Slave Girl 3: Prologue (Patreon)

The warlord sits astride a great black battlemare. Atop a rise that looked down into yawning wound in the earth the tips of her horned helm were highest points for a dozen miles in any direction across the windswept steppes. A cool breeze sways the two slender braids of scarlet hair decorated with bone and bead that hung from figure’s temples. The scales of her Lamellar armor glint red in the washed out light that was able to penetrate the endless ceiling of ash gray cloud. In the distance ribbons of black smoke rise from her encampment of elite Amazonian warriors. She was wide at the shoulders, her arms as hard and sculpted as cast bronze, her thighs as thick as a dancer’s waist stretch down past her plated kilt, and each calf above her hardened leather boots a thick knot of muscle. As the mare shifts beneath her, it’s nostrils flaring in protest against the acrid fumes that drifted up from the cleft before them, she moves effortlessly within the saddle as if the mighty steed were an extension of her own legs. Crossed across her broad back is a stout composite bow of horn and a heavy sagaris battle axe. Across face, throat, arms, legs, and every exposed patch of skin whorls of draconic imagery is painted across her flesh. A ghostly sheen of magic glinted through the design of her tattoos for those with keen enough eyes to detect it.

Her steel gray eyes narrow as she stares down into the chasm. Through bared pointed teeth she grumbles. “Fucking witches.”

Stepping forward a slender, effeminate man in simple white robes, his golden hair flowing freely down to his waist, hisses softly. “We need them, Mistress.”

His soft green eyes peer up at the warlord though he dared not actually raise his chin to face her directly. His features were beautiful and boyish though years past the blush of youth. Around his pale, elegant neck a tight collar of silver and ruby glinted. He drops to his knees beside the horse and then to his hands as well. His back straightens and his limbs tighten as he form a flawless Table position. He grunts as the warlord plants her boot into the small of his back. She dismounts, using him as a stool to ease her progress to the ground. She stops a moment to adjust her Amazonian blessing beneath her battle kilt.

Her long stride takes her swiftly to the very edge of the chasm while the slave struggles to his feet. Dusting the red-brown earth from his knees he hurries to take his place, head bowed, just behind her left arm.

“I might just pull their lying Thracian tongues from out of their throats.” She spits. “I’m meant to trust women without the gift now?”

“Listen to them first, Mistress.” The slave whispers, his voice soft and pleading. “Their sight can see what we cannot. They are ours now. Why shouldn’t we use them? As the Romans did against us. As scouts. Not watching over land but through time.”

“I do not doubt their sight. It is their tongues I distrust.”

“Let us at least listen. We can untangle the threads of their words afterward.” Gently he brushes his fingers along the back of his Mistress' strong, calloused hand. “Please, Mistress?”

“Hrm!” She rolls her tense shoulders and nods. Turning back to her onyx mare she closes her eyes and whispers. “Wait.” The horse stills then lowers its head to begin grazing. The warlord opens her eyes then turns back to the cleft. “Come, Lysis. Let us be done with this.”

“Yes, my Mistress.” He bows deeply then hurries to follow.

Together they climb down through broken boulders toward the inky black opening at the bottom. It wasn’t so much a cave as a violent crack in the living stone. Ghastly green fumes singe their nostrils as the delve down and down and down. The way was dark except for faint glowing runes carved along the walls of the natural passage, the worn etchings older than the Olympian gods. Without fear or hesitation the warlord descends into this eerie underworld, her loyal slave close behind her as always.

“What’s this? A dragon has found us, sisters.” Comes a croaking voice as the warlord steps out into a vast underground dome. The sigils they had followed continued out into the space, carved all across the walls and ceiling of the great cavern and glowing through the choking fumes like blurry stars through a wisp of clouds.

“Not just any wyrm.” Says another. “Drakaina! The Dread Drake of the Steppe. Our new lord. What an honor this is.”

“Queen of Chains. Queen of Pains. Queen of Reins.” Rattles a third.

“No rhymes, no riddles.” Drakaina commands. “If you are truly oracles you know why I’ve come.”

“You seeks a crown.” Says the first. “A true crown! And scepter and throne.”

“An Amazonian throne?” Says the second. “An Empress? A despot? A conqueror? Forbidden! For that is the way of men.”

“Stone, crone, throne!” The third exclaims, followed by a raspy cackle. “Eee, he he he!”

“Enough games!” Drakaina’s voice, adapted to shouting commands in the din of battle across a vast plain, booms even in this grand cavernous space. Squinting against the obscuring haze her sharp eyes pick out one…two…three hunched shapes among the natural pillars. “Word has reached my ear of a prophecy. Lies and trickery no doubt, but I will hear it from your own lips. Speak!”

“YES! A prophesy!”

“Four walk as one. Four, four, four, four, five. Four as one running from curse to curse to curse. A vixen, a watcher, a red shadow, a second sister at their heel.”

“A ploughman! His heart torn from his fields. His blade torn from monster and soul. A hero of iron torn from a life of clay. A boy torn from a giant.”

“A farmer’s daughter, a bow to slaughter, by chance they sought her! He he he!”

“The outcast, a gift of green, pulls a heavy heart. A creature of mirth, a creature of appetites, a creature trapped by it’s own chains.”

“The half-born Amazon! HER!” At this cry Lysis, from his shadow, cocks a keen and subtly tapered ear. The hag continues. “Child of fiend and friend. Maiden and mother and matron made one. Walker of sand and city and brothel and glade. Worshiper and worshiped. Conqueror and conquered. Binder and bound. Eyes sealed to the world, only the marrow she sees now. She sees and she sups and she sssslurpssss! She sups and she grows. Power pours like honey across her pointed tongue. Power is but a toy in her hands. A toy, a toy, a toy!”

“A rider of wagons, once sang among flagons, becomes a slayer of dragonsssss. He he he he!”

“Stop laughing, witch!” Drakaina barks. “Which dragons? Where!? Not me!”

“She comes.”

“She comes!”

“He he he! She comessss!”

“By road.”

“By sea.”

“Through tavern and cavern and pattern. Ha ha ha ha!”

“She leaves one empire for her own. To no throne will she kneel. To no crown will she bow. No scepter will surpass her own.”

“She is the one!” The second crone cries. “The horned one. The fanged one. She wears the mark. A mark not born but forged. A scar of the heart.”

“The one that marries, the one that carries, she dances among fairies. AND SLAYS NAUGHTY DRAGONS LIKE YOUUUU!”

“Sister!” The first one gasps…too late.

Faster than an eye could blink Drakaina had pulled the bow from her back and sent a scale fletched arrow into the dark shape of the third voice. The shape shudders. From the crone’s rhyming throat comes a bloody gurgle. A moment later she drops, an unmoving heap on the stone floor. A shrieking wail fills the echoing cavern. A wail of bonded agony from two throats where had once there had been three.

“Mistress!” Lysis hisses as he hurries to his Mistress’ side. “They had more tell!”

“They will speak. One way or the other, they will speak.” The warlord smiles as she hears the weeping laments of the two remaining crones. “Whether they want to or not.”

“But, without three they cannot…”

“Send out a falcon and fetch me my necromancer. And bring shackles for these two. These witches will spill me their secrets or their guts. Both at once if need be.” She commands as she shoulders her bow. “In the meantime, fate favors those who seize her reins.” Her head snaps to look her slave in the eyes. “Find me that half-blood!”

Chapter 1