Vengeance's Thrall (closed for marauder13 and Lots_Daughter)

“And lo, Thor once more took up the mighty Mjolnir, tore away his bridal veil, and laid waste to Thrym and his ice-hearted guests, crushing their skulls and sparing none from his just wrath. Only when the giant’s fortress had been blasted to powder did the lightning cease to flash from his eyes, and the thunder god and Loki, trickster of men, returned to Asgard in triumph and glory. Freyja was so delighted to have escaped Thrym’s lust that she wept tears of gold, and thereafter the anniversary of that day became known as ‘The Day of Thor’s Fury and Freyja’s Joy.’ Thus ends the story of the lightning-hammer Mjolnir’s theft and return.”

Anja Erlingsdottir’s blue eyes gazed out of her carriage window, her expression one of weary boredom as they passed the seemingly endless fields and meadows of her father’s lands, dotted here and there with small villages. It was late summer in Nordland, and the villagers were all working hard to prepare for the autumn harvest and the harsh winter to come. Paying no attention to her handmaid’s voice as she read aloud, Anja watched as the peasants toiled and sweated beneath the afternoon sun, wrinkling her nose with distaste. Praise Odin she had not been born to the working class. A horse-drawn carriage was a rare sight in this part of the country, but a horse-drawn carriage surrounded by armed guards and emblazoned with the three golden boar heads of Jarl Erlingr was truly exceptional, causing the peasants to pause in the midst of their labor and stare as the fine conveyance rumbled along. Some removed their hats, others bowed or made other signs of obeisance, but Anja was unmoved. After all, it was no more than she deserved, having been born a Jarlsdottir.

As her title made clear, Anja had the honor of being the only daughter of Erlingr Snorrason, one of the five great Jarls who ruled most of Nordland. Jarl Erlingr was arguably the greatest of these conqueror-kings, with the most territory, wealth, and skilled warriors at his immediate disposal. In a continent where boundaries were often moved by war and the struggle for resources, Erlingsland had remained fairly unmolested for seven years, a testament to the warlord’s power and fearsome reputation. Erlingr and those loyal to him had carved out his realm by brute force and duplicity. A favorite tactic of his was to incite war between two lesser states, only to overwhelm and consume both while they were vulnerable. Any who resisted or displeased him had met unspeakably violent ends, and there were rumors that even his own men were not safe should they cross him. At last Jarl Erlingr’s lust for conquest had been sated, and the once fearsome warlord had settled down into a life of luxury, drink, and indolence, rarely leaving the pleasure and safety of his palatial castle except to participate in occasional slave raids in the south.

Anja frowned as she thought of her father’s weakness for exotic women, usually slaves presented to him as tribute. She, a girl of nineteen, and her brother Erik, a mere toddler, had each been born to a noblewoman of pure Nordlandic ancestry, their bloodlines stretching all the way back to Midgard’s first days, when Ask and Embla roamed the newly-formed earth. Anja’s mother, a beautiful woman who had died when the girl was young, was said to be descended from Freyja herself, while Erlingr’s current wife Gerdrunn, believed that she possessed the blood of a valkyrie in her veins. But an elegant, beautiful, fertile, divinely-sired, Nordlandic wife was not enough to satisfy him, and the hedonistic Jarl was famous for his harem of foreign slave girls who served his pleasure. Anja’s heart filled with disgust when she remembered how the wenches would plead and whimper and wriggle against her father, abandoning all pretense of dignity as they all too willingly prostrated themselves before him. How could any woman enjoy being put in such a position? How could she delight in being so utterly subjugated? How could she take pleasure in being forced to serve in her master’s bed? The very thought made her shiver with revulsion, and the strictly virginal Jarlsdottir attempted to turn her thoughts to a more pleasant subject.

Though only a girl, or perhaps because she was a girl and therefore bore no threat to him, Erlingr had always doted upon his “little Anja,” showering her with all the gifts and finery his war-gotten wealth could afford. She had been extensively educated, as was common for girls of the Nordlandic aristocracy, but though her grace and manners were blameless, her overindulgent upbringing had made Anja proud, stubborn, spoiled, and somewhat scornful of the lower classes. Normally she was calm, quiet, and reserved, but if a servant dared to disobey her they would soon learn why she was occasionally known as “Thorsdottir.” It was said that she was at her most beautiful when she was angry, her blue eyes flashing, her cheeks and lips flushed with passion as she lashed out at whoever had displeased her. Though rarely violent, and lacking a sadistic temperament, this girl of average height could cower a burly soldier whilst in a rage, perhaps most of all because she did not hesitate to tell her father exactly who had dared to affront her. And as everyone knew, Erlingr was very protective of his little girl.

But Anja did have her virtues. She was intelligent, well-read, devout, musically gifted, skilled in the pastimes of the upper-class, a supporter of the arts, and generous to those servants who succeeded in pleasing her. She also gave large sums of money to relieve the poor, though she received little pleasure from it, and looked at such liberality as a duty rather than a heartfelt wish to help others. Having never experienced hardship herself, she had difficulty in relating to those who had. Her beauty was famous throughout Nordland, and even as she sat in the bouncing carriage, her expression one of boredom or deep thought, Anja was ravishing to look upon. Her figure was that rare combination of delicacy and voluptuousness which men of the north so admired, with full breasts, a slender waist, and round, curving hips. Nordlandic men appreciated a round, firm rear on a woman, supposedly because such a woman would have enough “cushioning” to endure being ravished upon the hard planks of a tilting ship. Anja had just such a rear, but all knew better than to even think about her in such a position. The Jarlsdottir’s face was simply beautiful, finely featured with large, expressive blue eyes, soft, rosy lips, and cheeks which often flushed in response to her emotions. In keeping with her reputation as “Thorsdottir,” Anja’s hair was the fiery red of an autumn leaf, a trait she had inherited from her father. When loose it hung in silky waves to just past her rear, but at this moment it was bound in elaborate braids interwoven with crimson ribbons to match her gown. As the weather was still warm her gown was not cumbersome, yet it was exquisitely made and worth a small fortune in itself. Her sleeves were heavily embroidered with one of the complicated, interlacing patterns so characteristic of Nordlandic art, and around her fingers, wrists, and throat sparkled finely crafted gold and amber jewelry. If all this were not enough to make her status clear, Anja also wore a thick fabric band around her forehead which was as good as a crown in the north. Embroidered in a specific pattern with glittering gold thread, the band stated clearly to aristocrat and pauper that its wearer was no less than a Jarlsdottir.

Anja’s blue eyes drifted down to the jewel-encrusted box sitting beside her, containing the magnificent golden mead horn she was to present to Jarl Ulfr upon their arrival in Ulfrsland. Would she like this Ulfr Geirsson? Enough to marry him? She had made her father swear that he would never force her to marry against her will, and thus she was now on the first of what might be many “courting trips,” to meet an eligible Jarl or Jarlsson and see if they were to her liking. Surrounded by her guards, ambassadors, handmaid, and finery, Anja sighed, hoping that she would not have to make many such trips. Helga, her handmaid, who had been looking out the window in silence after noting her mistress’ disinterest in her reading, suddenly exclaimed “Oh! Oh, look, Jarlsdottir! We approach the Wildlands!”

Startled, Anja was about to scold the maid for interrupting her thoughts, then decided against it and instead peered out to see for herself. The path they were on now ran parallel to a low, dilapidated stone wall, one which had obviously not seen repair in a hundred years or more. Beyond this wall rose a thick gray-white bank of fog, so thick that one could just barely make out the skeletal forms of blasted trees. Now and then a faint flash of blue or violet energy could be seen deep within the dense mist, followed by a thunderclap, as if a rainless, magic storm raged within that forbidden strip of land. The eerie sight and sounds made Anja shudder, and she said “The fool. To think that any man would be foolish enough to attempt to tame that godforsaken place!”
Helga nodded eagerly in agreement. “Yes, Jarlsdottir. He must have been very foolish indeed. Do you think it is true that the Wildlands were cursed by the gods?”
“I have not given it much thought. Some believe it to have been cursed. Others believe it is merely inundated with magic left over from the creation of Midgard. Who is to say which theory is correct? In any case, it is far too dangerous for any mortal to survive there, as the nameless settler soon realized I imagine.”
Again the maid nodded in agreement, then shivered as a new thought occurred to her “Jarlsdottir, do you think it is true… that the children of Nidhogg dwell there? I fear lest one attacks us.”
Anja smiled slightly, in both affection and contempt for Helga’s ignorance. “They say that dragons and other creatures dwell there, but they have never crossed that stone wall into Erlingsland, Odin be praised. Providing that we remain on this side of the boundary, we should be perfectly-“

Before she could finish her sentence, the carriage suddenly came to a violent halt, the horses neighing wildly as fierce shouts could be heard. The cry “It’s an ambush!” and “Stand your ground!” could be heard above the growing din of steel upon steel. Anja realized with horror and indignation that they were being attacked, but by whom? Common bandits? Who would dare to attack a carriage bearing the arms of Erlingr Snorrasson, Jarl of Erlingsland? Helga was terrified and clung to her mistress, and the Jarlsdottir did not push her away, her cheeks flushed with anger as she waited for what was to come.

They stayed still, crouched in the mist beyond the wall. He looked at the men who had sworn their loyalty to him. Men that gained their fair share of the spoils of his raids and fights. Men who had honoured themselves in the eyes of the Gods with their bravery.

Gormr Rangarsson ran his middle finger along the deep furrow on the left side of his face that ran from his temple, down his cheek to where it leapt from his jaw. The gold haired beard didn't hide the mark of treachery that continued across his chest and upper abdomen. The man who creased his body left him for dead lying on the field of battle amongst the bodies of those who swore to serve him. More than a decade after the wound was given, Gormr could still see the blow as clearly as the day it was made.

His chain shirt covered him well. The round shield bore more scars than Gormr did, but it still was strong enough to do its duty for him. His sword was sharp, serviceable and ready to bite yet another enemy and drink of their blood. A fresh helmet, not bearing a single scar of battle yet, his eyes and nose covered by a solid layer of steel. About him, his men were similarly dressed and just as eager to join the fray that was closing.

They stayed still and silent as the first guards came into view. Behind them was a wagon, gilded and bearing the standard of the Jarl Erlingr. One man drove the horses, while two others sat indignantly outside the comforts of the wagon. More guards followed, their number equal to those in the lead. That they were mounted meant nothing to Gormr. They would simply use the horses to take them from one place to another. Once any fight commenced, they would dismount, and fight as men should. On their own feet.

When the wagon passed them, Gormr waved his hand. His men rose in the mist, running for the wall that kept the ignorant away from their land. They made no sound until they cleared the wall. Only then, their great war cries split the air. Several of Gormr's warband jumped from the wall straight to the horse riding guards, pulling them from their mounts. Other ambushers, either knowing or realizing what was happening, landed near the fallen foe men, quickly killing them while they were prone.

Gormr approached the nearest rider, striking the beast's face with his sword's pommel, stunning the mount. He then grabbed the rider, pulling him from his saddle, and crushing his throat with a booted foot. The remainder of the rear guard were off their mounts, and the fighting commenced in earnest. Cries of rage, screams of pain and the final sounds of the dying filled the air. Gormr took the first blow aimed at him on his shield, pushing the attacker back as he swung his blade low. The other man's shield was too high, not stopping the blow crashing into his hip. The mail of his foe slowed the passage of the blade, but not enough to stop the mortal wound sending him to the ground. Gormr stepped over the dying man, moving toward the front of the wagon. The action of the vanguard held the wagon in place as the guards yelled and charged around the stationary wagon.

He side stepped one wild blow, driving his sword through the man's gut, spinning around to free the weapon and aim a blow at the back of another running guard. He felled the second man without loosing his stride. He knew that the remainder of his band were eagerly fighting the guardsmen. When he reached the front of the wagon, he climbed up and ran the driver through. The other men cowered like frightened girls, and he contemptuously sent them to face their ancestors stinking of cowardice. Two of the guard clambered up to attack Gromr. He laughed heartily as he stopped one blow with his shield and parried the other.

"Now this is making it worth while." He let one of the attackers flail uselessly against his shield while he focused on the man he was parrying. With a wild grin and a louder laugh, he kicked the man bashing his shield, forcing him from the wagon and allowing him to use his shield against the other warrior. Even with the rocking of the wagon, the two men traded blows that tested each other's defence. The loud thuds of the swords striking shields soon dominated the area, until there was no other sounds of battle than the two locked in their own personal struggle.

"You have earned your place in Valhalla." Gromr's sword sparked off the edge of his enemy's shield. "I will be honoured to send such a warrior there."

His enemy grinned, feinting a blow at Gromr's head. "It will be I who will be honoured sending you to the Halls. Particularly since my Jarl didn't get the chance when he tried."

Gormr returned the grin. "You will not get the chance either." He pushed himself forward, shoving his foe, and himself, off the wagon. The two men hit the ground, rolling and loosing their shields before reaching their feet. All the other warriors stood back, watching the duel unfold before them. The two traded blows that the other parried easily, before Gromr swung for the man's chest. The blow was parried, but Gromr's blade was coming back from the other side, shearing into the man's chest from his off side. The look of shock, surprise and finally respect faded from his eyes as he slumped to the ground.

Gromr looked to find a few of his men still alive, but all of Erlingr's men dead. He strode to the wagon's door, his chain shirt covered in the blood of his foes and yanked the door open. He took a step up, reaching in and grabbing the first limb he could feel. With a yelp of fear, the hand maiden was pulled clear. The young blonde looked like a deer trapped by wolves as she looked at Gormr's clear blue eyes.

"To the victors!" He tossed the woman to his band, who wasted little time in stripping her of her clothing and pinning her to the ground. Gormr took the step again, grabbing the only other one left in the wagon. Once their feet hit the ground, the Hand maiden's scream announced that her enjoyment had commenced. He kept a firm grip of Anja's arm while he watched his men enjoy their captive. When the first of the surivors finished, he made way for the next.

"Be grateful, Anja Erlingsdottir, that it is not you being pinned down there like she is. But look on at her fate. It still might be yours if you are not careful."

The woman's screams changed from fear to something else even more primal. The men all took their turn at her until all were finished. The one that held her arms dragged her to her feet, easily slinging her over his shoulder. The rest took their time gathering all the items of value, including those horses that didn't run off, and readied themselves to leave.

"This has been a fine day. Our foe has been struck a savage blow, and the worst is yet to come." He viciously slapped Anja's rump. "Move wench! We're heading home."

The two women remain huddled together within the carriage as the sound of butchery and bloodshed echoed all around them, not daring to look out of the windows or make their presence known. Blonde Helga whimpered with terror as she clung helplessly to her mistress, but red-haired Anja remained silent and still, her hands clutching the maid and her blue eyes flashing with angry fire. The truth was that she too was frightened, but she would never have confessed it, nor allowed it to show in her expression. Whoever had dared to attack her entourage must be fatally stupid, perhaps foreigners who did not recognize her father’s arms. Fools. They would know soon enough. Both women listened with rising fear, one’s obvious, the other’s concealed, as the number of individual skirmishes steadily fell, until an eerie silence, the silence of death, surrounded them. Anja was in shock. All of her guards, all of her escort. Surely they were not all-

The carriage door was suddenly wrenched open, and the tall, solid figure of an armored man cast a shadow upon the women within. Helga was suddenly seized by a strong arm and hauled from the carriage as if she were a doll, her and Anja’s combined grasp not enough to save her. The frightened girl looked up into her captor’s blue eyes, whimpering with terror as if she expected him to kill her. Instead the maid was flung to his waiting men, and Anja watched with horror as they tore the screaming girl’s clothing away and pinned her to the ground. As innocent as she was in carnal matters, the Jarlsdottir had no doubts as to the warriors’ intentions, and prepared to make an escape out of the opposing door lest she share poor Helga’s fate. But the strong arm returned and grasped hers in a vice-like grip, dragging the young noblewoman out into the bright sunlight despite her struggles and protestations. Anja put up a fierce fight as she was brought to her feet, determined not to be thrown to the wolves as her maid had been, but the stranger’s grip never once faltered, and she was forced to watch and listen to Helga’s repeated ravishing.

Helga had been a virgin, and thus her screams were initially those of pain as well as fear. As her body became more accustomed to the abuse heaped upon it, the girl struggled less and less, her cries taking on a new ecstatic quality as the lusty men had their way with her. Soon the girl’s hips were rising to meet theirs, her breasts bouncing with each savage thrust as pure, pleasurable instinct took control, forcing her to wriggle and scream with bliss again and again, until each man had filled her with his seed. Moaning and limp with exhaustion, Helga allowed herself to be thrown over one man’s shoulder and carried away, pearly fluid trickling over her snow white thighs.

Anja had watched the scene in horror and disgust, feeling as though she would be sick as her maid was so horribly used. She continued to struggle and demand that they stop, that Helga was not a slave and therefore could not be used so. She was about reveal her father’s name when the ruffian who held her did so for her, causing her to look up into his blue eyes with unconcealed shock. If they knew who she was, if they knew she was a Jarlsdottir, if they knew her father was Jarl Erlingr Snorrasson, why did they dare to treat her and her entourage so? Were they mad? Suicidal? Surely no sane man would risk her father’s wrath. Who were these men? What was their motive for committing such vile acts against her? Would they hold her for ransom? Surely they had not done all this simply to rape Helga and herself! Or had they? When the men had finished abusing the maid and had begun to seize everything of value, Anja’s rage returned and she again struggled furiously, her blue eyes flashing and her cheeks and lips reddened with fury as she shouted “Thieves! Dogs! Barbaric monsters! I curse you! I spit on your bones! My father will see you dead for this outrage! You will all be eunuchs before you have Hel for your bedfellow!”

Anja was interrupted by the scarred man’s cryptic announcement to his fellows, but unable to decipher its meaning before he had given her a hard smack upon the rear and ordered her along as if she were some common ship girl. She had never been struck in her entire life, and to be struck by such a filthy mongrel, and in such a place, was more outrage than she could stand. If Anja had been angry before, she was furious now, and with a cry of “I am not your wench, wretch!” she whirled around with her arm outstretched, intending to strike his scarred cheek with her uncallused palm.

Gromr ignored the cries of Anja as his men gathered the rightful spoils of their raid. Her own father had done similar time and time again while Gromr served him, and probably continued to do so since Erlingr tried to kill him.

“I am not your wench, wretch!” Gromr turned to see her hand sailing through the air before it connected with his cheek with a loud blow. His head barely moved from her strike. The men about laughed and cheered the spirited woman. Gromr smiled cruelly, and returned the favour in kind. The flat of his hand caught the side of Anja's face. The impact sounded like a crack of thunder, and the force sent her sprawling to the ground.

"Don't do that again, Anja Erlingsdottir. The next one will be worse." Gromr reached down and hauled her to her feet with little mercy. He led the remains of the warband down the wall, until they came to a gap low enough to allow the horses to pass through. The animals were agitated as soon as the last one passed through the wall. But Gromr's men were used to the effects the land had on horses, and held then firm and controlled their movements. The gray mist thickened about them as they closed on the blasted trees that marked the outer edges of the Wildlands.

"There are too many horses for us to lead through. We will leave them at the safe place, then send others to bring them back later." Gromr walked slowly, his head moving constantly, checking as many directions as possible. His men all did the same, even when fighting to control increasingly terrified beasts.

After about 30 minutes of careful movement, they reached a cave, partially blocked by a sturdy palisade. The gate was opened, and the horses were led in, then closed in. Without pause, the continued deeper into the strange, blighted landscape. Within minutes, the air cleared of the gray, cloying mist. But what it revealed made many wish the mist had remained. The land was bent and twisted in ways that defied logic and understanding. The ground appeared to drop away sharply in front of them, yet when their feet touch the ground, it was flat as a plate.

Gromr slapped his hand over Anja's eyes as the air about them filled with a bitterly sweet taste. Helga's eyes were similarly covered and all the men closed their eyes hard. The taste overwhelmed every sense before their world was filled with a light from hundreds of suns. Immediately following the light was a thunderclap that shook them so hard that their guts almost turned to jelly. Gromr and his men opened their eyes, and continued the way through the woods on wobbling legs. Like the landscape, the plants and trees seemed to clash with a riot of colours that defied description and comprehension. Some of the plants moved and snapped at them as they passed. One man lashed out with his sword, removing part of the plant's mouth, forcing it to retreat, writhing as if it was in pain.

Through the chaos the warband moved with caution and care. Twice more, they stopped for the glowing blast that occurred close to them. The last blast caused a gust of freezing cold air to wash over them. But they finally reached a place where the land was normal, the air was full of summer's warmth and light. There were fields of crops, along with some cattle. But dominating the calm within the storm, was a castle. It lacked the elegance of the Jarl's homes, but it made up for it in a rather brutal efficiency. The stones were large, worn but sturdy. The walls were high enough, and it was surrounded by a ditch full if sharpened stakes.

"Welcome to your new home, Anja Erlingsdottir. Welcome to Gromsland." The drawbridge was lowered long enough for the warband to enter the castle. Within, bondsmen and slaves hurried about performing their duties, not looking at the warriors as they passed. Gromr led them into the main keep, and straight to his main hall. The remaining warriors sworn to his service entered, cheers filling the hall.

"Brothers! Many of our number lay on the field with the dead foe. They numbered more than us, but they were valiant foes who deserve to stand in the Halls of Valhalla." The room filled with cheers for those who died as warriors. "Of course, death in battle is bettered only by one thing. Dying in a victorious battle!" The roar was louder. "But, we return home with loot and spoils of our successful raid against Erlingr Snorrason." The cheers were deafening, including the pounding of weapon hilts on the tables.

The man who carried Helga dropped her to the floor, and stood back. "Brothers, those of you who stood guard here shall partake of the woman we brought back." Men soon gathered around Helga, carrying her over to a spot where cushions were scattered on the cold stone floor. She was thrown on her back as the first of the men took their pleasure from the young blonde.

"Come, Jarlsdottir. You have traveled far and need refreshments. I am sorry that it will not be your normal fare, but it is the best this place has to offer one such as yourself." He waved his hand as he dragged the young woman over to a chair, shoving her into it. A young woman, barely dressed, carried a platter of food to Anja, placing it before her and running off. Cooked beef, cheese, bread and some fruits shared the space. A similar platter, which larger servings, appeared before Gromr. "Eat, Anja Erlingsdottir."

Gromr ate slowly, splitting his attention between the two captive women. While Anja sat at his side, Helga continued to be ravished by Gromr's men. The sounds coming from them told him that everyone was enjoying the sporting going on.

"She seems to be settling in well. The men certainly like her, and she likes what they are doing to her. It's a good omen for you both, Anja." Gromr looked Anja over for the first time sine he captured her. Even the bruise forming on the side of her face did little to detract form her beauty. The fiery colour of her hair showed up her complexion well, and would make her cheeks and lips stand out when they flushed. The expensive dress she wore spoke well of the figure underneath. She was not bony nor thin, so she would be comfortable while underneath him. He would indeed get much enjoyment out of her when the time came. If rumour was right, she was spoiled and used to getting her way. The thought of showing her a totally different way of life amused him. But through her, he would get his long awaited revenge on Erlingr Snorrason. A revenge much sweeter than running his sword through the man's gut and watching him die slowly.

Anja’s hand connected as hard as it could with the scarred man’s cheek, her palm stinging from the force of the blow. It gave her a momentary feeling of satisfaction and control, but such emotions were violently dashed away as he struck her in the same manner with his larger, stronger hand, the blow so hard that it knocked the girl off her feet and sent her sprawling upon the earth. The pain! The shock! Anja was stunned, her blue eyes wide as she lay in a crimson heap at the man’s feet, nursing her burning cheek and making tiny sounds of pain. She looked up at the beast towering over her, and this time her eyes were filled with fear and confusion. He had struck her. How could he dare to strike her?

"Don't do that again, Anja Erlingsdottir. The next one will be worse."

Anja let out a cry of protest as she was suddenly dragged to her feet, struggling once again as she was half-dragged and half-shoved into the thick mists of the Wildlands. Only madmen and suicides ever ventured into this wholly unnatural strip of land, and it was the very last place on earth the Jarlsdottir wanted to be. But the scarred man held her in an uncompromising grip, dragging and pushing her deeper and deeper into the damned realm. As the mist cleared away, Anja’s senses reeled at the twisted, corrupted world around her, causing her to cease her struggles as her brain tried desperately to make sense of it all. The very earth was warped into bizarre shapes and angles, spiraling into high towers or suddenly dropping into sharp cliffs. The Jarlsdottir received the worst fright of her life as her captor appeared to step over the edge of a high cliff with her in tow, letting out a scream until her feet unexpectedly continued to tread upon solid earth. Looking back, the normally fearless girl was shocked to find no sign of the cliff which had appeared to be so solid but a moment before. As they marched along, on odd, sweetly bitter taste filled her mouth, but Anja had no time to discover its source before the scarred man suddenly clapped his hand over her eyes, startling her and causing her to once again struggle and protest. While Anja struggled, Helga clung to the man who carried her and shielded her eyes, somehow knowing that his actions were meant to protect her. The blinding flash of light burst in upon them, and the two women’s screams were drowned by the deafening, earthshaking thunderclap that followed. The sonic force was so great that it seemed to momentarily lame the Jarlsdottir, forcing the scarred man to support her until she had once more regained her footing.

The whole journey was like a nightmare. Unnaturally colored foliage, plants that nipped at one’s heels and let out metallic shrieks of pain when injured, multiple blasts of unfettered elemental power. What was Anja to think other than she had gone mad? It was only when they reached a portion of land which appeared perfectly normal that she felt as though she were awakening from her nightmare, but it was not over. Not yet. The castle before her – roughly hewn, sturdy, and surrounded by a spear-filled ditch – filled her with a horrible foreboding, and as the scarred man welcomed her to Gromsland, calling it her “new home,” the normally fearless girl felt her blood grow icy within her veins. Again she struggled to break free, but was dragged inside with as much effort as if she had been a ragdoll, and after passing a whirlwind of servants and slaves, many scantily clad, she and Helga found themselves in a great hall, their eyes widening at the sight of so many more warriors. Anja looked about at the men with a mixture of fear and hatred as they cheered the death of her entourage, and her lips drew back from her teeth in the resemblance of a snarling she-wolf as they seemed to find particular pleasure in affronting her father. How did they know her father? Why were they his enemies? What had she to do with their suicidal enmity? One thing was for certain; she would make them pay. Every single one of them.

Helga yet out a little cry as she was suddenly dropped to her feet, her blue eyes looking around her with nervousness to see so many men staring lustfully at her vulnerable, desirable body. When the scarred man gave them permission to enjoy her, the girl’s expression became one of both fear and excitement; fear of these men, yet excited to feel more of the exquisite pleasure she had experienced before. Soon Helga had been carried to and tossed upon the cushioned floor, and her wish was granted as the band of warriors began to slake their lusts upon her. At first the men pinned her down as before, but when it became clear that she was a willing, if not eager, participant in her violation, they released her limbs so she could entwine them around the muscular torso of each man as he assaulted her. Unable to help herself, Helga once more arched and writhed and screamed as raw sexual gratification reverberated within her, overwhelming her again and again as so many men thrust their steely swords into her scalding sheath.

Anja was disgusted by the sight and sound of her maid’s ravishing, wanting to save her, yet shocked that Helga was not resisting. She was distracted as the scarred man, who seemed to be the leader of the scoundrels, addressed her with what otherwise would have been politeness, had he not dragged her to a table and shoved her into a chair. This brought back the angry flush in her cheeks, and the Jarlsdottir gripped the arms of her chair tightly in order to prevent herself from raking his already marked face with her nails. She was hungry, quite hungry indeed, but she would not allow herself to show such a weakness, ignoring the plate and her “host” as if they were not worthy of her notice. All the while, her mind was at work, wondering what her fate was to be. Surely they would have raped her by now if that was their only intent. Again she thought of ransom, but this abuse of her and her entourage seemed to be fueled by the desire to affront her father more than the need for money. Gromsland… Was the scarred man the Gromr after which this place of order within disorder was named? Gromr was not an uncommon name in Nordland. Indeed, there was a shrine to a beloved warrior of her father’s in the great temple with just such a name. A Gromr Ragnarsson, who was celebrated for dying bravely in battle with the enemy. That had been ten years ago, when she had been but a girl of nine. She smirked ironically to herself. As if this scarred beast could compare to such a man.

"She seems to be settling in well. The men certainly like her, and she likes what they are doing to her. It's a good omen for you both, Anja."

Instantly the lightning flashed within her eyes, and the proud Jarlsdottir turned to face the speaker, glaring into his eyes in a way which had cowed many men before him as she replied in a tone of icy fury. “You will address me as ‘Jarlsdottir.’ No man, or beast, who sees a good omen in the violation of a free woman of Nordland will ever be allowed to utter my birth name. You know my name, but you know not me. May I ask the name of my gracious host, who will be soon little more than bloodstained rags? You speak of my father as if you knew him. If you did, you would also know the suicidal idiocy of your actions. Why have you brought me to this damned place? Ransom I suppose. Well I can assure you, Sir, that you and your men will get exactly what you deserve, which is more than you will be able to stomach…” Anja was beautiful at this moment, her blue eyes alight, her cheeks and lips scarlet as she grinned scornfully and stared pointedly at the man’s scar. “Or should I say ‘face’?”

Gromr caught the flash of Anja's internal fire in her eyes as she glared at him. He let his grin stay firmly entrenched on his face as she spoke her mind. Her voice was colder than the Nordland winter as she leveled her demands and threats. He looked at some of his closer companions, his eyebrows lifting in humour at her reference to "bloodstained rags". But what finally broke his poor facade was her final verbal jab, along with the look of delight that it gave her.

Gromr roared with laughter, which brought all activity in the hall to a halt. He stood up, letting his laughter fade until he stood straight. "Behold, the true Jarlsdottir. This one has the fire of her father within her blood, as it shows in her natural crown. Regarding the woman that sat at your side in the wagon, she is both spoils and a woman. We are Nordlanders, and our blood is hot. A woman foolish enough to allow herself to be captured deserves to serve the men brave enough to take her." Gromr turned to look at Anja. "Even the mighty Erlingr Snorrason took Nordlander women of those he defeated to his bed to slake his lusts. But only those of the highest levels of birth."

He stepped away form his place at the table, allowing him the freedom to move his arms as he spoke to the entire hall. "Who am I, our most important guest asks. I am Gromr Ragnarsson, one time warrior in the service of the betrayer, Erlingr Snorrason. And this, Anja Erlingsdottir," Gromr trailed a finger down the scar she used his her verbal attack, "was given to me by Erlingr himself, rather than share with me and mine what was rightfully ours. His blow laid me low, unconscious. He left me for dead, the remainder of my men who were with me that day were dead. He left us to feed the ravens, not even honouring us with a proper funeral. If it weren't for the muddy field I fell in, I would have died. I found a woman who healed me, and I made my way here. Since that day, I have been waiting to get my revenge on Erlingr.

"When I heard that you were being sent to see if Jarl Ulfr was a worthy husband, our time to get revenge had truly come. Erlingr will think that Ulfr has kidnapped you, while Ulfr thinks that Erlingr is simply using you as an excuse to attack him." Gromr rushed to Anja's side, his hand wrapping around the front of her throat, lifting her to her feet. "You are not here to be ransomed. You are here to suffer for the sins of your father, Anja Erlingsdottir."

Gromr turned her so her back was to the table. He pushed aside the platter of food, lifting slamming her back onto the table. One of Gromr's men walked over, dropping the two coils of rope on the table. Gromr quickly grabbed Anja's left arm and left leg, pulling them together so her wrist was close to her ankle. He held them together while the other man tied her limbs together; wrist to ankle, then once they were bared, elbow to knee. The same was repeated to the other side, leaving Anja teetering on the table. He took out a dagger, slicing the sleeves of the dress from wrist to neckline, then sliced the dress down the centre from top to bottom. With brutal efficiency, he exposed Anja to the entire room, but mostly for his own pleasure.

"The Gods be praised that Erlingr's loins were able to grow such a beauty as this. Words spoken of the Jarlsdottir do no justice to the vision displayed before me." He slowly and lewdly looked over Anja, her bounties clearly displayed. Generous breasts laid lower than normal due to her lying on her back gave way to a narrow and flat waist that flared into equally generous hips. Her prized treasure was wide open, ready to receive what the Gods made it for, and he saw that her rear end was perfect. "Pity we're not on a ship to do this properly. This one is cushioned well."

Gromr took a step back, easily lifting off his chain shirt and dropping it off to one side. His helm was pulled off by the chain shirt, bouncing on the floor away from his feet. His long blonde hair was drawn back into a single, thick braid that stopped half way down his back. With a feral grin, he worked his breeches loose, allowing them to drop around his ankles. His cock was fully erect, standing proud and ready. He shuffled forward until the tip of his cock rested against the upper portions of her cunt. One hand grabbed a thigh forcefully, the other made the slight adjustment to his positioning. He looked up to Anja's face, leaning forward slightly. The man who had help tie her up grabbed her head, pushing it up until her chin was pressed against her chest. Immediately after that, Gromr rammed himself into Anja until he was completely buried within.

He felt the crush of the virgin canal clamping down on the intruder from the pain, along with the flood of her virginal blood. He pulled himself out partially, the shaft covered in the glistening scarlet proof that Anja was no longer a virgin. He slammed himself back into her. The man holding her head lowered her head a chuckle. Gromr ignored everything else in the room. When he heard of Anja's planned travel, he stopped using the slaves they had gathered in previous raids. He was full, and he planned on emptying himself completely into Anja on her capture. He took hold of both thighs, and brutally took her on the table in the hall. The sounds of their bodies slapping echoed through the hall, along with the cries and sounds of those in action. Gromr was pleased at how well her body cushioned his hard thrusts; how well her breasts moved with each rock of her body. But his enforced abstinence coupled with her tight, velvet passage worked to bring her first use to a rapid completion. He roared as his cock swelled and almost exploded. Powerful geysers of his cum filled what little space was available within her.

"In time, Anja, you will make a very good slave. All you need is more practice."

His men roared, cheering the leader on his most recent victory.

Anja’s expression of cruel mirth fell instantly as the scarred man boomed with laughter, becoming one of flushed anger and disgust as she glared at him with eyes of fire and ice. How dare he laugh at what she had to say? The entire hall became quiet and still as all eyes turned upon the laughing man, and the Jarlsdottir gripped the arms of her chair ever more tightly to prevent herself from hurling herself at him and marring what untouched features he had. She listened to him in simmering silence, her expression clearly displaying the disdain she felt for any man who could consider a Nordlandish woman as mere spoils and property. The women of the south were free game, but women of the north were untouchable, sacred, blessed by the gods, not playthings to be used for one’s sick pleasures. When he accused her own father, Jarl Erlingr, of ravishing Nordlandish noblewomen himself, the flames of anger rose within her blue eyes, and she could not help but hiss “Liar…” just loud enough for him to hear.

Her eyes followed him as he stepped a few paces away, apparently unfazed by her accusation as he continued his speech. Some of the anger drained from Anja’s face and her blue eyes widened with shock as he claimed to be Gromr Ragnarsson, but it was only a momentary reaction, and the heat of her anger returned with even greater force. Liar, she thought to herself. She should have expected such a moral-less man to slander the name of Gromr Ragnarsson to make himself seem greater than he was. Had she not seen the vessel containing Ragnarsson’s ashes? Had she not made sacrifices at the temple in his name? Had not her father told her with what honor he had fallen in battle? Clearly this… beast did not know that Ragnarsson was dead, or he would not have taken his colors for his own. The rest of his tale seemed credible enough, apart from his allegation that her father had betrayed him. Falsehood after falsehood! It was far more likely that he had betrayed her father, and was now angry to have gotten his just desserts. His scar was not pretty, but he had lived, had he not? He should have thanked the gods and made something better of himself. Better then a lying dog roaming the countryside for women to ravish and ransom.

If Anja had felt even the slightest molecule of respect for the pretender, she now nothing but loathing for him, as if he had been the most unclean substance on Midgard, not even fit to be in her presence. Looking down and beginning to clean her nails as if he were not worthy of her notice, the Jarlsdottir nonetheless continued to listen to what she considered to be his self-aggrandizing babble, but his last statement seemed to awaken her with an electric shock.

"When I heard that you were being sent to see if Jarl Ulfr was a worthy husband, our time to get revenge had truly come. Erlingr will think that Ulfr has kidnapped you, while Ulfr thinks that Erlingr is simply using you as an excuse to attack him."

Until then, Anja had not realized how her kidnapping would affect the relationship between her father and Jarl Ulfr. She had assumed that it would be obvious to both parties that she had been abducted by a third. It was the only solution that made sense to her, but to her father… to Jarl Ulfr… The horrible pieces of the pretender’s plan came together in her mind, Anja’s face becoming a pale mask of horror as she realized his goal: war. Bloody, brutal war between two bordering lands. Her father’s lands, his title, his life were all at stake, but before she could leap to her feet in protest, the man’s hand seemed to strike with the suddenness of a viper, grasping her slender throat in an iron, vice-like grip and hauling her to her feet. The anger had vanished from Anja’s eyes, the blue orbs wide and filled with terror as they looked into her attacker’s. Her short life flashed before her eyes as she prepared to be strangled to death, and her expression of pale fright only intensified as he drew her forcibly closer and whispered

"You are not here to be ransomed. You are here to suffer for the sins of your father, Anja Erlingsdottir."

Before she realized what was happening, Anja had been slammed upon the table, the force of the blow stunning her and nearly knocking the breath from her lungs. Her body went limp for a few moments, but when she became once more conscious of her surroundings, she found the scarred man holding her left leg and arm in place while one of his lackeys bound them together. Thrilling with alarm, Anja began to scream and struggle, her cries echoing throughout the great hall as she demanded that they stop, striking out at them with her two free limbs. Before long her left side was bound, and as the men began to work on her right, the Jarlsdottir put up an admirable fight. Screaming and thrashing like a hellcat, Anja managed to claw the scarred man with her nails and give his assistant a hard kick in the face before she was subdued, earning her a cheer of praise from the spectators who admired her spirit. Even once she had been helplessly bound in so awkward a position, her thighs spread lewdly, her back arched, the girl fought mightily against the ropes that held her, so desperately that they were sure to leave deep bruises. Then the scarred monster began to cut away her dress, and Anja screamed more frantically than before, realizing as if struck with a thunderbolt what her captor intended. “No! No! Stop it! Let me go! Help! Help!”

Anja’s cheeks burned with horror, terror, fury, and shame as her beautiful body was revealed for all to see, the humiliation almost more than she could bear as the men cheered and whistled. She now wore nothing but her sparkling gold and amber jewelry and the gold-embroidered band around her forehead marking her as a Jarlsdottir, her long fiery braids interwoven with crimson ribbons to match her now ruined gown. Anja’s full breasts bounced as she struggled, her thighs unable to close and protect her most precious treasure no matter how hard she tried. She knew what was coming, but it was only when her attacker began to undress and grin at her as if she was prey that the full force of her imminent deflowering came upon her, and she screamed and struggled with greater passion than she had up to that point. Helga, desperate to save her mistress' virginity, which was so much more valuable than her own, raced forward to her aid, only to be caught and held back by the last man to have lain with her. Considering how roughly he had ravished her, the man restrained her in a surprisingly gentle grasp.

Not so with Anja. Despite her struggles, despite her screams, the scarred beast’s filthy, obscene cock was pressed against her previously unseen, untouched pussy, and the other man forced her head forward, forcing her to watch what would happen next. It was not supposed to be like this. Not like this! For nineteen years Anja had carefully guarded and cultivated her virginity as she had been taught to do when she was young, waiting for the day she could at last yield it to a lawfully wedded husband, a great man she could respect and love. But now her most precious, irreplaceable treasure was about to be stolen from her by a lying, cowardly, scarred, ruthless, monster of a man, who valued her purity as nothing more than another notch upon his bedpost. Anja’s eyes filled with tears and she screamed once more for him to stop, but instead he thrust brutally into her unused sheath, forcing a shrill scream of pain, anguish, and misery from her as the thin veil of her innocence was cruelly torn away. Nothing on earth was more painful, physically, emotionally, or mentally than her deflowering. Her tight, unused inner walls tried desperately to accommodate the sudden invasion, feeling as if a fiery red-hot poker had been thrust there instead of an organ of flesh and blood. The tearing, burning pain was almost greater than she could stand, and as she caught sight of her virgin blood smeared upon his horrid spear, Anja Erlingsdottir began to weep in earnest, sobbing and screaming all throughout her violent violation.

It hurt. Oh, it hurt so much! Like nothing Anja had ever felt before. Her rapist did nothing to ease the pain or make her deflowering any less awful for her. It was an act of conquest and power, nothing more. She felt him use her for his pleasure as if she had been a mere rag, a mere object, not a living, breathing, thinking, feeling creature who should have had some choice in the matter. And to rape her in public! To rape her in front of so many awful men who laughed and jeered as if they were happy she had lost the one thing she could never regain! Monsters! Cowards! Dogs! And he was the worst of them all. Her complete powerlessness, her complete helplessness was worse than anything. Had she been able to kick him, had she been able to strike him, had she been able to bite him, she would have received some relief for her anguished feelings. But as it was, all her anger, pain, and sorrow were unable to revenge themselves upon her attacker except in cries and tears. Coward. He had not even taken her like a man, giving her the chance to struggle and fight him off. Instead he had bound her so she could barely move, making it all too easy to take what he wanted. And for what? Because he hated her father? What had she to do with his insane vendetta? She did not even know him!

The assault was over quickly, and Anja sobbed harder than ever as she felt herself stained from within by his hot, awful seed. She felt dirty, unclean, as if every cell in her body had been violated in the worst possible way. The normally proud Jarlsdottir wanted nothing more than to flee, to hide her nakedness and shame, but even that was denied her as she remained helplessly bound upon the table, surrounded by cheering men who acted as if they had just won a great victory. The scarred man’s words, the knowledge of the life he now intended for her, lit a rage and hatred within her so intense that neither word was strong enough to fully convey what she felt. She hated him, more than anything in Midgard and beyond. He had ruined her, ruined her life, and now he thought to make a slave of her? As soon as she could, as soon as she got the chance, she would make him pay. Too choked with emotion to speak, Anja looked not at her attacker, but into space, as if staring into the future. Her blue eyes, though they sparkled with tears, were now filled with an unholy inferno burning hot enough to melt iron, and her emotions were perfectly clear to those who would observe them.

By the gods, she would make him pay.

Gromr stayed hard, buried within his newest prize. The warmth of her was comforting, as well as the way her newly violated depths clutched him. He felt an elation over the completion of another part of his overall plan to get his vengeance. He gazed on the naked form on the Jarlsdottir, amazed at the beauty his enemy managed to sire. He longed to make her into what he wanted of her. She would be his loyal, adoring little plaything who would do whatever he wanted, regardless of the circumstances. All the qualities of a slave, with a lot more benefits.

"Brothers, I am sure than some of you have yet to enjoy the blonde, and she is looking forward to being enjoyed by you. But if all have taken her, then let anyone who lusts for her to take her." He smiled and chuckled when he heard her playful cry as one of his men threw her to the padded floor, and dropped himself on her.

"It seems that you didn't like your first taking, Jarlsdottir. Maybe you need a little helping." While his cock remained inside of her, his thumb found the spot where her hood hid the most sensitive part of her pussy. Unlike his initial taking of her, the touch of his thumb was gentle. But the touch was also very stimulating. Circular motions were mixed with side way flickers. As he continued his manual assault, Gromr slowly moved his cock within Anja. He very slowly emptied her canal before with equal glacial speed filling her again. "Remember this feeling, Jarlsdottir. This is something that you will be feeling time and time again as you serve me." He relentlessly continued to play with that specific part of her until she finally succumbed to her first orgasm caused by someone else.

The men called out, congratulating him on making her call out in pleasure, commenting on her technique, choice of words, and some comparing her to the blonde who cried out soon after. Gromr was focused on Anja, taking in everything as she responded to her body's demands brought about by his thumb. He watched the change of her skin's colour and texture. He felt the way her muscles worked his buried flesh, as well as how she moved. He also wanted her to know that he could do that to her, and she had little choice but to do it.

"Rolf, bring over our little gift." While he waited, Gromr started to remove all of her jewelry, letting it gather in a small pile off to one side of her. The only item he left on her was the headband that proclaimed her status amongst the Nordlanders.

Rolf, a huge man with arms as large as most men's legs, arrived with a golden band of metal, shaped like two snakes intertwined, but facing in opposite directions. He handed it to Gromr, a proud expression on Rolf's face. Without a word be said by either man, Rolf lifted Anja enough to allow Gromr to get his hands behind Anja's neck with the band.

Gromr started to apply pressure on the band which resisted his efforts to make it move. His arm muscles straining, his knuckles and hands white from the pressure, the heads of the snakes started to part; one moving up, the other moving down. Sweat started beading on Gromr's forehead as the heads continued to part. He gritted his teeth, his breathing laboured as he fought to enforce his will over the metal. Finally, he got the heads apart enough to slip Anja's neck through the gap. But it was a tight fit including his fingers as well. But once her neck, Gromr started to release the tension that was holding the metal apart. When he finally released her torc, the heads were slightly more distant than when he was handed it.

"Perfect, Rolf. Until sunrise the day after tomorrow, you may have the use of the Black."

Rolf grinned from ear to ear, lowering Anja to the table. "Thank you, Gromr. You honour me greatly."

"No, I reward you well for work well done."

Gromr looked at Anja, with her new jewelry. "So, Jarlsdottir, how do you like your symbol of being owned? Wasn't Rolf talented to get it just the right size? Not too snug, but not too loose either. I think that makes you look far prettier than all those other trinkets you were wearing. Now, I shall use my newly claimed Jarlsdottir... again."

He started to thrust into Anja again, but this time he was not as brutal as the first time. This time, she was more lubricated by their combined juices, and her body had time to adjust to his size. He still took her forcefully and roughly, giving her the full length of his cock as he took her. To add to it, he paused buried to the hilt within her, teasing her clit with his thumb. Even with his lust slaked by the previous use, he found himself slowly starting to climb to his peak sooner than he would like. He half pulled himself out, and assaulted her clit with his thumb, working her to her climax again. But rather than enjoying the view, he resumed fucking her, roughly and fast. As her own orgasm was fading, he blasted more of his seed into her.

"I wonder what your old nurse, Vigdis, would think of her "little flame" serving a man in this manner? I am sure that she would be most upset knowing that you were being used so freely. Or do you think she would want you to submit to the man who claimed you as his own? It's not like you're ever going to marry anyone, so you may as well submit to me as you would to your husband, if you had found one." He slide himself deeper, slapping her ass with his groin. "But then, knowing how you have turned out, you would not have found a man worthy of you. The only way a man would get you as a wife was to show you how to be one. But luckily for you, you found a man who is going to show you how to serve a man properly."

Anja remained still upon the table as she attempted to hold back her sobs and restrain her tears. She hated showing any sign of weakness. Never before had she ever felt so helpless, so powerless, so utterly under someone else’s control. It was not supposed to be this way. She was a Jarlsdottir; strong, powerful, deserving respect and obedience from all those around her. But this man and his crew treated her as if she were no more than a common slave girl, and at this moment she could do nothing to resist or reestablish her rightful dominance. Anja shuddered as she felt the scarred man’s cock still throbbing within her, every long, thick, rock-hard inch of him buried within her scalding pussy. It was as if he were proving his dominance over her, letting her feel how deeply he penetrated her silky rippled depths, her inexperienced inner muscles stretched around the lusty conqueror almost too tightly to allow movement. The pain had begun to fade, but the anger and hate Anja felt for her defiler continued to burn hot within her veins. She refused to look at him as he invited his men to further enjoy Helga, more disgusted than ever that her maid could ever enjoy what was for her a horrible and painful ordeal.

"It seems that you didn't like your first taking, Jarlsdottir. Maybe you need a little helping."

The Jarlsdottir looked up at her captor with an expression of scorn and utter loathing, but in an instant her blue eyes went wide with shock and alarm as his thumb found her weakness. Anja had never masturbated, and neither had she been extensively schooled on the more pleasurable parts of the female anatomy, so it was no surprise that she knew nothing about the small pink nub which was to be her downfall. Without warning, the Jarlsdottir’s body was filled with bolt after bolt of Thor’s lightning, a pleasure unlike anything she had ever experienced before. After an initial cry of surprise and wonder, Anja bit her lip and tried desperately to smother any cries of pleasure, struggling both physically and mentally against the black magic which seemed to invade every inch of her flesh. It was wonderful. It was horrible. To feel pain at her rapist’s hand was one thing, but pleasure? That was a humiliation she could not endure. It could not be said that the Jarlsdottir of Erlingsland writhed and moaned like a ship girl during her violation! But moan and writhe Anja did, every inch of her milk-white skin flushing with a rosy mist as it tingled and burned with tongues of licking flame. She became more sensitive to the stimuli around her, the scarred wood of the table, the coarseness of the ropes, the roughness of her tormentor’s callused hands. Her full breasts bounced as she wriggled, their rosy nipples hardening and becoming sensitive to even the slightest breath of air. Anja could feel her pussy become hot and wet with her juices, her silky inner walls rippling around and caressing her attacker’s shaft as he began to slowly pump in and out of her slick tightness.

"Remember this feeling, Jarlsdottir. This is something that you will be feeling time and time again as you serve me."

“No… N-No… Stop… Ahhhnn! Stop!” The girl did all she could to resist the firestorm swelling within her, shaking her head as if to dispel the black magic flooding her veins and staining her honor. Anja was more beautiful than ever at that moment, her eyes closed, her cheeks and lips flushed, her mouth open in either a cry of pleasure, a cry of anguish, or a desperate gasp for breath. Her fiery, loosely braided hair seemed to frame her lovely face and emphasize the war of red and white upon its smooth canvas, a living work of art composed of feminine sensuality and hot-blooded vitality. Despite all of her efforts to suppress the growing inferno within her, the terrifying inner pressure was at last too great for Anja’s body to bear, and as Asgard’s gates were finally torn askew, the proud Jarlsdottir found herself screaming to the heavens with more passion than even poor Helga. She arched and writhed uncontrollably as every nerve and fiber of her being was saturated with ecstasy, her inner walls clamping down harder than ever around her captor’s steely sword. Every muscle in her body seemed to spasm in unison, causing some of the spectators to compare her writhing to that of a serpent. When at last her first orgasm had run its course, Anja fell limply upon the table, her body drained of energy from the intensity of her climax. The cheers erupting all around her were lost upon the girl, her blue eyes half-open, her lips parted as she panted for breath and seemed lost in a mist of confusion. The scarred man had done it. He had proved that the Jarlsdottir was a woman, and like other women she could be subdued and made to scream with pleasure.

Anja remained quiet and dazed for some time, during which she barely seemed to notice as her captor began to remove her jewelry. When she at last realized what he was doing, she cried out in wild protest, but the sight of the enormous Rolf made the girl shrink back with fear. She saw the serpentine golden band, and her eyes widened as she guessed what it was for, but just as she had begun to struggle, Rolf had lifted her and held her head and neck still in his meaty hands, her pussy still impaled by the scarred man as his hands disappeared behind her neck. In her current position, Anja dared not move or speak, her blue eyes looking up into those of her captor as he used all of his strength the bend the metal to his will. It was frightening to watch him as he strained his muscles and gritted his teeth with determination, but at last the torc slipped around her slender neck, and the proud Jarlsdottir had been collared. The girl let out a sob of humiliation and anger as she found herself collared like a common slave girl and lowered back to the table. She wanted to tear the horrid thing from her throat, but what chance did she have of removing it if it had taken all of her muscular captor’s strength to put it on? Anja was not a slave, she was a Jarlsdottir, and she would not let anyone forget it no matter what they made her wear.

Had she not been preoccupied with her own sad condition, Anja might have wondered who “the Black” was, and where they would have found such a specimen so far north, but soon the scarred man had turned triumphant eyes upon her again, and she returned his glance with a glare of pure hatred. Her red lips drew back from her white teeth in a wolf-like expression of fury as he made light of her situation, but she only had enough time to cry out with protest before she was once again being ravished by her virile captor. Nordlander men were famous for their stamina, and Anja was learning first-hand that their reputation was well-deserved. Though the scarred man was rough and forceful, he was not as brutal as he had been during her deflowering, and she found to her horror that her body now responded pleasurably to his deep, hard thrusts. Like her divine ancestor Freyja, Anja’s body had been designed for pleasure. Had she been born and raised into a humble lower class, she might have rejoiced at this new life of erotic servitude. But she had been born and raised as a proud Jarlsdottir, and Anja fought harder than ever to resist the raw sexual gratification surging through her veins. She cried out and struggled against her bonds with renewed zeal, many of those watching her comparing her to a wild beast in her efforts to escape. But soon the pleasure succeeded in turning her body against her mind, Anja’s hips rising to meet those of her attacker as his long, thick cock plunged again and again into the hot, tight embrace of her dripping pussy. Despite this, she continued to cry out for him to stop, such cries mingling with the more animalistic sounds of enjoyment coming from them both. Once again Anja experienced sexual climax, screaming and writhing with ecstasy though her mind was in anguish, and soon after she felt more of her captor’s hot, potent seed fill her deepest depths.

The Jarlsdottir wept with frustration as she once more fell limply upon the table, angry with herself almost as much as the scarred man for being unable to avoid adding yet another layer of shame to her already humiliating condition. She listened to her attacker’s triumphant, mocking words, becoming more and more angry while at the same time wondering how he had come to know so much about her past life. Vigdis… and the old nurse’s pet name for her… surely that was not common knowledge. When the man had done, Anja looked him straight in the eye. Her body was weaker, as was her voice, and her body was still flushed with pleasure, but the fiery, defiant heart of a Jarlsdottir beat within her breast, and her defiance crackled within her eyes like lightning as she replied “I serve no man, Pretender, and by the gods I will make you remember it. No matter what you do, no matter what trinkets you put upon me, I am a Jarlsdottir and have no master!”

Gromr liked that fact that Anja had spirit and fire and the willingness to use them both. She would be so used to being doted on by servants and others seeking her favour. But she was now in her new element. Naked and impaled upon his cock. He looked down on the body the Gods made, and he knew that she was meant to be enjoyed. She called to the heat within him. Every fibre of her being screamed to be taken, plowed repeatedly and filled with child creating seed. He could also see by the shape of her hips, if he wanted to put a child in her, she would bring forth health, vigourous heirs.

But regardless of how often she cried out, Gromr showed her she was a woman, and that he knew exactly how to make her enjoy her lot in life. Her first scream of passion was glorious, and as she got more used to it, it would get even better for the young woman. He adored the shading of her skin, covered in the rose tint of a woman fully enjoying her carnal delights.

Even with her weakened state, his words managed to burn through and awaken the fire within her once more. The very fire seemed to appear in her eyes, lighting them up to a point where they seemed to glow. Her voice found the steel in her spine. “I serve no man, Pretender, and by the gods I will make you remember it. No matter what you do, no matter what trinkets you put upon me, I am a Jarlsdottir and have no master!”

Gromr's eyes narrowed to twin slits of deep blue. His right hand left her thigh, flashing to her face, delivering another thunderous slap to her cheek. His hand then clamped down on her chin, turning her face towards his.

"Pretender? I am no pretender to anything nor anyone. Yes, you are a Jarlsdottir, and no one here will ever forget it. But right here, right now, you are mine in every sense of the word. That band of metal there tells anyone who sees it that you are the property of a man." His grip tightened painfully. "Your blonde companion is smart enough to know what her life is like now, and is embracing her new duties with vigour. You should consider the wisdom of your one time companion, and listen to what your body says." He leaned down, pressing the lower half of her body with his; pushing his hardened intruding flesh against her walls. His chest reached her breasts, flattening the softer flesh against his muscular frame. "It is going to be telling you the same message over and over again."

He stood himself upright, letting go of her face and sliding himself back into her hot, wet depths until he was completely sheathed in her once more. His left hand remained firmly holding her thigh, while his right came to rest on her rust coloured downy patch. His thumb dropped right over her weakness. With a grin that spoke clearly of his enjoyment, he started to take her yet again. He let the movements of their bodies move his thumb over her clit as he drove himself into and out of her willing body. He was more sated by the earlier efforts on her body, so his own climb to his peak took much longer, and he deliberately drew out her third use. He wanted to her climax many times before he was finished with her. He wanted her to know that he owned her, he commanded her body, regardless of what she thought. More importantly, he wanted her to have a welter of pleasurable feeling echoing around inside her mind in the quiet times to come. He wanted her to know Gromr Ragnarsson was able to make her feel the passion locked inside her passionate body.

His own face was flushed, and sweat covered it as he finally started his final climb to his own peak. But he was a man who had plenty of experience with women in this manner, and he knew his own body's warning signs. On one thrust, he continued pulling himself free for the first time since tearing her virginity away. He spun her around so she was side on to him. He turned her head to face him, his left hand pinning her head in place. He brought the almost saturated purple crowned rod near Anja's trapped face. He stroked it efficiently. After a few short moves of his hand, he shot out long strings of thick pearly liquid over Anja's face. From her forehead down to her mouth, he coated her face so that it slid down and spread out. With each spurt, Gromr grunted with pleasure. Pleasure of the feel of his seed leaving his body, along with the pleasure of what it would do to the Jarlsdottir.

He pulled her up into a sitting position, quickly untying her arms and legs. Her limbs free, he grabbed a handful of her bedraggled hair and pulled her off the table onto the floor.

"Come along, Jarlsdottir, time for you to get some rest." He used her hair as a leash, the speed of his walking kept her bent over. The cheers of his men, and the joyous cries of the blonde faded he led her further into the depths of the castle. He led her through halls, and down stairs through a seeming labyrinth of passageways. He brought her to a stop before a dark, iron bound wooden door. He released her hair, and his hand found her jaw once more. He pressed her against the cold, rough stone, staring at her face.

"Welcome to your own personal room. When you are not doing whatever duties you have been given, you will be here. Your own private chambers. The blonde will be kept with the other slaves, which will benefit her greatly. They will tell her all about what happens to those who don't obey their Masters.

"You, Jarlsdottir, are more fortunate than her. You only have one Master to please and obey. Me." He pulled her off the wall, allowing him to open the door. There was no light in the room that Anja was tossed into. The floor was covered with fresh straw, and in one corner, hidden in the darkness, was a pot for her ablutions. Gromr looked into the darkness, barely making out where she was in the feeble torch light of the corridor. "Sleep well, Jarlsdottir. You will need your rest."

Gromr closed and locked the door, returning to the hall where the men were still celebrating. He looked over at the blonde, who laid panting on the pile of cushions. Her golden hair near the peak of her legs didn't hide the blazing red of her well used pussy, and moving around a little more showed the near river of pearl flowing down between the cheeks of her ass.

"In all the fun, I didn't get to test her out." Gromr reached down, lifting the exhausted woman to her knees. She gasped in shock, fearfully looking up at her new assailant. He moved his slightly limp cock to her lips, then pushed it into her mouth. The blonde was confused, but she guessed his intent and parted her lips and teeth. She kept looking up at him, seeking some guidance for what she was expected to do. But he filled her mouth until he hit the back of her throat. He then slowly started to fuck her face. She kept her lips tightly ringed around him as he lost himself in the feel of her lips against his cock. Both hands combed her hair until he got a good grip. He continued to pump her face at a furious pace until he roared in pleasure.

Helga had no idea what she was supposed to do. She panicked, and tried to remove her mouth, but his grip kept her in place as he filled her mouth further. By accident more than intent, she swallowed some of his seed, but more escaped the seal of her lips, slipping onto her chest and breasts. She felt true fear that something had gone wrong with what he did to her.

Gromr pulled himself free, looking at the terrified young blonde kneeling before him. He saw his cum coating her chin, chest and tops of her breasts. He laughed loud and heartily, much to the girl's relief. "Next time, girl, swallow what the man gives you. If he wants it decorating your body, he will put it there himself." He turned to the nearest of his men. "Put her in the pen with the rest of the female slaves. Remind them that they are not to harm the new girl, under the usual penalties."

"Yes, my Jarl." The man grabbed her upper arm and lifted her to her feet. He partially dragged her away from the hall. She looked back at the men who had all used her sexually. She had a look of longing to them as she disappeared around the corner.

"Do you think that she will have more on her chin and chest before she gets to the pens?"

Gromr laughed at Rolf's comment. "If she doesn't, she will leak more than she already is. She is a Nordlander though. Her blood runs hot like ours, and she will need plenty of usage to cool it down. I don't see her doing much more around the castle apart from pleasing my brothers."

Rolf's massive hand clapped Gromor's shoulder. "You are no longer our brother. You are our Jarl. We finally laid our first blows against Erlingr. I am not the only one who saw that you claimed little of the spoils of previous raids. We know you have claimed Erlingrsdottir as your own, and none will gainsay you. But you have given us our honour back, as well as rewarding us. We are all proud to call you Jarl Gromr now."

The other men raised their voices in agreement. As their voices died down, the blonde's voice echoed in joyous exultation of another carnal use. The men laughed together.

"Well, then. Let my first command as your Jarl be this - go and rest, You have all earned it." Gromr went back to his place at the table. When he got there, he saw that his clothes and armour had been picked up. Not wasting anytime, he made his way back to his chambers. When he got there, his armour, helm and sword belt were on the dummy. He shed the remainder of his clothing, climbing into his bed, falling into a deep sleep.

Anja knew that her defiant reply would not please her captor, but the deafening slap to her already bruised cheek shocked her, the girl letting out a cry out pain as her face snapped violently to her right. Momentarily stunned, she had no opportunity to evade his hand as it clamped powerfully around her jaw, turning her face so that she was forced to look into his eyes. Blue eyes. Angry eyes. Eyes which looked at her as if she were indeed nothing more than a slave. In contrast, Anja’s eyes, also blue, were filled with a conflicting mixture of rage, hate, defiance, and pure terror. At this moment her fear was foremost in her thoughts and expression. She could feel the strength of his grip, and knew that he could very well break her jaw if he so chose. The girl stared helplessly into the scarred man’s eyes as he made his seething retort, letting out a muffled whimper as his hand squeezed her face painfully. Had she been unbound, had she been clothed, had she been in her father’s castle surrounded by guards and servants, she would have had the courage to tell this man to go to Hel, and then have assisted him in reaching the said destination. But as she was - bound, nude, violated, surrounded by enemies and barbarians, claimed as a slave by a scarred dog with a grip of steel – she was utterly helpless. Not once had Anja been previously punished for speaking her mind, venting her rage, or behaving as she liked, but she suddenly found herself in an alien world where she was expected to hold her tongue and mold herself according to the wishes of a scoundrel who had repeatedly raped her. And worse of all, he had made her body betray itself! This sudden powerlessness terrified the proud Jarlsdottir more than anything else she could possibly imagine. She was not lost at sea; she had been thrown to the sharks.

Anja shuddered, closing her eyes as her captor leaned over and upon her nude, supine body, his cock pressing into her as if he owned her pussy, his muscular chest flattening her previously untouched breasts. How she hated his present power over her. How she hated him! His mention of Helga, his advice that she follow “the blonde’s” example only fueled her anger and sense of betrayal. Helga had been her maid for a few years now, and was perhaps the closest thing the Jarlsdottir had to a friend and confidante. Anja had expected her to fight her violators as a freewoman should, to defy them, to help her mistress escape the horrid clutches of their leader. But no, Helga seemed to actually enjoy their usage of her, yielding with squeals of joy as yet another man dropped between her thighs. She was doing nothing to help her mistress. In Anja’s already enraged state of mind, Helga had betrayed her by giving in to their enemies, and it stung her to be abandoned by one she had always treated well. When she was being obeyed, Anja was not a violent person, but at this moment she wanted to beat everyone and everything with a scourge until they were all as helpless as she was. The girl knew that once she had the chance, they would all, including Helga, feel her wrath.

Anja’s jaw ached as the scarred man finally released it, but just as she thought that he had finished with her, he again began thrusting into her slick, pleasure-flushed pussy, his thumb mercilessly stimulating her newfound weakness. The girl cried out with shock and protest, frightened at her captor’s seemingly inhuman lust and stamina. Would he never be satisfied? Was she not humiliated enough? Again she tried desperately to fight the fiery tongues of pleasure licking her without mercy, her very fingertips tingling as pure carnal delight was forced into every nerve and fiber of her being. No matter how hard she struggled, no matter how hard she tried to block out the lightning crackling within her veins, Anja’s body continued to betray her, her hips rising to meet the thrusts of her ravisher, her lips uttering cries of passion as well as outrage. It did not take long for him to stoke the fires within her into a blazing inferno, and again the Jarlsdottir screamed and spasmed as she was once more forced to experience the ultimate pleasure, and all at the scarred man’s hand. But even then he was not done, and with each succeeding climax Anja grew weaker and weaker, her energy devoured by the heavenly flames which repeatedly assailed her. By the time her captor had finally pulled his conquering steel free, the girl had orgasmed a total of six times since the beginning of her assault. Anja was now weak as a ragdoll and exhausted, her body flushed and glistening with sweat as she gasped desperately for breath.

Burning, tingling, aglow with abused passion, the Jarlsdottir moaned weakly as she found herself suddenly upon her side, not realizing what was happening until her head had been pinned in place, prompting her to open her eyes. The sight of her violator’s glistening, engorged cock aimed at her face, being stroked by his other hand caused her blue eyes to go wide with horror, and she knew instantly what he intended to do. She screamed in protest, but her cries of “No! No! Nooo!” went unheeded, and Anja had only just managed to close her eyes before her lovely face was covered with spurt after spurt of the man’s hot, white, slippery, salty seed. This humiliation on top of all the rest she had suffered was too much for her, and the Jarlsdottir began to weep pitifully, her tears smearing and mixing with the offender’s cum as her limp body was pulled into a sitting position. Anja barely seemed to notice as she was untied, dark bruises standing out upon her white limbs like purple bands where the rope had bound her. Her fiery hair was indeed bedraggled at this point, one of her long braids half unwoven as her captor fastened his hand in her hair and dragged her off the table.

After being bound for so long, and after being weakened by so many orgasms, Anja had to learn how to stand all over again, and walking was even more difficult. One of her long crimson hair ribbons dragged along the floor beside her as she was pulled painfully along by her crowning glory, barely able to keep up with the scarred man’s unmerciful pace. More than once she stumbled and fell, forcing him to pull her up by the roots before continuing through the dizzying labyrinth of hallways. Though Anja groaned, whimpered, and occasionally sobbed, she was too weak to struggle or utter an articulate protest, and even when she was forced painfully against a cold, rough stone wall by her jaw, she did nothing but whimper, her eyes remaining closed. She heard his every word despite her closed eyes, his cruel voice seeming to echo within her head.

"Welcome to your own personal room. When you are not doing whatever duties you have been given, you will be here. Your own private chambers. The blonde will be kept with the other slaves, which will benefit her greatly. They will tell her all about what happens to those who don't obey their Masters.”

Again the mention of Helga. Again the suggestion that she should strive to be like the traitorous slut she had once trusted. Weak as she was, Anja still burned with an inner rage which rivaled Surt with its heat, and though she made no verbal protest, her heart seemed to retort “Anja Erlingsdottir has no master!”

"You, Jarlsdottir, are more fortunate than her. You only have one Master to please and obey. Me."

Almost before she knew what had happened, the girl found herself taken off the wall and tossed into a cold, dark cell, groaning as she landed hard upon an unyielding floor of straw-covered stone. She remained motionless and silent until the door had been closed and locked, leaving the Jarlsdottir in complete darkness but for a faint flickering slit beneath the door. It was then that Anja wept, sobbing as hard as her exhausted state would allow. After all they had done to her, this is how they treated her? No bath to cleanse herself of her shame, no bed to soothe her aching, burning, abused body, no meal to satisfy the hunger so great that it felt as though she were being devoured from within. Not so much as an ounce of kindness after subjecting her to so many humiliations and degradations. He had tortured her, torn away her most precious possession, and for what? Because he hated her father? What had she to do with her father’s actions? Why should she be punished for something he had supposedly done? Gromr Ragnarsson indeed. Did he think she was a simpleton? Everything he had said had been a lie, an excuse to do what he liked with her. Bastard. Dog! And now he was going to try to ruin her father by inciting war between him and Jarl Ulfr! She had to escape. She had to get back home to tell her father everything before he destroyed himself. But how? How?

Grabbing a handful of straw, Anja angrily wiped her captor’s seed from her face, growling as the fury rose within her. The jeers and laughter of his men echoed within her mind, causing her weak body to almost quake with pent-up rage. They had laughed at her. They had delighted in her suffering. By the gods, she would make them pay. Especially their scarred beast of a leader, whoever he really was. She would find out, and she would make him pay dearest of all. Shivering with cold, the girl curled into a fetal position for warmth, and as she at last drifted into a much-needed slumber, her fiery, defiant, vengeful heart continued to whisper “By the gods, I will make him pay…”

In contrast to her mistress, Helga was treated quite well after all of the men had finished with her, including their leader. She was allowed to bathe, given something to eat, and assigned her own cot within the slave’s quarters. Some of the more friendly slaves began to eagerly ask her questions about herself and “the redhead,” but Helga was too weak to make much conversation. She had looked around for her mistress but had not found her, and the kindhearted, loyal girl prayed that the Jarlsdottir was being treated kindly. As she lay down to sleep, Helga thought about all that had happened. Never before had the experienced anything so glorious, so satisfying as her multiple ravishings, but again and again her thoughts turned to the plight of her mistress. As a servant, her own virginity had not been worth very much, but as a Jarlsdottir, Anja’s virginity had been everything, and now it was gone. Though she had been busy, pleasurably so, during her mistress’ violations, she knew they had been cruel, and her sympathetic heart ached for her. She still did not understand why she and her mistress had been singled out, why they had treated Anja so much more harshly than herself. Was it because she had struggled? Because she had resisted? Helga knew Anja’s heart better than perhaps anyone else, and she knew that her fiery temper and defiant spirit would not break easily. She had an uneasy feeling before she finally fell asleep, sensing that her mistress would make more trouble than was probably good for her.

Gromr woke up refreshed, and a little sore from the previous day's fighting. But it was nothing out of the ordinary, considering the ferocity of the fighting. The Jarlsdottir had little to do with his soreness, as she had not put up any fight at all. Not that she could, with her arms bound to her legs the way they were. He rolled out of his bed, stretching and rolling his joints to help wake himself up.

He dressed in a tunic and breeches, and headed for the kitchens, rather than the main hall as he normally would. His arrival in the cavernous room almost brought the frantic activity to a halt. One quick pass of his gaze was enough to get everyone back to work, though more nervously than when he arrived. He head cook waddled over, openly nervous at the Jarl's arrival in his domain.

"Greetings, Barthi. I want bread with honey and a cup of milk readied for me to take to our newest addition." The cook sagged with relief, then he broke out with a smile. Even there, they had heard of the fire haired one that served their Jarl's pleasure on the main table. Rumour spoke of a great beauty unseen by mortal men before her arrival. Her companion was seen to be an enthusiastic girl, and the cook was already planning on trapping the new blonde and trying her. But the redhead was even more made for pleasure, as her cries were fuller of passion that the hot blonde. While his mind drifted over how he would take the blonde, he prepared the food as requested by the Jarl.

"Here you are, my lord. I'm sure that she'll enjoy it."

"She will if she is smart." Without saying anymore, Gromr headed off to the cell that was Anja's new home. How long she stayed there was her decision. If she did as she was told, without back answering or complaints, then she would be given a special place with the other slaves. But Gromr knew that it would take her a long time to learn enough to gain that reward. By the time she got there, her companion's belly would be noticeably swollen with the child that his men would have put in her from her frequent use. Since she was not anyone special, not in his eyes anyway, she would suffer at the whims of fate, and be with child as they saw fit.

Gromr slowed as he approached the door of Anja's cell. It was a cruel fate to have one such as her born a Jarlsdottir. Her body and spirit were destined for a life of carnal pleasures. Her body was sculpted by the Gods to be enjoyed, and for the woman to enjoy as well. Anja's cries of pleasure told him that he was right, that she was indeed brought to the world to serve a man's pleasure and be rewarded for it. He was obviously fated to be rewarded with her, after being left for dead by her cowardly father.

He picked up a torch from the wall, and opened her door. He took a step in, placing the tray on the floor. Even in the poor light, bedraggled from the previous day's efforts and use, Gromr still found her to be a luscious sample of womanhood that he desired to plow again just to hear her scream.

"It's morning, Jarlsdottir. I have brought you some food to break your fast. You will find it edible, and maybe even to your liking. Eat and rest, Jarlsdottir. You have busy times ahead."

He closed the door, locking it and returning the torch to the holder. He left the castle, walking to the boundary of his lands. The tall weathered plinths showed signs of the runes carved on them. Most were the same on each plinth, but there were others that were unique to that plinth. Each were ten feet tall, and four feet square; a single block of granite. He felt the warmth of the stone, as it helped to hold back the fury of the wildlands. He had spent many years studying them, trying to unlock their secrets so he could expand his lands further. He could safely double, if not treble the safe land within, if he knew how.

By the time he got back to the castle, the main hall was full of people eating their luncheon. He smiled to his people as he returned to the kitchen. Again, he ordered food from the cook, this time meat instead of honey. The tray was carried to Anja's cell. With only a single torch to supply light, he opened the door to her cell. He took a step in, placing the new tray on the floor, and picking up the old one. He paused to look at her, then closed the door and left her in the darkness. Gromr returned to the main hall, and ate with the rest of his people. They were in good spirits, and a number of the slaves were in use by his warriors. He saw Rolf with the Black, Ingwane, resting back as the deep chocolate brown woman fed him.

After he finished eating, Gromr was on his way to the smithy when one of the peasants approached. "Jarl, if I may speak with you?"

He turned to see Otkell, one of the many grain farmers that worked the land. "Yes, Oktell."

"My Jarl, I come to speak to you of your daughter, Thora. I seek to take her as my wife."

"I see. Why would my daughter be married to you?"

"I work hard, and I have made my own hut where she will live with me. I care about her, and she cares for me too."

"Find my daughter and bring her here to me."

Oktell nodded and raced off. He had prepared, since he was back with the young woman in less than a minute.

"Thora, as you have no living family, by Law, I stand for your father." He saw Thora nod, bowing her head slightly. "Oktell has spoken of his desire to take you as his wife. He has shown me that he is worthy. He says that you care for him too. Is this right, daughter?"

"Yes,.. Father. I care for him, and I think he will be a good husband for me."

Gromr smiled. "Stand before me, both of you." He took their hands, bringing them together. "We have no priests to formally bless this union. But with honest hearts, the Gods will see, and they will bless you. From this time on, you will be as husband and wife under the Law." He took Thora's head between his hands, kissing her crown softly. "Go now with your husband, my daughter. For you are no longer mine to command." He turned to Oktell. "Take my daughter into your care, and return to your home, and claim your wife as is your duty, and honour."

The young couple smiled, still holding hands as they left. Gromr felt better about another family forming in his home. Anyone who questioned the legitimacy of his declarations would need to choose their words carefully, lest they get a pointed reminder of his ability to rule. He granted them the right to be formally husband and wife, and if the Gods took offence, they would act against him, rather than those who he declared married.

He continued to the smithy, checking that the required stores were full, and all requirements were being met. He continued with the other skilled workers, happy with the results of his investigations.

The evening meal for Anja, once more delivered by Gromr, was nearly the same as the other two meals, except it was cheese instead of meat. He said nothing, and did nothing more that deliver her new food, and remove her previous meal. The meal in the main hall was jovial, with many light hearted contests between his warriors, with some slave as the spoils. More often than not, the victor would use her several times, then let the loser have a use of her too. Stories were told, including personal accounts of the last raid. Gromr was pleased with his people, and how they had built something in the middle of the untameable wildlands.


The following morning, when the cell door opened it was not Gromr that stood on the other side. An old woman, still spry, walked in carrying a bucket and a torch. She put the torch in a holder in the cell, and the door closed behind her and locked. She closed to where Anja lay, giver her a nudge.

"Wake up, Jarlsdottir." She reached into the bucket, pulling out a rag that she used to wash Anja's face. "We mustn't have you with flaking cum on your face." She rubbed throughly all over Anja's face and neck.

"You are your own worst enemy, Jarlsdottir. The more you fight your Master, the worse it will be for you. He was right to take you. This body of yours is meant to know a man's body. You should learn the joys of what they can do with it." She continued to wash Anja with the rag and cold water. "You are here because you fought too much. He lusts for you, Jarlsdottir. He keeps himself for you. He may relieve himself on some other slave, but you will be the one he will take."

When she finished cleaning Anja all over, the old woman quickly thrust her middle finger deep into Anja's private place. She pushed deep, then pulled her finger out, examining it under the torch light. "Ahhh... you're ripe. We must let the Jarl know about that. Who knows, he might want to put a child in your belly right away." She chuckled, then knocked on the door. "But then, the Jarl might want to keep your body as is while he enjoys it."

If the previous day had not been horrific enough for the captive Jarlsdottir, the next day had all the semblance of a living nightmare. Anja slept for many hours in the dank, chilly darkness, her body and mind attempting to recover and make sense of all that had happened to her. Curled into a ball upon the straw-laden floor, the girl perhaps tried to imagine herself back in the safety of her private chambers, snuggled between soft sheets and waiting for the sun to stream through her glass-paned windows. At last sunlight seemed to wash over her, but as Anja opened her eyes her every hope was shattered, smashed by the sight of the scarred monster who had so cruelly violated her. After so many hours in complete darkness, the torch he bore was too bright to bear and she shielded her eyes, terror rising foremost in her heart as she tried desperately to crawl away from heartless beast who no doubt intended to rape her again. Even in her pitiable state – nude, bruised, her red hair bedraggled and her expression one of fear – the Jarlsdottir was achingly beautiful, her every curve caressed by the flickering light her captor held aloft.

"It's morning, Jarlsdottir. I have brought you some food to break your fast. You will find it edible, and maybe even to your liking. Eat and rest, Jarlsdottir. You have busy times ahead."

Anja had not time enough to respond before the door was shut and bolted anew, the chamber once more saturated in pure darkness. She could hear her captor’s footsteps echoing down the empty corridor as he left her to her meal. It was then that the fury that had lain temporarily dormant in her heart rose in all its fiery heat, and the Jarlsdottir seemed to fly to the door, all fear drowned in her lust for freedom and vengeance. Possessed by the spirit of the berserker, the girl began to beat upon the immovable obstacle before her, lashing out with fist and foot in an attempt to break it asunder. All the while she screamed to be let out and rained down all the curses she knew upon the false Gromr’s head, her voice and violent struggle filling the hallway with her wild, unbroken spirit. Either her captor could not hear her, or he chose not to hear her, for no matter how hard she pounded upon the door, and no matter how shrilly she screamed, no one came to release or punish her. Anja began to suspect that she was all alone in this part of the castle, and as her energy began to wane, the weakened Jarlsdottir slid down the rough wooden surface, crumpling to the floor with a passionate sob.

Hot tears ran down the girl’s cheeks as she wept, indulging in self-pity as her mind went over all of her misfortunes. She had been abducted, stripped of all her possessions, bound, struck, raped over and over again before a jeering crowd, forced to scream like a whore, collared, her face covered in semen, and then tossed into a lightless cell as if she had been a criminal. And for what? Because her father had supposedly betrayed the false Gromr? Anja snorted mirthlessly as she thought of his ridiculous story, of his even more ridiculous claims to be Gromr Ragnarsson. Fool. Did he think she was a simpleton? And what had she to do with her father’s supposed actions? Was she her father’s advisor, that she should be punished in his stead? No. The scarred dog was merely a common criminal trying to justify the unjustifiable. Who was he? The girl was determined to know who he really was, the better to ensure he was punished when she escaped. Yes, the Jarlsdottir was determined to escape and have her revenge, and she was looking forward to the many ways in which she would have the beast and his men tortured. Thinking of her father, she remembered the scarred dog’s plan to use her disappearance to start a war between him and Jarl Ulfr, and an even greater desperation rose within her. She had to escape. She had to return to her father before he destroyed himself and all he had fought for. It had taken years to make Erlingsland what it was, and now… now…

In her agitation, Anja’s foot brushed against the tray her captor had left, reminding her of its existence for the first time since he had placed it there. Unable to see, the Jarlsdottir had to rely on touch, smell, and taste to discover what he had deigned to bring her, and though the extreme simplicity of the meal filled her with scorn, she was far too hungry to refuse it. The honeyed bread and milk were consumed in mere moments, and though it was not much, it was some small measure of comfort in that Helish place. It was frightening for the girl to look all around her with open eyes and see nothing, as if the gods had robbed her of her vision. Anja had never been fond of the dark, but now it was inescapable, pressing upon her like a suffocating black mantle. Rising to her feet, the Jarlsdottir started to cross the room with her hands held out before her, but was nearly tripped by some long, clothlike object amongst the straw. Stooping to feel what it was, Anja realized to both her joy and horror that it was the elaborately woven band proclaiming her noble status to all the Nordlands. It must have fallen off as she slept, and after embracing it to her bosom, the Jarlsdottir once more tied it around her brow with all of the solemnity of a warrior preparing for battle. They might take all else, but they would never take her birthright.

Unused to having nothing to amuse her, Anja did her best to think of things other than her helpless state, but nothing could drive away the darkness or the vivid memories which passed before her like visions from the Norns’ well. She attempted to rebraid her hair, doing the best she could with no light, no mirror, no comb, and no servant to assist her, and though the effect was more sloppy than she would have liked, it was passing for one in her condition. Hours passed during which Anja had nothing to do but relive her humiliations, and by the time her captor arrived to leave her next meal, she was once again in the throes of furious passion. Despite the brightness of the torchlight which burned her eyes, the Jarlsdottir hurled herself at her enemy like a wild tiger, but he was too quick for her, shutting and locking the door before she could come within two feet of him. Once again Anja beat upon the door and hurled insults and demands after him, and once again she was left in utter darkness and silence. Again she snapped up what little food had been given her, and again she fell into self-pitying reverie. A similar scene played out at dinnertime, only this time instead of pounding on the door, the Jarlsdottir put all of her energy towards trying to pry the serpentine torc – a symbol of her slavery – from her throat. Her feeble strength was nowhere near enough to budge the golden collar however, and it was with angry tears that she ate her last meal of the day, furious at her own helplessness, and wondering if she would be trapped in darkness for the rest of her life.

~*~

Again Anja was awakened by light, but she did not delude herself this time into thinking that it was sunlight shining in upon her. She was groggy from spending so many hours either asleep or without stimulus, and it was not until she was nudged that she sat up, her blue eyes going wide with surprise to find not the scarred man, but an elderly woman carrying a bucket. The torch she had brought now blazed from a holder on the wall, and before the girl could say anything the woman had begun to wash her face and neck with a wet rag. Anja made a motion as if to protest, for the water was freezing cold, but she seemed to realize that this was the closest thing to a bath she would be getting, so she bit down her indignation and allowed the old woman to proceed.

"You are your own worst enemy, Jarlsdottir. The more you fight your Master, the worse it will be for you. He was right to take you. This body of yours is meant to know a man's body. You should learn the joys of what they can do with it."

Though the girl remained silent, she curled up her lip in disgust, wondering that a woman who she had allowed to wash her could speak to her in such a way. Master indeed! Anja Erlingsdottir had no Master! The woman washed lower and lower down the Jarlsdottir’s body, the cold water awakening Anja and causing her rosy nipples to harden. She was now able to see the dark, ring-like bruises which had formed around her arms and legs, and the mere sight of her creamy flesh having been so injured made her shudder.

"You are here because you fought too much. He lusts for you, Jarlsdottir. He keeps himself for you. He may relieve himself on some other slave, but you will be the one he will take."

The woman had just finished washing between the girl’s thighs as she said this, and Anja was about to issue a cutting retort when the crone suddenly trust her middle finger deep into her already violated sex, causing the girl to let out a shriek of horror and outrage. She quickly crawled away from the horrid woman’s grasp, pressing her thighs tightly together, trembling and staring with an expression of shock and fear as the woman studied her finger in the torchlight. Were even the women not to be trusted? Suddenly the woman looked pleased, nodding at the frightened Jarlsdottir in a knowing manner.


"Ahhh... you're ripe. We must let the Jarl know about that. Who knows, he might want to put a child in your belly right away. But then, the Jarl might want to keep your body as is while he enjoys it."

Horrified, violated, and now almost physically ill at the thought of bearing the scarred man’s child, Anja watched in stunned silence as the crone prepared to leave, taking the torch and bucket with her. The girl’s pale face began to flush with reawakened rage, and with the suddenness of a cat she leapt towards the door, intending to do as much harm as she possibly could to the old hag. But the door was shut and locked in her face, and once more Anja found herself beating upon it and screaming at the top of her lungs. “You old witch! You wrinkled hag! If you ever touch me like that again I’ll kill you! Do you hear me, woman? Tell your Master that I am not some mongrel bitch to be kenneled and bred! I am Anja Erlingsdottir, Jarlsdottir of Erlingsland, and I have no Master! Do you hear me? I have no Master!” A new furious passion blazed in the girl’s eyes and heart, and she was now absolutely determined not to cease pounding on the door or screaming until she was let out of her inky prison.

Gromr broke his fast with the rest of his men. While he ate, his men put their early morning horns to good use, plowing the slaves that worked the room vigorously. Each of the women howled out their pleasure at their use, even the Jarlsdottir's blonde companion. No sooner had the girl become free of one man's grip, she was taken down to the floor squealing to be brought to a screaming high over and over again. He laughed as she finally staggered free back to the kitchen. He knew that once the morning meal was done, the head cook would probably have his way with her at least once.

His thoughts turned to the flame haired woman resting alone. He wondered if her time there cooled her at all, or maybe brought about a greater flame. He would know soon enough. She wasn't going to spend her life lounging around while there was work to be done. She would earn her way, pleasing him and doing other duties as well.

He turned to see the old woman approaching, dropping to her knees when she was close enough to her master. "My Jarl, the new girl is ripe. Taking her now will put a child in her belly as sure as the sun rises each morning. Regardless, if you seek to keep her as she is, wait four more days before you use her as Freya intended."

"Thank you, Old Mother. Tell me, what was she like when you went to her?"

"She was full of Thor's might and bellowing voice. She claimed that she was not some mongrel bitch that would be bred, and that she was one who had no master. She was still beating the door as I left, and she didn't stop beating it."

"Go and get food for yourself, and resume your normal duties. I think that the newest slave needs some reminding of what her life is now like." He stood up, making his way to the cell where he had left Anja to think about her lot in life. She seemed to not yet understand that she was no longer one of the powerful of the Nordlands. She was simply a slave, bound to serve Gromr how he desired.

As he got closer, he heard the frantic thumping of the door by her fists. If she continued to assault the door, she would do herself an injury. She would sport scars from one source only - him. No one else would be permitted to mar her skin or body. Over the dull thumping, he heard her raise her voice, calling out all manner of threats, obscenities and declarations that almost made Gromr laugh out loud. He reached the door, waiting for her to use her voice again.

As soon as she screamed out again, he quickly ripped the door open. Before she could react, he struck her with the back of his hand, the brought it back again to strike the other side of her face with the palm. He held his power back on the first blow, but he struck her hard on the return. While the first blow was hard enough to force her head to move, the return blow sent her to the floor.

Gromr reached down, grabbing a handful of her rich red hair, and hauled her to her feet, before using the very same locks as a leash and guiding her out of the cell, and back to the main hall. He kept her bent over, her hair held close to his hip, with her angled so she couldn't hit his groin.

"Behold, Jarlsdottir has returned from her stay in her very own private room. She wants to apologize for not making herself presentable, but in the view that she will be working in the main hall, it was through it would be too much work to get messed up so quickly." Many of the men laughed. "This one is not to be used like any of the other slaves. Any man who tries will loose his head in a heartbeat." He gazed about the room, and every man present nodded their understanding.

He hauled her upright, keeping her standing straight. "Now, listen closely Jarlsdottir, you will sweep the floor of the scraps left behind by the men. You will not disturb any of them that are enjoying a slave. If you have any questions, ask one of the other slaves and they will answer you. Do a good job, and you'll get a much better breakfast than you had yesterday. Misbehave, and you'll go without food. Go and clean the hall, Jarlsdottir." He almost hurled her toward the broom before returning to eating.

Even with her hair an absolute mess, Anja Erlingsdottir was still a ravishing sight to behold. Having her naked only made it even more so. He stared at what he could see of her shapely arse, looking forward to slapping into it as he took her from behind. She was one that the Gods built for comfort; to be enjoyed over long periods rather than taken hard and fast. Though, that style of fucking would hurt now and again. There were many ways that a man could enjoy a woman, and he was going to try them all, and see what else could be done with her.

He thought back to how she was trussed up on the table when he took her the first time. That way showed her off superbly, making her look even more delectable. He started to think of other ways of securing her with ropes for his personal enjoyment. He grinned as he chewed his food, the images in his mind making him hard as stone with the desire to fuck the little fire haired slave.

"Mead, Master?"

Gromr turned to see Anja's little companion standing before him waiting to fill his drinking horn. He could smell her frequent use, as well as seeing the thick coating of pearl on the inside of her legs. He took the jug from her hand, and pushed her to her knees while he put it on the table. "No, Slave, it is you that needs to drink." He freed himself quickly, shoving his thick cock into the blonde's mouth. She remembered what he had told her the last time he had her there, wrapping her lips firmly around him and pressing her tongue as he slid in and out of her mouth. Gromr moaned in delight as the woman worked hard to please him. His hands came to rest either side of her head, helping to time her movements. He could feel her enthusiasm while working his cock. She enjoyed the way he took her mouth, as well as knowing he was more than pleased with her efforts.

But this time, as he peaked, he pushed himself deeper into the blonde, entering her throat. She panicked as she found her breath cut off by his deeper intrusion. But he spasmed shortly after pressing into her throat. She swallowed out of reflex, taking down his gift to her, pulling back enough to allow her to breath, as well as painting her tongue with the last pulses of his cock. With his hands still on her head, he lifted her to her feet.

"Go tell the red haired wench what it was like, both times. Tell her how much you enjoyed it, how good it was." He slapped her arse to send her on her way. He sat down, very relaxed due to the blonde's talented mouth. He decided that until Anja was no longer ripe, he would use the Blonde's mouth, and train Jarlsdottir at the same time. Just thinking of ramming his cock in her mouth started getting him hard again.

He looked about the room, seeing the men continuing to eat and sport with the slaves. They had their larger weapons on the racks by the main door, but each man still carried a dagger, and occasionally a hand axe. There was little need to be under full arms within the keep. None could assail them there in numbers, and those that lived there knew the foolishness of rebellion. Even the slaves were happy with their lot, as much as slaves could be.

Once he wanted to return to the Nordland, exact his vengeance on the man who betrayed him. He snorted at the thought. Erlingr was a man who used treachery as one of his main weapons against those he fought and conquered. Gromr knew how much the great Jarl doted on his daughter. How much he ignored custom and tradition when it came to her. How she reminded him of his first wife, and that through his daughter, he tried to show his dead wife how much she meant to him.

By that time, he would have found out about the ambush, seeing his daughter missing and the guard dead. he wouldn't think that the ambush came from out of the Wild Lands, that someone else took her. He would look at the other Jarls, the only people with the strength to make such a move, and the only ones with a reason to do it. He would not think that she was taken to be reduced from her glorious heights of nobility, and turned into nothing more than a slave to be used to cool Gromr's hot Nordlander blood. That his treachery of a loyal follower would result in her learning of a whole new way of living.

The only thing that made what happened less perfect was showing Erlingr his pride and joy rejoicing in her slavery, and desiring nothing more than to serve her master's pleasure. One day, she would do all of that, but Erlingr wouldn't live long enough to see it happen.

"But the Gods have granted me this wish, maybe they may bless me again."

Anja continued to beat upon the door furiously, screaming out every oath, threat, and demand she could think of in her quest for freedom. Her hands were becoming sore and her voice strained, but her fiery spirit would not allow her to pause for one moment. The cacophony was so great that Anja did not hear the sound of approaching footsteps, the girl completely unaware that anyone stood on the other side of the door until it was suddenly wrenched open. Before she could react, the startled Jarlsdottir was struck twice upon her already bruised cheeks, the first blow snapping her head to the side, the second knocking her to the hay-strewn floor. Stunned and in pain, the girl no longer screamed, laying still and whimpering until she was suddenly seized and hauled to her feet by her crowning glory. Anja let out a cry of pain and outrage as she found herself once more being dragged along by her fiery locks, her captor keeping her head low and her back bent so she was unable to kick at him. Her hands grasped his wrist in an attempt to keep her hair from being torn out, and the Jarlsdottir continued to demand her release. “Let me go! Let me go, you filthy dog!”

The brightness of the main hall tortured Anja’s eyes, but this was nothing compared to the humiliation of once more being naked and helpless before the horrid beasts who had so enjoyed her violation two days before. Even now their laughter haunted her, and she began to fear what barbaric sport they had in mind for her that morning. The Jarlsdottir winced as her scarred captor tugged her hair in a command for silence, her desire to flay him alive boiling within her heart as he addressed his men.

"Behold, Jarlsdottir has returned from her stay in her very own private room. She wants to apologize for not making herself presentable, but in the view that she will be working in the main hall, it was thought it would be too much work to get messed up so quickly."

The men laughed, and Anja’s heart burned with a Surt-like fury. How dare he make jokes at her expense, after all he had done to her? And what did he mean by “work?” If he thought she could be induced to perform any kind of menial labor, he was sorely mistaken.

"This one is not to be used like any of the other slaves. Any man who tries will lose his head in a heartbeat."

Other slaves might have been grateful for this, but not Anja Erlingsdottir. The proud heart of a Jarlsdottir still beat within her breast, and the fact that these men saw her as but another slave filled her with rage. She was no slave; she was a Jarlsdottir! Just then the scarred man hauled her upright by her hair, forcing her to stand so straight and tall that only her toes touched the floor. Anja was breathing hard, her teeth bared in animalistic fury, her lips red and her blue eyes flashing. Each cheek was flushed and mottled with bruises, cheeks which had never before suffered such an outrage. As beautiful as she was at that moment, one could feel her seething with anger. The scarred man spoke quietly into her ear, the feeling of his hot breath upon her face and his commanding tone of voice filling her with absolute loathing.

“Now, listen closely Jarlsdottir, you will sweep the floor of the scraps left behind by the men. You will not disturb any of them that are enjoying a slave. If you have any questions, ask one of the other slaves and they will answer you. Do a good job, and you'll get a much better breakfast than you had yesterday. Misbehave, and you'll go without food. Go and clean the hall, Jarlsdottir."

Before Anja could utter an outraged and rebellious retort, she was flung toward an empty table, against which leaned a broom. She collided with it, and both she and the broom fell to the floor with a clatter. Anja had never handled a broom in her life. Sweeping was menial labor. It was degrading. It was the work of servants and slaves. And now she, Anja Erlingsdottir, was expected to clean up after the swine around her? Never! The girl’s first instinct was to hurl the broom at her abuser and once more declare her free and noble status for all of the Nordlands to hear, but as she grasped the menial instrument and rose to complete this action, an idea suddenly came to her. The standing Jarlsdottir, facing away from the scarred man, seemed to go stiff, her blue eyes staring into space as her brain worked. She held the broom in her hands, her grip tightening and loosening around its long handle. After a few seconds, during which she was watched by many of the men and slaves present, Anja’s body seemed to relax again, and after reaching up to more securely tie the embroidered band around her forehead, the Jarlsdottir began to sweep.

Whispers of amazement filled the chamber with a low hum at this sudden turn of events. After all that those present had seen or heard of the Jarlsdottir’s temper and pride, few had expected her to give in to her new duties so quietly. Had her painful reversal of fate been enough to tame the wild cat? At this sign of unexpected and much appreciated obedience, the men and slaves within the great hall became even more relaxed and jovial, the mead flowing and slave girls squealing as the tamed tigress performed her humble task. Those who were not otherwise occupied took great pleasure in watching the fallen noble make her circuitous route around and between the rows of tables, for even with her fiery red hair a mess and her creamy skin bruised, Anja was a sight to behold. Smooth, creamy white skin, a round, spankable arse, full, luscious breasts which bounced and swayed as she worked… no man was wholly immune to her loveliness. It seemed almost ridiculous for the nude and fallen Jarlsdottir to continue to wear her woven head band, but Anja still carried herself in the proud, dignified manner of a noblewoman even as she swept, her gait measured and graceful, her curving hips swaying with every step. Honoring their Jarl’s command, Gromr’s men slaked their lust for the Jarlsdottir upon the other slave girls, the sound of primal grunts and pleasured squeals soon filling the air as she passed each table. Anja was not doing a particularly thorough job of sweeping up the scraps of food and refuse which littered the floor, but no one seemed to mind as long as she was quiet and obedient. The Jarlsdottir passed by each man and slave as though they were nonexistent, her eyes and ears refusing to acknowledge them even when a man whistled or made crude comments. Anja’s face, beautiful as it was, appeared to be locked in an expression of cold determination, her blue eyes as frosty as a Jotunn’s heart as she steadily worked her way around the room. Only her flushed cheeks betrayed her inner passion and shame, and only the occasional wrinkling of her nose betrayed the disgust she felt for her work and the people around her.

Anja had never once turned towards the scarred man since he had set her to work, refusing to look at his face or give him a glimpse of hers. She could not bear the smug, triumphant look he would give her if her eyes met his, the way those blue eyes would look over her body and judge every inch as if it belonged to him. She hated the way he pronounced her title, addressing her as “Jarlsdottir” as if it were but another word for “bitch” or “slave.” Also, she was afraid that he would somehow read her thoughts if he saw her face, and Anja would not risk having her plans foiled before they had even begun. Thus, while she was working her way in a circuit round the room, she was completely unaware of what was happening between the scarred man and her maid, but she would not remain ignorant for long.

Unlike her abused and bedraggled mistress, the blonde Helga had actually begun to fit in quite nicely in her new home. She had made several friends among the other slave girls for her willingness to do her fair share of work, and nearly all the men admired her for her prettiness and the eagerness with which she submitted to their desires. There was a delicate, yielding tenderness about Helga which made the men feel protective about her, and while they used her roughly and passionately as Nordlander men were wont to do, they would also kiss, cuddle, and reward her with small trinkets such as a blue ribbon for her hair or a bracelet of glass beads. Even Helga’s looks had improved, her cheeks rosy and her blue eyes bright from her many climaxes as she happily served mead to her new masters. Clearly, the girl had been born to be a slave.

Though she had been happy and occupied with her new duties, Helga still felt loyalty and concern for her mistress, asking the other slaves if they had seen her and shyly enquiring if her masters knew what had become of her. No one could give her a definite answer, and after going a day without catching a single glimpse of the fiery Anja, the girl began to fear the worst. Was her mistress dead? Locked away? Could she have saved her? Though she had been entirely helpless and blameless concerning the Jarlsdottir’s fate, Helga’s tender heart could not shake a sense of guilt. She had thought to approach “Jarl Gromr” himself and beg for Anja’s release, but the timid girl was too much in fear and awe of the powerful man to dare speak to him. Though she had served the men quite happily that morning, refilling their mead horns and emptying their morning horns, the girl had despaired of ever seeing her mistress again, until Jarl Gromr himself dragged the struggling, fiery-haired Jarlsdottir into the great hall. Helga’s first reaction at seeing Anja alive was one of joy, but the sight of the proud noblewoman so bedraggled and battered turned her joy to dismay. Oh, her poor, poor mistress! Never before had Helga seen her so fallen, her creamy skin bruised, her beautiful hair messy and unwashed. She watched helplessly as the Jarlsdottir was hurled toward the broom by the much stronger Gromr, the girl wincing as she expected her mistress to defiantly lash out with the bristled implement. Instead, to her shock, Anja had begun to quietly sweep the great hall, leaving Helga puzzled and uneasy. This was not like the mistress she knew. Had Jarl Gromr succeeded in taming her? It seemed so unlikely for the iron-willed “Thorsdottir” to be broken so quickly. But what other explanation was there? Surely she would never submit to menial labor otherwise.

Though she had previously been so eager to embrace her mistress and ensure her well-being, her uneasiness and a certain instinct told her to keep her distance as Anja worked her way around the room. Helga did not know why, but she felt afraid to approach her, the cold, faraway look in the Jarlsdottir’s blue eyes filling her with a prickling sense of foreboding. Perhaps her ill treatment had driven her mistress mad. The thought of this was so terrible that the timid girl gathered all the courage she could find within herself and made her way towards where Jarl Gromr was sitting. She hoped to somehow convince him to be kinder to Anja, hopefully without incurring his wrath. And anyway, Helga thought to herself, she could not hope to avoid him if his mead horn needed filling.

Approaching him timidly and somewhat fearfully, the nude, pretty, rosy-cheeked blonde offered the pitcher she bore with trembling hands, asking “Mead, Master?” in a quiet, meek voice. Helga was very pretty at that moment, her blue eyes downcast, her blonde hair draped over her shoulder and bound with a blue ribbon. Her cheeks and lips were rosy from her frequent orgasms that morning, and though she was not as beautiful or voluptuous as the fiery-haired Anja, she was still an attractive wench indeed. Helga looked surprised as the Jarl took the jug and placed it upon the table, her blue eyes going wide as he forced her to her knees and replied "No, Slave, it is you that needs to drink." Instantly realizing his intentions, the little blonde did not resist as he slid his long, thick, pulsing cock into her mouth, the taste of him causing a shiver of excitement to race up and down her spine. Though not yet skilled in the ways of orally pleasuring men, Helga had learned enough to keep her lips pressed tightly around the organ as Gromr guided her head up and down its length, her velvety tongue caressing the underside of the hot shaft almost unconsciously. The girl worked hard to please the Jarl, both frightened of angering him, and seeming to realize what an honor it was to be used by him. She tried to remain silent, but the sound of his pleasured groans and the taste of his masculinity aroused Helga greatly. Her body now responded eagerly to the sound of a man’s pleasure, her skin tingling, her pussy moistening, soft moans escaping her occupied lips as he slaked his lust upon her. So enthralled was Helga that it never occurred to her what her mistress would do if she but turned and witnessed their actions.

Suddenly Gromr thrust deeper into the little blonde’s mouth, penetrating her throat and cutting off her air. Helga panicked, letting out a muffled cry of distress and trying to pull back, but in another moment the Jarl had groaned with satisfaction, bathing her throat and tongue with his hot, potent, salty seed. The girl swallowed his cum almost immediately, her cheeks flushed and her breath ragged from the incredible experience of pleasuring him. She looked up at him with blue, innocent eyes, waiting for his next command, but as he lifted her to her feet, the man’s words turned Helga’s warm blood icy cold.

"Go tell the red haired wench what it was like, both times. Tell her how much you enjoyed it, how good it was."

The girl’s blue eyes went wide with terror at this command, the color draining from her cheeks as she even imagined carrying out this command. It had not yet occurred to Helga that Anja might not be happy to hear of Jarl Gromr’s usage of her, but now, in light of her mistress’ current, odd behavior, the petite blonde was afraid that she would not take this message well. Helga glanced around to where Anja was sweeping by a large rack of weapons along the wall, her back facing them, obviously unaware of her maid’s actions. The girl looked back into her Master’s face, silently begging him not to make her say such a thing to her mistress, but Gromr had given her a smart slap upon the rear with an air of finality, and the blonde knew she had no choice but to obey. Helga tried to calm herself as she slowly crossed the room, her heart pounding, attempting to convince herself that Anja would not react negatively to what she had to say. After all her mistress had been through, telling her that she had enjoyed orally pleasuring her violator seemed cruel to the kindhearted Helga, but what choice had she?

Anja now stood near a rack of large battleaxes, neatening the growing pile of refuse she had collected while sweeping. Her proximity to such deadly weapons caused no concern within the hall, as each axe took two strong masculine arms to wield. The average woman would not be able to lift them, much less swing them, so they were allowed to remain within the great hall where any could access them. The sight of the sharp, glittering blades just beyond her mistress filled Helga with a sense of foreboding, but when the trembling blonde stood just a few paces away, she at last tried to fulfill her mission. “M-M-Mistress?”
Anja’s body stiffened and became still as she recognized the voice. It was the voice of one she had trusted, one who had – in her eyes – betrayed her. Not bothering to turn and face her, the Jarlsdottir replied, her voice low and calm, but with a perceptible edge of hostility. “What?”
Helga was beginning to sweat with nervousness, but she continued. “J-Jarl Gromr wanted me to tell you something…”
Anja released a mirthless snort. Jarl Gromr indeed. Her voice remained as before as she repeated “What?”
The little blonde swallowed, perhaps still able to taste the seed upon her tongue, then forced herself to go on. “He… he wanted me to tell you that… that two days ago, he put his… his manhood in my mouth, and… and he… he had me please him, but I didn’t swallow his… seed. Then, just a moment ago, he… he had me do it again, but this time I… I swallowed his seed… and… and…”
“And?”
Anja’s tone had not changed, but to Helga, who knew the Jarlsdottir well, the hostile edge of her voice seemed to suddenly glitter with a new sharpness. The little blonde found herself praying to the gods for mercy before taking a deep breath, her cheeks red with shame as she admitted “And… I liked it…”

Anja remained silent and still, her body seeming to have been transformed to creamy white marble. Helga bit her lip and waited, not knowing just what her mistress’ reaction would be. Slowly the Jarlsdottir moved, changing the position of the broom in her hands until she held it parallel to the floor. Her knuckles became white as her grip upon the handle tightened, and Helga realized the danger she was in. The blonde began to slowly back away, expecting the fiery haired girl to strike her with the broom. But instead of turning to lash out at Helga, Anja swung the broom once around her head and with a warrior’s cry decapitated it upon the sharp blade of the nearest axe. The bristled head fell to the floor with a clatter, and where a broom had once rested in her hands, the redhead now held an evenly weighted wooden staff of approximately four and a half feet in length. Slowly Anja turned, and the fear-frozen Helga gasped when she saw her face.

The Jarlsdottir’s red lips were drawn back from her white teeth in an expression of wolf-like ferocity, her eyes an icy blue and shining with a strange inner spark. The blue orbs locked upon Helga as a as though recognizing her as prey, but before the blonde could flee, Anja swung the staff with practiced skill and struck her across the cheek, sending the girl sprawling upon the floor. Standing over the fallen girl who now wept with pain and fear, the Jarlsdottir whispered “Whore…” her voice hoarse and as frigid as the north wind. The room’s attention had been drawn by the sound of the broom’s decapitation, and nearly all had witnessed the felling of the popular blonde. All were shocked to find that the Jarlsdottir was now in possession of a weapon, and even more so that she appeared to wield it with some amount of proficiency. Once it had been popular for noble Nordlander women to learn the art of the quarterstaff, the staff being a traditional weapon with which women defended themselves and their homes in the event of a southern invasion. Over the past decade it had fallen into disfavor among the nobility, most of whom could hire guards to defend their women. Jarl Erlingr was the exception. Having “conquered” many women in his prime, he wanted to be sure that his little Anja could defend herself against any similar outrage. Hiring the best instructors gold could buy, his daughter was thoroughly trained in the art of the staff, her studies secret lest it frighten away future suitors. Erlingr’s heart had swelled with fatherly pride to see with what passion and skill Anja could wield a staff, seeing his own spirit flashing within her eyes. The Jarlsdottir had kept in practice even to the day before her fateful journey toward Ulfsland, and had her staff been able to fit within her carriage, her present fate might have been drastically different. A moment before the Jarlsdottir had been helpless. Now she was potentially deadly.

One could have heard a pin drop in the great hall as all stood amazed, several of the men shocked to recognize the look in the fiery slave’s eyes. It was the look of one possessed by animalistic rage, a wildness and iron determination combined with a splintering sense of savagery. They were the eyes of the berserker, and to see those eyes in the lovely face of a formerly harmless slave girl caused many a hardened warrior to shiver. Hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart within her ears, feeling nothing but the rage and adrenaline surging in her veins, Anja raised her head and locked eyes with her next target, Jarl Gromr, dashing towards him with all the speed and grace of a wild leopardess before the men had a chance to react. At last the warriors swarmed after her, attempting to subdue and disarm the crazed wench before she could harm anyone else. The men were fast and strong, some brandishing daggers and hand axes in the attempt to frighten her into compliance. But Anja was far beyond the sense of fear, deftly dodging any attempt to grasp her, knocking weapons out of hands and breaking fingers as though it were child’s play. Any who came too close were dealt a blow which echoed around the great hall like Thor’s thunder, and it was becoming clearer by the second that this Jarlsdottir was indeed worthy of the name Thorsdottir.

Anja reserved her greatest savagery for the warriors she recognized, particularly those who had aided in her violation. When the man who had assisted Gromr in binding her caught her around the waist, she, with an almost unnatural, mechanical swiftness struck first down, breaking his toe with an audible crack, then up, breaking his nose with a gush of blood. The man howled and released his grip, the girl dashing forward and almost into the arms of Rolf. Rolf, as tall as a bear and just as strong, if not stronger, made ready to catch and subdue the savage creature in beauteous clothing, but Anja was able to use his great size against him, ducking and dashing to the side at the last minute to dodge his grasp, while sweeping his legs out from under him, causing him to fall upon his companions with a crash. At last nothing stood between her and the cause of all her suffering, the target of all her hate and rage. Leaping upon and racing down the length upon the table at which he had been sitting, Anja pounced at Gromr, striking him a thunderous blow which might have shattered a skull. Leaping out of his reach, her white teeth bared in a feral snarl, the Jarlsdottir rained blow upon blow upon her violator, determined not to cease until he was nothing but a pile of bloodstained rags, as she had promised.

Being in his hall, surrounded by his loyal men, and having set the two newest slaves to their tasks, Gromr allowed himself to relax. Anja was doing as she was told, though he could tell that it would not be a proper job. He was certain that she never wielded a broom before, so he was feeling generous towards her because of her companion's talented mouth.

He smiled briefly as the blonde approached the red head to tell her the news. He watched out of the corner of his eye as he continued to eat and drink. He enjoyed the way the blonde used her mouth. She was still without much knowledge, but he planned on changing that. The more often she took his cock in her mouth, the better at it she would get, particularly as she learned what worked for him.

Like the rest of the room, Gromr turned to the source of the loud cry, seeing Anja turn the broom into a staff. His eyes narrowed, wondering if Erlingr upheld the customs of their forefathers, and taught his little girl how to use a staff. He slowly ate as he waited to see what the answer would be.

He was initially stunned when the fearsome looking ex noblewoman shifted her grip on the staff before laying the blonde flat with a well delivered blow. He could clearly see the mask of her hatred set upon her face, and knew in the instant that she was berserk. He continued his mindful consumption of his food as Anja worked her way through the room with brutal efficiency and minimal wasted effort. She used the men's actions against them, making the most of every opportunity presented. He watched her removing the obstacles between her and himself as if he was watching a wrestling match.

But his calm demeanor started to crack when the naked woman landed on the table and rushed him at full speed. All thought of food vanished from his mind as he furiously worked through his options regarding the fire haired bundle of fury closing on him.

He caught the tell of her opening strike with enough time to miss the worst of it. He pulled his head away, letting the back of the chair take the brunt of the blow, but he was still hit hard enough to set his ears ringing as he tumbled on the floor. Through his blurred vision, he saw her move back out of his range. She was lost to the rage within her, no longer a berserk. But he was now aware of how good she was with the weapon. Regardless of what he thought of her, he respected her skill enough to treat her as a serious threat.

Gromr knew the truth behind the reason for women using a staff. The Southerners were no threat to the Nordlander women. Nordlander men would enjoy the chance of stealing a raider's woman if he had the chance. But with the woman armed, and more than willing to put that knowledge to use, most Nordlanders decided that Southern women were easier to get, and getting them was a lot more fun. No Nordlander would stoop low enough to learn to use a staff, and using any weapons at hand would leave the woman dead rather than defeated.

But without a level head, a staff was nothing more than a long stick. The other little known aspect of the choice of weapon for the women was that if the man was prepared to wear a few bruises, he could defeat the woman and rightfully claim the prize.

Anja's savagery would be her ultimate downfall. Her blows lacked the initial control, precision and aim. Plus, he could tell how she would strike at him before she began her attack. So when the blows came, he was ready. He sacrificed his left arm, letting it serve as his shield while Anja rained down blows on him. He deflected those he couldn't dodge, grunting with the pain of the glancing blows. He moved onto his feet, remaining low, crouching to offer himself the most protection possible. He knew he couldn't stop the blow, nor could he grab her wrist or arm. The teaching including how to deal with those moves, and Gromr didn't want to include any more bruises and fractures to current collection.

But when she struck him another glancing blow, he rolled over the top of the staff, dragging it to the ground using the momentum of the blow to aid him. His right leg lashed out, catching one of the Jarlsdottir's legs and sweeping it from under her. He pushed himself upright, using the staff for support as he tackled her to the floor. He grabbed one of her arms, forcing her onto her stomach and twisting the arm hard up her back.

"You stupid woman!" He dropped a knee over her arm, pinning it in place and freeing his uninjured arm. He soon grabbed the staff she had used to defeat his men. "You haven't learned, have you, Jarlsdottir?" He brought the staff down viciously across her thighs. "You are my slave, Jarlsdottir. You do not attack anyone of this settlement." The next blow crashed against her calves. "The only reason I haven't gutted you here and now is because you are not going to be that lucky and escape so easily." He struck her already abused thighs a second time.

He stood up, not before letting feel his full weight through his knees as he stood. He swore as he lifted her to her feet with a handful of hair held with his off hand. He swung the staff, striking her across her abdomen. The room was filled with the loud crack of the wood striking her flesh. "Listen to me, Jarlsdottir. You will serve me as I command. You fail to do so, I will punish you." He flicked his wrist, the end of the staff catching one of her arms just above the wrist. The loud crack was enough to tell everyone the bone was broken. "I will make you wish you were dead whenever I deal with you, Slave. Learn about your new life, and you will do well like your blonde friend." He let go of Anja. He took a step away from her, before he turned and struck her repeatedly; hard enough to hurt but not break any more bones. Unlike her attack, he was deliberate in the placement and the strength of each blow. He struck her where it would cause the most pain.

When he finished, he slapped the length of wood on the table hard enough to rock the solid piece of furniture. "Take her back to her cell. Everyone else, get your wounds tended to. I will be back soon."


The keep had a single tower that barely rose above the level of the walls of the fortification. The one who built Gromr's current home lived in the tower, and from there sought the wisdom of the wildlands, and how best to tap the enormous energies within. They had made the plinths that held the chaos at bay, as well as gleaning some rather potent magics from the lands beyond his borders.

By the time Gromr reached what was once the laboratory, his arm was throbbing and swollen. He eased himself into the sole large chair, giving himself some time to unwind. "She can certainly use a staff well. If she had been thinking, I would have been a dead man. When I finally harness that fire within her, she will be a great one to sport with. Whole nights of passion will be shared as I take her again and again." He grunted as he stood up. "As long as I don't kill her first." He walked to a series of shelves, carefully studying every clay container until he reached the shelf three from the bottom. A bright red jar, closed with a matching lid, was moved to the table. He pulled the lid free, pulling his head back from the putrid smell. "I only wished there was some way to make this not smell so awful." He decanted some of the liquid into a simple clay mug. He took a deep breath, almost gagging as he swallowed. The mug was slammed down on the table as he yelled in pain, clutching his abused arm. The limb burned with the very bolts of lightning gifted by Thor. Gromr's arm would have thrashed about if he hadn't held it so tightly. All the while, the air was filled with cries of pain and violent, vitriolic curses.

When the pain had finally eased, and his arm no longer posed a threat, Gromr was panting heavily, his face covered with sweat and tears. He looked at his arm, pleased to see that all the bruising was gone, and that it looked exactly as it had before he was attacked.

He laughed through his panting. "At least that little bitch will suffer as much, if not more, when she drinks her share of this."

Jarl Erlingr had made two fatal mistakes while supervising his daughter’s martial training. First, he had neglected to teach her how to control her temper. Second, he had never given her the opportunity to face an opponent she hated. Without these two valuable experiences, Anja was doomed before she had first struck at her most hated enemy. Until she had come within striking distance of the scarred man, her inner animal had been fierce, yet chained, forced to follow her command as she decimated the men around her. Furious as she was, it had been a cold, calculating fury, a fury which had sharpened her senses and guided her staff as though it were a fifth limb. Everything changed as soon as her entire focus was on Gromr, though Anja herself remained unaware of it. In an instant the animal within her broke loose, running wild like a rabid dog who knows not whom to attack or why, and thus attacks all. Her fury became hotter than Surt’s beard, dulling her instincts, and in her desperation to rain suffering and death upon the scarred man’s head, her strikes had become sloppy and repetitive, her face betraying each blow before they were carried out. Again and again she struck her enemy with all of her might, her soul crying out for vengeance and her blue eyes flashing with Thor’s lightning. Even at this moment, the Jarlsdottir was beautiful, a fiery-haired valkyrie plagued with the misfortunes of mortality and human weakness. She was frustrated that she could not get at Gromr’s skull and crack it open, but her anger would not allow her to stop, flee, or surrender, until it was too late.

How it happened, Anja could not say, but in the next moment she found herself lying prone upon the floor, the rough, cold stones chilling her nipples and cheek. There had been an impact, she was sure, and the staff was missing from her grasp, but before she understood what was happening she felt a heavy weight thrust upon her, and in an instant her left arm had been seized and twisted viciously upwards. Hot pain ripped through her body, and the girl, no longer entirely human, howled and arched, her legs kicking, her free arm clawing at the floor. She heard the scarred man’s voice. It seemed to sound from a long way off, as if it took longer for her to understand its meaning, but the pain’s voice and meaning was clear and primal, and as her arm remained pinned and her legs were brutally struck, the Jarlsdottir thrashed, her screams and howls echoing across the great room. Her tormentor pressed upon her with his full weight as he stood, nearly crushing her ribs and strangling her cries, but as he dragged her to her feet by the roots of her fiery tresses, Anja shrieked with pain and outrage, reaching up to claw at his wrist. This was another mistake, and the Jarlsdottir was made to feel it in a terrifying way as the staff attacked her vulnerable midsection with a hard, merciless strike. In an instant the fury in the girl’s face had vanished, the beast exorcized as an expression of shock, pain, and absolute terror filled her eyes and parted her lips. She could not breathe. Dear gods! She could not breathe! She could not even gasp, her lungs refusing to fill with air and her mind spinning with panic. Was she dying? No! Please! Not like this!

Anja’s arms now shielded her stomach, her body hunched forward as her breathless horror consumed her. At last her lungs awoke and took in a desperate, staggered gasp of air, but what happened next expelled it before it could be of any use. The whistle of the staff, the brutal impact, the loud crack of shattered bone, the excruciating, unendurable pain. A shrill scream more horrible than the rest was torn from her lungs, the Jarlsdottir clutching her right arm, her blue eyes wide and staring yet seeing nothing but a wall of red. Never in her life had the girl suffered such agony, such injury, and as Gromr released her hair she collapsed into a huddled mass upon the floor. Tears streamed down Anja’s face as she curled into a ball, utterly unable to disguise the pain which wracked her body, and the anguish which shook her soul. But it was not enough. It was not enough that the scarred fiend had broken her favored arm and nearly robbed her of breath. Just as she thought he had finished with her, the monster suddenly rained more blows upon her fallen body, the Jarlsdottir howling and sobbing and praying to the All-Father that he would make the pain stop.

The blows finally ceased, but not the pain, which seemed to torture her every nerve. The valkyrie was now all too mortal, clutching her arm and sobbing with all the strength her bruised and broken body could still command. Two men came, and Anja howled with pain as they lifted her from the floor, one taking hold of her legs, the other clasping her around the ribs. Though they felt little pity for her, the men did not want to hear her scream more than was unavoidable, so they were fairly gentle as they carried the limp, sobbing girl out of the great hall and through the dark, winding passages of the fortress. Soon the Jarlsdottir had once more been deposited within her prison cell, her tear-blurred eyes looking desperately, pleadingly at the flickering torchlight before the door closed and she was lost in utter darkness. Anja lay upon her left side, the cold, unyielding stone floor and its thin covering of straw doing nothing to soothe her battered flesh and anguished mind. Clutching her injured arm, the girl continued to sob, gasping painfully for breath between each despairing cry and doing nothing to wipe the hot, salty tears from her face. The bruised skin and muscles of her body made even the slightest movement painful, and any attempt to move her broken arm or close her hand increased the agony sevenfold. Now that the adrenaline was no longer surging through her veins, the Jarlsdottir was now forced to endure the raw, jagged, ugly edge of pain.

She had come so close. So close to destroying her enemy, so close to drinking the mead of vengeance and sending his blackened soul straight to Helheim where it belonged. Why had she failed? Why had the gods allowed her to fail? She was of divine blood, her anger was just, and she had been provoked beyond endurance. Why then had she been unable to crush his skull and bathe in his blood? Why had she once more been beaten like a wild dog and imprisoned in this burning blackness? Her arm… oh, gods, her arm! It was broken! Her favored arm was broken! He had broken it! Anja had never once suffered a broken bone in her life, and here she was, clutching her now useless limb and praying to mighty Thor that he would make the pain stop. What if it never healed properly? What if she were crippled? Was that his plan, to cripple her and make her not only helpless, but an object of ridicule? Beast! Monster! Whoreson! No name was vile enough to describe him accurately. How dare he do this to her after he had sent the blonde whore to provoke her? He must have known she would be forced to retaliate. Never would it be said that one could insult the Jarlsdottir with impunity. Anja tried to look back, to remember what her plan had been before Helga had infuriated her. Originally she had planned to decapitate the broom and attempt an escape, fighting off any who tried to stop her, but the blonde’s words had changed everything, and all she had been able to think was “Hurt him. Kill him. Make him pay.”

And now? Now he knew her secret. Now he knew she had been trained in the art of the staff. Never again would she be able to surprise him with it. Never again, if she were ever released from this suffocating darkness, would she be allowed to handle anything which could be so easily converted into a staff. This had been her one chance for vengeance and freedom, and her greatest weapon had been forever torn from her grasp. Hot tears of rage and determination filled the Jarlsdottir’s eyes, her soul able to find the steel in her spine despite all she had suffered and was still suffering. She would heal, she would find out who he was, she would escape, she would save her father and all he had fought for, and then she would come back to reap her vengeance upon him once and for all. Someday, someday, she would make him pay. By the gods, she would make him pay…

While he waited for his reactions to the pain to finally subside, Gromr looked around what he believed to be the sorcerer's lair. Within were numerous books, scrolls and loose parchments most of them written in the same hand, the very owner of the castle. Gromr had spent years learning to understand what the man had written, and slowly unlocked many mysteries, even if he could only understand what had been done. He knew that Sorcerer had made the plinths that held the Wyld at bay, allowing the land to be as the Gods intended. There had been many other workings of magic that Gromr had managed to do himself, the most important being the elixir that restored the body to an undamaged state.

In another part of the room was the vast collection of of liquids, powders, stones, crystals, animals and parts as well as jars, bottles, urns and containers of other types full of things Gromr wasn't even sure of. All of what had been collected and saved was used in some of the magics and rituals, that much he was certain. Which magics, and which rituals? He didn't know. There was more reading to be done, more wisdom to be gained.

"Best for me to return the papers where they came from." Gromr would come and read whenever he had the chance, hoping to discover something he could understand that could be turned to help his people grow safer and happier. He gathered part of a pile of loose papers he hadn't read, returning them to their place in the shelves. He picked up the remainder, but the top sheet caught his attention.

"Freyja's Curse?" He slowed, and started to read the remainder of the text. His smile grew wider the further he read. He placed the stack on the bench, keeping just that one sheet in his hand. He moved to where the ingredients for the magics were kept, searching for one container, moving it to the bench. He took out a measure of the gum like substance within, sealing the container and returning it to the shelves. Following the instructions, he added more to the growing mixture, treating it as detailed. What was left was a clear liquid that looked a little heavier than water.

"Just one more element needed and it will be completed. Poor little Anja's life will not be the same after that." Gromr laughed openly and loud.


Gromr and the old woman entered the cell that was Anja's home. The two of them put torches about the room to bring the light levels up high enough for what Gromr needed to do. He placed the clay mug near the door, then walked over to where Anja lay on the floor.

"I hope you have learned your lesson, Jarlsdottir. You attack your Master, he will defend himself. All good Nordlander men defend themselves by attacking." He squatted down beside her, grabbing her chin, turning her face to look at him. "Remember, you are no longer a free woman. You are a slave. Keeping that in your mind will make you life less of a burden and hardship for yourself. Now, fortune has smiled upon you, Jarlsdottir. I have a little something here that will make things much simpler and easier for you."

Gromr started chanting in a deep, sonorous voice using a very old dialect of the Nordland tongue. As he chanted the words, he grabbed Anja's legs and parted then to reveal her prized possession. When he reached the end of the stanza, and commenced the words again, he took his knife and cut one of her inner lips. With the blood flowing freely, he caught it in the glassware that held the fluid he had prepared prior to joining her in the cell. He rotated the bottle, letting the blood mix into the fluid, changing it from clear to a purple similar to the colour of a cock's head.

With the third stanza, he poured the liquid over the collar about Anja's throat, coating the metal all around her neck. When the final words left his lips, he felt the jolt as the power took, and the 'curse' took hold. He took a small wad of cloth and held it to the wound, calling the old woman over.

"Check her. Tell me if she is ripe."

"My Jarl, she would still be -"

"Check her!"

The old woman pressed her finger deep into Anja's body once more, probing for a moment then removing the glistening digit. She held it up to the torch light, gasping as she looked at it.

"Well?"

"She... she is no longer ripe, My Jarl. She is safe to be enjoyed without a child taking root within her."

"As I had hoped. Good. Leave us." Gromr waited for the old woman to leave the cell, and he listened to ensure that she had gone far enough away before he continued. "Well, Jarlsdottir, did you hear that? I can take you whenever I desire and not worry about spoiling that gift the Gods gave us in the form of your body. No child will grow in your belly while you wear that collar."

He stood up and walked to where the clay mug waited. He picked it up and carried it back to the prone slave. He grabbed her by her long red tresses, lifting her head up enough to allow him to pour the contents into her throat. Having used the same potion earlier that day, he knew what was going to happen to her. He leapt back, getting clear of where she lay before the potion started to work. He did for the smallest moment feel sorry for the young woman, knowing that the pain of the collected injuries were all going to reoccur at once. But then, she attacked him, and she should have been aware of the consequences. He stood back, waiting for the damage he had inflicted on her to be removed, so he could continue to educate her on her new life.

Anja did not know how long she lay unmolested within her cell, the total darkness surrounding her and the horrid pain within her distorting her sense of time. She had exhausted herself with weeping, and might have fallen asleep had it not been for the rage in her heart and the agony which seemed to torment every inch of her body, both of which kept the balm of rest at bay. However long it was, the Jarlsdottir was completely unprepared when the door suddenly swung open, and the scarred beast and the perverse old woman entered. The torches they carried blinded her after being so long in darkness, and while the girl’s heart leaped with fear and loathing, she was in no condition either to retreat or attack. It was perhaps a good thing that she could not see right away, for the bruises upon her body had become even darker, and her right arm had become black and swollen. Anja wanted to curse them, to cut them to ribbons with her sharp tongue, but she had not the chance before her tormentor spoke.

"I hope you have learned your lesson, Jarlsdottir. You attack your Master, he will defend himself. All good Nordlander men defend themselves by attacking."

Defend himself? After all her had done to her, he spoke of defending himself? Fury boiled within Anja’s heart, and she would have most certainly retorted had not the scarred man squatted down and grabbed her chin in his powerful hand, forcing her angry, frightened eyes to look into his.

"Remember, you are no longer a free woman. You are a slave. Keeping that in your mind will make you life less of a burden and hardship for yourself. Now, fortune has smiled upon you, Jarlsdottir. I have a little something here that will make things much simpler and easier for you."

“Anja Erlingsdottir is no man’s slave!” the Jarlsdottir’s heart defiantly cried. No matter what he did to her, she would never submit to his cruelty or his perversions. She would have said as much, but the scarred man startled her by beginning to chant in what must have been Ancient Nordlandic. The Jarlsdottir had learned Old Nordlandic as part of her education, but Ancient Nordlandic was beyond her knowledge. She thought she could recognize some of the words, such as “Freyja,” “curse,” “womb,” and “pleasure,” and her eyes went wide with horror at the thought of him possibly cursing her. She demanded “Wha-What are you doing? Stop!” as he continued to chant and grabbed her bruised legs, the girl unable to effectively struggle or prevent him from spreading her thighs wide apart, leaving her precious sex open and vulnerable. Surely, not even a heartless beast such as himself would attempt to rape her in her current condition! Anja thought she saw a flash of metal, but could not be sure, and in the next second she felt a pain like a sharp pinch where her virginity had once been.

The girl screamed and tried to struggle, but the scarred man held her legs still, and she thought she felt something cold pressed to her injured pussy. In another moment, chanting all the while, he held up a glass bottle, and the Jarlsdottir could see what looked like clear water turning purple before her eyes. Surely he was cursing her, but how? How? Suddenly he had bent forward and had begin to pour the purple mixture upon her neck, and Anja tossed her head back and forth, uttering cry after cry for him to stop. The collar around her throat became unnaturally warm, and a jolting, violent wave of this heat traveled down her body, forcing her to let out a cry of pain as her abused flesh was made to arch uncontrollably. This lasted only for a moment, and as she lay upon the straw-covered stone, gasping for breath and full of fear, the Jarlsdottir once again demanded “What was that? What have you done? What have you done?” The scarred man ignored her, pressing something soft to her smarting sex and calling the old woman over.

"Check her. Tell me if she is ripe."

"My Jarl, she would still be -"

"Check her!"

Anja struggled and screamed as she was held still, the horrid old crone once more violating her with her fingers, then holding them up to the light. What was the meaning of this?


"Well?"

"She... she is no longer ripe, My Jarl. She is safe to be enjoyed without a child taking root within her."

"As I had hoped. Good. Leave us."

The Jarlsdottir’s mind reeled, unable to understand what had just happened to her. What little she understood about her own anatomy, she knew that the time of a woman’s fertility did not end so suddenly. She had been fertile only a few hours ago, but not now? How could that be? Was that his curse? Had he made her barren? The man answered these questions himself after the old woman had left, the girl shuddering with horror and loathing as she understood his meaning.

"Well, Jarlsdottir, did you hear that? I can take you whenever I desire and not worry about spoiling that gift the Gods gave us in the form of your body. No child will grow in your belly while you wear that collar."

Anja’s soul seemed to tremble within her as she realized the full import of this sudden infertility. Before, she would have had a few days of each month free from his sexual attentions, but now he could rape her every day without consequence. No… No! The words echoed within her mind and burst from her lips again and again, the girl unable to disguise her terror and disgust as the scarred man retrieved something from beside the door and returned. As much as her body protested, the Jarlsdottir tried her best to crawl away, but the beast was too quick for her, pulling back her head by her hair and pouring the most foul smelling liquid she had ever thought possible down her throat as she opened her mouth to protest. Anja coughed and gagged as the nauseating fluid burned its way down to her stomach, but the sickness she felt now was nothing compared to what came next.

No other phrase but an orgasm of pain could more accurately describe the sensation which ripped through Anja’s body with all the suddenness of a lightning bolt. Whereas her many orgasms had unwillingly bathed every nerve and fiber of her body with glorious ecstasy, every inch of the girl’s body was now saturated with the purest, rawest, most undiluted pain imaginable. It was as if every injury which had befallen her over the last few days were now being inflicted upon her afresh, and all at once, from the hard slaps upon her cheeks, to the shattered bone within her arm, and what was worse was that she was conscious of each separate pain as the legion of agonies wracked her to the soul. Anja arched and thrashed uncontrollably, as though possessed, and the ear-piercing screams which tore themselves from her near-paralyzed lungs would have convinced any listener that she was either being tortured to death, or had thoroughly lost herself to madness. The pain was so pure and intense that her mind was unable to formulate words either to scream or think, her blue eyes seeing nothing but a wall of white, her ears hearing nothing at all. Had she the ability to bear such torment and retain use of her other senses, the Jarlsdottir might have realized that the bruises were fading from her skin, the swelling had gone down in her arm, and once more every inch of her violently struggling body had assumed the creamy white color of wholeness and health.

The agony could not stop soon enough, but when it did, Anja lay supine upon the cold stone floor, her body healed of all its injuries, yet still trying desperately to recover from what it had just experienced. Sweat sparkled upon her pale skin and tears shone upon her cheeks, her eyes closed and her breasts rising and falling with each desperate gasp for breath. Her lips released weak sobs as she laid there, her ivory form slowly recovering its lost strength, her mind not yet aware of how much she had benefitted from the suffering unleashed upon her. After a few moments the shaken Jarlsdottir slowly rolled onto her side, coughing as she tasted the remains of that horrid potion in her throat, her eyes opening halfway and falling upon her right arm. Rather than blackened, swollen, and painful as it had been before, Anja was shocked to find it as white and whole as it had been before the injury had taken place. Cautiously, unbelievingly, she opened and closed her hand, her blue eyes opening further with astonishment as she felt no pain whatsoever. Her voice expressed her amazement as she studied her arm, almost forgetting that Gromr was nearby. “How can this be…? Am I... dead? How… How can this be?”

Gromr couldn't help but wince as Anja thrashed about on the floor as the potion worked to restore her body. Even through her cries of pain and fear, the sight of her uninjured body, safe to be taken whenever he liked, caused him to harden. The memories of her bound on the table, receiving the first of her many takings was fuel for the fires of his lust.

He saw her looking at her arm. He knew exactly what was passing through her mind. She was in shock, and awe. Was what she saw real, or had she gone mad from the pain. Could she possibly even be dead, and the Gods returned her to her mortal beauty as her reward for her suffering. He had thought the very same things himself the first time the horrid draught slid down his gullet the first time. Even having tasted it more often than he would like, he was still at times unprepared for what it inflicted.

“How can this be…? Am I... dead? How… How can this be?”

Gromr laughed. "No, Jarlsdottir. Not dead. Very much alive, thankfully. And in good health too. Good enough to make use of your body again, no that you're safe to take. No children for you until I decide that your belly needs filling."

Gromr squatted beside the prone redhead, coming to rest on one knee. "You have experienced two of the blessings of Gromrsland, and those land that bound it. Out beyond the boundaries are gifts from the Gods that brave men can harvest to make people hale again. If they don't wait too long, that is. Of course, I might not have enough to heal you if you get too naughty, and might not be able to make up enough to heal you in time. You are only a slave after all, even if you are a damn fine fuck.

"This is a time for you to listen, Jarlsdottir, for I know you are a smart woman. As I said, you are here to pay for the sins of your father. You are here to be enslaved, because you are Erlingrsdottir. I stood with the others of importance when you were brought away from your mother, the first to see you apart from your father, before the rest of his people saw you. I watched you grow up, until your father decided that I spoke up too much about not getting the proper share of the spoils.

"Now, you call me a liar, Jarlsdottir, because your father tells you that Gromr Ragnarson died a hero. Hah. The man is a coward, and a liar. How did he gain your mother as his wife? Such a beauty as her? A mere warrior, not yet a Jarl?" Gromr made a pose of thinking. "Yes, he saved her father's life. But her father needed no help. He was starting to win when the might Erlingr arrived, having watched the fight, waiting for the man to get into trouble and be killed, allowing him to claim your mother without anyone arguing. But it was even better saving her father.

"And the lands he took? He barely had the power to hold them, let alone take them. He would let another take out an enemy, then weakened, he would remove them and absorb their lands into his. Bribe, murder, blackmail. Whatever it took. He wanted power, and he did whatever it took to get it."

Gromr grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her closer to his face. "Remember, Little Flame, who called you that. How often you were called that, and who was around. Who has ever said it to you, apart from the one who used it most? And if that doesn't tell you that I am not a liar, maybe this will."

Gromr reached into a pouch on his belt, and pulled out a tear drop shaped bright blue stone hanging from a golden chain. "Mother's Teardrop, you called it. You gave it to him to protect him on his raids. He gave it to me as a token of his respect for my courage, telling me of where it came. I was honoured to carry such a gift. I found it a few years ago. It reminded me of you. Of the little girl I watched growing up. Then I remembered that little girl was a young woman, and well, we both know what happened there."

He once again let his eyes roam over the naked form of Anja. She was indeed one the Gods molded to be for pleasure. She was meant to please and be pleased. Her breasts were generous, able to be handled and suckled at the same time, and serve as a cushion to rest a man's head when tired. Her arse was cushioned to take the blows of the man's thrusts from both sides. Wide hips that were good to hold onto to while taking her hard. Her lips were to be crushed against a man's mouth as well as wrapping tightly around his meaty shaft until she swallowed what he gifted her with. She would keep a man warm during the long darkness of winter, and give him plenty to look at during the never ending days.

"You may think what you want, Jarlsdottir, about what you are right now. But the reality is simple. You are my slave. You will serve me as I tell you. If you cause trouble, I will punish you. Your blonde friend has learned quicker than you in many ways. Her life is easier than yours. She isn't fighting what is happening. If you fight, so will I. You will get hurt, and loose. You will suffer longer than you need to, Jarlsdottir. You will eventually serve me properly. It's up to you how long you suffer before that happens.

Anja had been so absorbed by the intense pain and the sudden healing of her body that she had forgotten the scarred man was present, his sudden laughter making her jump. She looked up at him with blue eyes full of shock and fear, wondering just what else he intended to do to her.

"No, Jarlsdottir. Not dead. Very much alive, thankfully. And in good health too. Good enough to make use of your body again, no that you're safe to take. No children for you until I decide that your belly needs filling."

Again the girl felt sick to her stomach, but this time it was the very thought of bearing the mongrel’s child that nauseated her. The fact that he had cursed her, had made her barren for his pleasure, infuriated her, and she began to desperately think of a way to fight him off if he tried to lunge at her. As the scarred man squatted down beside her, she rapidly scooted back, thinking to herself that she could make a grab for the chamber pot to crack over his head if he so much as breathed heavily. How she hated him! His subtle threat that next time he might not have enough of the potion to heal her. His insistence that she was now nothing but a slave. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed with lightning as he dared to call her “a fine fuck,” her lips drawing back from her teeth as though she were ready to sink them into his throat. Still she listened, her body tense and poised like a leopardess waiting to strike.


"This is a time for you to listen, Jarlsdottir, for I know you are a smart woman. As I said, you are here to pay for the sins of your father. You are here to be enslaved, because you are Erlingrsdottir. I stood with the others of importance when you were brought away from your mother, the first to see you apart from your father, before the rest of his people saw you. I watched you grow up, until your father decided that I spoke up too much about not getting the proper share of the spoils.”

The Jarlsdottir could not repress a sound of scorn from within her throat, her red lips forming into a smirk and her eyes dancing with dark amusement. What a skald this liar was! Despite what he said about her being a smart woman, he must think her a real simpleton to believe his fantasies.

"Now, you call me a liar, Jarlsdottir, because your father tells you that Gromr Ragnarson died a hero. Hah. The man is a coward, and a liar. How did he gain your mother as his wife? Such a beauty as her? A mere warrior, not yet a Jarl? Yes, he saved her father's life. But her father needed no help. He was starting to win when the might Erlingr arrived, having watched the fight, waiting for the man to get into trouble and be killed, allowing him to claim your mother without anyone arguing. But it was even better saving her father.”

Now the amusement was gone, replaced once more with burning anger and contempt. How dare this… this… dog slander her father? How dare he doubt her father’s bravery and honesty? How dare he doubt that her father saved her grandfather and his lands? How dare he try to twist a marriage of love into one of force? Liar. Slanderer! Anja’s fingers positively itched to attack the unmarked side of his face, but she let him talk, his next statement causing her to almost shake with fury.

"And the lands he took? He barely had the power to hold them, let alone take them. He would let another take out an enemy, then weakened, he would remove them and absorb their lands into his. Bribe, murder, blackmail. Whatever it took. He wanted power, and he did whatever it took to get it."

The Jarlsdottir had heard enough, and positively would have grasped the chamber pot had the scarred liar not suddenly grabbed a handful of her fiery hair and drawn her to his face, dragging her out of the reach of her only weapon. Her blue eyes looked defiantly into his, meeting his gaze head-on, angry to the point of fearlessness, until he mentioned her nurse’s pet name for her.

"Remember, Little Flame, who called you that. How often you were called that, and who was around. Who has ever said it to you, apart from the one who used it most? And if that doesn't tell you that I am not a liar, maybe this will."

How had he known that? Only her old nurse Vigdis and the few others who had been close to her in her childhood had ever called her that. Not even Father called her that anymore. There was now a flicker of confusion behind the defiance and fury of her eyes, but it lasted only for a moment as her mind rapidly thought of a rational explanation. After all, one could learn anything if one had enough gold and knew whom to ask.

Then he pulled out the necklace, and Anja’s face was transformed into a pale mask of shock. She recognized it at once as the charm she had given her father to protect him while he was away. How had this loathsome monster gotten it? He must have stolen it! He must have!

"Mother's Teardrop, you called it. You gave it to him to protect him on his raids. He gave it to me as a token of his respect for my courage, telling me of where it came. I was honoured to carry such a gift. I found it a few years ago. It reminded me of you. Of the little girl I watched growing up. Then I remembered that little girl was a young woman, and well, we both know what happened there."

How had he known what she had called it? How had it fallen into his hands? Her father had returned without it. He said he had given it to Gromr Ragnarsson, shortly before he had been-

As Anja stared into her captor’s face, a long forgotten memory suddenly opened and played before her eyes. She had been a child, coming to say goodnight to her father before going to bed. Vigdis had walked behind her as she entered the boisterous meadhall where her father and his men were celebrating, and at the sight of her all of them became silent and made signs of obeisance. She had gone to her father and he had eagerly caught her up in his arms and sat her upon his lap, playfully ruffling her red hair as he wished her a good night. She had been facing his right, and her young eyes had happened to fall upon the man sitting in the favored place, to her father’s right. She had recognized him as the man she had seen many times before, but he had not interested her particularly. He looked like many Nordlander men; strong, handsome, blonde, blue eyed. Nothing unusual. His expression had been one of respect and courtesy as she glanced in his direction, but she had not bothered to acknowledge him as Vigdis led her away.

Suddenly Anja saw that man’s face again, close to hers, so close that she could feel the heat his breath. He was older, disfigured, his blue eyes full of lust and scornful amusement. Oh, gods! Oh, gods! The girl’s mind reeled within her, making her unable to tell which direction was up or down. Her expression was now one of horror and recognition, her mouth open in a silent scream. Oh, gods! What did this mean? Gromr Ragnarsson! But he was dead. He had been dead for ten years! Her father himself had brought home his ashes. They had interred them in the Temple of the Einherjar, she had seen it! He had died bravely in battle, but here he was! Oh, gods! Oh, gods! The Jarlsdottir felt her soul shake within her, her heart pounding with panic within her breast, her eyes unable to mask her emotions. If he had not died, why had her father said he had? Her father would not have killed his own men. He wouldn’t have! But… but… Oh, gods… Oh, gods!

"You may think what you want, Jarlsdottir, about what you are right now. But the reality is simple. You are my slave. You will serve me as I tell you. If you cause trouble, I will punish you. Your blonde friend has learned quicker than you in many ways. Her life is easier than yours. She isn't fighting what is happening. If you fight, so will I. You will get hurt, and loose. You will suffer longer than you need to, Jarlsdottir. You will eventually serve me properly. It's up to you how long you suffer before that happens.”

Anja’s shock and distress were obvious, the girl trembling, her eyes drifting from his as though she were arguing with herself and no longer concerned with the present. It took a tremendous effort for her to look into his eyes again, and to look into his now familiar gaze made her shudder with fear and revulsion. She remained silent for some time, breathing heavily, preparing herself, but at last she replied, her voice trembling but growing stronger by the second. “I… I don’t care if you are Gromr Ragnarsson… or his bastard, inbred brother Liar Whoreson. As far as I am concerned, the only mistake my father ever made was not making sure that you were dead and gone. How do I know that you did not betray my father? How do I know that he was not forced to defend himself? From what I’ve seen of your character, I wouldn’t put any cowardly or loathsome action past you.”

Anja had found the steel in her spine, her eyes no longer fearful but burning with rage. The vivid color had returned to her cheeks and lips, her teeth bared as she lashed him with her barbed tongue. “You sat at my father’s table. You ate his meat and drank his mead. He let you sit at his right side, and now you seek to destroy him? Maggot. Dog! And what have I to do with your misguided wrath? I was a child when last I saw your ugly face, made all the uglier by time! Was I my father’s advisor? Did I tell him to cut you down? By the gods I wish I had, for you deserve no less, depraved ingrate! You are a coward. You knew you could never defeat my father, so you instead chose an easier target; me. How dare you? How dare you?!”

The Jarlsdottir was now boiling over with hate and fury, more beautiful than ever as she shook and vented her wrath upon the resurrected monster before her. “How dare you? You kill my guards, kidnap me, steal my possessions, bring me to this godsforsaken place, turn my maid against me, lie to my face, bind me, strip me, rape me before a cheering audience, humiliate me in every possible way, throw me into this black Helhole without the comforts that even criminals are granted, treat me like some bitch that you can kennel and breed, abuse me, drag me about, try to put me to work like a common ship girl, send Helga to insult me to my face because you are too cowardly to do it yourself, beat me and break my bones after I attempt to avenge myself, throw me in here, curse me, put me through agony, taunt me, deride me, scold me… and you expect me to suddenly wriggle like an obedient little whore at the sight of you? Ass-brained fool! Tell me that you did not deserve every wound I gave you! Look me in the eye and tell me, coward, that I was not provoked! That I had no just cause!

“Do you think I am a weakling? That I have no iron in my blood? Do you think I am one of your southern conquests or some chit you plucked off a farm? I have divine blood in my veins! My ancestors can be traced all the way back to when Ask and Embla roamed Midgard! My people are gods, warriors, leaders, victors! My blood is richer than yours, Whoreson, and stronger by the pint. Hit me! Hit me if that’s the only way you can feel like a man! If you think you can crush me, just try it. I will never submit to you, do you hear me, maggot? Never! You can beat me, you can rape me, you can lock me away for days at a time, but you will never break me. I will thwart you at every turn. I will try to kill you every chance I get. I will give you no peace and make you wish you had never heard of Anja Erlingsdottir, Jarlsdottir of Erlingsland! For that is who I am! I will never be your purring, obedient plaything. Never! I have no master, do you understand me, Whoreson? If you want a simpering bitch to keep you warm, go fuck Helga. Or perhaps one of your men. They all seem more than willing to accommodate you.”

Fearless in her fury, Anja leaned in closer to Gromr’s face, her eyes staring into his, fiery and iron-willed. It was a sign of aggression, of superiority, a challenge, a dare. “And if you ever compare me to that blonde whore again, I will mutilate whatever unscarred parts of your body still remain. Now, get out of my face.”

The fire that burned within her was both her greatest gift, and her worst bane. It enhanced her beauty, making her desirable beyond any other Gromr had ever seen, but it also brought out the worst in her. She fought without fear, without thought of what it would do to her. She had grown up living where she would do and say as she wished, and there would be no consequence to her actions. That was no longer her life. She would learn that she had rules to live to, and breaking those rules had consequences.

His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, arching her neck taut. He grabbed one of her hands, wrenching it behind her back as he moved behind her, locking her arm in place in a painful manner.

"Yes, I sat at your Father's table, in an honoured place. I ate his food, drank his mead, killed his enemies, shared in his honour. In return, he promised me a certain portion of the spoils. He denied me many times, giving me less than he promised. I spoke to him of how he was not keeping his promise. He apologized, then when I was alone, he and three others attacked me. I killed one of the treacherous bastards before Erlingr laid me low.

"Why take you?" He tugged her arm harder for a moment to emphasize her pain. "Because of how much you remind him of your mother. That is why he dotes on you. You are almost your mother reborn. Except, you are more than she was. Descended from Freyja, right? How true. Your body is Freyja's divine gift to us mortal men. Your body, Jarlsdottir, is what Freyja had in mind for a man to truly enjoy, and for the blessed woman to enjoy as well.

"And who said anything about my wanting to defeat him, Jarlsdottir? I want him to suffer. He has lost the last link to the one thing he may have loved. He will now be in a rage that his little girl is now merely the vessel of lust of some other man, in some sham marriage. If he only knew that she was reduced to being a slave."

He moved his mouth beside her ear, his beard hairs lightly touching her skin as he spoke. "You got most of it right, Jarlsdottir. I haven't turned your maid against you. Helga has learned the truth about herself, and about her new life quicker than most. He loves what her body does for her, and the men. She doesn't fight them. Also, she still cares about her 'mistress'. She still worries for her, both as a maid and as a friend. She didn't want to go to you, and talk to you about what I commanded her to tell you.

"I have not lied to you once about anything. I have no need to lie to you. It serves no purpose at all to lie to you. I have spoken the truth, and I shall continue to speak the truth, because as long as I do, I can't contradict myself, can I?"

His teeth nipped the shell of her ear. "You are in this cell, Jarlsdottir, because you are a fighter, a stubborn woman who would not bend to the realities of the world. As soon as you learn how to live in your new life, things will improve immensely for you. Until then, expect things to be just as bad, if not worse for you."

Gromr slowly breathed near her ear, letting her hear the low grumble from within his chest as he thought of how he would wear down the iron in her spine. She would fight, with passion and fire. She would be worked up to the fullest, and little known to her, ready to be taken in body. He would easily take her, bring her to her pleasure, reminding her that her very blood was calling to her, demanding that she please the man who had the courage to take her for his own.

"Jarlsdottir... you had best be careful about how you refer to Helga in the presence of the other men. They have taken quite a liking to her, and not just as a slave to fuck. They genuinely like her. And if they hear you talk like that about her, they might defend what little honour she has left. Plus, if I want to compare you to her, I shall. Because you need to learn, and she is the best one to teach you what you need to learn."

Gromr let go of her arm, using his now freed hand to loosen his breeches enough to free his hardened cock. "Now, Jarlsdottir, since you are healthy, and no longer ripe..." He wrestled her to the floor, rolling her onto her back, and slipping between her legs. His body held hers against the floor, barely giving her the space to breathe. His hands quickly found her wrists, pinning them to the floor. He moved them up over her head, taking a little longer than he anticipated in getting them clenched in one hand.

"You need to learn that you are here to use that divine blood of yours, Feyja's blood no less, to do what the Goddess would do." His other hand slid between their bodies, finding her treasure, then finding her weakness. With brutal efficiency, he worked on that small point moving her towards the ecstasy that she had only known from him. His eyes stared into hers, not shifting as he moved her closer and closer to her personal valhalla.

Anja let out a cry of pain and outrage as the hand enmeshed in her fiery hair suddenly pulled back her head, forcing her to arch her spine. She would have clawed at Gromr like a wildcat had she been given the chance, but he was as quick as he was strong, and in the next moment he was behind her, grasping and twisting her arm up her back until Anja feared he would break it anew. She breathed heavily and almost howled through clenched, bared teeth, her red lips drawn back in an expression of animalistic fury, her blue eyes flashing with Thor’s lightning in the flickering torchlight. The very sound of her captor’s voice made her shudder with revulsion, particularly now that she indeed recognized it as that of Gromr Ragnarsson. To think that this… this… monster in honorable clothing had wormed his way into her father’s trust! The Jarlsdottir listened as her tormentor spoke, her anger and contempt for him rising as each poisonous word was poured into her ear.

"Yes, I sat at your Father's table, in an honoured place. I ate his food, drank his mead, killed his enemies, shared in his honour. In return, he promised me a certain portion of the spoils. He denied me many times, giving me less than he promised. I spoke to him of how he was not keeping his promise. He apologized, then when I was alone, he and three others attacked me. I killed one of the treacherous bastards before Erlingr laid me low.”

Lies! Lies! Nothing but lies! Anja fought desperately against every suggestion that her father was less than the honorable man she knew him to be, attempting to mask whatever fear she might have felt in righteous anger. Her father never would have done such a thing, never! And… and even if her father had committed one dishonorable action within his life, did that damn him to Helheim? Did that undo all the love and loyalty she owed to him? He was her sire, the spring from which her blood flowed, and to deny him would be to deny herself. No, this risen man would not sway her fidelity.

"Why take you?"

Anja cried out with pain, a cry which she quickly suppressed, as Gromr more viciously twisted her arm, yet unable to bite down a growl of rage. How she wanted to flay him alive. Flay him alive and smear the walls with his blood!

"Because of how much you remind him of your mother. That is why he dotes on you. You are almost your mother reborn. Except, you are more than she was. Descended from Freyja, right? How true. Your body is Freyja's divine gift to us mortal men. Your body, Jarlsdottir, is what Freyja had in mind for a man to truly enjoy, and for the blessed woman to enjoy as well.”

A shudder ran through the Jarlsdottir as her captor spoke of her body, of how she had been meant to be enjoyed by men. Never, ever had she been meant to give him pleasure! She had been born for greater things than to bear the weight of his body and indulge his perversions. Surely Freyja herself would never submit to such an outrage! Conveniently, Anja had forgotten the well-known instance of when the goddess had slept with three dwarves in exchange for the prized necklace Brisingamen. Had she known more of her divine ancestor, the girl would have been shocked at the things Freyja was willing to submit to.

"And who said anything about my wanting to defeat him, Jarlsdottir? I want him to suffer. He has lost the last link to the one thing he may have loved. He will now be in a rage that his little girl is now merely the vessel of lust of some other man, in some sham marriage. If he only knew that she was reduced to being a slave."

Anja’s blood turned cold within her veins, and an expression of horror overspread her face like a pale mask. Of the few people she had come to love during her short life, she loved her father the most, and to imagine his suffering at this moment made tears briefly glitter in her eyes. She closed them in an attempt to hide her weakness, and in a steely tone she whispered “You bastard…” She expected some form of retaliation, but what Gromr did seemed much worse to her than a blow. He drew so close to her ear that she could feel the tickling hairs of his beard, the heat of his breath washing over her skin. The girl felt as though a dead man were breathing upon her, but his unyielding grasp upon her hair and arm made it impossible for her to escape him. Oh, gods! Would they not deliver her?

"You got most of it right, Jarlsdottir. I haven't turned your maid against you. Helga has learned the truth about herself, and about her new life quicker than most. He loves what her body does for her, and the men. She doesn't fight them. Also, she still cares about her 'mistress'. She still worries for her, both as a maid and as a friend. She didn't want to go to you, and talk to you about what I commanded her to tell you.”

The proud Jarlsdottir released a snort of disgust at the mention of Helga, the one whom she had trusted, the one whom she had expected to fight like the Nordlander she was. If the blonde wench had cared for her mistress in the least, she would have resisted, rebelled, refused, anything but submit like the wriggling weakling she had revealed herself to be. Anja had favored her above all her other servants, and had been more than generous, but in the end she had been deceived in her estimation of Helga’s virtue, and she could never forgive her for it.

"I have not lied to you once about anything. I have no need to lie to you. It serves no purpose at all to lie to you. I have spoken the truth, and I shall continue to speak the truth, because as long as I do, I can't contradict myself, can I?"

Insolent wretch! Anja might have exclaimed as much, but the sudden, almost predatory, nip upon her ear made her instead bite her lip to muffle a cry of fury and revulsion. But why did she stifle it? Why did she not curse him with every vile name known to man? Surely she was not afraid of this beast, this monster. Anja Erlingsdottir feared nothing!

"You are in this cell, Jarlsdottir, because you are a fighter, a stubborn woman who would not bend to the realities of the world. As soon as you learn how to live in your new life, things will improve immensely for you. Until then, expect things to be just as bad, if not worse for you."

Realities? He spoke to her of realities? The reality was that she was Anja Erlingsdottir, Jarlsdottir of Erlingsland, and she would never, ever, ever submit to him or abandon who she knew herself to be. He could beat her, rape her, torture her, kill her, it would make no difference. She had been born a Jarlsdottir, and she would die a Jarlsdottir, and no scarred, beetle-brained beast could change that. The girl trembled with pent-up fury, her mind desperately at work to try to think of a way to punish her tormentor and escape his grasp. She did not realize that she was playing right into his hands, that the passion she was working herself into could in mere moments be used as fuel for the brutal pleasures ahead. The girl’s heart was pounding within her chest, her blood was hot, and her creamy skin more sensitive than ever as she once more felt his horrid breath, the rumble from his chest awakening her to the lust building within him. No! She would not submit!

"Jarlsdottir... you had best be careful about how you refer to Helga in the presence of the other men. They have taken quite a liking to her, and not just as a slave to fuck. They genuinely like her. And if they hear you talk like that about her, they might defend what little honour she has left. Plus, if I want to compare you to her, I shall. Because you need to learn, and she is the best one to teach you what you need to learn."

The Jarlsdottir did nothing to suppress her growl of anger and contempt. Once again he compared her to the blonde whore, as though she were the epitome of feminine virtue, as if her own divine blood were worth less than that of a peasant. If he thought he could scare her into silence, he was sorely mistaken. Anja Erlingsdottir feared no man! She had bested his men once, and by the gods she would do it again! In the midst of her wrathful reflections, the girl suddenly realized that her arm had been released, but she was still held fast by her hair. Then she heard the sound of his loosening his breeches, and a mixture of pure terror and fury shot through her veins like lightning. No! Not again!

"Now, Jarlsdottir, since you are healthy, and no longer ripe..."

Determined not to be ravished again, Anja struggled fiercely as she was wrestled to the floor, every ounce of her strength, every atom of her being fighting Gromr as though her very life depended on it. She screamed like a cornered wildcat and clawed at him like a beast as she found herself upon her back, unable to prevent him from slipping between her legs and pinning her beneath his weight. No! No! Barely able to breathe beneath the heavy, immovable heat of his body, the Jarlsdottir continued to scream, attempting to rake his face with her nails and avoid the grasp of his hands at the same time. In this she failed, and Anja let out a cry of rage and despair and she found both arms pinned helplessly above her head by just one of his. No! How could this be? The girl had been so sure that she could fight him off. She thought he had bound her the first time because he was a weakling and a coward, but as hard as she struggled she could not escape his now unaided grasp. Oh, gods! Please! Not again! Gromr’s face was just above hers, his blue, triumphant eyes looking down into the frightened fury of her own. Anja’s heart beat faster than ever, her helplessness once more threatening to bring tears to her eyes.

"You need to learn that you are here to use that divine blood of yours, Freyja's blood no less, to do what the Goddess would do."

Anja could feel her captor’s hand slither between their bodies like a venomous serpent, and she struggled more fiercely than ever, raining curses upon his head until an involuntary gasp of pleasure stifled her threats. Gromr had found her fatal weakness, and with brutal, merciless skill he worked the small pink bud, sending wave after wave of raw sexual gratification through her veins. The Jarlsdottir’s blue eyes widened with terror, staring into his, seeing the look of triumph growing as his black magic shot through her with all the fire and intensity of Thor’s lightning. No! Oh, gods, no! Once more Anja fought mightily to suppress the flames which licked at her every nerve, biting her lip to smother her cries and closing her eyes tightly as if the mere sight of him weakened her efforts. She could feel her body transforming beneath his cruel fingers, her creamy skin flushing with a rosy glow, growing ever more sensitive to the texture of his clothing and the cold floor upon which she lay. Her pink nipples hardened and pressed against his chest, sending additional bolt of pleasure through her rapidly weakening body as they rubbed against him during her struggles. Anja tossed her head from side to side, her face lovelier than ever as her cheeks and lips were stained with scarlet, standing out against her otherwise fair skin. The girl bit her lip as long as she could to muffle her cries, but soon her lips parted and her ragged breathing and agonizing inner struggle became clear. “No! No! Stop! S-Stop! Ahhnn! Oh, gods! No! I… ahhnnn! I’ll kill you Ragnarsson! Oh, Frigga, help me! Ahhhnn! Ahhhnn! Uhhhn! Stop! Make it stop! Oh, gods! Oh, gods! Ahhhnnn!”

Anja could feel her control slipping away, her body’s ability to resist and the steel in her spine melting as though caressed by Surt’s glove. She could feel her hips moving involuntarily with his fingers, her pussy becoming hot and wet, her juices trickling down her thighs. It felt so empty, so very empty. So in need of filling, so in need of- Oh, gods, no! Once more she tried to break free from Gromr’s spell, but it was too late. The fire was building rapidly within the core of her being, rising higher and higher with every caress, threatening to devour her alive at any second. The girl could feel the pressure becoming too great to contain, recognizing that her ultimate pleasure and ultimate humiliation was mere moments away. Her cries became wordless, threatless, cries of feminine helplessness and despair, until at last Asgard’s gates were torn asunder, and every nerve and fiber of her being was saturated in ecstasy.

Anja arched and writhed uncontrollably beneath the man she so hated, her every muscle, within and without, unable to keep still as the pleasure ravished her. It was wonderful. It was horrible. It was euphoric. It was agonizing. It was rapturous. It was humiliating. It was all that, but so much more. The girl’s cry of ultimate bliss was high, long, and full of all the passion her fiery soul possessed. Never than at this moment was the Jarlsdottir more beautiful or feminine, more vulnerable or yielding. There was a certain sweetness to her cry, a sweetness which to an experienced man suggested a possible soft center to an otherwise hard heart.

Gromr enjoyed the show Anja presented him with as he pinned her to the floor. She fought back, seeking to stop what she had no choice but to do. If she knew how fighting heated her blood, warmed her body, prepared that part of her for his penetration, he wondered if she would have fought back, or just laid there and made him work her more to get what he wanted?

Her look of shock when he clamped her wrists in his hand was worth the entire little wrestle. He heard the clear sounds of despair echo through the cell as she knew she was trapped. Didn't she know that the Nordland warriors muscles were great from the wielding their swords and shields? From the times they manned the oars of their boats during the southern raids? That being bigger than her meant that he would be far stronger than her?

But that faded into nothing as her face flushed with the signs his touch called to her divine blood. She fought back, not against him, but against herself. She couldn't stop his touch, but she fought to stop the way his touch sang to her body, and made it dance in a way she didn't want. But it danced how he wanted, and it danced well. The louder the call got, the more beautiful his captive got. Her lips puffed up as they deepened in colour along with her cheeks. He felt her nipples tighten, scratching his skin as she thrashed beneath him.

Slowly her words disappeared into more primal sounds of enjoyment that mirrored what her body was showing him. He smiled at the threats of killing him, of her pleas for him to stop that were interrupted by cries of pleasure that grew with greater frequency. He relaxed as he felt her move in time to his hand, seeking out to make the most of the movements. She was seeking her bloodright's greatest gift. He looked on at the woman he caught. He wanted her to enjoy what had befallen her. He wanted her to recognize what her body wanted and desired. To free herself of her stubbornness and rejoice in the gift her divine blood gave her. But he knew she wouldn't, and the only way she would learn was to be taught frequently, vigourously and with her feeling great passion every time.

He was granted a vision that he longed to see again and again. When Anja reached her peak, she was beyond beautiful. She shone with light of Freyja herself in all the Goddess' glory. Her cries were the sweetest music to his ears. Her body moved against him in ways that tightened him low in his body. He could feel her readiness, and her extreme arousal against his hand.

He lifted his hand to allow him to take hold of her hands, their fingers interlaced above her head. He fixed his gaze on her eyes as he easily slid into her warm depth. His eyes fluttered for a moment as he was caressed by her slick smoothness, but they never closed.

"Your blood does flow with Freyja's. We can't let that blessing be wasted, can we."

Gromr took Anja with long, powerful thrusts. He pulled back until the head of his cock was still in her, before plunging all the way back into her until he was completed gripped by her body. He groaned, moaned and made other noises that were clearly ones of pleasure as he fucked the daughter of the man he hated. The way she felt about him was heavenly. She was building a fire within him that had been unmatched by any other woman he had taken in his life. In showing her she was a woman, she was showing him what it was like to be a man. He felt strong, firm of body above her lush, curvaceous body that rocked so delightfully below his. When he finally showed her what it was like to be his woman, she would make him the luckiest man in the world. Those thoughts disappeared as he was reminded who was beneath him, pleasing him with her body. Her responses were driving him higher and higher. He lost all measure of control over his thrusts, pounding her body roughly as he raced to reach his own pleasure.

Looking down on her rosy complexion haloed by the fiery crown of her hair drew a growl of pleasure from deep within. When he felt the signs he was close to his end, he smiled at Anja. It was a show of triumph, pleasure, dominion and joy. With no other warning, he erupted deep within her velvet darkness, holding himself still as he emptied himself into her.

"That, Jarlsdottir, is what one does with a woman descended from Freyja herself. Not doing so would be a crime." He allowed himself time to breath and bask in claiming the redhead slave again. "Behave well, this day, Jarlsdottir, and you will sleep in a proper room, in a bed, no longer alone. You will have the chance to not return to this cell, Jarlsdottir. What do you say to that? Does that have appeal, Jarlsdottir?"

He lowered his body, bringing his face closer to Anja's, so his nose almost touched hers. He looked deep into her eyes, as if he could see her soul within. "Would you like that, to sleep in a room with other slaves, rather than alone in this miserable cell? Eating normal food? Lying in a bed at night?" He smiled, delighting in the feel of her body pressed firmly against his own, while remaining encased in her well used pussy.

Anja fell limply to the straw-covered floor as she was at last released from Asgard, feeling as though every ounce of her strength had been devoured by the flames which had raged within her. Even now they still danced down her spine, threatening to rise and consume her afresh should she once more be pleasured. Her breasts rising with each desperate gasp for breath, her lips parted, her face relaxed and her eyes closed, Anja was the picture of post-orgasmic bliss, but her mind was anything but peaceful. Once more she had been powerless. Once more she had been humiliated by the man she hated more than anything. She knew that he was gloating over this “victory,” that he was hoping to wear her down by diluting her fury in sexual satisfaction. She had to be strong, she had to fight, but how? How?

The Jarlsdottir released a soft groan as her captor changed the way he pinned her arms above her head, interlacing his fingers with hers. His hands felt callused and rough against her tingling palms; strong, skilled, capable hands. The hands of her father’s enemy. Just as the steel within her spine had begun to solidify, Anja once more felt herself being violated by Gromr’s horrid cock, the thick shaft slipping into her tight, wet, scalding depths like a sword sliding into its sheath. She let out a low, mournful, moan-like cry, a drawn-out “No,” followed by a weak sob as she felt her inner walls stretching around the pulsing shaft like a glove. Not again. Please, not again.

"Your blood does flow with Freyja's. We can't let that blessing be wasted, can we."

“No… No… Stop… S-Stop!” the girl weakly protested, but then his hips began their long, powerful, masterful thrusts, and once more pleasure hampered her ability to threat or object. The flames which had kissed her spine now blazed with revived intensity, licking at every inch of her body like the amorous caresses of a fire jotunn. Try as she might, Anja was utterly unable to block out or ignore the way Gromr enthralled her body, every stroke of his mighty spear rubbing and stimulating places of whose existence she had been entirely ignorant. His cock felt so big and hot inside her, filling her deeper than she ever thought possible and reminding her of Surt’s fabled sword of fire. Oh, gods, how she hated it! Oh, gods, how she loved it! Her body and mind were now at war, her mind disgusted and furious, her body ecstatic and eager for more. Her pussy in particular gloried it its violation, tightening around its steely invader, gripping him and attempting to pull him in deeper with each penetrating thrust. The girl’s hips rose in perfect time with his, her primal cries of enjoyment and agony echoing off the cold stone walls of her cell. Now and then her eyes would open to see his staring down at her with pleasure and triumph, but she would quickly look away, her shame causing her to sob in the midst of her body’s delight.

Gromr was a master of the sword in more ways than one, and it was not long before Anja once more felt the ultimate pleasure rushing toward her with all the speed of a fiery cyclone. Her full breasts bounced against his chest with each collision of their hips, rubbing her sensitive nipples, and she could feel his heavy balls slapping against her arse as if to punish her for her eagerness. Her slick inner walls, dripping with her juices, massaged his cock with their silken ripples, encouraging him to release his full load within her now unripe womb. Hotter and hotter the flames burned, higher and higher her impassioned cries sounded, until at last the Jarlsdottir was launched through the gates of Asgard and into an ever more intense orgasm. This climax was more potent that the last, the girl helplessly thrashing beneath her captor’s body, her hot sex clamping around its iron invader like a velvet vise. Again she screamed, a long, passionate, songlike scream, a scream that Freyja herself might have given in the throes of glorious ecstasy. She felt the heat of his seed as it filled and overflowed her womb, and heard his sounds of pleasure, but her mind was too saturated with sexual satisfaction to feel the full humiliation that both would eventually impress upon her.

After what seemed like a marvelous eternity, the helpless Jarlsdottir once more found herself on Midgard, her beautiful, flushed body collapsing to the floor, drained and glowing with the remnants of passion. As she panted for breath, Anja could feel her mind returning to her little by little, the pleasure releasing her mind though still holding her body captive. She was too weak to fight or protest, but she felt the sting of her humiliation all too keenly, and as she listened to her rapist speak, the girl did not dare to look into his eyes.

"That, Jarlsdottir, is what one does with a woman descended from Freyja herself. Not doing so would be a crime."
"Behave well, this day, Jarlsdottir, and you will sleep in a proper room, in a bed, no longer alone. You will have the chance to not return to this cell, Jarlsdottir. What do you say to that? Does that have appeal, Jarlsdottir?"

Anja groaned as he pressed his full weight upon her, feeling by his breath that his face was closer than ever to her own. Slowly she turned to look at him, her blue eyes swirling with amazement, agony, fear, shame, and a momentarily softened hatred. How she hated him. How she hated what he could do to her.

"Would you like that, to sleep in a room with other slaves, rather than alone in this miserable cell? Eating normal food? Lying in a bed at night?"

Anja was too weak and oppressed by emotion to answer even if she wanted to. Yes, a real bed and a good meal sounded wonderful… but… but how could she trade her soul for such meager comforts? Comfort… the luxuries she so loved… But she hated him. She was no man’s slave! She could still feel his cock deep inside her, and as she looked into his victorious eyes, her own began to glitter with tears, her bottom lip quivering. Turning her face away, the humiliated, powerless Jarlsdottir released a single, half-muffled sob, a single pearly tear trickling over her flushed cheek. She was powerless, utterly powerless, and there was nothing she could do at that moment to save herself.