Red Sonja: On The Market




http://literfull12.deviantart.com/art/Red-Sonja-On-The-Market-520592293

With the cruel Eastern desert sun beating down on them, the caravan made poor
time across the unforgiving terrain. Zuagir raiders were barely kept at bay.
They were accustomed to it, fit for the coarse, shifting sand, more so than
their targets. The Turanian Caravan had grown weary. Their throats parched and
bodies haggard, it was their duty to protect their goods from such threats,
despite the cost to themselves.

It was all for Turan.

The Turanian Marketplace had a speciality-- Human Trade. Turan had some of the
finest ports and was one of the wealthiest empires west of Khitai. This
Caravan's particular trade was of the female variety, with one prize in
particular secured in her own special wagon.

She was too dangerous to have any allowances. She could not join the women
strung along by rope and threatened with blade. She had proven a difficult
capture, and difficult to manage-- Every moment she was unsupervised gave her
the opportunity to strike. The previous day, she had taken the eye of a guard
during a Zuagir attack. It took several men to bring her back down and an
excessive amount of rope to hold her.

This lead to the Turanian's using more extreme implements. Harsher, some would
say. The flame haired hyrkanian warranted such measures from reputation alone.
Surrounded by eight guards, leather cord biting into her wrists and ankles,
Red Sonja leveled her steely, blue eyes at one in particular. Unable to speak,
due to the secure leather muzzle locked over her mouth, it was all she could
do.

She was The Devil. It was enough.

The man was young, exhausted. This had been his first journey from home, and
it had proven particularly taxing. He met her gaze with disenfranchisement and
a beleaguered disposition. "What is she staring at?" He whispered, sinking
into his cloak and leather armor. The guard sitting next to Sonja had grown
weary of her games. She was a prize, certainly, but she was barely worth the
trouble.

"Hang on, boy," He sighed, tearing a cloth from his own cloak. "She's just
trying to rattle you." Sonja didn't react as the cloth was draped over her
eyes. She just continued to stare. Red Sonja was making a list. A list of
people she'd kill. Of those who forced this indignity upon her.

These Slavers ambushed her at, where else, a tavern. Sonja was enjoying the
company of both exotic and fine men and women. Savoring the refreshing taste
of a specially brewed Eastern Desert Beer. There were many of them, all armed
to the tithe. Stumbling upon a lithe, shapely, limber beauty such as Sonja was
assuredly good fortune. The money she'd fetch would keep them fed for years to
come.

She drew her blade and immediately set out to mop up the poor showing that was
the Turanian Slavers. They had not brought enough men to handle The She-Devil.
Wearing her scale mail brassiere, leather gloves and boots, she was more than
a match for them. Even with a fair amount of alcohol swirling inside her, they
couldn't best her. She never lost her footing, never missed a strike.

It was then a Turanian offered the tavern's clientele ample coin and drink.
Greedy, poor, glutinous, the masses in the tavern knew only one course of
action-- The tide turned when she was swarmed. Greedy hands clawing at her,
encircling her, and eventually, they wrestled Sonja to the ground.

The Turanians departed the tavern with a bound and gagged Sonja slung over a
horse. Her hands crossed and lashed together, her ankles bound tight, a foul
taste filling her mouth thanks to the rag shoved past her lips, Sonja could
only fume and wait for her opportunity.

She had been raising Hell ever since. The Turanians were persistent, though. A
payday such as Sonja rarely comes along, and to lose that opportunity would
shame them. Sonja could only blame herself for this failing. If she was
quicker, she'd have been free and the Turanians would be dead. Yet, she sits,
restrained and muzzled, off to be sold.

Red Sonja does not despair. She waits, patiently. When the opportunity arises,
Sonja will be a whirlpool of death and evisceration, focused on those who
wronged her.

*************************************************

When Sonja awoke, she felt oddly refreshed. Her memory clouded, a persistent
haze obscuring any recollection, she was left confused. Her frame left resting
on finely woven, soft white sheets, on a well made canopy bed, Sonja wondered
if this was how Turanians treated their product.

It was then she noted the oddities. Her limbs spread apart, secured to the
corners of the bed with leather straps. The soft white brassiere and similar
undergarments. A see through veil covered her waist and longer sheets of the
same material extended from the ring around her hips and ran down the length
of her ankles. "Who dressed me in this foppish mess?!" Sonja yelled, craning
her head upwards.

"That would be me, Mistress," A soft-spoken woman announced, sitting to the
left of Sonja's canopy bed. "Do you require anything? Water? Food?" The woman
seemed empty, hollow-eyed. She had tanned skin, short black hair, and was
dressed exactly as Sonja.

"Cut my ties and get me my gear!" Sonja ordered, but she knew better. An
attendant can also be a kind of guard. Seeing to Sonja's needs and keeping her
secure.

"I cannot do that," She regrettably replied, leaning back in her chair. "There
are Many things I can do, and few I cannot."

"Then fetch me a blade!"

"I cannot, Mistress Sonja."

"Then what can you do, you useless lump of flesh!" Sonja snarled. The unnamed
woman picked herself up from her chair and gently stepped towards the bed.
Sonja was uncertain of her intent, but the leather ties that affixed her to
the accursed bed proved to be more than capable of pinning her down.

The woman placed her hands on Sonja's body and began to massage her. She
leaned down bringing her lips closer and closer to Sonja's. Sonja's head sunk
deeper into the mattress as the slave woman's lips inched closer. It wasn't an
unpleasant experience when their lips met, but it was a distraction.

"I have no need for that," Sonja said flatly as their lips parted. "Can you
explain to me how I got here."

"Of course. As our noble tradesmen brought you here, you were fiery, angry,
and rebellious. As you were, you could not be moved, bound as you were. I took
it upon myself to sedate you-- I soaked a rag with ether, and as delicately as
I could, held it over your muzzled face," She explained while walking back to
her seat. "Then, I ordered your bathing and dressing."

"That was inappropriate," Sonja scowled, her eyes tightening on the woman. "I
didn't consent to such treatment."

"That's a foolish and offensive thing to say," The woman grew angry and her
hands tightly gripped the arms of her chair. "Do you think I, any of us, had a
choice? That we were not in a similar position? Do you think I wanted to be
this?"

The words hung in the air with that declaration. Sonja had been foolish-- It
is rare for someone to choose a life of servitude. And then to dote on other
captives, watching the cycle of enslavement and sale occur over and over
again. It hollows some out, and leaves other raw and emotional.

"Woman, what is your name?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Because it does. Tell me your name." The woman hesitated. The years had
worked hard at diligently stripping her of her individuality. Like so many,
she had resisted and fought, only to bend and fall. What is her name worth to
the newest piece of meat?

"Bolormaa. My name is Bolormaa."

"That is a beautiful name." It had been some time since she was last
complimented. Most were the slavers, commending her for a job well done in
preparing and cleaning the next batch of women. It briefly reminded her of
what it was like to feel like a person. "Now, do you know my name?"

"You are Sonja."

"True. But I have another," She informed the hapless slave woman, her eyes
filled with confidence. "I am also known as The Devil. I am what cannot be
kept, What cannot be tamed, what cannot be bested. Bolormaa, I promise you, I
will see you and the rest free."

Bolormaa scoffed at this notion. She was one woman. Many have tried to rise
up, to free themselves, to save themselves from being kept as slaves or sold
as product. And every time they were bested. Every time they succumbed,
rebellion washed away in a sea of tears or blood.

For this woman to have the audacity, to posture while she was affixed to a
bed, to make assurances when she couldn't be certain of what tomorrow would
bring, it made Bolormaa sick. She pulled two separate white cloths from a
nearby nightstand while the rage danced in front of her mind. "Tomorrow you
will be sold. This isn't a possibility, but a certainty."

Before Sonja could protest, the soft cloth was shoved roughly in her mouth.
Acting quickly, Bolormaa took the second cloth and placed it over Sonja's
lips, securing a tight knot behind the flame haired warrior's head. "MMMPH!"
Sonja huffed, giving her bonds a sharp tug.

"Protest as much as you like: There is nothing to be done, Sonja. There is
only acceptance and servitude." With that, Bolormaa exited Sonja's chambers,
bolts and locks falling into place behind the thick wooden door.

Alone, Sonja tested the full measure of her restraints. She had been bound
before, captured even. But this was the first time she had found herself
affixed to a bed. A thing of comfort now playing its part in holding her down.
Her limbs spread apart well, pulled upwards, she had little room to work and
very little slack.

Sonja knew screaming was not an option-- Not because of her gag. Because of
the indifference to her plight. The wretched cloth that muffled her speech was
mostly to just keep any guards or attendants from getting annoyed. "Hmmph!"
Sonja huffed, glancing at the wooden frame of the bed.

It was wood. It had its breaking point, no matter how strong it appeared. All
wood could snap. All wood splintered. All it needed was coaxing. If Sonja was
rough with it, the bed would give. Sonja honed in on one section-- The left
post her hand had been secured to was looser than the rest. Only slightly, but
even the smallest of vulnerabilities was more than Red Sonja needed.

Though, in all honesty, she'd prefer to have a blade. With a blade came
confidence. Assurances and effectiveness. Sonja had always felt a certain
comfort, whether it be a broadsword or dagger, with a blade in her hand.
Resorting to pulling at bedposts made her feel less than she was. A small
indignity she'd suffer, as her freedom was the greater goal.

Despite the opening, the wood was still sturdy and thick. Sonja could feel it
give but it was nowhere near where she needed it to be. Frustration rose,
warming her chest and drowning the rational part of her brain. A savagery took
hold as she began thrashing about in the bed. "GGGGFFNNNFF!" She roared as all
corners of the bed frame bent under her might. Sonja was the She-Devil. Her
reputation gave most pause before they tried something as bold as capturing
her. Still, she was just a woman; Flesh and blood like every one else. With
this came limitations, as damning as they were.

Many have tried to best her, few have been successful. They had always wound
up as a pulverized, serrated slop. Rarely were they victorious, rarely were
they so daring as to try to sell her. Rarely was she ever so close to this
level of despair.

Her struggles went well into the night and only ceased when Bolormaa returned.
Sonja was covered in sweat, her breathing heavy and ragged. Indignity upon
indignity was to be heaped upon her, it seems. "I told you. It is a certainty.
The men trusted me to bind you, and I ensured your continued security."

Sonja said nothing as the woman strutted towards her. Self-assured, confident,
somehow content with her position in life. Bolormaa may be a slave woman, but
in that occupation she had found some measure of respect. Even if it had cost
her her soul. A rather large part of her did not want to be free, out of fear
and satisfaction.

"If you behave, I can take that infernal gag off. You can eat and drink and
more, if you desire," Bolormaa droned on, seating herself on the edge of the
bed. She had to check Sonja's restraints before anything else. The men told
stories of their journey and the hindrance she was. Coupled with her
reputation, very little could be left to chance.

Her eye was suddenly drawn to the left corner of the bed. The post hung low,
slightly. Just enough that the the restraints around her wrist looked loose.
Before she could react, before her eyes can show a hint of recognition,
Sonja's hand seized Bolormaa's neck. She could swear, as she stared into
Sonja's cold blue eyes, she could see the shape of a smile form behind her
gag.

*************************************************

"Is this necessary?" Bolormaa whined flexing in her own restraints. The
discarded leather straps that held Sonja were repurposed, combined with
several torn bed sheets. She was left sprawled on the bed, in worse straits
than Sonja started.

She could only watch as the She-Devil dressed herself in her usual garb-- The
revealing scale-mail, leather gloves and boots she seemed to wear on a daily
basis. "I'd say so. I assume you didn't keep any of my blades in this room?"
Silence. Bolormaa had already earned a sampling of the She-Devil's wrath. To
stoke such fires any further would be beyond foolish.

"Where would I find the owner of this fine establishment?"

"What do you plan to do, Sonja? Free the people here? The women, the men. The
slaves."

"I aim to kill him. Or her. I am owed a death for this embarrassment."

Sonja exited the building, only needing to travel a short distance to reach
her target. She took a moment to enjoy the cool air on her skin. It relaxed
her, cooled the rage igniting her blood. The rush of anger had slammed into
the front of her brain, threatening to overwhelm her senses and send her in a
berserker rage.

The building she was approaching wasn't well guarded. Who would dare threaten
Turan's slave trade. Who would challenge the mailed and silken clad riders.
Only a fool. Sonja spied on the young man from earlier, the scared frightened
boy, so terrified of Sonja's gaze, he needed her blindfolded to remain calm.
He was on guard for the evening, with another standing beside him, but was
clearly still rattled from his travels in the Eastern Desert.

And then he saw her.

He couldn't speak or move. Every word or warning he tried to utter was silent,
as if his throat had closed. His partner's confused glance left him
vulnerable. He never saw Sonja's approach, and was unprepared for the boot to
his face-- Teeth cracked and bones snapped. "Hello again, Young man." Sonja
smiled, as his eyes were locked on her own.

A composed gaze in her blue eyes, masking her ferocity. "I'm going to need a
witness," Sonja informed him, gripping his silk cloak. "You'll do."

>>From what she gathered, the man she was looking for was a self-professed
Turanian Blade-master. His name was Culan, and he claimed he was on par with
The Mighty Cimmerian Conan. Sonja would chalk it all up to bluster if it
wasn't for his form. He was as large as Conan, dirty black hair, scars along
his neck and face. He kept twin blades on his person at all times, he had more
chain mail than silk clothing. He was warrior born from the day he exited the
womb.

So, of course Sonja approached him directly. His eyes opening wide when he saw
Red Sonja aimed a elbow strike across his face. However Culan swiftly blocked
her strike and his fist slammed into her face, causing Sonja to fall to her
knees as she entered a momentary daze. Her head swam, the trauma nearly
bringing her to the edge of unconsciousness. "What supple meat have you
brought me, Epeus?" a glint of disappointment was leveled at the young man
Sonja dragged into his quarters.

"R-Red Sonja, sir," He stuttered, scrambling to the nearest quarter.

"Ah. I told you she would be trouble, now didn't I? Too wild, too fierce.
Better to have slit her throat and left her for the buzzards," Culan was
completely dismissive of Sonja. Of her reputation and skill. So full of
himself, filled to the brim with self-confidence.

He drew his blades, as Sonja slowly stood up, brandishing a blade she relieved
from the broken guard outside. "Got nothing to say, Sonja? I heard such
stories. You and the Cimmerian are the best on any continent. Tall tales and
myth, I'd say."

Culan kicked off the ground, his blades locking against Sonja's pilfered
sword. She could feel the metal crack and bend under his weight. If allowed,
their fight would be bloody, violent. It'd go well into morning with both
sporting open gashes, broken bones, and bloodied faces.

Red Sonja would give him no such allowances.

A quick jerk of her blade, and The She-Devil forced her opponent back. Her
breath fogged the splintering metal as she pressed him against the wall. "You
say you're as good as Conan?" Sonja grunted, struggling to hold the man in
place. "Interesting. Did you happen know that I bested him on more than one
occasion?"

A flash of worry briefly etched on his face, Culan could feel his swords
shake, his grip growing slick as beads of sweat formed on his palms. Sonja
pressed harder and swung her sword as hard as she could. Culan's blades
slipped from his grasp, flying into the wall.

Sonja swung her sword at his neck to take his head clean off. However Culan
ducked underneath her strike and at the same time slammed his fist hard into
her gut, Sonja grunted as the blow made her cheeks puff. She tried to strike
again but Culan grabbed the hilt of her sword with both hands. In a fluid
motion he spun behind her while he twisted the sword out of her grip. With his
left hand he seized her long red hair and pulled her head backwards. With his
right hand he brought the sword towards her neck, trying to slit her throat.
However Sonja grabbed his wrist with both hands as she attempted to keep the
sword away from her neck.

"The mighty Red Sonja, I will carry your head through the streets and people
will sing songs of how I killed you." Culan whispered in her ear as he tugged
hard at her hair. Sonja struggled with all her might as he slowly inched the
edge of the blade towards her neck.

The edge of the blade nicked her skin and she felt a trickle of blood rolling
down her neck towards her chest.

"Hey Culan, you are not even close to Conan." After Sonja spoke she kicked her
feet backwards and knocked him off balance. Quickly she gave him a hard elbow
to his groin which made him grunt in pain. Swiftly Sonja yanked the sword out
of his hands.

Before he could recover, Sonja's blade pressed against his neck, and arm
forced him against the wall, once more. "Epeus," Sonja shouted, causing the
frightened young man to jump and shriek. His Frightened eyes locked on Sonja
and his pinned superior. "Look at what I'm about to do. Watch, memorize every
second. You'll warn the people of Turan that if I catch wind of the dirty
business you profit from again, if the slaves aren't freed, I'll return. I'll
burn the city to the ground. And, everyone who can hold a blade will end up
like Culan."

Epeus found himself unable to speak again. Afraid to look away, he watched as
Sonja slowly inched the blade closer and closer to Culan's exposed neck. The
fear in Culan's eyes told him all he needed-- He should not dare look away, or
bring the ire of The She-Devil upon himself.

Sonja exited the building, returning to the calming night air. If she wanted
to, she could wreak a bloody vengeance upon those who wronged her. Taking a
rag, she wiped off the blood from her new and worn sword. Enough blood had
been spilt in this accursed city. It sent the necessary message.

All should be wary of the She-Devil.