A Warrior’s Right

Editor’s note: this submission contains scenes of non-consensual, dubiously consensual or reluctant sexual situations.

*

Marcyn worked at her tincture, grinding the herbs and salt into a powder and adding wine until it was a thick paste. She rubbed it between her fingers, feeling for any lingering grit and putting it under the weight of her pestle again. Isolde came beside her with a mortar and pestle in her own hands. She began to pluck and place random herbs in her mortar. Her flittering, white hands were shaking.

“They’re coming today,” she whispered. Marcyn stopped grinding and stiffened.

“Already?” she breathed. Isolde nodded, starting to grind up her own concoction.

“Some new men, some old. They’re all about to be sent to the back to the front.” Isolde ground and ground, making her paste of nothing, “I don’t know what they’ll do. There are hardly any Sow girls left.”

Marcyn swallowed. Her hands were sweating, and she could barely grip her pestle. “But…we’re safe, right?”

Isolde took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure we are,” she said, but her voice was shaky as if she were trying to convince herself.

The Priestesses were among the most prized virgins, their purity was believed to fuel their healing and prayer. Only in desperate times would the men have their pick of them. Marcyn lifted her eyes and scanned the room. It was heavy with silence; all the women had their cowls pulled up and their heads down. No one wanted any attention drawn to themselves should the Selectress make it all the way to the upper echelons of the tower.

The door at the back of the tincture room creaked open.

Marcyn did not see the solemn face of the Selectress when she peered over her shoulder, but the harsh and sinking face of an aging man. He carried a heavy cane in his hand though he did not appear to need it for walking, and he thumped it on the ground as he stepped into the center of the round room. Marcyn and the other women looked away as soon as his chilly eyes fell on them. The Selectress followed behind the man, a timid expression on her usually harsh face.

“Turn women,” the man said, his tone low and stony, “Remove your cowls and present your faces.”

They did as he commanded. The Selectress came up beside him. “Please, Ulric,” she said and though her voice was hushed it was the only sound in the silent room. No one even breathed. “They are precious,” the Selectress insisted, “The Sow girls are—”

“Harlots,” he said, “I can’t understand how you even present them as virgins.”

The man began to walk around the room, eyes narrowed on all of them. He stopped before Elain, a red-haired woman and one of the older among them. She backed away until her hips were right against the counter and she bumped the jars of herbs and minerals and rattled the bottles of liquid.

“This one,” he said. She whimpered as he took her by the arm and lead her to the center of the room where the Selectress stood helplessly.

He selected another girl. Where Elain was tall, willowy and fair this girl, Ariana was short, round in the backside and chestnut haired with dark brown skin. She did not cower as Elain did but strode to the Selectress’s side with her chin high.

“No more,” the Selectress said, “Please. We need them here.”

The man pursed his lips and scanned the room. “One more,” he said. The Selectress sighed a sound caught in a net of relief and distress.

Marcyn held her breath as he strode for her. She could not look him in his sinking, gray face and stared timidly, almost petulantly at the floor. Still, she could feel his eyes on her. He reached out, but to her horror grabbed Isolde. She gasped as he wrapped his hand around her arm and pulled her toward him. He examined her close, his face nearly touching her own.

“You,” he said and there was a grin that split his sober face that made Marcyn’s skin crawl, “You’ll do.”

“Selectress please,” Isolde begged, but the woman was helpless.

“Do not winge, girl,” the man said, “You have been selected for a greater purpose.” He pushed her back toward the Selectress who put her arm protectively around her.

“That’s enough, Ulric,” she said. He scanned the rest of them, each one cowering back as far as they could. He narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“For now,” he agreed.

Marcyn looked at Isolde whose face was bright red and already streaked with tears. She wanted to run out to her, take her by the arms and stop the man from leading her away, but she was frozen with fear and shock. She believed herself safe here in the temple, in the high tower where the prized Priestesses were kept. It was to escape the warbands that ravaged the countryside she’d come here in the first place. Her chastity was supposed to protect them and now it was putting them in jeopardy. If the war truly raged on as they were told it was only a matter of time before this man returned.

The Selectress and Ulric lead the three young women out of the tower and the rest of the priestesses went solemnly back to work. It was a tense, heavy silence that pressed around them before it was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing up the winding tower staircase.

“No,” a man’s voice roared, “I won’t wait until the next selection.”

“Watch yourself, Alren,” a male voice echoed. It was the man with the gray, sinking face.

“I’ve nearly died enough times for your god Ulric, I want my prize.”

“You can’t,” the Selectress scolded, her voice making a hard line.

“It is my right,” the man growled, trampling right over that line. The door flung open again. Startled, the Priestesses whirled to see him. He was towering and broad, his shoulders almost too wide for the doorframe with a barrel chest to match. He had dark hair that hung down well past his shoulders and was tied at the nape of his neck with a crude, leather cord. His impressive jaw was dark with stubble surrounding a mouth that twisted into a smirk as he beheld them all staring at him.

The Selectress and the sinking man, Ulric, pushed against each other to enter the room after him. He was already striding around the room. No one dared turn their back on him.

“Remove your cowls,” he said, his tone was deep and commanding. Marcyn felt her heart pounding so loud in her chest she thought it would burst. No one moved. He stopped before Marcyn and leaned menacingly over her. “I said remove your cowls.”

“Do as he says,” the Selectress commanded, her own tone shaken. Marcyn drew down her hood and revealed her face to him. She expected him to keep moving, look around and survey the other woman who’d revealed their face, but he stayed put. He stared at her, took in her lush black hair, fair skin dusted with cool, brown freckles and sweet eyes, just caught between blue and gray. As he stared at her she couldn’t help staring back. Despite his swarthy complexion and dark hair his brown eyes were pale, almost hazel. Her breath caught and she didn’t dare to try and look away.

“This one,” he said, his eyes never leaving her. He put a hand under her chin and though his hands were calloused she was shocked to find the touch so gentle. He lifted her face, holding her chin with the slightest pressure of his forefinger and thumb. “What’s your name?” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Marcyn,” she breathed. He nodded.

“Marcyn,” he repeated, “I am Alren. You will be my bride.”

***

The wedding was a joint ceremony. The women huddled together across from the men. They were all broad with earned muscle, but the similarities ended there. The man Elain had been giving to was old, she must have been his second or third bride. Marcyn didn’t want to think about what happened to the first. He had a yellow, toothy grin that Elain withered under.

Beside him was Ariana’s husband. He was tall, the thinnest among them though still corded with muscle. He had a brutal scar over one of his green eyes, but other than that his expression was surprisingly kind, even timid. He must have been the youngest of the four of them, if only by a hair. Ariana didn’t look pleased by any stretch, but at least she wasn’t turning green like Elain.

It was Isolde’s husband that made Marcyn shiver. He was middle-aged, but it was not impossible she was his first bride. He was beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than Alren, but no amount of comeliness could make up for the cold cruelty in his ice-blue eyes. He was looking at Isolde like she was a meal. Marcyn thought on the gentle way Alren had gripped her chin and for the first time considered herself lucky.

The whole affair was quick and dirty, a few words were spoken by a High Priest, cups of wine were passed between the men and their new wives. They weren’t even permitted new clothing to celebrate the affair and the men carried off their women in the same drab, gray robes they’d found them in.

At the end of it all Isolde and Marcyn had a parting moment. She could see fear brimming in her friend’s eyes and it cracked her heart. Again, she felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of luckiness.

“I will miss you,” Marcyn said because it was all she could think to say. Isolde nodded, taking her hands.

“We’ll see each other again,” she whispered, looking past her at where the men waited expectantly, “After the war.”

The war had been raging since before their birth. Marcyn had no hopes that its life would come to an end before theirs did, but she nodded anyway. After a brief embrace they went their separate ways and Marcyn felt tears pricking at her eyes as she turned back to her husband.

Alren didn’t say anything of her tears, but he watched her intently as she joined him by his massive warhorse. He produced a scrap of fabric from his pocket, holding it out to her awkwardly. She looked at the fabric and then his stony face. His expression had been still since that morning when he came roaring into the Priestesses’ tower. Even during the ceremony his mask of calm hadn’t slipped as they whispered their vows. Marcyn wasn’t sure how to feel about his impassiveness. She still preferred it over a look like Isolde’s husband had given her.

“Is there more?” he asked her. She was startled at his voice. It was as stoic as his face, but deep and rumbling like a storm. She’d been too caught up in all that had happened to take stock of such little details. There was a vague sense of excitement in the back corners of her mind at the prospect of discovering more about him.

“More?” she asked. She tried not to sound as timid as she felt.

“Goodbyes,” he said, glancing around the little courtyard the Selectress and Ulric had set up for their marriage alter. She didn’t even spare everyone else a look. If saying goodbye to everyone would sting as much as saying goodbye to Isolde she didn’t couldn’t do it.

“No,” she said, studying her shoes. He nodded and grabbed her hard by the waist. She gasped, her eyes going wide. She must have looked like a fish gasping on a pier as he lifted her swiftly and sat her atop his horse. Her heart thumped. She wasn’t sure what she’d thought he was going to do, but she gripped the saddle to ground herself. What a wife she was going to make if the barest touch had her so flustered.

The saddle jostled as he climbed up behind her. The mass of him behind her was like sitting against a wall. He wrapped his broad arms around her and took hold of the reigns. He wore leather bracers at his wrists, but she noticed a tangled map of scars peaking out from beneath them. Marcyn wondered if his whole body was sketched with them and supposed, with no small wash of panic, she was soon to find out.

As they left the courtyard outside the temple Marcyn couldn’t help but look over her shoulder at it one last time. The Priestesses’ work tower looked like a jagged finger reaching up to touch the sky. She’d never climb those endless stairs again, never make offerings in the wide, echoing chamber of the sanctuary, never hold a sinner’s hand and pray for them. As they filed out of the front gates she thought maybe, just faintly, she could hear a hymnal rising from the open windows. The sound kissed her ears goodbye and wished her well.

***

When they arrived at the war camp Marcyn was chilled to the bone. It was early spring, and midday had been warm, but as the sun descended the world began to freeze. A light rain started falling barely an hour into their journey. It shook her to learn the warfront was less than a day’s journey from their secluded temple. She didn’t want to consider what might become of the sacred place if the enemy were to break through her countrymen’s lines. That fear paired with the chill in the air had Marcyn’s teeth rattling despite the impressive heat from Alren’s body wrapped around her own.

Alren lead his horse to a tent near the center of the camp. It was not as grand as the General’s tent in the dead middle of the camp, but it was bigger than the standard infantry. He must be of some rank, Marcyn realized with sudden clarity. No wonder he’d been allowed to stomp into the temple and demand a wife.

As they arrived outside the tent Alren dismounted and lifted her off by her waist again. She schooled herself this time and did not dissolve in his grip as she had before. Gingerly, he set her gently on the muddy ground. Her insufficient slippers sank into the muck and she cringed at the freezing mud as it slithered between her toes.

“We’ll find you suitable clothes,” he assured her and lifted her again to get her into his tent. There was already a fire lit to Marcyn’s shock and a tray of food laid out. She didn’t hide her confusion and for a moment thought maybe they were in the wrong tent. Then she spotted the figure laying on the bed of furs.

“Back so soon,” the man said. He was slender and nude. Utterly nude Marcyn realized when he stood to greet them. She looked away suddenly, almost bringing her hands up to cover her eyes. “A bit shy for a Sow girl,” he snorted.

“She’s not a Sow girl,” Alren said, going to the table of food and picking up a hunk of bread. He shoved the entire thing into his mouth, “She’s a priestess,” he said right through his chewing.

The man, whoever he was, sputtered, “Priestess?” he turned his attention on her. He was fair skinned but sun-kissed and dotted with freckles. His blue eyes were playful as he leaned down right in front of her face and she was forced to look at him. “Not the bent crone I picture when I think of a Priestess,” he chuckled. “What’s your name darling?”

“Don’t speak to her,” Alren said, still chewing the too huge chunk of bread. The man scoffed and looked over his shoulder at him.

“I’m just trying to make friends.”

Alren finally swallowed the bread and Marcyn watched the bulge slide down his throat. He washed it down with a not inconsiderable gulp of wine. “And I’m just trying to relax after my journey. Go fetch water for a bath.”

The young man looked at her for another moment, smiled and bowed to Alren. He swiped a robe from the bed and wrapped it around himself before venturing into the freezing cold. Marcyn watched him go.

“Won’t he be cold?”

Alren shrugged. “He should have dressed.”

“Who is that?”

“My campboy,” he said and began to remove his traveling furs and armor. “He prepares my tent for me, dresses me for battle, bathes me after.” He threw his gear unceremoniously to the side. The heat in the tent was suffocating, no doubt because the man in charge of the fire had been naked. Marcyn removed her cloak. Alren shucked off his smallest layer and stood before her shirtless. She swallowed, though could not resist taking stock of him. Powerful was not enough, every inch of him was padded with muscle. He was indeed scribbled all over with scars, some fresh, some old.

“Aren’t those all my duties?” she asked hesitantly. He smirked. It was the first real expression she’d seen. It did not comfort her as she’d hoped it would.

“Yes. There are things Dallion does for me that I will expect from you as well.” He approached her and she fought the urge to shrink as he stood over her. “Your instruction could begin tonight if you like or you can observe Dallion to see what I expect from you.”

***

Marcyn knelt in the North corner of the tent and said her prayers, whispering to herself over the sounds of carnal pleasure taking place behind her. Dallion was on his knees before Alren with his sizeable cock in his mouth. The warrior sheathed himself in Dallion deeper than Marcyn thought was possible and she had to look away soon after they began. There was a looking glass across the room though and she couldn’t resist peering at it even as she said her prayers.

Alren clutched Dallion by his sandy curls and forced him on his manhood so harshly Dallion seemed to choke. His face was red, tears welled in his eyes and spittle dripped from his mouth. Still, there was a strange sense of admiration in his eyes and he stroke himself even as Alren used him so crudely.

The sight was unlike anything Marcyn had ever seen or imagined. She found a strange heat blooming in her stomach and spreading down between her legs. Alren threw his head back and moaned, pulling Dallion’s head off his cock and biting his lip as he looked down on him. Dallion began to lick Alren’s shaft, dragging his tongue over the mess of saliva he’d left on the warrior’s spear and even took his stones in his mouth.

“Mm,” Alren moaned and Marcyn felt the sound rumbled through the tent and settle into a throbbing between her thighs. “That’s it,” he groaned and forced the young man’s mouth back onto his cock. Marcyn continued to whisper her prayers but found her tongue tripping over the words. The desire she felt made it impossible to focus on anything but Alren. The way his cock glistened in the firelight covered in Dallion’s saliva she imagined kneeling in his place. The way his incredible hewn from stone body reacted to the pleasure he was receiving made Marcyn feel a little dizzy. If she dwelled to long on his pleasure filled face her toes curled. She couldn’t resist, still facing away from them she slid a hand up her skirt.

Just brushing her outer lips made her gasp and Alren suddenly remembered she was there. He spotted her in the looking glass, hand up her skirt. Their eyes met.

“Marcyn,” he said, his voice dripping with pleasure as Dallion began to bob his head. He made a slurping sound and whatever motion accompanied it made Alren clench his teeth and flutter his eyes. “Fuck,” he hissed and took Dallion by the sides of his head, forcing him to take him deeper and faster.

“Yes,” she answered and quickly removed her hand from her skirt. It was too late though, he’d spotted her.

“Come here.”

She stood and strode to where they were and stood before him. He moaned again and stared at her with eyes hooded by lust and pleasure.

“Disrobe,” he commanded.

“I said I would observe,” she said. He sneered.

“And yet you were not merely observing, were you?” She hung her head. “Disrobe.”

Marcyn did as he asked and slid off her outer robes. Slowly, but surely she unlaced her supports and let them slide to the ground as well. When she was only in her shift she hesitated. Alren growled in frustration or pleasure and again pulled Dallion away from his cock. The young man looked over his shoulder at her. Her body was illuminated by the firelight and all her curves and edges shown through the thin fabric of her shift. Dallion smirked.

“Gods,” he said.

Alren grit his teeth. “I won’t command you again,” he said roughly, “Disrobe.”

“I-I’m cold,” she said and wrapped her arms around herself.

Dallion snorted. “You won’t be for long.” Alren growled again and pushed Dallion away, stepping over him and toward Marcyn. He leaned down so they were face to face.

“Take it off or I’ll do it for you.”

Marcyn felt her body bloom with sudden heat, that persistent throbbing between her legs jolted at the rumbling command. There was a bit of sticky wetness dribbling from her that she either hadn’t noticed or had just appeared. She slid her shift off her shoulders and down her arms. Gravity took hold of the thin fabric and it joined the rest of her clothes at her feet.