Vengeance

The hall looked a lot like a ship, perhaps a hundred feet long and forty wide. It was warm, too, like his own cottage… but big enough to hold twenty cottages. Large axe hewn, somewhat rough surfaced tables creaked under the weight of game grilled to perfection. The Vikings hacked chunks of meat off, and headed to their seats along the benches, though many were served by their wenches. The wine freely poured into waiting wooden mugs, and stolen English silver goblets. Bastards.

They sat there in their warm furs, enjoying the heat from the fires that lit up the fireplaces on both ends of the hall… they mocked their Saxon captives, and slammed their cups together singing songs of victory. Viking dogs, a curse on them. A curse on their women, may they be barren.

The smell of cooked meat and vegetables, the sight of bread being tossed on the ground to feed their mongrel dogs, sharpened the hunger and thirst that gnawed at his stomach. Unlike some of the other thralls, or slaves, William refused to look at the feast, nor allowed his features to reflect anything but boredom. They wouldn’t get the satisfaction of telling him no, or forcing him to do something for their amusement in return for a scrap.

His gaze shifted to her. She stared at him with hatred so strong, so pure, he wondered how she’d resisted the temptation to take his head off. ‘Bitch,’ he mouthed the word without saying them aloud. They were only for her.

Ragnor shouted for attention, which was slow in coming, but he was their chief, and he got it sooner rather than later. "Target practice," he howled gleefully, and gestured for one of the slaves to be stood up against the lone bare wall, centered neatly between a luxurious white bearskin hanging on one side, and an exotic patterned tapestry on the other. The wood had been chewed by axe blades over the years, and the skinny boy they dragged to it and shoved to stand upright was so scared that his eyes showed white in a ring around his brown irises.

"You... be still," The big warrior who'd placed him said in broken Saxon. "Be still, not bleed. Yes?"

Fearfully, the slave nodded. And then they started throwing axes at him, whirling in to clank deeply into the wood from all angles with a rhythm that had one axe in the air as another landed.

The barbarians reveled in the boy's panic. William had noticed that the wood was stained... perhaps the boy had noticed that too. One slip, one overly drunk Norseman... and the axe damage the slave, kill him if he was lucky.

Every time the boy flinched or let out a cry, roars of laughter rose like a crescendo. When the iron blade cut off some of the boy’s hair, and grazed his scalp, the boy wetted himself. "Cowards." William was looking straight at the men playing their game.

Laughing uproariously, the men removed the boy as soon as he'd lost control of his bladder, tossing him into the heap of chained slaves with contempt. One pointed challengingly at William, grinning widely. "You think you braver? Come on!"

Even before rough hands reached him, William got to his feet. All the food, and laughter, and laughing faces were a blur. He stopped briefly near the warrior with the big mouth and the even bigger axe. "If you don't kill me today, I will cut your testicles off and feed them to you tomorrow." Sneering, he walked past, stumbling when a booted foot connected with his arse and sent him staggering against the wooden target board.

Bjuffa's green eyes narrowed, and she slammed her silver goblet down to the wooden table. "He's mine," she growled at the men, shoving warriors twice her size out of the way as she stalked toward the target, green eyes burning like fire and boring into her brother's killer. She jerked the axes free, looking up to meet those indifferent blue eyes. "Mine to torture until I decide he's too used up to live another day, and then maybe I'll grant him death, instead of being left for the crows to pick at."

She thought she was so high and mighty, this one. She was nothing but another woman, someone to be shown her place. Snaking his hand out, he cupped her chin, dragged her close and kissed her like she was a whore from the docks, a nobody, someone whose thoughts and feelings mattered not, someone who took what a man meted out. There was no pleasure in the kiss, not for him, and he didn't think she'd get any from the punishing contact.

She was shocked at the temerity of this slave, this nameless piece of trash, trying to kiss her as though he were her master, and Bjuffa trapped his lower lip between her sharp white teeth to bite down with a fierce grind, until she tasted copper and felt him flinching in surprise. "Slave," she said contemptuously as she ended the lesson, and spat his own blood into his face.

And then she planted one of the throwing axes between his legs, the haft brushing up against the crotch of his raggedy breeches, and the blade buried close enough to kiss his balls.

He'd not expected her to turn the tables on him so. She'd almost made good on his threat to her cohort. Though William wished he could claim impassiveness, the press of metal and wood against his flesh... against his very manhood, made it impossible.

The cheers and mocking commentary hit their mark this time, and he felt his color rise. It was not something he was used to. When he met her gaze, and saw his blood on the corner of her mouth, he wiped his face. He should have bitten her ... ended this.

There was more than one way to do so. If she chose to throw her axe at him again, he would help her kill him. The thought brought a small smile to his mouth.

She called out to the rough warriors, laughing though her eyes were still cold as stone. "Have to teach this one his place," she shouted.

"On his knees," one wit supplied.

"Bent over the table," another suggested.

"Between the sheets," Fastvi chimed in. Bjuffa glared at her. "What? He's pretty enough...."

The petite blonde's fingers tightened on the axe, and she was sorely tempted to split the whorish Fastvi's skull with it, but instead, she turned the slave leaning against the target. "Bite this, Saxon bastard," she hissed, and let fly.

He intended to move in front of the axe, but realized at the last moment that the one between his legs pinned him but good. Losing an arm was not his goal, so he held still as the axe landed between his elbow and waist.

He reached down, to pull at the handle of the axe that had him pinned. They might think he was challenging them with it, that too would earn him a proper ending.

"Ah, ah," she scolded, as her second throw went home just where his head had been before he leaned. "No coward's road for you. Get your hands off, or you'll lose fingers. Not your life."

Coward. His eyes narrowed as he tried to fathom her meaning. Did she know? Already, she was aiming. He put his head back, trying to figure out where her axe would land. Likely to his other side.

Even as he was planning how he might be able to move just enough that she couldn't control the damage, it dawned on him she was accusing him of taking the easy way out. Of losing bye basically committing suicide.

"Leave the man his fingers, you never know what he might need them for," Fastvi threw out, her gaze lingering on the Saxon's deceptively muscular chest and narrow waist. The lash wounds would heal. If he lived.

Bjuffa stalked to her and took the wench's low-cut tunic in her fist. "Are you making the mistake of telling me what to do? Because I'm sure the whipping post remembers you fondly. Go scrub your pots, Fastvi."

"Just a bit of advice," Fastvi tried to appear as repentant as she could. "A jest. Like the others." She used her chin to point to the warriors who'd made plenty of ribald suggestions.

William watched the exchange with interest. The dark haired one must have a soft heart. He hadn't understood everything, but it was enough for him to file that bit of information away as a potential weakness to be mined.

"Uh-huh." Bjuffa glared at the brunette, and leaned in a little closer, her voice going low and menacing. "He killed my brother. He is mine until the day he dies, may it be long in coming, and may every day between now and then be filled with misery. And if you interfere in any way, my wrath will also fall on you." As Fastvi's eyes widened, the blonde knew she'd made her point.

Grinning widely, an expression closer to the berserker rictus the men displayed in battle than to a smile, Bjuffa turned back to the slave, more than ready to continue the game. "For Bjorn," she muttered, eyes glaring, and she picked up another small throwing axe, spinning both in her hands at once.

It took everything he had to keep his eyes open and appear impassive, when his natural instinct was to flinch at the loud thudding of iron meeting wood... to let out a sigh of relief, even if he'd escaped what he most wanted. It took even more, to prevent him from trying to lunge at her and choke that triumphant expression off her face.

It took everything he had to keep his eyes open and appear impassive, when his natural instinct was to flinch at the loud thudding of iron meeting wood... to let out a sigh of relief, even if he'd escaped what he most wanted. It took even more, to prevent him from trying to lunge at her and choke that triumphant expression off her face.

"Not bad for a Saxon," Erik admitted, seeing no signs of movement even when the space between the axes and the thrall's legs was miniscule. "But I still pity you, Spike. Bjuffa will have you dancing at her command, in no time."

William's gaze went to the Viking using the nick name they'd given him. Maybe he should answer to it. Wear it like a badge of honor. Aye. Aye, that was what he'd do.

Bjuffa's eyes narrowed, and she turned to the drunken Erik. "Spike?"

*

Fire burned hot. Smoke choked everything in its path. Terrified screams rent the air. Women being raped over barrels, beheaded, abused as their toddlers cried. Men, shopped in half… left to bleed. Homes turned to ash.

William swung his sword, hacked at as many of the barbarians as he could. The fyrd were warriors who had agreed to be called up by the king when necessary to fight the Viking dogs. Well where were they now? Now that his town needed them?

His home… his mother’s cottage… if he could only reach it. Giving a loud battle cry, he killed or maimed everything between himself and his goal, arriving just in time to see history repeat itself. Only, this time, there would be no mongrel Viking child from the seed planted into his mother. This time the Viking plunged his sword into her chest, even before withdrawing his body from hers.

Mad with blood lust and sorrow, William attacked. There were others in the cottage, he hardly registered their presence until someone was able to take his weapons. He screamed with rage, dove to the ground and gripped a new weapon. Even as the Viking rapist slammed his booted foot down into his back, William twisted, shouting out his pain, but working through it. They fought… it lasted a few minutes, and ended with a long metal spike buried deep within the Viking’s skull.

As the Viking fell, William took his weapon, turned and thrust it at the first man that came toward him. It went through both a crying babe that the Viking held up as a shield, and went deep into the man’s chest. The child stopped crying before the man stopped his screams.

William knew that child… he knew his mother. He’d killed little John. No… no… little John shouldn’t be dead, his blood shouldn’t be running down the blade of William’s sword, his death shouldn’t be upon William’s head.

*

The men had hemmed and hawed at Bjuffa’s query regarding the slave’s use-name, and she’d thrown a few more axes, gotten drunk, and dragged him to her own cottage, chaining him to the wall and leaving him to sleep as best as he could on the furs before her fire while she luxuriated in her bed. Sleep had been slow in coming. He was brave, she’d give him that… but he was still the enemy, and she would still torture him until he broke.

Mutterings from the fireplace dragged her from slumber, and she threw a shoe at him irritably, but he didn’t stop the annoying sniveling. “No… I didn’t do it… barbarians… no, no, John… no…”

Furious, she threw herself from the bed, staggering a bit from the drinking, and thumped down atop his whimpering form. She gauged her drunkenness, and then knocked his head against the floor, hard enough to rouse but not damage. "Shut your mouth, fool," she snarled as his sleep-fuddled eyes came open, looking confusedly up into hers, firelight flaring in the green.

The sharp pain brought him around, though he wasn't so sure once he opened his eyes and saw hers. "Murderer." The word broke from him as her eyes became superimposed over the face of the man that had raped and killed his mother. Only a spike was missing from the forehead of this new image. He'd rectify that right fast.

He quickly jerked his body up, but found the chains he'd forgotten kept his arms down and forced his back into an unnatural arch. More pain... self inflicted. He tried to hit her with his forehead and missed. "I'll kill you. Like I killed him, I will kill you," he threatened, his throat raw.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she snarled down at him. "I think you forget who wears the chains, Saxon," she snarled, and punched him. How dare he? How dare he brag of murdering her brother?

Still had a man's punch. His jaw ached, but he saw the glimmering tears... a first sign of weakness from her. He knew she wore a knife at her side, even with her nightshift; she'd been sure he saw it before she went to bed. But would she use it?

“Bastard,” she spat, and pushed herself out of straddling his hips as quickly as she’d landed on him before, wanting only to make him hurt. To carve his guts out. Her hand went to her knife.

The instant she started to get up off him, he moved his legs, scissoring them around her, then twisting to the side so she was now next to him.

They were on their sides, almost face to face because he couldn't turn that far, but he had her pinned tight, and her ear was close enough to his mouth. "He was smiling. When he died, he was smiling. I put a big nail... a spike between his bloody eyes and he thanked me with a smile. You got that? Do you ken?"

"Spike," she snarled, understanding the nickname now, as well as the men's reluctance to explain it. She wanted to vomit at the image his words had conjured, of Bjorn dying so, but such weakness would be lowering in the face of her enemy. Her free hand—
unfortunately knifeless; it was pinned beneath her— clawed at his eyes, fingers stiff and nails sharp.

"Bitch," William moved his head, but not quick enough. "He thanked me for it, yeah? A fitting end to a worthless life?" Why the bloody hell wasn't she using her knife to end his? He pressed down harder, feeling her writhe between his legs. Heat flooded to the same area, and he thought he might as well use it to his advantage. "Maybe you'll wear the same smile when I kill you," he bucked once, so his meaning couldn't be missed, even if his speech was broken.

She used the movement to free her knife-wielding hand, to get the blade into position. "You aren't near man enough," she hissed, drawing the sharp blade through the tattered fabric of his breeches, close enough that the steel kissed his skin. "Not even half the man my brother was." She bared her teeth at him, glad to see blood slowly welling in the scratches on his face. "And you don't get the favor of dying soon."

She wouldn't... would she? He tensed, fearing being unmanned much more than the release of death. But her mocking words about her brother's manhood, and the memory of that very manhood torturing his mother eclipsed all normal thought. "How would you know? Fucked him, did you? All you had is each other, and now your bed's cold."

"You Saxons are vile as dogs in heat," she shouted. "I know you'll fuck each other like the ignorant beasts you are; family means nothing to you, sharing your whorish women around like a tankard of mead, but we are not like that. Nothing matters more than kin!" And oh, to let herself slip just enough... cut him beyond repair. The temptation was too huge. She flung the knife to land quivering in the wooden wall. "A man is more than the measure of what lies between his legs," she hissed, closing her fist around his balls with clear menace.

The shock of her hand squeezing around him caused him to curse under his breath, not because of any pain being inflicted, but he knew the violence was there in her eyes. He ought to be shriveling at the thought of what she might do, but instead his flesh was growing harder. "Aye. Perhaps you should have taught your brother that," he croaked, aching everywhere.

No stranger to having a man in her bed, though it had been a long while since Ovind had been foolish enough to be unfaithful to her, Bjuffa was nevertheless shocked to find the slave's manhood swelling, rather than shriveling under her implied threat. That gave many new possibilities for torture, truth be told... and she would use them every way she could to make his life hell. But when he dared to criticize Bjorn again, her eyes lost their brief look of speculation and grew hot again. "You will not speak of him again," she growled, fingers tightening.

"Oomph," his head went back. It was uncomfortably painful. "That's it luv. Harder."

She smiled, small and mirthless. He might still be hard, but that didn't mean he was enjoying it, necessarily. Men's brains were hardly in their cocks, after all. And emotion had little to do with fucking, which was all slaves knew, rutting like animals. Like Fastvi, who thought like a sneak and a liar even if she was free. Expression unchanged, Bjuffa dug her thumbnail into the Saxon’s scrotum with a vicious pinch.

Searing pain focused like a pin point in the most sensitive part of his body had him biting down on his lip, and cutting open the same wound she'd made with her teeth. Every muscle of his body tighted as he held back any sound of pain, instead squeezing his legs tighter around her. Fucking bitch. "That's good," his voice was ever so ragged, "so good. How about some mouth action? Oh yeah…."

"Good," she purred mockingly, echoing him. "You're not a coward after all. It'll be fun to break you. And trust me, 'Spike,' I will break you and remake you into whatever I please, before I kill you at last for the murder of my brother. But by then… you'll want to live."


"Hope it gives you satisfaction." Bitch. He held the word back this time, but his eyes said it for him.

"More than you could possibly imagine," she hissed, and gave his cock a mocking stroke, skilful and arousing, before shoving free and retrieving her knife from the wall. "Go to sleep. If you can." She grinned at him mirthlessly, stripped off her shift, and returned to her own soft bed, body gleaming like gold in the firelight.

He'd been right, she was a whore. Had just the right touch. Knew what she was doing. When she moved away, he was half disappointed. Not that he would fuck her... not by choice anyway.

Still, the way her hips swayed, the way she spread herself on the bed, the way her hand moved over her thighs... all the tricks of a doxy, but effective

He wouldn't let her get to him; it was just what she wanted. And yet the flesh between his legs was rock hard as he stared at her in the dark. The press of her body against his, the taste of her in his mouth, the way she'd caressed his cock, were all too fresh in his mind.

If it weren't for the bloody chains... he would have showed her what was what. Laid her flat on her back, spread her legs wide... mother of God, as wide as she was splaying them now... and he would have rammed himself inside her.

He could see himself, one hand over her mouth to stop her screams, fucking her, pushing deep inside, making her take the fire she'd set. As the images tumbled in his head, he somehow managed to roll enough to the side that his cock made contact with the fur rug where it had folded back against itself. He openly thrust his hips, fucking it and staring at her, not even bothering to hide his grunts. That's it... he'd fuck her until the whites of her eyes showed every time he impaled her... that's it... yeah... "That's it, bitch... that's it..."

"Animal,” she mocked. "Just like a dog." Her eyes raked him disdainfully, and she put contempt in her eyes for him as a man, as a male. "Rubbing up against anything that'll hold still for you. I'll teach you better than that."

Her words were irrelevant, he didn't even attempt to understand. She was irrelevant. Closing his eyes, he bucked against the rug a few more times, groaning out his release.

When the spasms that held him in their grip diminished, he opened his eyes again and smiled at her. "So your mouth is good for something other than talk."

She was already out of the bed, moving toward him with a predatory walk, a supple wooden switch in her hand from beside the bed. "So is yours," she told him, flint-eyed. “Clean it up," she ordered.

He looked at her feet, and the switch. So this was the price for taking his pleasure. At least he knew she didn't like it. Not having understood her order, he waited for her to strike.

She slashed him across the wiry strength of his shoulder with the switch, nearly cutting the skin with the force of her blow. "Clean up your spew, slave."

He gritted his teeth against the pain. Used a switch like a man, too. He took a few calming breaths, looked at the wet spot on the furs, and back at her. "Untie me." Pulling against the ropes, he made the same demand. How else could he comply?

She laid another lash alongside the first, just an inch apart. "Slaves don't make demands. They follow the orders they're given, in any way they can."

His entire body bowed and strained. Not a single complaint left his mouth. Half lifting himself, he kicked the rug up, wriggling, pushing with his knees until the part he'd made his mark on was next to his face. She meant to humiliate him. Giving her his most brilliant smile, he lowered his head and licked up his seed. Inside, he burned for some way to humiliate her in kind. His name wasn't William the stubborn... now Spike the stubborn... for nothing.

She waited until he was done, satisfaction glowing deep inside. This was it. He was proud. Too proud to take the easy way out in the axe game. Too proud to be ashamed of finding his release in front of her like a rutting animal. Therefore, humiliation would be better than pain. Better by far. Stooping, she jerked the cleaned fur from beneath his contorted body, spilling him to the frigid floor. "Don't take so long next time I give you an order, slave," she smiled coldly, turned on her heel, and tossed the fur out of his reach as she got back into bed.

What? No quick retort? No final act up his sleeve? Tomorrow would be another day. No Viking bitch would best him. Rolling onto his side so less of him would touch the cold ground, he shivered. It was nothing compared to having been exposed to the weather outside, but strangely it was worse because the fire tantalized him with its warmth.


(A/N: So? Watcha think? Anyone interested/reading this? It's sort of "out there" - we know) (If you would like to receive notice of updates on my fics, please join bloodybadpoetfics@yahoo.com)