On Azrael's Wings Page 2

  “Casualties?” the general asked, gaze dispassionate.

  “Other than the three you took care of?” the surgeon asked, raising an eyebrow. He smirked at the silent stare. “Just one other. Neck broken, probably from a fall.”

  “Wounded?”

  Finishing the stitches, the surgeon tied them off. “Seven walking with assorted bumps and broken bones. Three, including this fellow, who’ll need to stay down for at least a few days.” He set his instruments aside and waved at a pallet. “Take him over there and give him wine,” he ordered his assistants.

  Azrael followed as the surgeon walked to a worktable, washing his hands in a basin. “Are you prepared for tonight?” she asked.

  Grimacing, he shook his hands to remove most of the water, scooping up a clean cloth to dry himself. The surgeon turned to glare at her. “Yes. I’ve heard about your little celebration,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’ll be ready for the upcoming bruises, lacerations and rapes.”

  “Good.” The general refused to rise to the bait. “We’ll be on the road in three days. I want all of them ready to travel.”

  The surgeon knew nothing he could say or do would change the evening’s plans. With a pensive expression, he bowed his head. “As you wish, Lord.”

  Satisfied, Azrael left him, moving to the occupied pallets to check on her men.

  The sun was beginning to set when Azrael finished in the surgeon’s tent. She’d visited with all the wounded, speaking to each about their injuries and how they were incurred. Though her manner was harsh, she instilled them all with a sense of dignity and accomplishment before she left, giving them words of encouragement and praise.

  Outside, the scant clouds on the western horizon turned red and gold. A bonfire was being built in the central clearing and the cook tents were doing brisk business preparing for the upcoming festivities. The camp’s population had grown, indicating the last of the troops had returned from their assigned duties. Azrael had only a couple of things to do before she could relax.

  Approaching her tent, the general noted an increase in the number of her personal guard; her officers were no doubt waiting inside. She answered the soldiers’ salutes as she passed, stepping inside her quarters and waving the captains back into their seats after they leapt to attention. Midia had returned and lit several lamps before making herself scarce. Azrael could see the dirty armor was no longer piled on the floor. It was no doubt currently being cleaned. The tub had been removed, as well, and a full complement of drinking cups was at the table.

  “All is in order?” Azrael asked, moving around the table to settle into her chair.

  “Aye, Lord,” they answered, nearly in unison.

  Azrael waved at one of them to fill the cups from a large ewer. “Report.”

  Indonatra, a tall, muscular man and captain of the First Cohort began. His hair was a wild mass of kinky brown, tied back with thick bands at regular intervals. “Not much to report, Lord. During the attack, we engaged the dissidents at the inn where four of my men were wounded and one died. Nomi was rushed in the hall on the upper floor and thrown out the window. It was just bad luck he landed as he did.” He pulled at his full beard, faintly shrugging. “The fighting was fierce. I have no doubt we had the best of their swordsmen against us.”

  “I noticed,” the general said, taking one of the cups of wine being passed. “Which is why your cohort was allowed to return early.”

  “They appreciated it, Lord. I made certain they knew it was reward for their courage.”

  “Good.” Azrael’s eyes fell on the Second Cohort’s captain. “Razzu?”

  Thinner and shorter, Razzu was a whip of a man. His face broke into an easy grin, transforming the narrow features from brooding to pleasant. “We had no injuries during the battle. Our sweep went well - the men went out a full league. We came across an old priest herding four children and brought them in. No other stragglers were found.”

  “Where’s the priest now?”

  “Left him with the prisoners. He’s genuine; has the tattoos all up and down his arms and back. Didn’t see a reason to execute him.” The Priesthood of Ishkay was notorious for their pacifistic and anti political views. That the captured man was not involved in the rebellion was a given - they abhorred violence in all its guises.

  “No one else escaped the village?”

  “No, Lord. No indication of anyone getting through our cordon.”

  “Atol?”

  The tension in the tent shot up as the third captain swallowed. He was the shortest of them all, barely reaching Indonatra’s sternum. Though his face was younger than the others, his black hair was fast receding. “The... uh... bodies have been burned, Lord,” he said, clearing his throat. “The Punished still stand. We stumbled across much weaponry at the smithy while searching for the dead; they had enough arms for a cohort from the looks of it.”

  “And what of your three casualties?”

  Atol drew deep breath, blue eyes unhappy. “They were burned with the others. I saw no reason to bring them here for a hero’s funeral.”

  “No reason at all,” Azrael agreed. “Perhaps you can explain why they disobeyed orders?”

  Sweat beaded on Atol’s forehead and he looked everywhere but at his general and peers. “No, Lord, I cannot.”

  Azrael raised an eyebrow. “I believe I can,” she said, her voice dropping to a growl. She saw two of the captains wince at the tone, having been recipients of her anger before.

  “Lord?” Atol asked, peering at the dark woman.

  “They disobeyed my orders because you didn’t train them properly.”

  The captain swallowed again and dropped his eyes. “Aye, Lord,” he whispered.

  Not one to mince words, Azrael rose. “Five lashes for each man,” she ordered. “Will you submit?”

  Atol’s shoulders drooped in resignation. “Aye, Lord. I will.” Standing, he removed his light cloak, draping it across the back of his chair, his tunic following. Despite his small stature, his body was thick with muscle. He went to the central pole of the tent and firmly grasped the wood, spreading his legs.

  Azrael collected a whip from one of her chests and unfurled it, making it snake across the canvas floor as she took up position. “Prepare yourself.”

  Gritting his teeth, nails digging into the pole, the captain nodded. “I am ready, Lord.”

  She brought the whip forward with a snap. A welt blossomed across Atol’s shoulders and he jerked at the contact. With careful precision, Azrael created a latticework of red lines across the pale flesh, each gently welling blood. Her goal was not to maim, simply to ensure Atol would be more diligent, and the lashes weren’t as powerful as they could have been. The captain remained steadfast, neither flinching nor crying out against the pain, though anyone within earshot would know full well what was transpiring.

  After the final lash, Azrael coiled the whip and stepped forward. Atol remained in place as he gathered his strength to move. He found himself looking into the cold black eyes of his general.

  “Pay attention to your men. Do not neglect their discipline again.”

  He croaked, stopping to clear his throat before repeating with a shaky voice, “Aye, Lord.”

  The eyes warmed. “It takes great courage to submit, Atol. You’ve done well.”

  He sighed, his body finally relaxing. “Aye, Lord. Thank you.”

  Azrael returned to her chair, tossing the whip onto the table. She knew that Atol would now be more observant of his men and a stronger officer. As if the flogging had not occurred, she took a gulp of her wine and looked at the captain of the Fourth Cohort. “Tenango?”

  Atol walked steadily to his chair and eased into his tunic with a grimace. The others ignored him as they listened to the woman speaking. There would be no further mention of the incident. Their general despised the backstabbing chaos within the ranks of other armies and had no tolerance for it under her command.

  “Unfortunately,” Tenango reported,
“fire in the bakery destroyed everything there, significantly damaging the structures on either side. We collected quite a bit of foodstuffs from the cellar of the headman’s house.” The captain scratched at an old scar on her upper arm. “As Atol mentioned, we’ve plenty of arms from the smithy. I would suggest a systematic sacking tomorrow. We can scrounge enough wagons for the goods.”

  “You’ve left a guard?”

  ”Aye, Lord. They’ve orders to kill looters.” Tenango shook auburn hair away from her eyes. “Don’t think it’ll be an issue until tomorrow night. Anyone in the area with any sense will no doubt steer clear until we’ve gone.”

  Azrael nodded, finally turning to the last captain. “Suma?”

  As tall as Idonatra, the leader of Azrael’s personal guard was of fair complexion and clean-shaven. His long, blond hair was braided as his general’s and he held himself at attention almost as second nature. “The prisoners are counted and we’ve documented them.” He slid a parchment from his belt and handed it to Azrael.”There are twenty-four women and eighteen children to include those brought in by Razzu.”

  “Where’s the priest?” the general asked, glancing at the list.

  “Held separately. I thought it best to keep him detained until we leave.” While the religious order abhorred violence, the priest would give his life attempting to sneak prisoners from impending danger.

  “Good.” Azrael tossed the list aside. “Separate the women from the children for tonight.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  The general looked around the table. “Anything else?”

  An assortment of negatives answered her.

  “All right. Keep a guard on the village. Tomorrow, Razzu and Idonatra, I want your men to sack it.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  “Atol, see the surgeon tonight and make certain we have a wagon reserved for the wounded. We’ll be moving out in three days. Also, your men will be in charge of perimeter duty tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Tenango, you’ll run sweeps for the day. Make yourself highly visible to discourage the curious.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  Azrael’s gaze swept over her officers. “Enjoy tonight’s celebration but keep close eye on your men. I’ve authorized unlimited ale. Hopefully, the majority will get too drunk to play slap and tickle with the prisoners - there aren’t enough to go around.”

  “We still have quite a few whores among the camp followers,” Suma reminded her.

  “Truer words.” Azrael stood, the captains following her lead. “I want your written reports here by midday tomorrow.”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  “Dismissed.”

  Once her officers were gone, Azrael blew out a breath. She rolled her head, trying to ease the ache in her neck and shoulders.

  The tent flap was pushed aside and two women entered, each carrying pieces of leather armor. After a glance at her slaves, Azrael sat down and began preparing a message for the king. In the meanwhile, Midia directed Ursula in the proper placement of their mistress’ armor, laying it out on linen to dry.

  Quill scratching lightly on parchment, the general finished her missive, a short acknowledgement of their triumph scribbled on a long, thin strip. Azrael capped the inkwell and gently blew the writing dry. Rolling it into a tiny tube, she rose to see her slaves kneeling before the table, awaiting her attention.

  “Midia?” she asked.

  The blonde bowed her head and looked up. “Would you have us bring you food, Milady?”

  Azrael considered the request, ears catching the sounds of soldiers enjoying newfound entertainment. “No, Midia,” she finally said. “It’s not safe tonight.” Her eyes fell on the new slave. “Ursula, come forward.”

  Head ducking in surprise and fear, the slave silently rose and approached, her bare soles whisking lightly across the canvas floor. She paused in confusion, uncertain of the proper protocol, before dropping back to her knees at Azrael’s feet.

  “Stand, Ursula.”

  Doing so, the brunette found herself being circled by her harsh new mistress and she trembled.

  Midia had done a fine job finding clothes for her new acquisition. The dress held more purple than burgundy, but it would do until something else was found. It was of a heavier material than Azrael cared for, but it clung in all the right places, bringing out Ursula’s well-rounded attributes. “You clean up well,” she said once she completed her circuit.

  A blush crept up the slave’s neck.

  Azrael felt an answering flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment. Stepping around Ursula, she went to the entrance and stepped out.

  The flames of the bonfire were beginning to take hold, dancing orange light bathing the revelers. Azrael could smell roasted meat from the cook tents. The women prisoners were being forced to serve the meal and their cries and whimpers were drowned out by soldiers’ laughter.

  Turning to one of her guard, Azrael held out the message. “See this gets out immediately,” she said.

  “Aye, Lord.”

  “Have someone bring food for three to my tent.” She paused. “And bring a pallet from the surgeon’s.”

  “Yes, Lord, as you wish.” The soldier saluted and ran off, another solidifying out of the darkness to take his place.

  Azrael entered her tent, pleased to see Ursula had remained in place during her absence. Seating herself at the table, she waved Midia forward with a murmured, “Attend me.” As her body slave poured fresh wine, the general continued gazing at the brunette standing before her. “You say you have been a slave for two years.”

  Ursula whispered, “Yes, Milady.”

  “Yet you have few scars. Were you so good that beatings were unnecessary?” After taking the cup from the blonde, Azrael pulled Midia onto her lap.

  “I... Apparently so, Milady,” the blonde said, blushing.

  Azrael drank from her cup, setting it down to free her hand. She caressed Midia’s bare thigh as she spoke. “Who owned you? What were your duties?”

  “I was owned by a man who had me stay with his elderly mother, Milady. She... she was a seamstress in the village and I helped her sew. She wouldn’t leave her home to join her son on his farm.” A loud roar of excitement from outside caused Ursula to flinch.

  “No worries, girl. They don’t have the heart or balls to come in here.”

  “Aye, Milady,” Ursula said, her shaking voice barely above a whisper.

  “Lord Azrael!”

  “Enter.”

  A soldier held aside the tent flap for three of his companions to bring in their burdens. One carried a large platter of food, the roasted meat still steaming. Another bore a tray with various fruits and two ewers. The third dragged in a pallet.

  “Put the food and drink on the table,” Azrael ordered, “and the pallet next to my bed.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  Once all was in order, she sent them away, pushing Midia from her lap. “Fix my plate and then eat,” she instructed.

  Smiling, Midia paused to kiss her mistress on the cheek. “Yes, Milady. Thank you.”

  “Ursula, eat your fill.”

  “Yes, Milady.” Despite the order, the blonde waited until Azrael had been served and Midia waved her forward. Hands shaking, Ursula took only a tiny portion of roast and an apple, pulling back from the platter.

  “I don’t withhold food, girl,” Azrael growled, dark eyes flashing her displeasure. “You certainly cannot survive on that. I said eat your fill.”

  Ursula’s voice was barely a whisper. “Aye, Milady.” She edged back to the platter, adding a wedge of yellow cheese and steamed vegetables to her plate.

  Satisfied, the general began eating her dinner, looking over the reports littering her table. Midia settled at the other end of the table and, after a moment’s hesitation, so did the brunette. Silence reigned, diametrically opposed to the chaos on the other side of the thin tent walls.

  Stomach full, Azrael stretched her back be
fore shoving her plate toward the nearly empty platter. She drained her mug and scooped up the fresh ewer of wine from the tray before rising. “Ursula, you’ll sleep on the pallet. Wait,” Azrael said, stopping the brunette from discarding her half eaten dinner. “When you’re finished eating and not until. Understood?”

  “Yes, Milady.” Ursula sank back into her chair.

  “Midia.”

  The blonde’s face slid into a slow grin. “Yes, Milady,” she said to the unspoken command.

  Azrael moved to her bed, setting the ewer and cup on one of the chests. Removing her clothes, she sat on the mattress, untying her braid and brushing out it with her fingers.

  Midia helped Ursula clean up their dinner, bringing the platter to the door and handing it to a guard. As the new slave timidly approached the pallet near her new owner, Midia set about snuffing the lanterns.

  In the darkness, Azrael felt the warmth of her slave sliding onto the bed and she sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Turning her head, she searched for and found welcoming lips.

  On the floor, a few feet away, Ursula curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut at the sounds of pleasuring from both outside and in.

  Chapter Three

  Azrael felt the slave slip out of bed well before dawn. Accustomed to these early morning disappearances, she drifted back to sleep, ignoring the soft whispers and rustling cloth. Had there been an emergency, the general would be instantly alert, weapon in hand.

  Somewhat later, Midia eased under the blankets. Her skin, chilled by early morning air, felt good against Azrael’s bed warmth. She pulled the slave close, callused hand gently buffing cool flesh. Midia shivered and snuggled nearer. Sleepy caresses became stimulating, quiet breaths easing into gasps and moans. Azrael took her slave with single-minded intensity, reveling in the familiar sounds and tastes and smells until they both came, clutching each other.

  Drowsing once more, muscles languid from the pleasant exertion, Azrael’s ears picked up the sounds of a waking camp. In the distance, men called to one another as they rousted themselves for the day. A cook was swearing a blue streak over the celebration’s aftermath. A yelp from his slave indicated a cuffing as the cook urged him to greater haste in cleaning the kitchen.