Serena's Story

Chapter 1: In a Stone Cell

Serena could hear the sounds of the city drifting into her cell through the narrow window high up on the wall above her head. Mingled with the cries of vendors in the not-too distant marketplace were the sounds of horses’ hooves on stone paving, the murmur of numerous conversations too faint to be understood, and the occasional sound of a shout rising above the rest. The stone walls of her cell echoed these sounds faintly as an accompaniment to the clinking of her chains as she moved restlessly within her confinement.

The floor was flat stones, the walls crudely chiseled stones and the ceiling well above her head was old wood, blackened by centuries of torch and candle smoke. Beneath her, the hard surface was cold, not enough to torment but enough to make someone forced to sit thereon uncomfortable, a discomfort that insidiously grew as time crawled on until the cold seemed to be sapping the life out of flesh.

Serena shook her head yet again and held back tears only with an effort. The last day was a nightmare of confusing visions and emotional turmoil for the young lass; a horrid mishmash of cruel soldiers with rough hands and steel pointed weapons along with the cold-blooded murder of her father running to protect her as she was being dragged away from their simple cottage. An image of her mother bending over her father’s bleeding body and wailing in despair continued to haunt her, as did the memories of a harsh ride in a wagon with three other young women from their village. Each was bound hand and foot, crammed into the small wagon with the iron bars for sides, taken away from their homes and driven off into the blood red sunset. All night the wagon bumped along the rutted dirt roads, jarring the women and making sleep impossible. Not that any would sleep. All of them, Serena, Cindra, Moria and Kandra alternated between weeping for their fate and that of those whose effort to prevent their taking resulted in their deaths and, in one case, the hacking off of an arm that held a sickle. Villager farmers were no match for the King’s soldiers, and most were smart enough not to test themselves against trained killers. On that long journey the tears dried up simply because a woman cannot weep indefinitely. Likewise, the talking between them ceased when a pounded sword handle on the side of the wagon ordered them to stay silent.

On into the next day the wagon bumped along rutted roads of the farming lands. The girls were given water three times during the long day, but not fed. When the sun was upon them, they were warm, but as soon as it went down they huddled together as best they could to share body heat.

The next day, the sun was just lightening the sky behind them when the dirt track turned to paving stones and they entered the city of Raharma, the capital of Radura, Land of the Sunrise, and home of its king, Sartra the Butcher. None of them had ever been in the city before. It was a strange sight to see buildings so tall they blocked the sky on each side, and view through the iron bars the city folk standing aside to allow the wagon passage and looking in at them with a mixture of pity, curiosity and carnal interest. They knew these young women were destined for the King’s harem or, worse, a life of slavery to some noble.

They passed within a wide gate, beyond which the idle onlookers dared not pass, and were inside the castle grounds. The leaders of the group dismounted and stretched and called for wine, which was brought to him and his men to quench their thirst after a long night’s march.

Without ceremony, the women were turned over to the jailers. Their feet were untied from the rough hemp rope and they were pulled from the wagon and made to stand in a line on the paving stones before a tall building garnished with colorful banners and the personal flag of the King, a black banner with blood red crossed swords. The morning air chilled them for the sun did not yet touch the courtyard where they stood. They had been taken at the end of a work day and were still dressed for work in the fields, mostly thin summer dresses. During the long night, the only warmth they had was each other’s bodies as they lay together in the wagon.

Around them, men were busy unhitching the two horses from the wagon and taking the mounted riders’ horses away. Save for an occasional glance their way, no one paid a great deal of attention to the four young women standing and shivering there. Serena looked around her, trying to take in all that she could spy in hopes that knowing the place where they were might be an aid to escape – sometime, somehow. Moria, the youngest of them, was softly weeping and looking at the ground. Serena knew that she was the only one of them who was actually a virgin, although, in theory, all of them were. None had been married yet, and custom dictated that they be virgins upon their wedding night. It was a custom given more lip service than strict adherence. It was just that Moria had not found a boy she liked enough to dally in the woods with. Serena knew from talking with her that Moria was simply too scared of the act to take it lightly. Besides, her mother was a stern bitch who would thrash her if she caught her even looking at the boys.

Not so with the others, Kandra being the most active in that respect, having claimed to have had sex with nearly every non-married boy in the village, and a few of the married ones also. Serena believed that her dark-haired, dark-eyed friend, who was as tall as most of the boys and nearly as strong, was probably telling the truth. For her own part, she had tasted of the delights of the body with only two boys: the handsome Torson and the quiet but unexpectedly skillful Tell. Torson was the first, but Tell had lured her into the woods several times, mostly because of his skillful use of a massive phallus granted him by nature. Her couplings with him for much more satisfying than those with Torson.

But at that point, Serena was not thinking of Torson or Tell, but was thinking of the act of a man penetrating a woman because that is what she fully expected to happen soon. The stories of woman kidnapped and taken into the castle were explicit in that such was the main purpose they were put to. “Be good or the Palace Guards will get you,” was an admonition uttered to teenage girls by village parents.

Their village was a distance from the capital city and had been spared from raids for quite some time. The stories also went on to tell that none of the girls so captured ever returned to their villages. It was also said that a family could buy back a captured girl, if they had enough gold and silver. But their village had no such resources. They were poor farmers whose only wealth came in the form of strong young men and good looking young women.