The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

            She lay motionless, eyes downcast, her sheaf of just cut wheat stalks scattered about, afraid that any move, any words, would only stoke the fires of his rage. Every day the members of the clan seemed to be getting crueler and more impatient with her. She was a bright golden reminder of their tragic loss and fired by lust, Raf was the worst of the lot.

            Shaking in suppressed anger, he turned and stomped off. She noticed tiny smiles flitter across the faces of several nearby slaves before they returned to work. The small baby boy she had stopped to help stared off after his kinsman. He was too young to understand.

            Crawling away from the child before another Jordani arrived to renew her abuse, she disappeared between the fluttering tent flaps. Since becoming a slave, she had learned a valuable lesson: When in doubt, run and hide.

            She could hear the laughter of the slaves behind her while they prepared the evening meal. There weren't as many slaves now. Almost all of the slaves of child bearing years were married off to warriors. Only Danica and the old women would never marry out of slavery. The Jordani didn't keep male slaves.

            "You!" Yuma's voice snapped like a whip. "Where have you been hiding?"

            "I haven't been hiding, Mother Yuma," she said. She could feel the tears welling up. "I was just returning from gathering wild wheat, when I stopped to help — "

            "I don't care about that," she snapped, eyeing her narrowly. Danica knew Yuma loathed her, even more than the others. All the men of her tent had died that night, even her four cherished grandsons were dead. "Get that little golden butt of yours over to help water the mounts."

           
Hauling water, again? Gods.

            "Yes, Mother Yuma," she said, hurrying away as fast as she could, deftly avoiding the taut ropes and tent pegs.

            Running over to the picket line, and the Jordani in the unpainted lamellar and leather armor, she fell to her knees and kept her eyes downcast until he acknowledged her. She heard his growl of anger upon seeing her. Just seeing her near a horse sent half the warriors into glowering bouts. Before Danica's arrival, they never guarded the saddled horses during the day. She had forced one more unpleasant chore on the already dangerously overworked warriors.

            "Speak."

            "Mother Yuma sent me to help water the horses, master," she said.

            "Then have at it," he said.

            Danica snatched up the pole and buckets and ran. She had a long way to go. They were camped beside a shallow, fast flowing stone-bottomed river, but the herds were now south of camp and muddying the water terribly. Usually when they made camp, the herd grazed counterclockwise around the camp from the east to the south. This way their drinking water wasn't fouled until the end since it all flowed north from the distant mountains to the south. The clan would be moving tomorrow.

            Skirting the herds, she kept a close eye on the herders on horseback. They liked to have a little sport at times. She frequently was chased around by the whip wielding boys and girls. Sometimes even the dogs got involved.

            "Great," she said, coming up to a small crystal clear pool. It was in a bend of the river with a sandy bottom that didn't cut at her feet, and, even more important, surrounding willows protected her from the watchful eyes of the Jordani.

            Glancing around to ensure no one was in sight, she slipped through the willows and filled both buckets. Then she slipped out of her loincloth and eased into the warm water. Twisting her hair into a tight knot atop her head and holding it so it wouldn't get wet, she lowered herself up to the neck. She quickly rubbed herself down with her free hand to try and get most of the day's dust and sweat off.

            "A gift of the Gods," she said and sighed.

            Closing her eyes, she relaxed and let the slow moving, sun-heated water wash away the tension. She loved these baths. This would be her last run for water, and the western sun would be down soon. After that, the clan would gather to eat and talk. She would serve them.

            "I really better go," she said. "The Gods know I don't need any more trouble."

            It had been two months since her capture. Her rare evening baths were the only pleasure she had been able to find. At first she had used them to soothe the welts inflicted by the vindictive nomads, but now she just enjoyed the soothing effects of the water on her skin. It was just the thing to end a hard, hot day of grueling labor.

            But she had to go. The horses needed water, and her masters needed to be served their evening meal.

            But, Gods, the water felt good.

            "Slave!"

            Danica screamed in shock and jumped to her feet. Slipping, she fell face first back into the water. Sputtering, she stood up and looked up into the merciless eyes of two young warriors standing at the edge of the pool. Both wore the black-lacquered, golden-laced lamellar armor. Each bore scars, both physically and mentally, of that Bloodmoon night two months back.

            "I...I mean...I didn't...," she stuttered, eyes wild.

            Pointing at the water buckets, "You think frolicking in this pool is more important than hauling our water?"

            "No, master." She struggled for an answer, an excuse. "I just thought...I'd be more...presentable...tonight, while serving you all."

            "Presentable?"

            "To wash the day's stench from my body," she said. "I did not wish to offend anyone by my odor."

            "You offend by your presence," he growled, stepping into the water. "But if you want a bath, then, by the Four Winds, I'll give you one!"

            She turned to run, but he caught her around the waist. He picked her up and slammed her back into the water. She struggled to resurface, but he held her under while he rubbed her body down with the sandy soil. The other warrior quickly joined him in the game.

            She was finally allowed to surface, sputtering and gasping for breath. Both nomads were still eagerly rubbing her body down.

            "I didn't know bathing could be so much fun," the warrior said. His friend was holding Danica's arms back while he rudely "washed" her. "You think our little filly is enjoying it?"

            "By her groans, I'd have to say yes," he laughed.

            Pleasure was the last thing she was feeling, but she had enough sense not to tell them. She doubted even a real woman could find their crude activities pleasurable, under any circumstances.

            Stopping to admire her a moment, "By the Gods, she's a beauty." His hands began a slower, gentler exploration. A quick glance up into his face revealed eyes no longer angry, but filled with an emotion more frightening. She went cold when his hand reached up and swept her long wet tresses back to reveal her Elven ears. "If she weren't cursed, I'd take her into my tent and get a score of pointy eared sons off her in no time."

            The other warrior spoke then, a graveness to his words, "I hear all Elves are magical, maybe even cursed. Mother Yuma said they were the paladins of the Old Ones against the Arisen Gods."

            With great relief Danica watched the lust in the warrior's eyes fade, to be replaced by a look of wary distaste.

            "Thank you, master, for the bath," Danica said in a tiny non-threatening voice. "But Mother Yuma is expecting me. Please?"

           
Gods, the things I have to endure — to say.

            He stepped back, and the warrior holding her pushed her away. "Go. But Mother Yuma will be told of you dallying here and tainting our drinking water with your filth."

           
Great, another beating.

            Eyes downcast, "Yes, master."

            The warriors strode off cheered by her cowed demeanor, laughing and joking about her reactions during the "bath." She wanted to scream. The bastards would probably end up stopping her evening baths. The only pleasure she had left. Not to mention getting her punished when Yuma learned of it.

            "Nobody ever gets hurt but me," she grumbled, slipping back into her scrap of leather.

            Sliding the buckets' long ropes into the notches at the ends of the pole, she hefted it onto her shoulders and started back. A deep sense of dread had settled over her. The Jordani seemed intent on seeing to it she was deprived of even the smallest of pleasures. As she stumbled toward camp, her mood grew darker.

            "Bastards. None of them ever gives me a break."

            She reviewed all the pain and humiliations dumped on her over the last two months. At first, the children were the perpetrators. Now, both the warriors and women were going out of their way to make her life miserable.

            She was gasping for air by the time she reached the horses. The trough was long and shallow. It was made of tin, supported by a framework of wood. Her two large buckets topped it off. Then she hurried over to the line of small cook fires to help.

            Slaves were turning large pieces of antelope on spits above slow burning fires of dried dung, while others stewed wild vegetables and cooked the round, flat bread of the steppes. The thin bread was made of wild wheat or maize, and cooked in shallow bronze pans sitting atop the cook fires. The Jordani would roll the stewed vegetables up in the bread to eat, after they ate their meat first. In other tribes and clans, the meat and vegetables were frequently rolled up together in the soft, chewy flat bread to eat. It was rare for the slaves to be permitted to eat anything other than the leftover bread, using it to wipe the pots clean before washing them.

            The clan was already beginning to gather about the ruddy light of the slow burning central fire. In the short but severe steppe winters the clan would erect a central tent for this nightly gathering, heating it with braziers of burning dung. Just considering the odor that would create, Danica was glad it was summer.

            The Jordani laughed and joked as they found their accustomed places around the fire. Families tended to sit together, usually surrounding the man and first wife of the tent. The only Jordani to sit apart from their immediate family were the members of the clan council, the Clan Elders. They always sat to the north of the fire.

            "Danica, take this haunch over to the Elders," Massa said.

            Massa was an elderly, gray-haired woman of the Horse Tribe and the leader among the remaining slaves. She had been captured in a raid some twenty-nine years back. Her first years as a slave were as a wet nurse, so she had developed close ties with many of her captors. She was well-liked and respected by both slaves and Jordani alike. Though all the remaining slaves, save Danica, were adorned with colorful beads and feathers, only Massa wore the ultimate prize for a Jordani slave — a dress.

            Of all the slaves, Massa was the only one who treated Danica with anything approaching respect and kindness. Danica had come to see her as a protective mother figure. Though in truth, Massa reminded her more of her own beloved paternal grandmother with her soft round body, blue-gray hair, and weathered face.

            "Yes, Massa," Danica said.

            Balancing the heavy piece of antelope meat on her right shoulder, she carefully negotiated her way through the assembled Jordani. Both sides were careful not to touch the other. She tried to ignore the looks of loathing on their faces and the way laughter and conversation abruptly ended as she neared, only to resume after her passing. She told herself she didn't need their friendship or kindness, and that it was the smoke stinging her eyes.

            Danica took the meat straight to Mother Yuma. She was the most senior member of the Clan Elders, so she got first choice. The Clan Matriarch pretended not to see her.

            "Meat, Mother Yuma?"

            Yuma snorted, then examined the haunch with an experienced eye while avoiding eye contact with Danica, looking for an area of meat cooked to her liking. After she carved off what she wanted, and lay it across her right thigh as was the Jordani way, Danica took the haunch to the next senior Elder, then the next. Though there were many factors determining who was served first, age was the primary factor. She knew exactly what order to approach each. If she messed up the order, she'd be beaten later by one of the younger clanswomen. The pecking order among the Jordani was rigidly adhered to by the slaves, though the Jordani would have denied it even existed at all.

            Last to be served among the Elders was Dett, the youngest. His position of War Chief afforded him little power and influence outside of clan security, battles, and raids. He took the meat that remained from her, bone and all, without a word or glance to acknowledge her. She was grateful.

            "Bring drink, slave," Red Bull ordered.

            "Yes, master." Danica returned to Massa. "Red Bull wants drinks served."

            Massa glanced over at the Elders, annoyed. The others hadn't been served their meat yet. The other slaves were busy setting out the earthenware bowls of cooked vegetables and plates of flat bread among the clan members. Usually the Elders weren't so demanding. Everyone knew they were looking for a reason to beat the golden-haired elfmaid and she would be beaten if their drinks were delayed.

            Glancing at Danica, she sighed. Danica grimaced. Massa was playing with fire by helping Danica. They both knew it.

            "Danica, you serve the menfolk their kumiss," she said. "I'll take care of serving the womenfolk."

            "Thank you, Massa. Thank you so much," Danica said with feeling.

            Taking a large earthenware jug of the fermented milk, she grabbed a basket of earthenware cups and headed towards the Elders. She could see several of the Elders, including Red Bull, glaring at her. Dropping her eyes so as not to incite anything, she went to the most senior male. For reasons never told her, and all but lost to the Jordani themselves, the women never drank kumiss. They drank wine, beer, or ale, but never kumiss. In fact, they weren't even allowed to drink milk after a certain age.