Vashti Valant - Slave of the Goblin

Laya, on the other hand, was mortified. She did not dare openly defy Akraz in front of the wizard again, but she felt herself already blushing when Akraz commanded her to him as he lowered himself onto one knee. He gestured crudely. Face aflame, Laya bent over his knee like a naughty child.

Akraz flipped aside her brief skirt. He adjusted her position, such that her buttocks were forced higher into the air and thus more vulnerable and more exhibited. Then his broad, flat hand slapped down to spank her flesh.

The simple slap stung so much more than she anticipated that Laya jerked in his arms. He gripped her decisively with his other arm, and spanked her again. Her bottom heated and quivered beneath his steady, stinging blows. Against her will, she began to wag her buttocks this way and that in a futile attempt to evade the slaps, but all she succeeded in doing was putting on a lewd display for the roaring crowd. The more she cried and blushed, the more they delighted in her humiliation.

Yet through it all, beneath the shame of the public spectacle, at some deep level, Laya felt safe, because it was Akraz, and no one else, who dominated her. She knew that he would find a way to keep her for his own, away from Zathstragomal’s clutches, away from the crowd of voices that eagerly asked for their own chance to violate her. She would endure this from him, she would endure this for him. Had anyone else tried to do to her what he had commanded, she would have chosen death first. But she had known that if she threw her life away on her pride, she must take Akraz with her too, for he would never let her die undefended.

She did not know how she knew these things. He had never spoken of devotion. Certainly, he had never mentioned love. Perhaps he did not even know what it meant. He had spoken only in the terms he had been raised with, the crude terms of enslavement and servitude and ownership. Perhaps it did not mean quite the same thing as what elves meant by love. Perhaps it was more primal, more carnal, more desperate. All she knew was that she belonged to him, and he knew it too. He would never let another man possess her.

But would that be enough?

She had her answer all too soon.

“You may keep her for now,” Zathstragomal told Akraz. “If you can tell me one last thing.”

“Master?”

“Do you know who it is that you have captured?”

The tiniest of pauses, then, “Yes, Master. She is the elven warrior Nemesis who has been harassing us all this time.”

“Yes!” Zathstragomal leaned forward. “As such she is one of only twelve elves who know the magical passwords to enter the gates of Sylvindell, the secret elven citadel. You will wrest those passwords from her, Akraz.”

“Gladly, Master.”

Laya hung her head in dismay, with no effort to hide the despair she felt. Let Zathstragomal think her nearly broken, let him think Akraz was still his creature, only let it not be true. Let all of this debasing show have been only a performance put on to fool the dark wizard. If so, she could bear it all, as she must.

The fear that haunted her, however, was that Akraz did not care if he had to force the passwords from her, because her people meant nothing to him. In the end, that was the difference between true love and mere possessiveness. A man who treasured her only as a possession would care for her no differently than he would care for a precious vase. He would keep her safe, out of the reach of hostile strangers, refuse to sell or give her away, prevent her from being broken physically. But he would care nothing for her own wants and needs, her sense of honor, or for the people she loved, or worry if he broke her spiritually. Only a man who truly loved her would take on her own cares as his own.

She would know once the two of them were alone together. Laya only hoped she could live with what she discovered.

Several times during the ordeal, Akraz had thought them both on the point of death. He could not believe that he had survived, with Zathstragomal’s good graces no less, and with Laya still his to possess and protect. Yet they had made the grueling many day journey back to Mount Murk without further incident. Laya, as his pleasure slave, was now ensconced in his own cave deep in the goblin warrens beneath Mount Murk.

She had been subdued since her public humiliation. They had not had time or opportunity for conversation during the journey. Not that Akraz would have dared open up to her in any case. He was keenly aware that because of the brand on his palm, Zathstragomal might choose to eavesdrop on his minion’s conversation at any time. No conversation would ever be private or safe. From now on, everything he really felt for her must go unsaid. If Zathstragomal were to suspect what Laya meant to him, all would be lost.

The wizard harbored suspicions, Akraz was sure of it. Now that he was home, and liable to grow lax, now was when Zathstragomal would be keeping the closest tabs on what Akraz did in the “privacy” of his own quarters with Laya. A wrong word would kill them both.

The pity of it was that Akraz did wish he could relax with Laya in his home. His cave had been made comfortable with the loot from many raids. Tapestries and overlapping rugs warmed the stone walls and floor. Pillows embroidered with fanciful animals formed little piles to recline upon around engraved wooden tables. He had a shelf stacked with many fine bottles of wine and ale. Candles and even a chandelier illuminated the otherwise gloomy space. It had taken him many years to accumulate so much wealth, and he could not help feeling pride in it.

She looked like a stolen treasure herself. The deep purple, red and gold cushions formed an exotic backdrop for her pale skin, emerald eyes and leaf-light hair. They dined together on mushroom and mole stew, an expensive delicacy in the caves. Laya stirred her soup more often than she sipped at it.

He decided to risk one revelation. “I have a surprise.”

She glanced up. He transformed his face, from monster to man.

Her jaw dropped. Akraz grinned. When she started to speak, he cupped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t say a word. I can only maintain it for a few hours at a time. I will show this only to you. Do you understand?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded. He dropped his hand.

“What do you think of my home?” he asked Laya, to change the subject.

He thought it compared well with her sleeping arrangements in the grotto, and that pleased him, before he recalled that the grotto had not been her home, only a temporary dwelling. His heart sank. His imagination did not stretch to a vision of the hidden elven forest citadel, Sylvindell. Was it very grand? Much grander than anything he could offer?

“It is less than you are accustomed to having,” Akraz probed. He hoped she would deny it.

“Yes.”

Her simple admission pierced him to the quick.

“But what I miss most,” she added, “Is the sunlight. And the trees. And the fragrance of flowers. And the sound of babbling brooks. But mostly the sunlight.”

“You can never be happy here.”

“No, Akraz.” She tilted her head at him, curiously. “Did you think I could?”

He looked away. He did not know what he thought. He had not been aware of his foolish hopes until she had dashed them.

“Can you be happy here?” she asked softly.

This was a question that brought them too close to forbidden topics.

“My happiness is inconsequential. What matters is the victory of my Master in the war.”

“Why must you talk like that when we are alone?”

“We are never alone.” He held up his branded palm and willed her to understand the significance of it. She frowned at him. He could not tell if she understood his warning or not.

“My Master has given you to me so that I can extract from you the location of your people’s hidden city,” Akraz continued. “If you give me the information I need, he may reward me with you as my permanent slave.”