself in the canyon, only to be slaughtered and betrayed in their attack on the fortress. His clan had never recovered from that loss. He gazed at the scar that ran the full length of his sword arm, his own personal souvenir of that crushing defeat.
His guards were tugging on his chains, urging him in no uncertain manner to return below. Aran in defiance lingered, watching the party of men greet Master Jacques on the steps to his palatial home, only to be struck viciously by the hated wooden club. He was ushered down the steps that led to the subterranean corridors that connected the bleak cells of the pit fighters.
The cell door closed behind him, he sought his cape it was his only covering. He curled in a ball on the hard floor, darkness was descending rapidly. He thought of Maya and longed for a woman's comforts. It had been so long.
*****
He had almost drifted into sleep dreaming of soft yielding female flesh beneath him, when he woke to voices. There were two men with a lighted torch peering into his cell.
"Here he is, he is quite the gladiator."
The torch was thrust part way through the bars bathing Aran in a pool of light.
"Get up!" Master Jacques ordered. Aran complied slowly blinded by the light in his eyes. "Lose the fur." Jacques commanded.
Aran let his covering fall from his powerful shoulders, he stood naked but for the steel restraints before the two men.
Victor was silent for a time, he had the express feeling he had seen this very man before. He was usually very accurate at recall, the man before him bothered his sensibilities. Yet he could not say why.
"What do you think?" Jacques asked expectantly.
"You are right he is exquisite, a very fine specimen. I am surprised you only branded him with the generic mark and did not add your own."
Aran found himself subconsciously placing his left hand over the still fresh brand on his thigh, he was beginning to discover the truth of the mark that was made on him.
"I decided to only brand him as a common slave." Jacques said. "I did not want to reduce his value by placing my own initials on him should he prove as good or better than my other champion fighter."
"You would sell him then?" Victor questioned.
"Oh yes, for the right offer everything is for sale."
Both men laughed, Aran did not feel comfortable being discussed in this way. It was as though these two men did not credit him with any form of human intelligence.
"He reminds me of a project I had once." Victor mused out loud. "He bears an uncanny resemblance to a man I tortured for six days last year. He was strong, never seen any man last as long as he did. I finally had to resort to removing his sex. It was at that point I realized he did not have the information I was seeking."
"I bet he spoke volumes then." Again both men laughed.
"To be truthful he had very little to tell." Victor said in a voice that held lustful overtones.
Aran stood frozen at what he had just heard. This Germanic accented man he could not view to any satisfaction beyond the flames of the torch had been the man of his brother's torment.
"It would destroy a fighters performance to do that." Jacques went on.
"Oh I am sure, it destroys most men." Victor said lightheartedly.
"Well, I will grant you the privilege of watching this fine animal in action tomorrow as we conduct some business."
"I would enjoy that greatly." Victor purred.
"Ah it's cold down here." Jacques stated rubbing his hands together. "Let us adjourn to the fire, for some songs performed my talented bard, some wine, and of course some beautiful young girls."
"You are the most sublime of hosts." Victor purred, he was glad he had come after all.
*****
Aran had not slept at all well, inured to the hard ground and the cold as he was it should have been easy to do so. However he spent the long hours of night laying on his back looking up at the darkness of his cell dwelling on the visitor of last evening and his chilling admission. His fingers idly tracing the endless triangle scarred in to his thigh.
The grating of steel doors, the calls of his fellow prisoners, all the sounds echoed from the earthen walls to him. Aran woke, blond hair spilling over the dust on the floor, vibrant green eyes toward the ceiling as he had lain the entirety of the previous night. His keeper was already turning the key in the lock, the two faceless black clad men looming behind him. Always at the ready to subdue these dangerous inmates.
Aran was in no hurry to rise, he made no move to even cover himself. Keith set Aran's ration down on the floor, there was no furniture of any kind in his cell just the hard dusty floor that suited for all purposes. Today he bore a metal pail and a rag draped over his arm, he set this down on the floor also. "Wash," was all he said.
Aran did not acknowledge his one word request. He merely waited for the men to leave.
He did not have long to wait. Keith never lingered in his company. The warrior rose slowly as he heard the footfalls of the retreating men and the series of iron barred doors being locked and unlocked as the other prisoners were fed and checked over.
It was the same routine every day. Aran wondered briefly how long could he do this, the thought held dangerous overtones. Better not to answer that he told himself, after all he knew from the conversation he had been privy to last night this may not be forever. In the words of Master Jacques he was for sale after all. He would content himself with that, as he reached for the icy water in the bucket to clean away the filth of many days.
*****
Victor and his men had enjoyed a sumptuous evening of many delights. He had to admit the notorious slaver certainly could impress, his hospitality was grandiose. It was something Master Jacques was widely known for. Both he and Lothar had visited many times in the past, to be entertained and make various acquisitions.
These niceties aside, today they would talk business. Victor was mentally preparing himself for this as he rose to perform his morning ritual ablutions. They took some time, he was as always his sharp scintillating self as he emerged to take his breakfast with Jacques.
