Chapter 2: An execution and a discovery

The dancers were beautiful. Twins, they were identical in all things but for the location of the brand, and they wove in and out of each others' fluid motions so that the eye was frequently deceived, unable to tell which one had gone which way. Red hair fell across the gauzy material of their flowing garb, a rare shade of molten copper with highlights of darker hue, and their bare feet made no sound as they sank into the luxurious carpet. Reclined at his ease on the heavily padded sofa, Ezril Dur sipped from his golden goblet of bluish-white moonwine and looked with rapt attention at his lovely and talented slaves, thinking happy thoughts.

A large man in his early thirties, Ezril was nearly bald and quite thick in the middle, gone to seed in the licentious atmosphere of the court, in sharp contrast to his earlier service as a cavalry officer assigned to what was euphemistically called 'harvesting', the gathering of slaves from outside the breeding farms, one of his house's major sources of income. His practice as a redsword raider and a skilled tactician had served him well in the sharp edged environment of the imperial palace, as his trade in favors and more concrete items, blackmail and the occasional pre-arranged accident had increased his house's wealth and notoriety in a manner pleasing to his superiors. Any failure or blunder had been skillfully shunted aside, blamed on a servitor or ally, and the future looked bright. For the immediate future, he banished considerations of power and position, and crooked a finger at the girls, summoning them closer. The twins halted their spin obediently, leaving their dancing garb on the floor with a twist of movement that brought a hint of drool to the corner of Ezril's mouth, and stepped within arm's reach.

For a moment, he looked over their lush bodies, his eyes drawn to full breasts and long legs, muscles sharply defined by years of relentless gymnastic and athletic exercise, and settled on their brands, an axehead in blood-red on pale skin, burned onto their thighs. It was the development of the brand that had granted his house the stranglehold on the slave trade. His many times great-uncle (who had left not a single child of his own), the brilliant and sadistic wizard Kartus 'the Flayer', had researched a magic that subjugated the spirit so completely that less than one in a thousand could successfully resist. Those who managed it earned a worse fate by far, taken to laboratories wherein experiments so dread that only whispers had reached even Ezril took place, their purpose to find the source of will, to finally crush any resistance. The multilayered magics of the slave sign meant that only the greatest of sorcerers could remove it safely, and even then only a select few survived to attain freedom. Not zombies, the branded were willing and even eager to obey their masters, and a ritual kept secret by the Dur was the only way to transfer obedience and thus true allegiance. The only reason slave armies were not kept these days was that magic had proved capable of disrupting the bond on a large scale, casting confusion and rebellion amongst the ranks.

The priesthood of Adur, the bright lady of light, laughter, friendship and liberty had pronounced a holy war against the scions of Dur upon the first instance of widespread use of the brand, but with their order under proscription since the battle of Stormlight and the death of empress Tilanthia, their means were limited. Still, it was a rare year when a cousin or three were not burnt to ashes by light bolts from the hands of the faithful, and raids on the farms were commonplace, but mercenaries were cheap, especially when they rarely lived long enough to collect their pay.

Fleshy hands reached out, one cupping and fondling a breast and the other, thick fingers gathered in a wedge, invading the sanctum of bare and puffy lips, entering the exposed and hairless twat of the righthanded of the twins, who could not contain a gasp of pain. She reeled in place, agony painted starkly on her face, as he used his grip on her breast to bring her closer, bruising her tender mammary and breathing in her pain with his mouth on her lips. At a hissed word, her sister kneeled and reached out slowly and carefully, well aware that mishandling his privates would earn her a very painful ordeal, and drew out his cock, warmth filling her hand, the reddish rod suffused with blood, fully erect after watching their performance of the Flaming Fountain, a dance originally conceived by the courtesan Illishtia the Nightfox, its purpose to inflame the senses.

Her full, bee stung lips enveloped his pole and her cheeks grew gaunt as she breathed inward, the suction and moist warmth exciting him. Impatient with her gentle method, he withdrew his fingers from her twin's cunt, cradled her fire topped skull with a blood and fluid soaked hand, and pressed her down with firm and irresistable strength, filling her mouth and intruding into her throat, burying her face in his thick, musky pubes. Pushing her back and forth, her gag reflex gone with the long abuse she had suffered, he roared into her sister's mouth with the delectable sensation of her throat massaging his manhood, and took his hand from her bruised breast, placing it upon the firm globe of the ass, fingers sliding in-between, entering the now lubricated cunt and the tightness of her anus, pressing her forward as his teeth feasted on the softness of her breast, her scream filling the room as he bit down and nearly severed the darkish-brown nipple with the orgasm that shook his bulk. His seed spurted into the crimson haired dancer's throat before an errant blow of his quivering gut sent her down to the floor, stunned despite the thick carpeting, his hold having grown weak as pleasure grew.

Calming with a slew of deep breaths, he laughed loudly and took a love bite out of the woman's lips, drawing blood, before sending her sprawling upon the rug with a flick of his hand, joined with her twin upon the floor. Sighing lustily, Ezril discarded the flamboyant clothes he still mostly wore, and poured himself a generous goblet of maiden's tears, grinning at the irony of the name. One of his favorite viands, a robust honey confection of great potency and tart sweetness, it complemented his private practices perfectly, for rarely had a woman left his bed without tears in her eyes, and never as a maiden. Watching the two nude slaves plastered to the floor, he took sip after sip from the golden bejeweled cup, tastelessly overdecorated with sufficient wealth to buy the dancers three times over, and gradually grew aroused. The message had yet to arrive, and before he began annotating reports or having his skull nearly pounded to pieces by the telepathic shouts of Yeslan, he could play some more.

A word of command brought his favorite whip to hand, a seven stranded catlash that was useful in battle no less than in the bedroom. A modification to the enchantment ensured that no playtoy died or suffered permanent damage, reducing her value and damaging her comeliness with unsightly scars. A terse command brought the girls to their knees, and he walked slowly closer, a spectre of pain with a gold and black seven stranded scythe of promised bloodmist. A half dozen strokes to one, six to the other, playing and holding back, and lines of blood covered and crisscrossed the pale canvas before him, tears leaking from banked coals of amber eyes, their fires quite gone. Striking hard, he sent them down on four, screams echoing from the chamber's walls and bringing a spark of blood madness upon him. Checking it before succumbing and whipping them to unconsciousness, he frowned for a moment, grunting and gasping in his excitement, before his countenance brightened and he recalled Wizler's gift. Before leaving the room to search his drawer of magical gewgaws he smiled at the bloodsoaked picture of his hosting room, wherein half the nobles of the court had guested at one time or the other, knowing that for the girls there was no respite - they would retain their tortured postures until hunger or thirst drove them to move, as the basic survival imperative could not be countermanded without producing mindless husks.

Finding the ring he had sought eventually, a incredibly detailed greenscaled serpent, coils forming the body of a circle with the head of a hooded viper rising to strike, the circumference too big even for his own thick fingers, he closed the case and locked it. Returning to the redheads, he couched before their faces, cock gone flaccid, and donned the ring, sliding it over the bulbous head of his erection, enjoying their terrified looks enormously. Instead of a man's penis, from his crotch a serpent undulated, cowled in scales of darkish green, veins rising prominently beneath the glittery cover. He hissed in mockery and rose, a lecherous grin of anticipation stretching his jowls, and lowered his bulk behind their crouched forms, fondling their asscheeks and prying at their holes with his fingers as he made his choice. Turning to the left, the eager snake head leaped forward, struggling to breach the tightness of her bloodsoaked behind, entering the puckered hole with a moan and a gasp, the incredible pressure and the eel-like sensation of shifting scales causing his eyes to cross with ecstasy.