The Pagan's Prize (4 page)

"To hell with your sentiments! The great Prince
Mstislav's soldiers showed no mercy when wielding their knives, accursed
butchers! They did the same thing to my sons before both were slain as supposed
spies, hacking out their tongues, chopping off their fingers, noses, ears. . ."
Falling silent for a moment, Gleb's roughened voice was bitter when he added, "That
eunuch's mistress paid me well to carry out her orders, and I'll not invite her
wrath. Call me when the girl wakes. I'd cut out her tongue now but she'd choke
on her own blood."

Horrified, Zora feared her pounding heart would give
her away. Holy Mother Mary, please tell her that this was a terrible dream!

Yet Phineas's urgently whispered words came back to her
with bone-chilling clarity—
"Grab
her and be gone!"
She knew the nightmare was real. Hermione had
finally engineered the cruelest offense of all, staging a reconciliation while
treachery seethed in her breast.

Zora banished her sister's hateful image from her mind
as the two men, engrossed in a discussion, moved away from her toward the
entrance. She half opened her eyes to take a peek at them.

The older one, Gleb, wore a purple silk caftan over his
gaunt frame, a stark contrast to the stout guard's coarse woolen shirt and
trousers. A close-cropped graying beard covered Gleb's jaw. He looked shrewd,
his features angular and pinched, and she stifled her irrational impulse to
jump up and tell him that she was no mere concubine but Prince Mstislav's
daughter.

If this slaver's sons had been killed by her father's
men, any such revelation would place her in greater danger. Who knew what Gleb
would do to her then? Maybe kill her on the spot!

Zora shut her eyes as Gleb left the tent and his stocky
subordinate retook his seat. It seemed her traitorous sister had chosen her
abductors with care. Her only hope lay in escape.

Interminable moments passed while Zora lay upon the
furs, her body tense beneath the blanket. She heard the bench creak each time
her captor shifted his weight, but she didn't dare look at him, certain that he
was watching her. She couldn't have been more astonished when a short while
later, a loud, gargling snore burst from his throat. After a third such noise,
she dared to raise her head. He was stretched out upon the bench, sleeping
again!

Seizing her chance, Zora pushed back the blanket and
rose shakily to her feet, fighting the lingering dizziness. For the first time
she noticed that her silken clothes had been exchanged for a plain linen tunic
and she was barefoot, her slippers gone. Why, those bastards must have seen her
naked! And her a princess!

Refusing to dwell upon the indignity, Zora swallowed
hard as she took a few cautious steps to test her wobbly legs. When she felt
certain that she wouldn't collapse, she edged stealthily across the tent, all
the while keeping a cautious eye upon her prone captor.

She almost jumped through her skin when he snorted and
smacked his lips, but he did not waken. Carefully she lifted the flap, peering
outside, and was dismayed to see that the camp was abustle with activity,
traders haggling everywhere over various goods while groups of silent slaves,
mostly women, were being led here and there. She also heard muffled male
laughter emanating from several tents and occasionally high-pitched squeals
that were decidedly female.

But there was one clear advantage. Although the tent
was pitched near some larger ones, it was also close to the trees. If she could
reach the forest, she could hide near the river and wait for the caravan to
pass. The merchant had said there was only a day's lead between any search
party and the trading camp. But if she couldn't escape through the front
entrance, fearing that she might be seen . . .

Zora's gaze fell upon the knife protruding from the man's
leather belt. Dare she?

Another resounding snore startled her, spurring her
into action. With shaking fingers, she crouched beside him and eased the weapon
from its sheath, then moved quickly to the rear tent wall. Fortunately the
razor-sharp blade slashed through the canvas as silently and smoothly as if the
fabric were butter, and falling to her knees, she slipped through the narrow
opening.

Her heart beating in her throat, Zora lifted her tunic
above her knees and fled, looking neither to the left nor right but dashing
straight for the tree line. She was nearly there when her left heel glanced off
a jagged rock and, grimacing in pain, she had to hobble the rest of the way.
She was almost crying with relief when she safely reached the dense woods. She
leaned upon a trunk and paused for a brief instant to catch her breath and
inspect her foot.

"By the blood of Odin, where are you flying to, my
pretty bird?"

Gasping in fright, Zora glanced up to find a huge
Varangian trader fastening his breeches as he stepped from behind a tree. Her
heart sinking, she realized she had been so preoccupied with her injury that
she hadn't noticed the man relieving himself against a gnarled trunk only a few
feet away.

"Stay away from me!" she cried when he took a
step toward her. Brandishing the knife she still held, she glanced beyond him
to the darkening forest and freedom, then met his leering gaze. In the fading
light filtering through the leaves, his eyes appeared a pale, chilling blue,
and the deep scar bisecting his sparsely bearded cheek only heightened his air
of menace. His hair was white-blond and coarse, and he was dressed in fur skins
like a barbarian.

"Have you flown from your master's nest?"
Ignoring her poised weapon, he advanced another step. His gaze roamed over her,
lingering uncomfortably on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. "I don't
remember seeing you among the other women. If I had, I swear I would have
sampled you first."

Craning her neck, Zora felt as if she faced a giant.
She had seen these massive Norsemen before in Tmutorokan's marketplaces, and
her father himself was a tall man, descended from fierce Swedish warriors who
had settled in Rus two centuries ago. But now she was alone with the large
Varangian, with only a knife to protect her.

"Stand back," she warned shakily. "I am
Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus and taken captive against my will—"

"And I'm the king of Denmark," he mocked her,
drawing closer. "Sheathe your talons, pretty bird, and come back to the
camp with Halfdan Snakeeye." His arm, strangely tattooed with serpents
devouring each other, suddenly shot out as he lunged for her.

"No!" she screamed, swiping at him with the
knife. As the blade sliced into his flesh, his harsh laughter filled the woods.
He easily knocked the knife from her hand, and catching a fistful of tangled
hair, he yanked her hard against his massive chest. Crying out from the
stinging pain, Zora thought her scalp would be ripped from her skull.

"I said come to Halfdan. I want to find your
master and strike a deal."

Zora fought him with all her strength as he lifted her
in his arms, but he only laughed harder, enjoying her struggles. Nor did it
seem to make any difference to him that blood trickled from his wound. When
they stepped from the trees, a curious crowd began to gather and Halfdan smiled
broadly, enjoying the attention.

"Look what I found while I was pissing in the
woods! A golden bird, a daughter of Freyja, goddess of desire and beauty! From
whose nest has she escaped? I wish to speak with that man!"

Zora twisted wildly in his grasp, but the giant's
muscled arms were like bands of steel and thick as small tree trunks. Torn by
cold fear and outrage, she demanded, "Let go of me, you vile, disgusting—"
A beefy hand clapped over her mouth abruptly silenced her, and she was jerked
even harder against his chest, pinned so tightly she couldn't move. Her stomach
roiled from the Varangian's acrid stench of sweat and filth.

"Who owns this woman?" Halfdan bellowed, now
almost to the center of camp.

"I do! Release her at once!" came an
indignant reply. Gleb rushed forward with his stout guard. "She is not for
sale!"

"Not for sale?" the Varangian trader echoed
incredulously.

"I'm saving her for a better market . . .
Constantinople," added Gleb, his gravelly voice raised in anger. He halted
right in front of the Norseman, who loomed over him, then he shot a dark glance
at his wide-eyed companion. "My man here was watching her, but she managed
to escape. Release her, I tell you—"

"My silver grivna are as good as any Greek's!"
With one swift movement Halfdan yanked a gleaming broadaxe from his belt and
lifted Gleb's pointed chin with the well-honed blade. "Will you stop me
from sampling her now, little man? Maybe she will displease me and then you can
have her back! If not, I will buy her. Those are the rules of the trade!"

Answered by stunned silence, Halfdan snorted in triumph
and shoved the ashen-faced Gleb aside, then strode to a nearby tent. As he
stormed inside the stuffy lamplit interior, Zora was assailed at once by the
overpowering smell of sex, cloying and primal. She gaped in horror at the sight
before her.

Everywhere she looked naked slave women were being bedded
by potential buyers, upon the floor, on crude benches, against the tent walls,
a wild, sweaty tangle of rutting bodies. But she heard no cries of protest,
some women laughing throatily, some moaning in pleasure, others mutely bearing
what must be a slave's lot . . . dear God, and this barbarian thought she was a
slave!

Suddenly realizing the Varangian's lustful intentions,
Zora sank her teeth into his callused palm and his hand fell from her mouth. "No!
You can't do this!" she shouted hoarsely, her throat constricted with
fear.

"Silence, woman!" Halfdan threw her down upon
the nearest vacant bench and held her there, despite her wild flailing, with
one massive hand pressed between her breasts. Wrenching at his breeches, he
released his huge, swollen member and Zora froze, her eyes widening in
terrified disbelief. "Frey the Fruitful has blessed me well with the means
to please you," he said, coarsely fondling himself. "Now spread your
plumage and enjoy the god's bounty." With a harsh laugh, he ripped her
tunic from collar to hem, exposing her trembling body to his gaze.

"Stop . . . no, oh, no!" Zora cried as he
straddled the bench and lowered his bulk down upon her. In wild desperation she
brought her knee up sharply, catching him in the groin. As the Varangian
doubled over, sucking in his breath and cursing, she wrenched herself from
beneath him and fell hard to the dirt floor. An instant later she was
scrambling on hands and knees toward the entrance. As she clambered to her feet
and dashed outside, Halfdan's bellows of rage resounded from the tent.

"Help me!" she screamed, seized by hysteria.
She took refuge behind several traders only to have them dart away in fear as
the Norseman burst through the tent flaps, brandishing his broadaxe. Spying
Gleb, she ran to him but he, too, backed away, the sight of three hundred
pounds of enraged Varangian stifling any protest he might have offered.

Clutching her torn tunic against her body, Zora spun in
terror. Halfdan looked like a vengeful behemoth as he slowed his mad dash to a
relentless stalking, his pale eyes gleaming almost silver in the torchlight
illuminating the camp.

"You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have
you . . . here, now, in the dirt in front of everyone. And when I make you
scream with pleasure, you will wish you had surrendered sooner to Halfdan
Snakeeye."

"Mother of Christ, protect me!" she begged in
a daze, shock enveloping her like cold, creeping fingers. Stumbling backward,
she turned and fled toward another tent, her eyes nearly blinded by tears. She
didn't see the tall, broad-shouldered man stepping outside until it was too
late and she ran headlong into him, jolting the breath from her body. She would
have fallen if he hadn't caught her, his grip strong and sure.

"Help me! Please help me!" she pleaded almost
incoherently, swiping her hair from her eyes. "A reward . . . I promise
you a reward! You must help . . ." Her entreaty died in her throat as she
stared up into the bearded face of another Varangian trader, a gaze of intense
blue meeting hers. "Oh, God . . . no!"

Pushing away from him in horror, she staggered back the
other way, everything around her becoming a swirling blur. As Halfdan bore down
upon her, his triumphant laughter ringing in her ears, she heard her own voice
as if from inside a deep well, crying, "You can't do this to me! I am—"

"Silence, bitch!" Halfdan's sudden openhanded
blow to her cheek sent her reeling into a pile of stacked goods, jagged flashes
of light bursting before her eyes. Without a whimper, she crumpled amid
overturned casks and crates, escaping into sweet blackness.

Chapter 3

"So what will it be, man? Do you want the wench or
not? I've two other traders waiting to try her if you're not in the mind to
buy."

Rurik did not waste a glance upon the fat Bulgarian
merchant or the nude slave being thrust toward him, a voluptuous, almond-eyed
beauty who had eagerly opened her legs for his pleasure moments before the
commotion that had drawn him outside the tent. His gaze was riveted upon the
young woman lying on the ground like a limp cloth doll only twenty feet away,
and the Varangian trader who stood above her.

"Didn't you hear me, friend? Time is money and you're
wasting mine. Now what's your answer?"

Again ignoring the merchant, Rurik tensed as the huge
Norseman bent down and grabbed one of the woman's delicate ankles, clearly
intent upon dragging his quarry from the debris scattered around her.

He had witnessed many abuses at trading camps, but never
anything that had so turned his stomach as seeing that fur-clad oaf striking
down a woman who appeared almost a child to his massive bulk. A woman with the
most incredible blue-green eyes Rurik had ever seen, and a face and form
rivaling Freyja herself. A woman who had begged for his help, mumbling
frantically of a reward, only to recoil from him in terror. A woman whose
refined accent marked her as no common, illiterate slave. Yet he knew the
wisest thing for his guise and secretive mission was not to become involved,
however strong the temptation, and by Odin, he already had enough women at
home.