Demon Child

Demon Child Chapter 2

A demon is born.

Enjoy

xantu

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The child was born much like any other, forced out amid blood and tears. Born naked and helpless, it wailed its protest at the injustice of being forced out of its refuge. The witch doctor held the little thing up and took note of its strange appearance. Its eyes were an odd milky blue; its skin was white as the face of the moon. Strangest of all a thin coating of orange hair covered its head.

Kharthmah was surprised to see it was a female. He had not sensed that when he had traced its outline in its mothers belly. After its first squall of rage during the birth, the child was silent, hanging still and passive in his hands. He could feel its eyes looking at him, focusing with awareness impossible for a newborn. A strong premonition of danger shook him.

Kharthmah hastily laid it on the ground and burned some herbs, inhaling the smoke. He broke an egg that had been buried under the mother's sleeping mat the last weeks of her pregnancy. As the pungent smell of the rotten egg filled the hut, he studied its contents. The old man began to keen and screech, "This demon child has omens swirling around her. She carries within her great powers. She will bring of doom or luck to all around her. Any who would cause her death will be cursed."

Kharthmah picked up the tiny baby and pressed it to Sa'amdi's breast. The woman turned and tried to thrust the baby away. He grabbed her hair and shook her. "Servant, you will suckle this demon. I will not have its spirit haunting this village because you refused to feed it."

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The infant was fed and cleaned only when absolutely necessary. Thin and neglected, she learned to survive on little from the first days of her life. The milky blue of her infant eyes changed to the light gray of the demon that had spawned her. Free to crawl about in the dirt of the dark and smoky hut, she learned quickly that the smallest noise or irritation would earn her a blow or a kick sooner than a scrap of food or a mother's attention. She developed an uncanny ability to sense the moods of those around her. She learned to be silent and wary.

Sa'amdi left the tribe of the Ramaldi when the demon was only three summers old, eager to leave behind the child and the memories it carried with it. The girl remembered little of her mother beyond the tones of hate in her voice. She could remember the echo of her bitterness as Sa'amdi spoke of the demon that had destroyed her life, her family and burdened her with this child she hated. She remembered, word for word, the story of the demon's death at her mother's hands.

The orphan lived in the hut of the medicine man. Having a demon for a pet greatly increased his status among the other medicine men of the Ramaldi tribes. Kharthmah was a poor parent to the small red haired girl. He only called her 'demon' and frequently forgot to feed her or provide the simplest clothing. She learned the arts of healing and poisons at his side. The old witch doctor refused to teach her magic; saying, "You must find your own magic."

Every time she left the hut to gather herbs or to do any of the many chores that needed doing, the people of the village would point and whisper. Her pale coloration stood out against the dark skinned people of the Ramaldi tribe. She could feel their fear and hate on her skin as they would stare. She was the target of curses and thrown filth. If she complained to Kharthmah about her treatment by the villagers he would laugh and say, "You are a demon, girl, curse them."

Kharthmah never washed. His filthy appearance enhanced his reputation as a witch. It did not occur to him to teach her to wash. Her skin was layered with dirt. She covered her head with dirty rags, hating her red demon hair. She learned to keep her eyes downcast to hide her demon eyes. The villagers called her Neekah, dirty one, more of a description than a name. It was the only name she knew.

Neekah had her first woman's blood at twelve years. It was when she had the first dreams of flying. Not high, just skimming along the surface of the ground at amazing speed, a loud pounding in her ears. The dreams filled her nights.

As Kharthmah grew older he spent more and more of his time drowsing, his spirit traveling in the world of the ancestors. She was fourteen summers when Kharthmah failed to wake from one of his journeys. The village people came and chased her away from the hut. They burned the body of the old man, singing the songs to guide his spirit away from their world. They stole what little there was of value.

Neekah was alone for the first time in her life. She stayed alone in the hut, but the villagers no longer sought out medicine and prophecy, bringing payments of food. Hunger drove her out at night seeking food, sneaking and milking the goats in the field for the sweet milk, stealing from the meat drying racks. She had knowledge of wild plants and their uses from assisting Kharthmah. She learned to hide and move silently in the dark. She could find enough to survive.

Living as an outcast, Neekah grew to be a woman. Any Ramaldi girl would have been married and a mother twice over by her age. She was tall, standing a hand's span taller than the tallest man of the village. She had developed the custom of cutting her demon hair as close to her scalp as she could with a knife and keeping a rag tied around her head. But she could not hide her demon's grace. She had a whip lean body, hardened by starvation and work, and a lithe movement that drew men's eyes.

Neekah had no protector. She held no status among the Ramaldi. There were no rules of conduct for the men of the village. It was rumored that to lie with a demon was bad luck; but forbidden and dangerous fruit can be the most tempting.

Neekah was first attacked and raped by a group of young men, recent graduates of the manhood ceremony. They cornered her in her in the little hut of the dead witch doctor. She tried to fight but there were too many. Dragging her from the hut they surrounded her, hooting their war cries and laughing at her terror. They jabbed at her with their spears. They pushed her down and jabbed at her with their bodies. They were young and inexperienced; taking turns holding her down and rutting upon her, cheering each other to greater lengths of brutality. Worse than the assault on her body was the assault on her senses, the excited violence in their hearts battered at Neekah's sanity. Her only refuge from madness was hatred, hatred and the promise of revenge. She focused on her mother's story of revenge, repeating the story of the demon's death in her mind. Neekah gritted her teeth and silently cursed them.

After that, there was not a time she did not contend with the pursuit of men. They made a sport of hunting her. She learned to hide and run, but no matter how careful she was, not a moon passed when she wasn't cornered by the young gangs of men who ran loose during the first years after their manhood ceremonies. Once caught she learned not to fight, if she fought, they just hurt her worse. She learned to send her mind far away from her body as they thrust into her. She would lick her wounds and nurse her hate once she could escape.

Neekah knew what herbs to take to cast an infant from a womb. She knew that to take the abortive too often would cause a woman to become barren. She wanted nothing more. Her mother's story of hate resonated in her heart. She refused to become the vessel for a child thrust upon her against her will. She ate the plant whenever she could find it.

Once when she had been caught by a particularly persistent group of young men she began to experience a sensation of softness and warmth. As they took their turns, each rutting upon her endlessly, she felt a soft explosion of sweet pleasure, her loins throbbing and shuddering in soft jerks of unfamiliar feelings. In a world of loneliness and neglect this was the first taste of pleasure she had ever had.

Neekah still hid and fled from her pursuers, for she hated the people of the village, but she had learned to steal small moments of pleasure for herself when she was caught. She still cursed her tormenters, praying they would all perish like the demon that spawned her.

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It was spring when rumors of Bak raiders reached the Ramaldi tribes. The people spoke of horror stories of whole villages decimated; every man, woman and child put to death, all livestock and valuables carried off. Too young to appreciate life, Neekah was not particularly afraid of death. She had a sense of a destiny beyond her miserable existence here in the Ramaldi village. She added the wish that the Bak raiders would come to her curses she silently sent out at her tormentors.

It was a midsummer afternoon when they came. The sound of pounding hooves and shrill war cries panicked the village. A few men raced to fight, everyone else ran. A strange curiosity drew Neekah back to a vantage point. She hid and exulted as she watched. The tall black men on long legged horses rode through the village. The few men who stood their ground were cut down with short brutal scimitars. Those that fled were shot down by arrows fired from the backs of the plunging horses. Each and every one she had cursed and more, many more fell screaming.

She watched as those who were captured were herded into a group in the center of the village. Then the Bak raiders began to scour the village for loot. She chose that time to try and sneak out through a patch of brush that led to a narrow path, an escape route she had used many times in the past.

Her heart lurched as a tall figure loomed behind her and barked in surprise. She burst into a run but this was no short legged Ramaldi boy, this was a tall warrior and he caught her easily. His hand snatched at the back of her ragged dress. She gasped, jerked and the ragged cloth shredded. She kept running, her pursuer pounding fast behind her. An iron hand grasped her shoulder and spun her around. She froze as a scimitar flashed toward her throat and stopped just touching her flesh. She hissed as she felt the edge slice her skin and a small trickle of blood ran down her chest. The blade slowly traced down to her bare and heaving breasts. The man said something and jerked on her arm, dragging her back to the center of the village.

Neekah knew when she had been caught. She knew that fighting now would do little good and probably get her killed. She chose to wait for an opportunity to escape.

She looked at the man gripping her arm in a vice like grip, for the first time looking closely at a Bak raider. He was tall, taller than any man she had seen before, with deep ebony skin. His skin was marked with ridges of ritual scarring, stretching down his lean muscular chest and back. Black hair stood up in a crest along the top of his shaved head. He wore a great deal of gold ornaments, gold in his hair, heavy bands on his arms, a thick rope of gold coiled around his neck. He exuded arrogant strength and confidence.

Neekah stood proud and defiant wearing nothing but a rag tied around her hips and another rag tied around her head. Her breasts stood high on her thin chest, her skin creamy white where it had been covered by her tattered dress. The Bak raider shoved her into a group of wailing women. She faded to the back of the crowd, carefully looking for a route to escape. Several younger raiders glared at her and raised their wicked curved swords.

Neekah's attention was drawn to animal like screams. Looking up she saw three Bak raiders cutting open the stomach of the Ramaldi chieftain. She flinched back as one of the raiders reached into the body cavity and pulled out ropes of steaming guts. A wail rose from the group of women. The village was maelstrom of panic and terror. She allowed herself a small tight grin of hate.

It was not long before all the men were dead upon the ground. The raiders turned to the group of women. One of the tall men, heavily scarred and wearing a many pieces of gold, walked to the group of women and reaching in he grasped the arm of a woman. He began to drag her to the center of the village. She shrieked and struggled. He ignored her and threw her down on the ground. He pushed up her dress and pulling aside his loin cloth he drew out his large black organ. Kneeling between her legs he began to thrust rapidly, ignoring her cries of protest.

This seemed to be a signal because suddenly many more of the tall dark men approached the group of women and began to select women for their use. Shrieks of hysteria rang through the group of panicked women. They all seemed to try to hide behind each other, or worse falling down in screaming fits on the ground.

Neekah was damned if she was going to act like any of these crazy Ramaldi women, screaming and weeping at a simple thing as a man wanting to push his thing into them. Discarding the rag around her hips, she pushed her way to the front of the group of milling women. Picking a particularly tall raider with more decorations than the others, she walked up to him and stood before him, challenging him with her eyes. She knew she stood out, standing nude and proud. She took a deep breath, reached down and took his hand and raised a questioning brow, tipping her head toward the ground.

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Jhardron was startled. This was not what he expected. This naked pale skinned woman standing before him, bravely facing death and worse. He looked at her and was unnerved by her eyes, they were the color of water reflecting the sky, her skin was light, almost white in places, and strangely the patch of fur above her venya was not black, but red as fire.

As he pushed her down, he wondered who this girl was and how she came to live among these little dark mud people. She went easily to the ground, still grasping his hand pulling him down on top of her. She lay back with her legs apart, her knees bent slightly, her venya open and exposed. He could not help but notice that the lips of her opening were rich and red in contrast the dark shades he had always seen before. The sight of this fiery red slit sent a sudden heat to his jhambar, swelling it, making it rear its head in lust.

Pulling aside his loincloth he pulled out his tall proud flesh, and ran his hand along its length, a shining silver drop stood at the tip. Staring into the strange gray eyes of the woman looking up at him from the ground, he placed himself against her. He began to force himself into her. She was dry and unready but still pressed herself up against him, assisting his entry rather than fighting it, her lower lip clenched in her teeth, her brow furrowing in pain and concentration. Deep within her, he felt her moisture forming and as he pulled out and plunged in again she was slicker. He slid in smoothly. She breathed a soft sighing moan and surged to meet him, urging his thrusts into her.

Jhardron marveled, this was not the rape he had expected. Like a priestess of the goddess she seemed to wish to bless the act of joining, to consecrate it with the goddess's gift of pleasure.

She began to squirm under him, soft whimpers creeping from her lips, her hips tipping and plunging. He matched her rhythms, thrusting deep and fast, heat building in his loins, his balls pulling tight, as he plunged deep and began to pump his gift of seed deep into her she arched and let out a long vibrating moan, not unlike the soft whinny of a mare. Jhardron was awed; this one had chosen to consecrate his offering to the goddess with the act of panshasham.

Jhardron became aware of the men standing around him, softly repeating, "panshasham" to each other. To have a woman bless a warrior's offering was good luck and rare outside the temples of the city. As he pulled away from the woman on the ground, she shivered. Her hips raised and followed his departure as if she regretted his leaving. His second in command, Jhu'kresh, caught his eye and glanced at the woman on the ground, his eyes asked his khan what his intentions for this captive were.

Jhardron nodded, "Do not kill this one. Use her if you wish, but I want her alive in the morning." Jhu'kresh grinned, his white teeth contrasting against his dark skin, and knelt down over the woman and filled her with his jhambar, thrusting hard and fast, cheered on by the growing group of men standing around. The woman under him wrapped her long white legs around him and began to writhe against him. A soft groan rose up among the bystanders.

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Neekah dimly wondered why she was still alive. Death was all around her, the screams of the last to die still echoed in her ears. She remembered her sudden terror as the raiders cut the throats of the women one by one as they finished with them. Yet somehow she did not sense that they were going to hurt her. She sensed their lust but there was something else something she had never felt before. It was like they needed her or needed something from her, something she had to give, that they couldn't take from her.

She lay in the dirt. Her legs splayed wide in a grotesque split, her womanhood bare and exposed to the stars, shining with the fluids of the men who had used her. Another Bak raider knelt between her legs. He grunted something and suddenly many hands were on her, lifting her and positioning her as they had innumerable times through the night. She found herself on her hands and knees swaying in exhaustion. She felt his hands on her hips and grunted as she was mounted from behind. He leaned down and bit her on her shoulders, sharp painful nips. He made a harsh snorting sound. His rough hands gripped her small breasts and then moved between her legs, stroking roughly, demanding another response from her. Neekah began to groan and shake as waves of ecstasy took her mind.

Once more the voices raised around her chanting, "panshasham, panshasham, panshasham." Neekah sagged under his weight, falling to the ground as he pushed himself into her, her mind slowly leaving her body. Looking down from a great height, she could see her convulsing body laying on the ground under the lunging body of the raider, surrounding her, a circle of men, surrounding them the ruins of the village. Burning huts lit the scene, revealing the dozens of dead bodies littering the ground.

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Jhardron stood in the circle of men. He had watched as the whole regiment had used this woman. He had joined them in their chants to the goddess as she had repeatedly blessed their offerings with panshasham. This one had the will to live and the endurance to make a fine ha'akh for his regiment, the Bak'Tai Twisted Dagger. They had not had a servant for many weeks and the men had been restless.

That this woman had the capacity to attain panshasham meant she was blessed by the goddess. Her ability to transform the male act of Jha to Jha'sham, an act blessed by the goddess would bring good luck and status to the Twisted Dagger.

Jhardron sent a silent prayer of thanks to his war god, Jha'Mak'Tah for sending this fine reward for their victory. He sent a second prayer to Pan'Shash'Sha'Am, the goddess of sex and fertility that this ha'akh live longer than the last one.

Jhardron moved between this woman laying in the dirt and the crowd of men. "I claim this woman for ha'akh Bak'Tai Twisted Dagger." Looking at Jhu'kresh he ordered. "Mark her and tie her."

Once she was claimed as ha'akh for his regiment he would have the right to protect her from abuse and the ritual sacrifice that had taken the lives of all the women from her village.

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Neekah had not lost consciousness throughout the long afternoon and night of her ordeal. Her mind had become numb, far away from her body, only dimly aware as each raider had used her body and moved aside for the next, hardly noticing as she convulsed in the pleasure she had learned to steal for herself.