Tales of Erogenia

by L'Espion

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 Epilogue

Episode 1: The Snow Princess

Chapter 1: The Vow

Zenaria crouched low beneath the snow-laden spruce boughs. She was cold and stiff after more than an hour of waiting, but a single careless movement would send a cascade of snow down her neck and almost certainly reveal her position to the hunters. She was well hidden, her raven wing hair and drab winter clothing blending in well with the shadows of the spruce.

They were very close now, close enough that she could hear their breathing and the crunch of the snow beneath their feet. Just a few steps more and then she would ...

"Ahhh!" The compacted ball of snow struck the base of her skull, sending shards of ice and snow down the back of her neck. It didn't hurt much, but the sudden shock caused her to cry out in surprise and dismay.

"Gotcha! Knew you'd be there. You always hide in the most obvious places. Stupid girl!"

Zenaria leaped furiously from her hiding place, her twelve-year-old face twisted in anger. Facing her was her cousin, Vander, her senior by six moons and someone for whom she had developed an intense dislike.

Vander laughed at her and then made a face, mocking her angry frown. "What's the matter, princess, angry because one of your loyal subjects dared to dump snow down your royal back?

Zenaria's already red face turned a darker shade of crimson as she realized that her reaction was not at all appropriate for one possessed of royal blood. Turning away she picked up the wooden practice spear she had intended to use on her pretend enemies. The incident was over and it might have stayed that way had not Vander's two older brothers chosen that moment to show up.

What's the matter, brother?" Garrod, the older of the two asked. He was nineteen and the eldest. Zenaria knew him as an arrogant lout who lorded it over those he considered his social inferior, which included anyone who could not match his skills as a warrior. Regrettably Garrod was good. Very very good. In fact there had not been a young warrior like him within recent memory. Even the battle-scarred veterans were careful not to challenge him. Fortunately respect for one's elders was something that was deeply ingrained in all members of the Snow Leopard tribe and it was a convention that even Garrod observed.

"The princess just threw a hissy fit because I dared to dump snow down her scrawny neck," Vander sneered. "Now I expect she's going home to her mother."

Zenaria looked around for Preed, the veteran warrior who was in charge of the younger warriors in the training exercise. She desperately wanted a reason to get away from Zander and his brothers. Nothing good could come of being anywhere near them. But Preed was nowhere to be seen.

"Is that so, princess?" Garrod asked. He was careful to use her title, but made the word sound as if he was referring to one of the scavenging dogs that followed the tribe.

"No, it is not so," Zenaria answered. She kept her voice level, conscious of maintaining his dignity this time. "I am looking for Preed, waiting to continue my training."

"You mean looking to hide behind a real warrior?" Garrod sneered, losing little time in joining his brother in mocking Zenaria. Like any bully he was in his element when surrounded by an admiring audience and ridiculing someone he perceived as a soft target. And Zenaria was just that. Bound by her duty to uphold her honour as a Princess of the Snow Leopard tribe, she could not respond without lowering herself to the level of her tormentors. Instead she stepped forward, intending to move away from Garrod and the others.

"Uuhh!" She almost slammed into Garrod's chest as he stepped in front of her. Stepping back she drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten inches, raised her head and fixed her brilliant amber-green eyes on Garrod. "Get out of my way," she commanded.

"Ah, her royal highness speaks," Garrod laughed. "What is the matter, princess are you frightened of my manhood?"

"You have about as much manhood as a gelding," Zenaria retorted, "and about as much courage as a weasel."

It was a mistake and she knew it the moment the words burst from her mouth, especially when he remark was greeted by a gale of laughter by the men and boys who had gathered to watch the confrontation.

"She got you there, Garrod," Vander chortled, pleased to see his older brother discomfited for a change.

"Shut up," Garrod snarled. Then he whirled on Zenaria, his features twisted with rage. "You will soon see my manhood, princess. As soon as you are old enough you will be begging me to put it inside you."

"Neither you nor any man will have me," Zenaria returned. Her comment was foolish in light of the sexually liberal attitudes of her tribe. She might just as well have stated that she was about to cut off her nose to mar her considerable beauty.

Her remark elicited loud guffaws from the surrounding male warriors. "What, princess, are you about to offer yourself as a Moon virgin?" Garrod asked incredulously.

Well might he ask. No member of the Snow Leopard tribe had seen fit to take that drastic step within living memory and Zenaria was not about to do it either. But her next statement only made matters worse. "Only one who can best me in combat may have me," she blurted out.

At that moment a deep voice interrupted. "What is going on here? Why have you abandoned your training?" A tall warrior strode into view. In his mid-forties, the warrior was still an impressive figure, his dark hair tinged with grey, and his face marked with the ritual scars of manhood. All of the young warriors, even Garrod stepped back and eyed him respectfully.

Vander, however, could not resist just one last jibe as he moved behind his older brother. "Princess Zenaria just pledged herself to the Path of the Snow Leopard."

Preed looked at her sharply. "Princess is this true?"

Zenaria shook her head, the action freeing the single braid that bound her hair, sending the midnight tresses whirling about her head. "No," she stammered, "I mean. It was not a pledge I just said..."

"Tell me," Preed interrupted, pointing to one of the younger warriors. He listened and a minute later waved his hand dismissing the now dozen or so warriors that had gathered around Zenaria. "The lesson is over."

"Princess," he said, turning to Zenaria. "You had better come with me."

Zenaria jogged through the knee-deep snow behind Preed. Still farther back she could hear the sniggering of Vander and the occasional forced laugh from Garrod. They were clearly enjoying her discomfiture.

They entered the winding stockade. It was constructed of massive tree trunks set into the earth in a spiral pattern so that anyone entering had to wind his way into the settlement between two parallel wooden walls set about five feet apart. It was just wide enough for the passage of one of the two-wheeled carts the Snow Leopard tribe used as its primary form of transport.

Inside the stockade was an open compound about three hundred feet across. Lining the inner wall were the dwellings of the tribe's inhabitants. Immediately to Zenaria's right was the longhouse where the unmarried male warriors lived. To her right was a similar building where dwelt the female warriors. Father back were houses for those couples who considered themselves lovebonded along with separate shelters for young boys and girls who had left their parents for warrior training, but who were as yet too young to engage in sexual activity. It was in the one housing the maidens that Zenaria dwelt, but for the moment she was not going there. Instead she followed Preed toward one of the few buildings not set against the stockade.

It was the largest building in the compound, and the only one that was more than a single story. Smoke from dozens of hearth fires rose into the air. There were a number of people about, going about their daily routine. Some went to the well for water, while over in one corner a two score warriors went through the repetitive drills that prepared them for war. A cart laden with butchered meat was pushed toward the cookhouse by two young boys and an older girl, and in another corner the hammer of the blacksmith rang cloud and clear in the chill air as he pounded metal.

Zenaria hardly noticed these activities as she followed Preed. He mind was awhirl. Why had she blurted out such a stupid oath? Self-imposed celibacy was the last thing she wanted. She had been quite looking forward to her first sexual experience and had already chosen the lucky young warrior who would do the deed. The very thought made her still immature breasts tingle and created an ache in her loins.

But they were there now, standing in front of the palace, although "palace" might have been too grand a term to describe a wooden structure only three stories high and with a frontage barely thirty yards across. Inside it was a bit more impressive. The grand entry hall was dug ten feet into the ground and large enough to house all of the adult warriors in the settlement. The walls arched into a high vault forty feet about a floor that was planked with carefully sawn and polished boards.

Rising from the floor was a dais where stood two ornately carved wooden thrones. They were both empty now, one permanently so. It had once been occupied by Zenaria's father, Zennar, but he had been killed in an ambush during an expedition into the Urtt lands. The other throne was that of Zenaria's mother, Cirilia, but she sat in it only during a tribal council. Zenaria and Preed walked though the large chamber, crossing to the other side and climbing a stair behind the throne to the second floor. It was on the second floor that the queen of the Snow Leopard tribe had her quarters.

Without hesitation Preed led the way up the stairs to the second floor and entered a short hallway. Just outside the door were two young women. Neither had yet experienced her moon and neither would have been a match for either Preed or Zenaria, but they were all the guard the queen had. Was she not safe in the midst of all her warriors?

The girls looked up. Both had been working skins into lined winter boots and their faces lit up when they saw the two warriors. "Preed, Zenaria," they smiled.

"Good morning, maidens. Is the queen within?"

"Yes, Preed," the girls giggled. Without further comment they stepped aside and pushed on the door. Preed leading and Zenaria following, they stepped into the queen's quarters.

It was a large room, and one that Zenaria knew well. Against one wall was a large wardrobe containing the various items of clothing befitting a queen of the Snow Leopard tribe. Various weapons and animal skins decorated the walls and one wall was given over to a massive stone fireplace, the only one of its kind Zenaria had ever seen. A roaring fire sent waves of heat into the room and the queen and her ladies wore only light articles of clothing.

Queen Cirilia was seated with three other woman of about her age before the fire. Like the two girls in the hall all of the women were occupied with some sort of craft work, although Queen Cirilia's particular effort was fashioning a leather grip for a knife as long as her forearm. She looked up with a brilliant smile as she spotted Zenaria, but it quickly faded when she saw the look on Preed's face.

"What is it, Preed?" she asked getting to her feet. Queen Cirilia was a magnificent woman. She stood six-foot-three and gave some indication of the tremendous beauty Zenaria would one day become. Her gleaming obsidian hair hung to her waist and was unbound, swirling around her hips as she moved. Dressed only in summer attire her taut belly was bare, her narrow waist accentuating large, perfect breasts that swayed gently as she moved. Covered by the softest doeskin, her nipples were clearly visible beneath the brief coving that contained her breasts.

Just twenty seven years of age, her bonding with Zenaria's father had been a love match and neither partner had ever known another. Zenaria was conceived when Cirilia was barely fourteen and then Zennar had been killed. Cirilia had never chosen another lovebond although she had not shunned what had seemed to Zenaria to be an almost endless procession of lovers. The look she had given Preed spoke of more than just a casual acquaintance with the warrior, but just now her gaze was turned toward Zenaria.

"My queen," Preed began, "it appears that your daughter has made a most rash comment." He proceeded to explain what he had learned.

Queen Cirilia turned to Zenaria after Preed had finished. "Is it true, my daughter? Did you indeed promise to take the Path of the Snow Leopard?"

Zenaria stood head bowed. "It was not what I intended," she answered softly. Then she raised her head and looked into her mother's deep blue eyes. "But yes I did."

"Then you have chosen your path," Cirilia replied, "and you must live with it."

Zenaria nodded. Slowly, head still held high, she turned and left her mother's apartments. Inside her mind and body churned with emotion. With one careless outburst she had changed her life forever.

Preed and Cirilia watched her go, then Preed turned to Cirilia. "My queen," he said, saluting with his hand over his heart. He turned to go.

"No Preed," Cirilia said softly. "You stay. Share the warmth."

Preed nodded, a wide smile spreading across his features. "Yes, my queen," he answered.

Chapter 2: The Duel

Zenaria's chest heaved, her breathing ragged, as she fought against the fatigue that threatened to defeat her. Her body was slick with sweat, her palms so damp she could barely grip the hilt of her sword. Her brief costume was soaked through; the doeskin halter that contained her breasts so wet that her nipples clearly showed. Across from her Garrod grinned; his mouth twisting derisively.

"Is this the best the queen's daughter can do?" he sneered. "It is as I have always said; women are not fit for anything other than the warming of a real warrior's bed or the preparing of his meals." He came at her hard as he finished speaking, knocking down her guard and forcing her to fall back across the practice arena. Just a few more steps and she would be pushed outside the bounds of the combat circle and shamed before the entire tribe.

Desperately, she twisted to one side, and turned herself back into the ring. She retreated two more steps, giving herself room to manoeuvre, and she hoped, time to recover. Garrod followed slowly, his contempt for her ability evident in the leisurely manner in which he stalked her.

"Tired, princess?" Garrod taunted. "You look as if you have spent a night in the men's quarters."

Zenaria flicked back a lock of her waist-length hair that had broken free of her fighting braid. Her raven mane was plastered to her head and in spite of the headband she wore, sweat trickled into her eyes. The duel with Garrod had deteriorated into a lesson in swordsmanship with Garrod as the tutor and she as the reluctant pupil. He had driven her around the ring with practiced ease, clearly toying with her, and slowly wearing her down. Her magnificent body was nicked in a dozen places, blood flowing freely from at least one wound.

"Pathetic. To think that you are Queen Cirilia's daughter. You can barely stand. Perhaps you should retreat to the kitchen where you belong."

Zenaria did not respond to the insults. She couldn't; she needed all of her breath to defend against Garrod's superior skills. She cursed the foolish pride that had drawn her into an exhibition of her skills against a proven warrior. She had only just passed her fifteenth birthday. Although she was immensely strong and incredibly fit, Garrod was a full seven years older and weapons master to the queen's guard. He should have been infinitely her superior and he was in the process of proving he was exactly that.

Zenaria attempted to still the trembling in her well-muscled thighs and calves and control the heaving of her chest and belly. She was aware of Garrod's eyes drinking in her tall, athletic body. He had made no secret of his desire to take her to his bed; bragging before all that she secretly desired it as much as he, and that once she was his he would have her with child before a fortnight had passed.

It was this insult that had finally driven her to challenge him in the ring. She could, of course, gone to her mother for the insult to her royal personage. As the queen's eldest daughter she was entitled to a certain respect, but Garrod had reckoned correctly that her pride would not allow her to do that. She was after all, considered the most impressive female warrior the Moon Tribe had produced since her mother the queen.

Enraged by his insults to her honour, she had boldly challenged him to settle their differences in the practice ring. And then she had stupidly gone one step farther. As she struggled to control her breathing she remembered her rash words. "If you wish to bed me then take me in battle." The words once spoken could not be taken back, and now she risked far more than just the humiliation of defeat.

Once again her mouth had placed her in an untenable position. After foolishly choosing to take the Path of the Snow Leopard she had kept her mouth shut. It had not been easy. Garrod and his fellow bullies had taunted her constantly about her forced virginity, but she had managed to ignore them and as she had grown older, do something about many of them. As she had matured, Zenaria had developed into a formidable young warrior. Those that sought to torment her found their actions reworded with painful lessons in the practice ring.

In the two years since the taking of her vow, she had grown into full womanhood. She now stood six-feet-two inches tall and was still growing. Weighing in at an athletic 155 pounds she was well-muscled and perfectly proportioned. She had also filled out remarkably in another area, her once small, pointed breasts now round and full. They swayed within the confines of her brief halter in a never-ending quest to escape.

Her body was the one real advantage she had in the duel. Several times Garrod's eyes were drawn to places where they should not have been and she had come close to ending the fight, but always his experience with the blade saved him. Now he had her where he wanted her; on the run and panting for air. Few impartial observers would have credited her with any chance of winning. In just a few minutes Garrod would break through her guard and then he would have her at his mercy.

Garrod seemed to read her mind. He stepped forward lazily, revelling in his clear superiority, his naked blade held at the ready. "Soon princess you will be mine. Is that why your legs tremble? Do they long to part in order to accommodate my manhood?"

Ordinarily such words would not have been tolerated in the royal presence. But this was a true contest, fought with naked blades. An opponent was allowed to use words to throw an adversary off his or her game and Garrod's steady taunts had decidedly had that effect, drawing her into mad rushes that served to open her to his ripostes and sap her endurance.

The sun beat down on her almost nude body. Her brief halter barely concealed her ripe, young breasts, and a minimalist doeskin breechclout left a good deal of cheek and thigh exposed. It left most of her well-tanned body open to the elements, a situation she had previously never noticed. Now, however, the sun's once benevolent rays leached away her remaining strength. She was at the mercy of her opponent if only he chose to finish her.

Garrod, however, was not inclined to take an easy victory. He wanted to completely humiliate her first; to strip way her youthful pride and reveal her as little more than a feeble woman playing at being a warrior. He circled her, his blade held disdainfully low, daring her to attack, while all the while looking for another opening; another chance to inflict one more painful cut.

The wounds were not serious. They were intended to display Garrod's supremacy and humble his youthful opponent. In addition, they also served to goad Zenaria into rash and uncoordinated attacks that he evaded with ease while at the same time opening her to another painful riposte.

All the while he derided her attempts to do him harm, gibing at her constantly as he evaded her every attack, and belittling her when she stood on the defensive.

"What is the matter, princess; finally met your match?" Garrod jeered, as he slowly circled his panting opponent. "It is one thing to duel with untrained boys, but against a real man you are nothing but a helpless woman." Even without his comments it was painfully clear to all those who watched the contest that he could finish her at any time. Breathlessly the onlookers waited for him to do just that.

Garrod's attempt at ridicule, however, had not entirely served him. It had allowed her time to recover. Her breathing steadied, and she crouched slightly, readying herself for an attack.

Garrod grinned disconcertingly. "I know what you are thinking, my princess. You are thinking that I have let my arrogance get the better of me. Well try me and let's see."

Zenaria had just one trick left. She tried one last attack, using a risky but deadly maneuver; a devastating overhand slash that she twisted in mid arc, bringing it under the opponent's guard with the intention of opening his abdomen. It took tremendous strength and coordination, but it had won her several bouts. She used it against Garrod for the first time.

With a laugh, Garrod tied up her blade, locked it against his guard and sent the sword spinning from her hand. Zenaria watched in horror and mortification as her blade described a lazy arc and then dropped to the sand of the practice ring.

"Well, princess," Garrod said laconically. "Have I proved my point or are you in need of further instruction?"

It was a tone and manner that set Zenaria's teeth on edge, but she was completely at Garrod's mercy. Unarmed, she stood no chance against him, and if she stepped out of the ring she forfeited the challenge. She backed slowly away, glaring defiance but fully cognizant of how hopeless her situation was.

"Stupid bitch." Garrod's blade flicked out more quickly than Zenaria's eye could follow it. She felt a twinge of pain between her breasts and then gasped in shame as Garrod neatly flicked aside the halter binding her breasts. It followed her sword to the sand of the arena, exposing perfect breasts crowned by upturned nipples the colour of burnished copper.

Zenaria made no effort to cover herself. There was little or no prohibition of nudity among members of the Moon Tribe, and tribal members covered themselves only as protection against the elements, or in Zenaria's present case to confine her breasts during strenuous physical activity. Her only shame was in the fact that Garrod's removal of her breast band had humiliated her before her peers.

Garrod stared at her breasts, or more precisely at her perfect upturned nipples. "Like ripe berries," he commented. "It will be most enjoyable to taste them."

Zenaria chanced a quick glance toward her mother. Queen Cirilia's face was carefully blank, but her rigid posture revealed her feelings to Zenaria as clearly as if she had shouted them out. The defeat and complete humiliation of her daughter by a man who wished to exclude women from the warrior class was a blow to one of the great traditions of the Snow Leopard tribe. Garrod's position was a minority one, how could it be otherwise with the great warrior Cirilia as the leader of the tribe? Nevertheless, Zenaria's shame was increased many-fold as she realized that she had strengthened the position of Garrod and others like him.

Her attention returned to Garrod. "I will never surrender to you. I will die first." If there was one man in the tribe to whom she would not submit, it was Garrod. For the past two years he had gone out of his way to humiliate her; ever since it became obvious that the warrior who would eventually supplant him as weapons master was Cirilia's teenaged daughter.

"Your death is not what I desire, princess. The movement of your body beneath mine is. You are mine now, and I do not intend to destroy what will shortly be giving me so much pleasure." As he finished speaking his blade flicked out, neatly slicing through the leather belt that held up the briefest of loincloths.

Zenaria now stood in all her nude glory, open to the admiring glances of all members of the tribe. She did not flinch from their stares, well used by now to the perusal of her strikingly beautiful body. However, the removal of her loincloth was more than just one more insult to her honour. Garrod's blade had revealed what no male had yet been given the pleasure of seeing. Chastity was not something treasured by members of the tribe, but it was the woman's decision to show her readiness to mate. Garrod's removal of her brief garments marked her as a prize of war, to be used any way he chose.

Garrod stepped closer. "You are honour-bound to submit to me. You have been defeated fairly in the arena and are bound by your own words to honour the agreement." The tip of his blade hovered just an inch from her elegant throat.

"Take her right here, Garrod," some lout in the crowd shouted. "Show us all how the royal slut should be treated."

"An interesting idea," Garrod commented. "Would that please your royal highness to be taken in front of the entire tribe? I doubt there is any prohibition of such an act."

As Garrod spoke he looked directly at Queen Cirilia. It was a clear and insulting challenge to her authority, but she was helpless to act. She could not afford to show favouritism to any member of her tribe, even her eldest daughter. Zenaria had gotten herself into the situation and she now had to pay the price for her rash behaviour.

Humiliated before her mother and the others of her tribe, Zenaria stood trembling with rage. Garrod had used her like a pawn in a clever game to not only humble her, but to also undermine the authority of the queen. And she had walked into the trap like a stupid child. "You are filth," she said, her eyes filled with impotent rage as she glared at her sneering victor.

"And you are mine, princess," Garrod gloated. "Your mouth, your tits, your cunt, your ass. All of it. And I intend to use every part of your body. You won't be able to close your legs for days when I am through with you."

Zenaria's vision clouded. Something inside her snapped and she responded in a way no trained warrior is supposed to react. For a brief instant all she saw was Garrod's sneering visage. A red haze blurred her vision and the world around her disappeared. The fact that Garrod held a razor-edged blade just inches from her throat was completely lost on her. And then she was suddenly on top of him, driving her fists again and again into his once smug countenance.

Hands gripped her arms and wrists, dragging her from the semi-conscious form of the arms master. She fought wildly for a few seconds, hurling people from her, and then as suddenly as it had started her rage subsided. Exhausted from her ordeal she fell to her knees and then let her companions lift her up and move her away from her defeated foe.

Later, as the tribal shaman bound the slash in her hand, and attended to her battle wounds, her friends recounted how she had suddenly seized the blade of Garrod's sword, disregarding the blood that spurted from her cut fingers. Ignoring the frantic efforts of the two hundred pound man to break free, she had raised him over her head, and slammed him to the ground.

You have made a deadly enemy, Zenaria," her half-sister, Shalandra said. Not yet in her teens, the young girl had already shown some talent for precognition. Dressed in the robes of a novice priestess of the Snow Leopard, she stood in the doorway of the shaman's hut, the light silhouetting her slender frame. "Garrod is certain to want his revenge. You will have to be careful."

"Why then was I stopped from killing him?" Zenaria asked, raising her amber-green eyes to her sister.

Shalandra did not answer. A slight chill ran down Zenaria's spine. Although Shalandra's gift of second sight was not yet fully developed, and thus prone to error, the prediction seemed ominous. She sighed. Her impetuous nature had only made things worse, and she still had to meet with her mother.

Chapter 3: Cirilia

Seated on her carved oak throne, Cirilia, Queen of the Snow Leopard tribe surveyed her tall, raven-haired warrior daughter. Even allowing for the partiality of a mother she had to admit that she and Zennar had wrought well. There was no denying that her sometimes headstrong daughter was the very epitome of Erogenian womanhood. Over six feet tall, and perfect of limb and feature, she was a vision of the perfect Erogenian female warrior.

She deeply regretted that Zennar had never seen his daughter. She had no doubt he would have been exceedingly proud of her and his absence was certainly one of the defining factors in the development of her daughter's personality. She could not help thinking that if Zennar had been present during Zenaria 's formative years she might have turned out differently. Not that she was entirely disappointed in Zenaria; far from it. Few women could boast of such a daughter. Possessed of a grace and beauty that rivalled that of the gods and stronger than any man, Zenaria did not lack for physical attributes.

Not was she disappointed in her daughter's personality - for the most part. Zenaria was kind, caring, fearless, passionate in all things, and extraordinarily dutiful. She had just one serious character flaw; Zenaria was possessed of a stubborn pride that constantly seemed to get her into trouble.

"Proud like her mother," Cirilia thought. "And like her father." Her loins stirred as her mind flicked back briefly to the night Zenaria had been conceived. It had been during the wild celebration following their victory over the Kavalians. Ah that had been a night! She hadn't had one like it since then, although sometimes her current lover came close. She flicked a glance in the direction of Ergond, her chief male advisor. He smiled slightly and gave her a nod so imperceptible that only she could see it. Tonight then. She took a slow deep breath. In the meantime there was the matter of her daughter.

Zenaria stood straight and tall in front of her. It was not the custom of Erogenians to bow before their queen and Zenaria was least likely of all to bow to anyone. She let her eyes settle on her daughter for a few seconds before speaking. She had found that her steely gaze had the effect of making those who appeared before her listen more carefully.

The situation was a little awkward. This was a formal audience, not a mother-daughter chat. To her left stood Ergond, his golden chain of office, golden armbands, and ceremonial sword of office, making clear that he was there in an official capacity. To her right stood Argonna, Priestess of Snow Leopard; slender in robes of deepest burgundy and radiating an almost unearthly beauty. Cirilia herself was dressed (just barely) in a golden halter-top and a length of golden fabric that depended from her hips and flowed down in front and back, leaving her exquisite thighs and legs open to the waist. Both garments were of the finest Sandakar silk, and by Erogenian standards, the height of modesty.

"Zenaria ," Cirilia began and then stopped. "Daughter," she resumed. "This is as difficult for me as it is for you. You are aware of what you have done."

Zenaria nodded. "I let my pride get the better of me and disgraced myself before the tribe." Although Zenaria's words were repentant, nothing about her demeanour suggested she was in the least bit sorry.

"You did more than that," Cirilia continued. "You broke the nose and knocked out four teeth of my arms master. "Garrod, for all his arrogance will not be easily replaced."

"Replaced?" asked Zenaria , seemingly surprised. "A broken nose and a few missing teeth should not keep him from his duties."

"No, but his spirit quest will," Cirilia replied. "Shaming him in front of the tribe has seriously disturbed the balance in his cha, and he has gone to restore it. How long he will be absent cannot be determined. A spirit quest takes as long as it takes."

"The tribe is better off without him," Zenaria responded. "He constantly spoke against you and the place of women in our society. He was a fool who deserved what he got."

"He was the leader of a misguided, but dangerous faction," Cirilia said, calmly. "And a man I preferred to keep where I could watch him. There is an ancient Erogenian saying: Keep close those who are you friends; keep closer those you fear most. Now that Garrod has absented himself from the tribe there is no way that I am able to keep track of him. No one may accompany a warrior on a spirit quest."

"Then what are we to do?" For the first time Zenaria sounded the faintest bit contrite.

"We?" Cirilia asked. "We do nothing. There is something, however, that you must do."

Cirilia signalled to Argonna with her eyes. The beautiful dark-haired high priestess stepped forward and spoke. "My child. You have upset the balance of your cha. It is for you and you alone to correct that imbalance."

Argonna's melodious voice flowed over Zenaria like water. For the first time in her life she went to her knees in front of the priestess, her head bowed. "And how will I do that? What shall I seek that will restore the balance?"

"That is for you to determine. No one but you can walk your spirit quest. However, I have seen something of your future.; something I think might help."

Zenaria waited expectantly and Argonna continued. "For moons beyond counting the people of the Snow Leopard have had no contact with the ten tribes of Erogenia. I would have you go into the southern lands beyond the Ice Gate and find these lost tribes."

"I will do it," Zenaria replied. "I shall let my spirit quest take me to the lost southern lands. I will restore the cha."

Argonna smiled, her almost beatific features lighting up the audience chamber. "I knew you would, my child. Go with the blessing of the Snow Leopard."

Cirilia got to her feet, signalling that the audience was over. She watched, a wistful expression on her face, as Zenaria, her back straight and proud, strode from the audience chamber. "May the Snow Leopard walk beside you, my daughter," she whispered.

Chapter 4: Spirit Quest

Zenaria strapped her sword over her shoulder. The movement pulled at the cuts Garrod had inflicted on her during their duel, but her face displayed no sign of discomfort. The Shaman had done a fine job of dressing the wounds, his stitches so fine that the scars would be no more than thin red lines that would slowly fade to white over time. She could, of course, have had a priestess of the Snow Leopard heal the wounds magically, but that was not the Erogenian way. Erogenian warriors wore their scars with pride and Zenaria already had a half dozen to go with those she had received from Garrod.

She slung her bow and quiver of arrows over her left shoulder and draped a bag of miscellaneous supplies around her neck. She was ready. Striding from her rude hut, she headed for the gate and without a backward look entered the forest.

For the first few hours she walked without really watching where she was going. A spirit quest was supposed to take the quester in whatever direction the quest warranted, the success or failure of the quest being left in the hands of the gods. She wandered from tree to tree, flower to flower, and rock to rock. She was, however, not entirely oblivious to her surroundings. Several hours after the stockade had faded from sight she realized that she was being followed.

She stopped, a slight smile on her lips and turned toward a line of trees just behind her. "Jarree," she said softly. "Come out. I know you are there."

There was an almost imperceptible movement in the underbrush and then a sleek form ghosted into sight. Zenaria made a gentle clicking sound with her tongue and the huge snow leopard strolled majestically toward her. "Come on," she chided. "It wouldn't hurt you to run."

"Rrrrrrrrrr," the big cat rumbled, butting its head against her leg and then following with the length of its body. The strength of the animal almost pushed her over.

"Jarree," she murmured wrapping her arms around the leopard's neck. She lay her head against the soft fur, allowing the rumbling purr to vibrate through her.

"Jaree," she repeated. "I would like to take you with me, but a spirit quest must be completed alone."

The big cat sat back on its haunches and regarded her with golden eyes. It was obviously completely unimpressed with her declaration. After a moment it lifted a paw and gave it a languid lick.

"Perhaps you can come," Zenaria conceded. "After all, you're not really a member of the tribe."

It was a moot point. Zenaria's bond with the leopard did not extend to giving it orders. She was blessed above almost all members of her tribe in that she even had a rapport with a member of her tribe's namesake.

Although the mountainous area inhabited by the Snow Leopard tribe was the homeland of the members of the cat family from which the tribe took its name, there was little or no contact between the powerful beasts and tribal members. However, on rare occasions a tribal member established a rapport with one of the almost mythical cats.

No one knew exactly how the link was established. The fact that the tribal shaman or priestess was most likely to establish such a connection went some way to explaining it, but even the most adept practitioners of magic could not describe it; it was simply something that happened.

And it had happened to Zenaria when she was barely old enough to swing a sword. She and a number of other four and five-year-olds had been accompanying an older priestess on a nature walk. Encouraged to reach out to the life around them, they had formed a meditation circle, sitting cross-legged in a quiet glade while the forest lived and breathed around them. Something had called to Zenaria. In a trance-like state she had gotten to her feet and moved toward the irresistible pull of another mind.

But it was a mind quite unlike hers. It was a consciousness filled with animal hungers; one filled with thoughts of blood and flesh and tooth and claw. But it was one that bonded with her and had been with her ever since.

Jarree, as she called the snow leopard, had been only a few months old when the bond was established between them. What the snow leopard called itself, or whether it even had a name, Zenaria never knew. Nor was the link between them one of mistress and servant. As far as Jaree was concerned Zenaria and he were equals at the very least. He came and went when he wished and Zenaria never knew when or if the giant cat would show up. Nevertheless, the link was there and whenever she left the stockade she would call to him. Except today. This time she had expected to go alone and the huge snow cat had no place in her quest.

Or did it? Jaree made up his own mind about what he did. If he wished to come with her she could not stop him. Nor could she stop him from leaving. She got to her feet, strung her bow and grinned at the leopard. "Come on," she said. "Let's hunt."

The big cat gave a growl of assent. This was something he understood. On numerous occasions the leopard and the warrior had hunted through the thick forests and Jarree had learned that Zenaria's bow could often reach out and bring down game that even he could not catch. With a bound he moved down the forest trail, his keen senses, searching for prey. Just as cat-like Zenaria followed.

Zenaria knelt beside the bleeding body of the stag her arrow had brought down. A few feet away Jaree gulped down the stag's still warm liver. Zenaria said a quick prayer thanking the Snow Leopard for success during the hunt. Then she begged the stag's spirit for forgiveness for taking its life and giving its liver to Jaree before properly carrying out the ritual, although she supposed that because Jaree was the living symbol of the tribe's totem she might be forgiven.

The prayer finished she properly bled and then butchered the stag. Even with Jaree gulping down a sizable portion of the stag there was far too much meat for her to eat or carry with her, but she knew that it would not go to waste. Scavengers and other predators would make short work of the remaining carcass.

It was still a bit early to make camp, but she decided to stop anyway. She was in no hurry and the meat would take a little while to cook.

Jaree climbed into the lower branches of a fir while Zenaria set up camp. There wasn't much to it, merely a few spruce boughs set over an aspen sapling strung between two small trees. Finished, she kindled a fire and set part of the butchered stag to roast near the flames. The other meat she hung higher up to cure in the smoke.

While waiting for the meat to cook she took out her sword. It was four feet of finely balanced steel, a weapon worthy of the daughter of a queen. Weighted to add to its cutting power, it was slightly wider near the tip than it was at the cross guard. Few warriors of the tribe including the men had the strength to wield it properly. For Zenaria the sword had a special meaning. It had been her father's sword and it had been taken from his dead fingers when his torn body had been found. Carefully she lay it across her knees and taking a soft deerskin cloth began to polish the blade. It would have been difficult to get the blade much shinier, but Zenaria kept at it until she was satisfied and then carefully sheathed the sword and set it to one side. Then she started on her arrows, carefully inspecting each one for straightness and working on the goose feather flights.

The sizzling of the meat reminded her that she was hungry. A little of the excitement of starting out on her quest had worn off and she found she had a real appetite. Tearing off a chunk of the unleavened bread she had packed with her she used it to wrap a piece of venison and stuffed it into her mouth. The bread would not last long, but she would enjoy it while it lasted.

She ate until full, tossing the remaining bits of roast meat to Jaree and then wrapping the smoked venison in the leaves of a wild cabbage she found growing next to a nearby creek. Then, stretching herself out beside Jaree she slept, secure in the knowledge that with the great cat lying next to her, nothing would disturb her sleep.

She awoke long before dawn and fashioned a breakfast out of what remained of the venison. She then made her way to the stream and used it to both quench her thirst and wash the grease from her face and hands. Then picking up her gear she continued her quest.

For the first hour or so Jaree walked beside her. Then toward midmorning the leopard moved off on its own, disappearing into the forest. He would return later or he would not. Zenaria touched him with her mind and then let him go.

By now she was walking through unfamiliar territory, but she knew where she was going, and headed steadily south toward a range of mountains that flanked the southern border of Snow Leopard territory. For the first time she felt that her quest had really begun and her spirits rose. This was not the first time away from the safety of the stockade, but it was the first time she had no idea when she would be returning. It was an exciting event for a fifteen-year-old warrior who had not yet blooded her sword.

By the end of the day she was moving steadily upward, and in spite of the fact that it was summer she could see patches of snow on the higher slopes. She reflected that she was not really prepared for cold weather. She would have to take care of that problem.

She strung her bow. There had been plenty of deer sign during the last two days and she should have no trouble bringing down another one.

Her confidence proved accurate. A short time later she brought down a large doe. It was now early afternoon and she decided to camp right where she was. A few yards away there was a large boulder that hung over the trail. It would make a good shelter and she tossed the carcass of the deer over her shoulder and carried it there.

Over the next few hours she carefully skinned the carcass and then worked on the skin, cleaning and scraping it. For what she wanted to use it for it would have been better if she had time to stretch and cure the hide, but she didn't want to spend that much time where she was, so she just prepared it the best she could.

While a haunch of venison sizzled on the fire she worked on the doeskin. In just a few hours she fashioned a pair of boots that would stand up to ice and snow, as well as a poncho to cover her arms and shoulders. It was the best she could do without killing another deer which she would not do. And she surmised that since it was high summer it would probably not be too cold in the high mountain pass.

She set out early the next morning, and climbed steadily all day. Her exertion kept her more than warm enough so she didn't need her extra clothing until she actually encountered snow. Even in the warmest month of summer the pass the people of the Snow Leopard tribe called the "Ice Gates" was snow covered, a factor that had greatly contributed to her tribe's isolation. Only the most intrepid traders braved the snow-covered heights.

By late afternoon she had not yet reached the summit and the temperature had dropped enough that she had donned the boots and poncho. The snow had gotten deeper, up to mid-thigh in places and she realized that she might have to spend the night in the pass, something that she had not expected. She began to look around for a place where she could set up camp out of the wind. It was then that she caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eyes.

She swept her sword from its sheath and over her shoulder in a single smooth move. Two-handed she caught the attacking snow beast as it charged, ripping the point of the blade through the flesh of its shoulder and arm. With a roar of pain and rage the beast lurched back and began to circle for an opening.

Facing her was a white-furred monster almost nine feet tall. It was man-like, but massively built, its shoulders the length of her sword across. Arms almost as long as Zenaria was tall reached out for her, the talons on the five-fingered hand ready to rip her limb from limb. Six inch fangs were bared in a ferocious grin, and blood-shot eyes were fixed on her.

Zenaria turned to face her foe, her blade at the ready. She was hampered by thigh-deep snow that prevented her from moving quickly forward or back. She had never seen such a beast before, but her people told legends of the ferocious snow-beasts that guarded the high mountain passes and waylaid unwary travelers. It took little imagination to realize what would happen to her if the attacking monster got hold of her. Only four feet of steel separated her from a brutal death.

The monster held back, indicating that she was not fighting a mindless beast. There was intelligence behind those gleaming eyes a characteristic that only made the snow beast that much more dangerous. Slowly it circled her, occasionally taking a step forward and then stepping back. Zenaria followed its every move, wondering why it did not simply attack. It almost seemed as if it was waiting for something.

At the last second she understood. Ducking low she dove into the snow and rolled to one side. The howl of rage from the second snow beast told her that her instinctive move had saved her life. She kept rolling and came up with her sword in motion as the first snow beast charged in, attempting to take advantage of her momentary distraction. But her blade was already moving. There was an ugly "thunk" and the right hand of her assailant flew through the air.

The snow beast gave a terrible scream as blood spurted from its severed wrist staining the snow red. But Zenaria was too intent on the second monster to pay much attention to the wounded beast. However, her dramatic and savage response to the attack seemed to have intimidated the second snow beast. Although Zenaria had not been certain of the sex of the first animal she could clearly see that the second was female, and although it growled menacingly it slowly backed away. The remaining snow beast also retreated, grasping its arm just above the bloody stump.

Zenaria whispered a prayer of thanks to the snow leopard and wiped her sword in the snow and then dried it with her deerskin cloth. She felt some regret that she had been forced to cut off the hand of the magnificent creature that had attacked her. The beasts seemed intelligent and for all she knew they might be capable of thought and reason. She had been trespassing in their territory and by her standards they had a right to defend it.

The dangerous encounter changed her mind about staying the night in the pass. The animals that had attacked her might return or there might be more of them lurking nearby. She dared not expose herself by setting up camp. She had no choice but to press on even if it meant she would have to walk at night.

Fortunately she was aided by the long summer nights, and when night finally fell, a gibbous moon provided enough light that she was able to make her way without fear of falling. She picked her way carefully, however, conscious of the fact that her spirit quest would come to an ignominious end if she stepped into a hole and twisted her ankle. There was also the danger of another ambush, although that threat diminished as she reached the top of the pass and began her careful descent of the other side.

Morning found her tired but cheerful as she reached the tree line once more. She was now walking through territory that few members of her tribe had ever visited, and her encounter with the snow beasts had increased her self-confidence. However, she needed food and rest, and coming across a suitable campsite she stopped.

The place she chose was an area of flat ground between two large boulders. It was easily defensible and there was a small stream nearby. She kindled a small fire and roasted some of the venison she had packed away. Then, her hunger sated, she crawled into the small lean-to she had built and closed her eyes.

She awoke in late afternoon. However, there seemed little point in proceeding in the few hours of daylight remaining and she decided to make it a day of rest. She was in no hurry to get where she was going and she already had a perfectly good campsite set up, so she ate a leisurely meal and sat by the fire for a few hours before turning in.

She awoke before dawn, prepared a breakfast consisting of strips of venison and a small amount of the thin wafer called waybread and set off.

She made good time. Most of her walking was downhill and by noon time she was moving down a trail that wound through more thickly forested lands. The vegetation had changed. Now instead of forests that were almost exclusively evergreen, there were oaks, beeches, and other hardwoods. Zenaria still knew most of them, but here and there were a few species that she did not recognize. Still, she felt quite at home and continued to work her way south for the next two weeks.

By the fourth week of her quest she was deep in the greatest of the Erogenian forests, a situation that bothered her not in the slightest. To a member of the Snow Leopard tribe, the forest was the source of all that was important. It provided the tribe with food, clothing, and shelter; and indirectly with metal and other objects obtained through trade for forest products. Zenaria was a perfect example of the forest's bounty. The clothing she wore was soft doeskin, from the brief halter that contained her breasts to the boots that protected her feet. Even her sword might be considered to have come from the forest as the metal from which it was forged had been obtained from traders seeking the fine furs Zenaria's people obtained.

From childhood Zenaria had accompanied members of her tribe into the forest on foraging and hunting expeditions. Her skill with the bow rivalled her ability with the sword and so far she experienced no difficulty in providing for herself. Each day some small animal such as a rabbit or possum provided her with meat for her evening meal. Occasionally she saw larger game, but chose not to take advantage of the situation. Jaree had not returned and she could not eat an entire deer by herself.

She also found numerous wild plants to add to her diet. She was familiar with hundreds of plants and their uses both as food and medicine. As a result she had no difficulty in providing herself with wild onions, and numerous nuts and berries. And so it was with perfect confidence that she strode into a forest that was greater than any she had yet visited.

The trees were now larger that any she had ever seen. In places the branches of great oaks, elms, and beeches interlocked overhead cutting off most of the sunlight. But here and there brilliant shafts of light penetrated the canopy, creating a cathedral-like effect among the giant trees of the forest. Underfoot, a thick blanket of dead leaves muffled her footsteps, allowing her to move in almost complete silence. It was good for hunting, and the thought of game reminded her that she was hungry and she decided to stop and have a bit to eat and drink.

She sat down between the massive buttress roots of a huge oak. In this sheltered location she was completely out of sight. If she was lucky some hapless animal might come from upwind and cross her line of sight. It would save her the effort of engaging in a serious hunt. She lay her bow at her feet just in case.

Overhead a jay gibed at her. She furrowed her brow. No game would come near her with that chatterbox nearby, but she did not change her position. The jay too was entitled to its cha. Eventually it would tire and move off in search of something to eat.

She decided to make the break special and unstoppered her wineskin. It was the last of the small amount she had taken with her, but there was no sense in saving it for later and she finished it in one swallow. The wine of her people was not of the highest quality; certainly it did not rival the imported vintages of Kirvalia or Sandak, or even the wines of other Erogenian tribes, but she was used to it and it soothed her parched throat. She took out one more carefully wrapped package of waybread. It was almost gone, but there was no point in letting it go mouldy.

She chewed slowly and thoughtfully, alternating bites of bread, with pieces of smoked rabbit that she tore off with her strong white teeth. Then, her hunger temporarily satisfied, she got to her feet, stowed her remaining provisions and continued her quest. She decided to follow the sun. It was as good a direction as any and it would take her deeper into this strange forest.

For the most part the forest was open. Giant trees shaded the forest floor and kept down the development of undergrowth, and wherever the forest thickened she managed to find a game trail that took her through it. Whenever she came to a stream she stopped to drink. Water was plentiful this time of year and despite the shade of the huge trees, the temperature was perfect for walking.

"The gods must be smiling on me in my quest," Zenaria thought. It was at that point she heard a twig snap.

Immediately she unslung her bow, strung it, and nocked an arrow to the string. It took her only seconds to perform this task and she stood ready to take advantage of whatever game might show itself. But it was not game that stepped into view.

"Well done, princess," Garrod said mockingly. "Were I a deer you would have had me."

"Garrod," Zenaria gasped. He was the last thing she had expected to see and his sudden appearance left her temporarily at a loss for words. She realized that it was more than mere coincidence that had brought Garrod to her. There was only one way he could possibly be where she was. He had to have followed her. Recovering, she blurted out a question. "What are you doing here? Why have you followed me? I was told you were on a spirit quest."

"You are my spirit quest, princess. And I am close to fulfilling it."

"You mock the gods," Zenaria said angrily. "You destroy your cha."

"My cha will be restored when I have accomplished my purpose. And that is to see all weak females returned to their proper place in the tribe of the Snow Leopard."

"You would have us reduced to nothing more than your chattels," Zenaria replied. She still held her bow at the ready. A single smooth motion of her arms and powerful shoulders would send the arrow on its way. She was not afraid of Garrod, but there was something about his sudden appearance she found unsettling. That, and the smug manner in which he confronted her. How long had he been following her?

"That is what women are," Garrod sneered taking a step toward her. "Chattels fit to be used the way men seek to use them."

"Subservient wives and whores," Zenaria elaborated.

"Just so," Garrod smirked. "Although in your case I think the latter is more fitting."

"I am the daughter of a queen," Zenaria said slowly, controlling her temper only with difficulty. "I will not be referred to as a whore."

"But that," said Garrod drawing his sword, "is what you are destined to be."

Zenaria drew back the arrow. She would not make the mistake of facing Garrod with a blade, at least not until her skills had improved a little. "Hold or you die," she warned.

Garrod halted, but his indolent manner and supercilious smile had Zenaria worried. She cocked her ears, listening for the slightest sound.

But she was still caught unprepared by the heavy net that suddenly descended upon her. Heavily weighted with stones, its weight bore her to the ground and then before she could break free four dark forms burst from the undergrowth and added their weight to the tangle.

The bow and the unreleased arrow were torn from her grasp, not that either would have done her a scintilla of good in the tangle of the heavy netting. She struggled to escape, drawing her knife to cut through the net before Garrod could pin her, even though she knew that it was impossible to cut through the tough rope strands before he was on her.

But it was not Garrod who reached her first. Her blood ran cold. For the first time in her life Zenaria felt real fear. It couldn't be, but there was no mistaking the fearful hissing of the creatures that firmly wrapped the net about her.

Urrts! Zenaria could barely believe what was happening to her. How was it possible that she was being pinned to the ground by Urtts? No member of the Snow Leopard tribe or any other Erogenian would consider any sort of pact with such vile creatures. Yet there was no mistaking their foul lizard stench or the hissing sibilants of their speech.

Garrod's triumphant laugh sounded just a few feet away. "That's it, my lovelies. Hold her. I want her bound just so."

Bound! Zenaria redoubled her efforts to escape, but there were at least four Urtts, gripping her with reptilian strength. Thoroughly enmeshed in the net, she could not find anything solid to push against. Her every movement seemed to work against her. Even as her body thrashed, the unusual sensation of fear now adding strength to her efforts, she felt the net drawn tighter, restricting her more and more until she was so thoroughly entangled that her every effort simply served to draw the net even tighter.

"How does it feel, princess?" Garrod gloated. He was crouched on his haunches only a few feet away. "Have you ever felt so helpless?"

Zenaria's reply was a low growl as somehow she twisted her body and kicked out at him. Beyond all odds, her foot made weak contact and knocked him on his backside. It wasn't much of a response, considering the circumstance, but it gave Zenaria a brief moment of triumph.

"Bitch," Garrod spat. "I'll tame you yet. Hold her you cursed lizards. What do you think I'm paying you for?"

"You've paid ussss nothing yet," came the hissed reply. Fetid breath wafted over Zenaria as she continued her struggles to break free. Sometime during her entrapment she had lost hold of her knife and now could not find it. It was apparent that she was not going to break free, but she refused to give in, kicking and ripping at the net with her hands.

"Sit on her and hold her still," Garrod ordered. "I'll get the ibanak."

Ibanak! No! Zenaria somehow found new strength. Heaving her body she actually succeeded in toppling one of the Urtts pinning her to the ground, but it was a short-lived triumph. With a hiss the creature returned, slamming her head through the netting.

"Enough," roared Garrod. "It will be me who punishes her. Your job is to hold her still."

"Then hurry up human," came the hissed reply. "Thisss one is ssstrong."

Zenaria gasped for breath. The stink of the Urtts tainted her nostrils and for a second she thought she might be sick. And then she felt another weight on her. Reptilian hands reached through the net and gripping her hair held her head steady. She knew that they were going to do, and ignoring the pain tore her head loose.

"Struggle all you like, bitch. It won't do you any good."

"Uggh!" Garrod's remark was followed by a blow delivered by the palm of his hand that caught her right between the eyes. It slammed her head into the ground, temporarily stunning her. Dazed, she lay quietly for a second until she felt something being forced between her lips. She knew what it was, but reptilian hands held her head and the mouth of the leather wineskin was shoved between her teeth. But it wasn't wine that came out.

She almost gagged as the burning, acrid liquid was forced into her throat. She tried to spit it out, but couldn't. Finally she swallowed and felt her strength begin to drain from her body. "Ibanak," she thought. It was a drug used by slavers to quiet their victims. It robbed healthy men and women of their strength and left them compliant.

"That should hold the bitch," Garrod said, his voice sneeringly triumphant. Now we'll bind her."

Hands pulled aside the netting. Suddenly finding herself free, Zenaria flailed at the lizard-like creatures around her, but the ibanak had done its work. Her blows were feeble and uncoordinated. "Coward," she gasped. "The gods will punish you for this."

"Save your breath for screaming, princess. I suspect you'll be doing a lot of it," Garrod sneered.

Reptilian fingers closed over her wrists, pulling them forward. Another gripped her hair, jerking her head back. Struggling helplessly she almost screamed in frustration as her wrists were bound in front of her and then she was jerked to her feet. An Urtt flanked her on either side while a third held a length of rope tied to the ropes about her wrists. She was dragged forward toward a large rock. She almost knew what they were going to do before they even did it, but the thought that it would happen to her was so monstrous she could not believe it.

And then she was stretched face up across the rock like some sacrificial victim, her arms drawn tightly over her head and her legs pinioned by two of the Urtts. Garrod stood at her feet, smiling mockingly. The Urrts grinned down at her, their sharp reptilian teeth bared; saliva dripping from their vile jaws. Enraged and still defiant, she cursed Garrod in the choicest manner she could think off.

"My my, princess," Garrod said. "Whatever would Queen Cirilia say if she could hear such language?'

Garrod was accoutered similarly to the way Zenaria had been before she had been stripped of her weapons and draped across the rock. Slowly and deliberately he began to remove his equipment, beginning with his sword.

"You will be cursed if you do this, Garrod," Zenaria gasped, straining against the beasts that held her in spite of the ibanak induced weakness. "The gods never forget. You will never balance your cha for such an act."

"I am doing nothing wrong, princess," Garrod said as he removed his brief loincloth. "I am merely collecting what was promised."

Zenaria stared helplessly at Garrod. Like all men of her tribe, he was powerfully muscled. At six feet four inches tall, his appearance was marred only by the nose Zenaria had broken. There was certainly nothing small or delicate abut the center of his anatomy.

Garrod had kept only his knife. He curled his lip in anger, as if remembering how Zenaria had humiliated him. "Spread her," he said.

The Urtts hissed in pleasure. Zenaria who had been lying quietly suddenly jerked her arms down and twisted her body. For an instant she was almost free, but then the rope tightened, painfully jerking her arms back over her head and the Urtts holding her legs readjusted their grip. Slowly, and despite her now frantic struggles they spread-eagled her.

"Never give up do you princess?" Garrod sneered. Openly scornful he climbed between her legs and with a deft flick of his knife sliced through her loincloth and breast covering.

"I've done this before, haven't I princess?" Garrod leered. "Only this time I am going to finish what I started." Leaning back on his heels he looked down at her. He was semi-erect, but it was nothing that Zenaria had not seen before.

"Do you know what I am going to do, princess?" Garrod continued, obviously enjoying himself. I'm going to take your virginity and then pound your cunt until you are so sore you'll walk bowlegged for a week. But by the time I'm finished with you, you'll be as loose as a Kivalian whore. But more than that. You won't have any access to this."

As he finished speaking he held up a small leather pouch. While Zenaria watched he opened it and poured the contents onto her belly. The pouch was hers, the white substance that pooled in her navel was zarat, the powdered root of a plant known to be a powerful contraceptive, and carried by every nubile female member of the Snow Leopard tribe.

"You have dishonoured yourself and your house," Zenaria said. "Be certain that nothing you do for the rest of your life will right your cha. You will be forever damned and when you die you will not be accepted by the gods."

"You are my cha," Garrod replied. And this is how I achieve balance."

Still holding the knife he leaned forward slightly and touched its razor tip to her left nipple. "So beautiful. Shall I let you keep them, princess? What is it worth to save your tits?"

Zenaria took a deep breath. She had expected rape, but not mutilation. But she would not give in. "Do what you will. The gods will curse you for it."

"Brave as well as beautiful." Garrod set down the knife. He was fully erect, his manhood almost straining to be buried within her. He slid his hands over her pelvic bones and then over her hard, flat belly. For an instant, Zenaria felt a wash of revulsion roll over her. She swallowed, realizing that the reaction was exactly what Garrod wanted. She lay absolutely still, not moving even as his hands closed over her breasts.

They were large, powerful hands; the hands of a master swordsman and he used all the strength in them as he crushed he breasts beneath his fingers. Zenaria stiffened slightly, but gave no indication that she felt anything out of the normal. If this was the way it was going to be she would give him no satisfaction whatsoever.

"And now, princess, I am going to make you into a woman." Garrod gripped her hips and positioned himself between her thighs. He smiled cruelly and then thrust forward. Zenaria prepared herself for the unthinkable and then Garrod froze as a frightening roar filled the air.

"Who invade my forest?" It was the voice of a beast, deep and rasping to anyone or anything who had ever heard it before. Apparently the Urtts had. They released their grip on Zenaria and ran without even waiting to see what was there. Garrod stood a second longer and then grabbing up his sword dashed off into the trees. Exhausted and overcome with relief Zenaria slid off the rock, her hands still tied.

"What this?" the rumbling voice asked. Zenaria looked up to see the most terrifying monster she had ever encountered. It was humanoid to the extent that it had two arms and two legs connected to a torso. But it was no more human than the Urtts had been. It stood at least eight feet tall and Zenaria saw at once that it was hugely male. It was entirely nude although most of its body was covered with reddish orange hair except in the region of its chest and belly. Two curving horns jutted from its forehead, just above its dark, expressive eyes. A long prehensile tale extended from its backside and curved about in front of it, where it slowly caressed its massive phallus as it stood looking at Zenaria with undisguised lust.

"Woman," it said. "Very pretty woman."

Had she been able, Zenaria would have fled, but she was temporarily paralysed with fear and exhaustion. She could do no more than gaze in horror at the thing as it advanced upon her. It was only as it picked her up and slammed her down on the rock once again that she realized that she should have made every effort to emulate Garrod and the Urtts.

The impact with the boulder drove the breath from her. Barely conscious, she made no effort to resist as the monster spread her legs and made ready to mate with her. "By the gods," she thought. "Have I escaped violation by Garrod only to be raped by a beast?" And why was everything she encountered so interested in ravishing her anyway?

That last thought was driven from her mind by the imminent threat of the rape and then at the last instant another sound interrupted.

"What you do? Get off human female."

The monster lying between her parted thighs hesitated, its immense phallus just inches from her trembling vulva. Then it moved back, but not without protest. "Me punish female. She invade my forest."

"It not your forest. It our forest and you no punish." The creature that spoke now hove into view.

Through a haze of pain, fear, and exhaustion Zenaria saw that it was a member of the same species as the male. It was almost the same height as the male and as monstrously female as the as the first creature had been monstrously male. The thing sported a pair of breasts that made Zenaria's impressive globes look petite by comparison. Like the male it also had two curving horns on its brow and the same prehensile tail.

"Trolls," Zenaria thought in sudden revelation and revulsion. "They're trolls."

The female troll picked up the end of the rope that bound Zenaria's wrists. "Take with us," she said. "Maybe eat or trade, but no punish."

Zenaria grunted in pain as the female troll pulled her to her feet. She had escaped brutal rape twice inside of five minutes, but she was not sure that what she faced was much better. With a painful jerk on the rope the female troll set off through the forest, dragging Zenaria after her. Almost running to keep up, the Snow Leopard warrior fought back a cry of pain. It appeared that she had exchanged one cruel fate for another.

Chapter 5: Slave

Zenaria staggered after the female troll. The creature seemed tireless and dragged her forward down forest paths; across roiling mountain streams and stinking swamps; and through thorn-infested thickets. Flies and biting insects swarmed around her attracted by the cuts and abrasions inflicted during her capture by the Urtts. Her bare feet were cut and bruised by sharp stones and every forced step became agony. Finally, just when she thought she would collapse the troll turned off the trail and entered a rocky canyon.

The troll jogged down the canyon for about a hundred yards and then stopped before a large cave opening. She turned her shaggy head and gave Zenaria a fang-toothed grin. "Home," she grunted. An exhausted Zenaria could not reply, only follow meekly as the troll pulled her into the cave.

Inside Zenaria was surprised to see that it was not the dark and gloomy cavern she had expected. Instead light entered the interior, not just from the cave entrance, but from a large hole in the cave ceiling that appeared to have been artificially created. In spite of her confusion and exhaustion Zenaria realized that there might be more to trolls than she had thought.

"You stay there," the female troll ordered, pointing to what appeared to be a pile of leaves and branches against one wall. On closer inspection it resolved itself into a bed and Zenaria was only too glad to sink down upon it. A few seconds later the male troll entered the cavern carrying Zenaria's clothing and weapons. "Why you bring those, Rorrg?" the female troll asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Sell to trader. Buy more goods," Rorrg answered.

The female troll grunted and moved over to another part of the cave. Zenaria saw to her further surprise that the cave was full of modern improvements including a large iron cooking pot, metal traps, and tools for working stone. The latter probably explained the stone shaft that let in light from above.

"When supper?" Rorrg asked. Zenaria shuddered, wondering if she might be part of the menu, but Rorrg did not even look at her. And then she remembered something the female troll had said. Maybe she would be traded. Surely that meant she would not be eaten.

"Soon," the female troll answered. She went to a large chest and pulled out a large sack. To Zenaria's relief it turned out that it contained what looked like dried peas. However, that did not answer the question of what sort of meat might be used and she remained apprehensive until Rorrg moved into an alcove and returned carrying a large haunch of meat. To her further relief she noted that the meat seemed to be venison.

Zenaria knew only a little bit about trolls. The huge beasts were almost unknown in the cold, mountainous regions inhabited by the snow leopard. But it was said that they were creatures of almost unbelievable strength and ferocity and from the way that Garrod and the Urtts had run she could well believe that. It was also said that they preferred human flesh to any other and that they delighted to torturing anyone unlucky enough to fall into their grips. So far Zenaria had not seen any indication of the latter characteristics, but that did not mean it wasn't true. And the female troll had mentioned something about trading or eating her.

"Get water," the female troll ordered, tossing a leather bucket toward Rorrg. The male troll caught it and moved toward another section of the cave where he scooped water from a shallow basin. Zenaria noted that a small spring trickled down the wall of the cave constantly refilling the basin until it overflowed and made its way toward the cave entrance in a tiny stream.

Rorrg returned with the water and kindled a fire beneath the iron pot using flint and steel. He proved quite adept at this and soon had a roaring fire. This was further evidence of Zenaria's ignorance. Up until now she had supposed that trolls ate all of their food raw.

What you look at?" the female troll growled, noting Zenaria's fascination with their activities. "You think we eat you? Might - you look tasty."

"Leave her 'lone, Grettcha," Rorrg said. "She just be frightened."

Grettcha grinned and Zenaria turned deep crimson. Rorrg's comment was all too true. She was frightened, a condition no Erogenian warrior would admit to. However it was part of Zenaria's destiny to discover that there was more to courage than simply not being afraid, although she had no inkling of it at the time. Instead Rorrg's comment ignited a defiant response.

"I fear no one," she shouted. With surprising energy she managed to bound across the cavern to where Rorrg had dumped her gear. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her sword and she drew it forth and turned to face the two trolls. However, with her wrists still bound and her nude body swaying with exhaustion, she hardly presented much of a threat to either troll.

"She even more pretty than before," Rorrg commented. "I like her like that."

"You put eyes back in head," Grettcha warned, "or I put her in soup."

Rorrg laughed, a sound somewhere between that of a lion's roar and the screech of an eagle. He seemed completely unconcerned by Grettcha's threat or Zenaria's defiant stance. He moved toward the Snow Leopard warrior while Grettcha looked on unconcernedly. "Put down poker," he ordered, "or Rorrg punish."

Zenaria remembered that Rorrg's use of the word punish meant rape and she prepared herself for battle. However, her act of rebellion was humiliatingly and quickly crushed. She had not had time to remove the tough rope from her wrists and Rorrg simply reached down, picked up the trailing end of the rope and jerked her halfway across the cavern.

With a cry of surprise and despair Zenaria was pulled right off her feet. Even given the troll's huge size she had not expected such strength, but she had no time to reflect on her mistake as she slammed heavily into the rock floor of the cavern, her sword flying from her hands and clattering loudly against the stone. She lay helpless as her enormous adversary loomed over her.

Fortunately Rorrg was more amused than angry, an attitude that Zenaria found even more mortifying. It was as if the troll was treating her like a naughty child. "You be good," he ordered.

Zenaria did not have much choice but to obey. Without her sword she would have little chance against the troll and being slammed to the rock floor had taken the last of her defiance out of her. She waited, beaten and exhausted for the trolls to decide her fate.

At first that fate did not seem too frightening. For an hour she waited while Grettcha prepared supper, sitting quietly near the crude bed. She noted that Rorrg carefully placed her weapons in another part of the cave out of her immediate line of sight. Then Grettcha lifted a spoon the size of a canoe paddle to her lips and gave a satisfied smack. "MMM," she grunted. Picking up a bowl the size of a washtub she spooned it half full and then placed it in front of Zenaria.

For a few seconds Zenaria looked stupidly at the pea soup then she picked up the oversized spoon Grettcha had stuck into it. In spite of her exhaustion she found she was quite hungry. Tentatively she raised a spoonful to her lips. To her considerable surprise it was quite good, and she took another and then another. Before she knew it the bowl was half empty and she could eat no more.

Grettcha looked at her half-empty bowl disapprovingly. "Skinny human," she chided. She picked up the bowl and set it aside. "Save for breakfast," she added.

Her belly full and with nothing else to do, Zenaria suddenly found she was very tired. Curling up on the crude bed she closed her eyes and was almost instantly asleep. She stayed that way until the next morning.

When she awoke Rorrg was gone, but Grettcha was more than enough to prevent her from escaping. Besides, her every movement was so agonizing that she could barely make her way to the section of the cave that Grettcha indicated was for relieving herself. It was a small trench through which flowed a stream of water. There was also another of the basins carved into the side of the cavern wall. Into it trickled a thin stream of water that kept it filled to the brim. Zenaria supposed that this was some sort of wash basin and took advantage of the opportunity to wipe the sweat, grime, and blood from her body. Then she returned to bed. Waiting for her was the cold bowl of pea soup she had not finished the night before. She stared at it for a second and then spooned half of it down, setting the rest aside for later. So far the trolls had treated her well or at least well compared to what she had expected. But she was still a captive and entirely at their mercy. She could not expect that such benign treatment would continue.

The day passed in total boredom, but it was a day that Zenaria needed to help her recover from her ordeal. Her body was covered in scratches, bruises and abrasions and she hurt all over. For the most part she simply lay on the crude bed and rested. Sometime after noon she ate the rest of the pea soup and then rested some more. All the time, Grettcha sat a few feet away keeping her eyes on her. The troll was not one for conversation and Zenaria could think of nothing to discuss with a troll in any case, so she waited and watched and tried to think of some way to escape.

As it turned out she could not think of anything that first day or the next or the next. Grettcha was never more than a few feet away and other than preparing meals she seemed quite content to sit and watch Zenaria. For the Snow Leopard maiden, however, the hours seemed to pass as slowly as the flow of maple sap during a cold spring. Finally in the afternoon of the second day she got to her feet and began to move through the ritual exercises of a Snow Leopard warrior.

These consisted of a series of moves simulating both unarmed and armed combat and there were literally hundreds of patterns and variations on the exercises. Although Grettcha's eyes widened, she made no effort to stop Zenaria, but instead looked on interestedly while Zenaria refreshed her training.

The athletic activity helped to pass the time and left Zenaria tired enough at the end of each day that she slept well. However, during the three days Rorrg was absent she found no opportunity to escape. Grettcha might be lacking in imagination and perhaps intelligence, but she was an excellent guard. At no time did she move farther than twenty feet from Zenaria and always she remained watchful. Zenaria might have chanced making a run for it, but she had seen how quickly Grettcha could move when she had been dragged behind the troll when she was first captured. She had no doubt that Grettcha could run her down without difficulty. As a result, she remained a captive until the day that Rorrg returned.

When the male troll returned he had someone with him. Or rather, several someones. Zenaria had never seen anything like them, which is not too surprising, considering that prior to her spirit quest she had never been more that a half day's walk from her stockade.

There were five human males, but they were quite different from the men she was used to. Not only were their skins very dark, but had they been members of the Snow Leopard tribe they would have been regarded as runts. Not one of them came up to Zenaria's chin even though from their facial hair they were obviously adults. The beards were another difference. In spite of their reputation as barbarians Snow Leopard males were clean shaven. It was partly a matter of vanity and partly practical. In melee combat beards could be grabbed by an opponent.

The strangers were also dressed most peculiarly, wearing long robes that reached from their shoulders to their feet. It seemed to Zenaria that they were heavily overdressed, especially considering the warm summer weather.

For an instant hope surged through her. Surely the presence of other humans meant that she would be saved from the trolls, but that hope died almost instantly when she noted the way that they looked at her. It was as if she was being examined like some item at a market and for the first time in her life Zenaria was conscious of her nudity.

"Uhh," grunted Rorrg. "Here be pretty female. She good for trade, yes?"

One of the men stepped forward, stroking his beard. Zenaria assumed he was the leader. The way he looked at her would have invited a beheading had he done it when Zenaria had a sword in her hand. Either that or she would have considered asking him to bed her provided she had not taken her vow. But she was given neither option. Rorrg's comment struck home. She was going to be traded.

"Well," the man replied, "she might be of some value. How much do you want?"

At that point Grettcha took over. She might not have been much of a conversationalist, but she was very good at bartering. "We want salt, much salt. Ten barrels. And new iron pot. And copper wire. And more peas. And..."

Grettcha's list of demands went on for quite some time, but the dark-skinned trader appeared to have done this before. He made a return offer less than a quarter of what Grettcha had asked and seemed quite unperturbed at Grettcha's outraged threats to put him in her next stew.

"Why, Grettcha," he responded. "If you did then wherever would you get your next cooking pot when that one wears out?"

Throughout all the demands and offers Zenaria watched, her sense of outrage growing within her until finally she exploded. "What is this?" she screamed. "How dare you discuss me as if I were no more than a piece of meat or chunk of iron to be bartered away? I am a princess of the Snow Leopard tribe. I will not be treated this way."

Her outburst did not have the desired effect. Instead it completely backfired on her.

"Princess?" Grettcha asked. "Then she be worth even more."

The dark-skinned trader flashed Zenaria a look of pure hatred. And his face got even darker when Grettcha listed her demands all over again, but this time doubling each previous item.

Appalled and annoyed that her outburst had resulted in the opposite of what she desired; Zenaria turned her back and sat down. She stayed that was until the bargaining was over.

"Get up, princess." It was the trader. He stood just a few feet away, holding the rope that bound her wrists in his hand. Behind him were his four henchmen and the two trolls. It was apparent that she had little choice but to comply with his demand.

As she stood he motioned two of his henchmen forward. They took her arms and attempted to move her forward. Angrily, Zenaria shook them off, her powerful arms pushing them easily away from her.

"Yes," the trader commented. "It is apparent that she has spirit. I would expect no less from a barbarian princess. She will have to be tamed." He nodded to the two trolls and the huge creatures stepped forward.

The trolls were something that Zenaria could not resist, at least not without some sort of weapon. They took her arms and lifter her from the floor of the cavern and carried her to where the trader indicated.

At first Zenaria was confused. She had expected the trolls to escort her from the cavern. Instead they moved her closer to the fire. Then suddenly she understood what they were going to do.

"No!" she cried. She strained with every muscle to break away, but she was like a babe in arms in the hands of the trolls. They carried her kicking and struggling to a large stone next to the fire. Once there they held her face down over the stone while one of the dark-skinned men bent an iron band around her neck. All of her strength was not enough to prevent him from doing it, nor was she able to break away while an iron rivet was heated red hot in the fire and pounded through each end of the iron band, creating an iron collar around her neck.

The touch of the iron on her neck was like a death sentence. Hope left her, temporarily robbing her of her strength to resist. She lay still as two more bands of iron were secured about each of her wrists. Only then was she allowed to stand.

She stood dazed, her arms slightly raised. She had little choice. Heavy iron chains connected her wrists to the collar around her neck, preventing freedom of movement. Even if she had held a sword in her hand she would not have been able to swing it. She was completely at the mercy of the dark-skinned men who had bought her. The iron around her neck and wrists weighed her down. It was an oppressive weight that seemed far heavier than it really was. It completely robbed her of her will to resist. She stood fighting to control her trembling waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Her bondage complete Rorrg appeared with her clothing. With her arms so positioned she was unable to dress herself and had to suffer the further humiliation of letting one of the men dress her. He took full advantage of the opportunity, allowing his hands to linger on her belly and breasts as he arranged her minimalist costume.

"That will be enough, Adul," the trader said. "She is not yours to touch. That will be reserved for the man who buys her." He picked up a length of chain that was connected to the iron collar and with a tug directed Zenaria toward the cavern entrance.

Outside were a number of pack mules. Zenaria was familiar with them even though the tribe of the Snow Leopard made little use of beasts of burden. The cold climate was not conducive to keeping donkeys, mules, or horses through the long cold winter when fodder was not available. But she had seen southern traders using them during the summer months when they came to exchange their goods for the fine furs and high quality amber the Snow Leopard tribe harvested from its northern wilderness.

The two trolls followed and Zenaria watched as they unloaded the goods that the trader had promised them. As they carried them into the cave the trader approached her.

"A barbarian princess," he said. "I have long sought such a find, and now I have one."

Zenaria opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She stood gaping while the trader walked around her in a circle, inspecting her as he would a prize horse. Finally he stopped in front of her.

"And I am Gazari ven Raban, Thuski in the empire of Sandak" the dark-skinned trader said. "I am now your master. Your foolish outbursts have already cost me far more than I bargained for. From now on you will speak only when spoken to. Were you not so valuable to me I would have you whipped for your insolence. But do not try my patience. I will get you to Sandak one way or the other. If it means that I have to remove some of your skin from your body I will. Now shut up and do as you are told."

If ven Raban's speech had been intended to finish her complete subjugation it worked. She bowed her head and tried to hold back the tears that threatened to destroy her warrior image. She had no idea what the title "thuski" meant, but something in the way ven Raban spoke sent chills down her spine; that and the way he looked at her. Suddenly Zenaria wished she were more fully clothed. It was a strange feeling for a member of a society in which the human body was something to be displayed rather than hidden.

The name Sandak also sobered her. Never before had she encountered any of the people of that far away empire. But she knew its reputation. It was a place where human life was held so cheaply that the vice of slavery was practiced as a part of everyday life. It was said that anyone who was unfortunate enough to fall into the hands or a Sandakar slaver was never seen again. It was a thought that filled her with quiet desperation. Surely her spirit quest could not end with a life of slavery. Somehow she had to escape

Escape, however, was not possible, and bad as things were they were nothing compared to what awaited her. Ven Raban and his men mounted their horses and set out. Zenaria was placed at the end of the column, behind the last mule, the chain around her neck attached to the harness of the mule. It was a deliberate attempt to further break her spirit and it almost worked. Staggering forward behind the mule, Zenaria was forced to walk in the dust at the end of the column, her feet frequently encountering manure dropped by the animals in front of her.

By the end of the day she was once again reduced to a state of utter exhaustion. Covered with dust and sweat and desperate for water she staggered in the woodland glade Ven Raban had chosen to set up camp. But even here she was afforded little respite. Falling to her knees in exhaustion she was immediately ordered to stand by her Sandakar master.

"I gave you no leave to rest, slave," Ven Raban shouted. "You will stand until I permit you to sit."

Zenaria lurched to her feet, swaying from fatigue. But whatever Ven Raban's intention, it had the opposite effect. "I will not let him break me," she thought. "I swear to the gods that I will die before I surrender my will to such scum."

Ven Raban let her stand until the camp was set up. Only then did he let her go to the small stream that flowed beside the campsite to slake her thirst and wash some of the day's grime from her body.

She did not expect Ven Raban to feed her, but to her surprise one of his henchmen brought her a steaming bowl of food. It was not what she was used to, as a matter of fact Zenaria did not recognize what was in the bowl, but it was the same as what was served to everyone else. In any case she was too hungry to care. Ignoring the burning spices that flavoured the food, she wolfed it down using her fingers as fast as the chains confining her wrists would allow.

Sleep came quickly. In spite of the horror of her situation she was too tired to stay awake and think about escape. Nevertheless, she noted as she nodded off that one of the slavers was assigned to watch her.

She awoke before dawn. She had to. Ven Raban kicked her awake and ordered her to her feet. "Get up, princess. You will get no royal treatment here."

Zenaria wanted to tell him that royal treatment among the Snow Leopard tribe meant training twice as hard as anyone else, but bit back her reply. As hard as it was she had to hold her temper. Ven Raban was now the master of the situation. Encouraging him to punish her would not do her the least bit of good.

They got away from camp quickly. For the first time Zenaria noted the direction they were moving and it puzzled her. They should have been moving south toward Sandak, but instead were moving east and deeper into Erogenia. Ven Raban was either lost or he had some other motive. A few hours later Zenaria learned what it was.

It was near mid-morning when the small column crested a hill. Before them was an opening in the trees and she saw that there seemed to be some sort of fort in the middle of the clearing. It seemed strange that anyone would build a fort in the middle of a thick forest, but the reason soon became clear as they approached.

"It's not a fort," Zenaria thought. "It's a prison."

It wasn't much of a prison either, but it was strong enough to house the twenty or thirty wretched prisoners behind its crude bars. Sudden realization swept over Zenaria. It should have been obvious. Ven Raban was a slave trader. He wouldn't be in Erogenia just for a single captive. Zenaria was simply one more of many.

Ven Raban used the occasion to call a short halt. It was a welcome rest for Zenaria, but it was not the reason he had stopped. Zenaria's life as a slave was about to get much worse.

One by one the prisoners in the slave compound were brought out and attached to one another by chains identical to the one she wore about her neck. All of the slaves were young men and women, warriors all, although Zenaria had no idea what tribe they were from. Most were in the same condition she was, dirty, thirsty, and in a state of semi-exhaustion. One after the other they were added to the line of chained slaves until they stretched out in a long row, twenty seven in all. And then Ven Raban gave the order to march.

The column moved much more slowly now, many of the slaves stumbling as they were directed down the path. Ven Raban's band of slavers now numbered ten and they patrolled either side of the line. Zenaria found out the hard way that they were not just there to prevent escape.

Zenaria was chained in the middle of the column, no doubt to make it even more difficult for her to escape. While climbing a hill she stumbled, almost taking down the girl in front of her and the man behind. There was an immediate pain between her shoulder blades. "Get up you Erogenian bitch," yelled the slaver who had struck her. "Get up or I'll take all the skin off your back."

Zenaria struggled to her feet and forged ahead. Both ahead and behind her she could hear the crack of whips as the slavers drove on those who lagged or stumbled. Deliberately deprived of water and half starved, none of the other slaves were in nearly as good condition as Zenaria. The whips cracked more and more often as the nightmarish procession continued; and then it began to rain.

At first Zenaria and the other prisoners welcomed the rain. It allowed them to slake their thirst while they moved and cooled their sweating bodies, but it also turned the crude trail into a bog. Footing, especially on slopes, became treacherous, and the marchers slipped and fell more frequently. But there was no stopping or slowing down. If anything it seemed that Ven Raban urged the slaves on faster. And after awhile the rain no longer soothed the slaves' overheated bodies. Instead it chilled to the bone. Wet and exhausted the slaves were driven on, the whips falling more and more frequently as they stumbled from fatigue. Only when early evening approached did they finally halt.

Almost too weary to think, Zenaria huddled on the ground. She was covered in mud and colder and more miserable than she could have imagined. That place where Ben Raban had chosen to stop offered little shelter and in any case the slavers had only enough tents for themselves. Without fire there was no hot meal. The slavers dolled out handfuls of some sort of grain which the wretched slaves chewed on. They also ordered the slaves to crowd together for warmth. Zenaria pressed her body as close to those around her as she could and tried to ignore the rain. Huddled together in misery with the other prisoners Zenaria reflected that she had carried out part of her quest. She had made contact with other Erogenians, but not in the way that she had imagined. In spite of her exhaustion she got very little sleep that night.

The rain ended sometime before morning, but it was a wretched bunch of slaves that were forced to their feet. Ven Raban seemed to think that the best cure for their shivering bodies was to force them into a quick march and he might have been right, but forcing half-starved and exhausted captives to move at all proved almost impossible. Right from the start the slavers had to use the whip and before long blood streamed from the back of every captive. It soon became obvious that without proper rest none of the slaves would survive the day. Reluctantly Ven Raban called a halt. Cursing with frustration he ordered that the slaves be properly fed and rested. As a result the column did not get underway until early noon.

Zenaria could understand Ven Raban's desire for speed. They were deep within Erogenia and almost certainly the slaver's depredations would have been noted by now. The slavers had to escape before Erogenian pursuers caught up with them.

They marched until dusk in an attempt to make up for the late start, but in spite of ruthless application of the whip, the column made poor time. It became obvious even to Ven Rabin that if any of the slaves were to survive they needed at least one day of rest and he gave it too them.

The extra day seemed to work. Rested, the captives made much better time, and Ven Raban seemed to relax. He seemed to think that he had outdistanced any pursuit, a belief made obvious by the fact that he ordered his men not to drive the slaves as hard. As a result, the column slowed down, but it probably saved the lives of most of the captives.

For two weeks they marched before finally reaching a river. It was two weeks of humiliation and torment. Each day the slaves were marched until Zenaria's feet bled. Her deerskin boots had long since worn through and she had been forced to wrap pieces of her brief costume around her feet. When these also were worn away she went barefoot. She was not alone; the other prisoners were treated no better and most of them were limping at the end of each day.

Kept short of water, most were close to collapse by the time Ven Raban decided it was time to set up camp. At first Zenaria wondered at the brutal treatment, but it didn't take her long to understand. Although chained and unarmed, the twenty-seven young men and women were all Erogenian warriors. Each was capable of killing an opponent with his or her bare hands. With less than a dozen slavers to control them, keeping the captives half crippled and in a perpetual state of exhaustion was a simple method of making sure that they gave as little trouble as possible. It was an effective method. Coupled with the chain connecting each slave to the other there was not a single escape attempt during the long march.

As the demoralized captives stopped at the edge of the river Ven Raban rode his horse along the column and pointed to the other side. "Sandak," he shouted. "Sandak, and in a few days the slave market."

If Ven Raban had intended his remark to further dishearten his prisoners it had the opposite effect on Zenaria. Refusing to look in the direct Ven Raban pointed, she fixed her burning gaze on him. "You will die," she muttered. "You will die if it is the last thing I do."

Chapter 6: Tren

It took almost an entire day to get the twenty-seven slaves, the horses, and pack mules across the river. The small raft that served as a ferry could hold no more than two horses at a time and for reasons of security Ven Rabon would allow no more than two prisoners to be transported together. The process of removing them from the others and then rechaining them on the other side was most time consuming. Fortunately, the local ferryman was most obliging. It appeared that this was not the first time he had transported slaves and he was careful to get his fee each time.

Once across the river the march resumed. For the first day the column followed the course of the river, but then Ven Raban turned inland and the course of the march changed once again. The farther the column got from the river the drier the landscape became. At first it was almost imperceptible, but by the middle of the fourth day Zenaria realized that there were no longer any trees along the line of march. Stretching ahead of them was a vast grassland that went on for as far as the eye could see.

Zenaria had never imagined a land without trees, and for the first time she began to fear that Ven Raban might actually succeed in getting her to the slave market. The flatter landscape made the going easier and even in their weakened condition the slaves made better time, covering as many as fifteen miles in a day. At that pace it seemed almost certain that in just a week or so they would reach their destination. But then fate intervened in a most unexpected fashion.

It happened during the early evening of the ninth day since the river crossing. The prisoners were huddled in the centre of the camp, flanked by Ven Raban's men. Most of the slaves were asleep or nearly so, but it just so happened that Zenaria was wide awake. There was no specific reason why she should have been so alert. Normally she would have been just as tired as the other captives, but on this particular night her eyes refused to close. Her senses tingled, reminding her of the time she had brought down her first deer. As a result she was in a perfect position to see the slaver nearest her go down with an arrow in his throat.

It was a perfect shot. The slaver collapsed without making a sound. It was for that reason that no one noticed him until his body actually hit the ground. It was then that a second arrow came out of the darkness, taking down a second man. This one made considerably more fuss, but it didn't save still a third slaver from taking an arrow. Then pandemonium exploded through the camp. The remaining slavers ran wildly in all directions. Some headed to the far side of the camp, away from the place where the arrows came from. Others drew their swords and ran toward the mystery attackers. A few dropped to the ground and one even hid among the tethered slaves.

Ven Raban stood in the middle of the camp shouting orders. He was only five feet away from Zenaria. Without thinking she rose to her feet and dragging several other captives with her charged toward the thuski. She now knew that the word meant chief, but she wasn't thinking of that, as a matter of fact she wasn't really thinking at all or she would have realized that attempting to attack someone while dragging four or five people with her was almost impossible. Almost impossible. Somehow in the confusion she managed to get to within two feet of the slaver chieftain. It was close enough. The chains that connected her wrists to the iron collar around her neck were just long enough. She encircled Ven Raban's neck with a length of chain and dragged him toward her. The Sandakar made a gurgling sound as his breath was cut off. He kicked wildly as Zenaria's muscles tensed and there was an ugly crunch as the slaver's windpipe was crushed.

"I said I'd get you," Zenaria growled. Releasing the dead man she got to her feet and looked around for someone else to kill, but she needn't have bothered. Two more slavers with down, transfixed by arrows. Another had been savaged by the slaves, emulating Zenaria, and the others were nowhere to be seen. They had fled the camp into the night.

There was considerable tumult and some rejoicing among the slaves, until they realized that they were still chained together and had no way of breaking the chains. That quieted them down a little and they got even quieter when a dark-clad figure stepped out of the darkness.

Zenaria had little problem identifying him as the mystery attacker. He was carrying a short curved bow and slung over his shoulder was a quiver of arrows. Belted around his waist were two swords in lacquered black scabbards. What was just as interesting was his stature. He was even shorter than the Sandakar and would barely have come up to Zenaria's shoulder.

He was dressed in a loose-fitting garment of black cloth that covered him from head to toe allowing only his eyes to be seen. However, after coming to a halt in front of them he pushed back his hood and revealed his face. He was certainly not an Erogenian. His features were far too dark for that, although not as dark as the Sandakar, but it was his dark eyes that caught everyone's attention. They were slanted, resembling the nuts called almonds that a trader had brought to the Snow Leopard stockade. Zenaria was reminded of the Juree's eyes although the big leopard's eyes were yellow rather than brown. The overall effect was not displeasing. Zenaria would not have called him handsome; he was too different for that, but he certainly was interesting and in spite of his short stature he had a commanding presence. This was further emphasized when he spoke.

He voice was deep and well modulated, and his message went right to the point. "You're free. Now let's see if I can get you out of those chains."

It took a few seconds for the information to sink in. One minute the twenty-seven Erogenian warriors had been prisoners. Now they were about to receive their freedom. But Erogenians were nothing if not resilient. One of the older warriors, a woman called Toloria got to her feet. "Who are you and why did you save us?" In spite of the strange warrior's promise to free them, her voice held a trace of suspicion. It was obvious that Erogenia's long history of being threatened by its purportedly more civilized neighbours had left her suspicious of any stranger, even her supposed rescuer.

"I am Tren Ja Nyen, and you have nothing to fear from me. My motives are my own, but rest assured I have no love for the Sandakar." Without waiting for a reaction he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness. He returned a few seconds later carrying a small anvil and a hammer and chisel.

Zenaria's brilliant eyes narrowed. What was her mysterious rescuer doing with the tools needed to break her shackles and those of her fellow Erogenians? It seemed there was much more to Tren Ja Nyen than he was revealing.

Toloria was the first of the Erogenian warriors released. After that it was a matter of each warrior waiting his or her turn. Once freed the warriors explored the goods Ven Raban's band had been transporting. It took them only a few minutes to find something worthwhile.

"I thought so," Toloria said, brandishing a sword. "The Sandakar scum kept all of our weapons."

Her observation proved true. As the warriors were freed they retrieved their weapons and other possessions. It appeared that the slavers had kept the warriors' gear with the intention of selling it.

Zenaria's turn came at last. The almond-eyed warrior looked at her curiously when he noted that she was chained not just by the neck but by the wrists as well. However, other than a slight narrowing of his eyes he said nothing but simply motioned for her to place her head on the anvil. A practiced blow cut through the rivet of her collar and two more removed the iron bands from her wrists. Zenaria felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her and she swayed unsteadily.

Her rescuer reached out a hand to steady her. "Are you alright?" he asked as he caught her arm.

"I'm fine," Zenaria replied, pulling her arm away from Tren's grasp. She was ashamed to have shown such weakness in front of a total stranger and especially one much smaller than her.

Tren nodded and then turned away. He seemed completely unperturbed by Zenaria's ungracious response. He moved toward the other Erogenians, who having found their weapons were milling about in some disorder. "There is food enough to last you until you reach the river. I suggest you rest for a day or so and then start back."

"Who elected you captain?" Toloria asked. Her tone of voice indicated that she was somewhat irked at Tren's assumption of authority.

"No one," Tren replied without rancour. "You seem to be the leader. Perhaps you should give the orders." Without further comment he turned and walked away. A slight smile flickered across his face.

"What was that about?" Zenaria asked. "Toloria is no more our leader than you are."

"I know," Tren answered. "Eventually they will sort that out and do what I suggested. Like most Erogenians they like to think that they are in charge."

Events proved him right. Within a remarkably short time the warriors had elected Toloria as their temporary leader. Since most of the ex-captives were from the same tribe as she was that was acceptable to most of them. The reminder decided to tolerate her until they were across the river and left the main party to return to their own tribes.

As it turned out, the Erogenian warriors followed Tren's advice almost exactly, resting for two days and fashioning suitable footwear for the return trek. There were not enough horses for all of them and there was some arguing about that until Tren suggested they share out the horses by taking it in turns riding them. After some discussion his suggestion was followed and the group of warriors set out in the direction they had come, taking most of the slavers' goods with them.

All except Zenaria. As Tren watched the Erogenians move off she made no move to join them an action that caused Tren to raise one eyebrow. He said nothing, but she explained anyway.

"They are not of my tribe. I am not yet finished my quest. I will stay with you."

Tren regarded her impassively, but his words were not at all inviting. "I hunt alone. I desire no company."

Zenaria drew herself up to her full height. "I am a princess of the Snow Leopard tribe. I go where I wish. If my course takes me in the same direction as you then you cannot stop me."

"Suit yourself, princess," Tren replied. "But I go on horseback. If you can keep up with a horse then you may come with me."

With that the mysterious, dark-robed warrior, leaped into his saddle and without waiting for a reply spurred his mount into a gallop. Within a minute he was little more than a dot in the sea of grass.

Zenaria watched him go, her face calm. Then with a slight smile on her face she broke into a jog, her long legs carrying her swiftly after the departing warrior. She knew little about horses, but doubted that they could be galloped all day. She on the other hand, was quite capable of maintaining her ground-devouring pace for hours.

Tren's trail was easy to follow. Even when a slight rise in the ground obscured her view of him she had no trouble following his track. The two day rest had restored her strength and stamina and the flat ground made running easy. An hour after Tren had ridden off she caught sight on him again. She smiled again. Let him see if he could escape her.

She was no longer dressed in the traditional deerskin of a Snow Leopard warrior. That costume was long gone. But she had salvaged Ven Raban's boots and modified them enough to fit her and had also taken his robe and weapons' harness.

She felt no guilt about robbing a dead man. After all she had killed him and in her mind the victor had a right to the spoils. From his robe and other garments she had fashioned a cloak to protect her against rain and cold and had also cut a short skirt and halter. In typical Erogenian fashion she saw no need to cover her tanned body unnecessarily. In her mind clothing simply hampered her movements and she was somewhat bemused at the amount of clothing Tren wore. To her it seemed that he would be most hot and uncomfortable and she had difficulty understanding why he would hide so much of his body. Nevertheless, she was determined to follow him. Something in her told him that he was now part of her spirit quest and she was not about to let him get away.

She caught up with him just after noon. He was squatting on the ground beside his horse and chewing on a piece of dried meat. Without comment he tore off a chunk and tossed it in her direction as she came jogging up.

Zenaria caught the offering and sitting cross-legged on the ground proceeded to rip apart the tough meat with her strong white teeth.

"So," Tren commented as he offered her another chunk of meat, "it seems that you can keep up with me. Alright, you may come with me, but if you falter I will not wait for you. And you should be warned; where I go there is great danger."

"And where do you go?" Zenaria asked.

"There," Tren answered, gesturing toward a point on the distant horizon.

Zenaria squinted, but could make out nothing. "And what is there?"

"The Sandakar have something I want. I intend to get it back."

That was all the explanation Zenaria got and she did not ask for more. Completing his simple meal, and taking a swig of water from his waterskin, Tren counted his horse and set off at a walk, Zenaria following.

They journeyed until dusk, when Tren finally stopped and set up his simple camp. During the entire afternoon neither he nor Zenaria had spoken a word, and although she was burning to know more about him she kept her silence.

Surprisingly, it was Tren who was the first to speak. Upon completing a meal of the same spicy food she had been served by the slavers he turned toward her. "You spoke of a quest. What is it?"

Zenaria explained, recounting some of her adventures, but not all. She could see no reason why she should tell Tren of the humiliation she had suffered at the hands of Garrod and the trolls, instead simply stating that she had been captured by the slavers and leaving it at that. She could tell that Tren knew she was holding something back, but he made no comment, and now it was her turn to ask a question.

"And what did the Sandakar take from you that you pursue them?"

Tren hesitated and then with look that spoke of intense hatred answered. "My sister."

Tren's answer ended the conversation. Without another word he rolled himself into his sleeping blanket and turned away. Zenaria sat for a few seconds digesting his words and then followed suit.

The next day they breakfasted and continued in the direction they had been traveling. As Zenaria trotted alongside Tren spoke to her. "I know that Erogenians think nothing of baring their bodies beyond the point of decency, but you might find it wiser if you covered yourself. The place where I am going is not kind to those who are not properly attired."

Zenaria bristled at Tren's comment. "It is you who are strangely dressed. Like the Sandakar you smother yourself in unnecessary coverings. It allows for no freedom of movement and is a disadvantage in battle."

"Suit yourself, princess. But before long you will see that I am right and you are wrong." With a light flick of the rein he urged his horse ahead, indicating that the conversation was at an end. Zenaria did not attempt to catch up but maintained her pace several yards behind. She was somewhat annoyed at his criticism. She would see who was right. Sooner or later the summer heat would force Tren to remove his unsuitable clothing.

For the next hour or so they journeyed in silence. The sea of grass seemed endless, but as Zenaria discovered, it was not empty.

Tren spotted them first. His position on horseback gave him a height advantage and he could see farther. "Ready yourself," he said, taking his short curved bow from his saddle and stringing it.

Zenaria readied her own bow and then caught sight of what Tren had already seen.

At first she could not quite make them out and then the images outlined against the sky resolved themselves into a flock of birds. But they were like no birds Zenaria had ever seen.

First of all, they stood almost twice her height and were clearly flightless. That was just as well. They would have been formidable indeed if they had been able to get their bulk off the ground. Powerful legs propelled them across the ground at a speed greater than that of any horse. Above a large golden-feathered body a long sinuous neck supported a head filled with razor teeth.

"What are they?" Zenaria murmured, her eyes taking in every deadly detail of the approaching predators. She now saw that in addition to the strange toothed beak a wicked hooked claw protruded from the back of each of their ankles.

"They are called moaan," Tren answered and they will come at us from two directions. Although birds, they are not without intelligence and are deadly hunters."

That last point did not have to be explained to Zenaria. Even the trolls seemed tame compared to the huge avians. There were six of them and as Tren had foretold they spread out into a long thin line as they approached and then split into two groups.

"Take the right," Tren ordered, "and be prepared to use that sword."

Zenaria growled under her breath at Tren's tone of voice. How dare he order her around? However, this seemed like a poor time to argue the point. She nocked an arrow to her bowstring and drew it slowly back.

The three moaan on the right had now swung around them in a wide arc as had the three on Tren's side. The birds emitted high-pitched shrieks as they moved, perhaps intended to frighten their prey or perhaps some sort of communication. Whatever it was the attack seemed coordinated, indicating a disturbing level of intelligence.

Zenaria waited patiently for the moaan to move within range. Her powerful bow could launch an arrow a good three hundreds yards, but the moaan were moving too quickly for her to be sure of hitting one at such a distance. Years of hunting in the forests of the snow leopard had ingrained in her the ability to wait until the precise moment her target presented itself before releasing her arrow. That moment came when the moaan stopped their flanking movement and came directly at her.

Zenaria released her arrow. With a twang and a thunk the yard long shaft left the bowstring and buried itself to the flights in chest of the charging moaan. The charging predator staggered, letting out a horrendous shriek as the arrow found its mark. Its forward momentum kept it moving for another two strides and then it somersaulted forward, flipping head over heels. But Zenaria was already releasing her second arrow. This one also hit its target, but not where she had hoped. The charging moaan ducked forward, its neck outstretched as it bounded across the space separating it from its intended prey. Instead of striking the predator's chest the arrow entered its gaping mouth, piercing its skull and jutting a foot out the other side of its head.

Unfortunately, the arrow failed to find the moaan's tiny brain and it hardly faltered in its stride. The beast and the third moaan were now too close to trust the bow and Zenaria let it drop, pulling her sword from its sheath. The moaan bounded toward her, covering the remaining distance in huge twenty foot leaps and then just before reaching Zenaria it jumped high in the air its murderous hooked claw extended.

If it had struck her Zenaria would have been ripped open from crotch to breast, but Zenaria was not there. She leaped to one side at the same time swinging her blade in a wide arc that lopped the moaan's head off. The bird was dead, but its momentum carried it into Tren's horse. The animal, which had remained steadfast until now, bolted just as Tren prepared to release his last arrow.

Busy with her own encounter Zenaria had not noticed how Tren was faring. In a flash she saw that he had dispatched two of the three moaan attacking him, but the third now slammed into him at full speed. The impact knocked him from the saddle, but fortunately he was not the predator's target. Instead the moaan's wicked claw disembowelled his terrified horse.

All of this Zenaria saw in the split second her attention allowed. However, there was the third moaan to deal with. It came in right behind the one she had beheaded, however, it was forced to swerve around the body of the bird Zenaria had just killed. The momentary delay allowed her to duck under the deadly claws. She whirled as the moaan passed over her, every once of her strength in the swing, and lopped off the bird's right foot.

The moaan shrieked, its cry almost deafening at such close quarters. It attempted to turn, but put its weight on its bloody stump and toppled sideways. Neck outstretched, it tried to sink its teeth into Zenaria, presenting her with an inviting target. A second later its head joined that of the other moaan.

Zenaria turned her attention to Tren. Somehow he had managed to leap clear of his horse as it fell, and retaining his hold on his compact bow loosed two more arrows into the last moaan. The creature slumped to the ground and lay still. Pumped full of adrenaline, Zenaria remained in a fighting stance, her legs spread wide and her chest heaving in excitement. As the last moaan fell she shouted her tribe's battle cry.

Tren whirled on her in amazement. No doubt to him her shout had sounded like the death cry of some animal. He shook his head in an expression of irritation and lowered his bow.

"I celebrate my victory," Zenaria explained. "It is our custom."

Tren frowned. "It is a rather noisy custom." He turned to his horse his face expressionless, but a look of sorrow in his eyes.

"Now we both walk," he muttered. "It will slow us down."

"It will slow you down," Zenaria replied.

"Since you have chosen to accompany me, my speed is your speed," Tren said, flatly. He pulled his saddlebags off the dead horse and began to sort through them, creating two piles. "Without the horse we will have to travel lighter until I can find another."

Zenaria watched and then without asking stuffed a few of the food items into her pack. Tren nodded his approval and then packed away those items he had chosen and tossed one of the saddlebags over his shoulder.

Zenaria wandered over to one of the dead moaan. Deftly she plucked several of the two - foot long gol