Plunder

"Where are we going? I'm tired." Anso tugged at his aunt's skirt.

"Hush, Anso, it'll be alright," Avila murmured to her tiny nephew as she tied his small sheepskin boots. She tried to keep her voice steady, even as her fingers trembled at the screams and crashes outside.

Her sister knelt down, frantically stuffing bread, cheese, and parsnips into her leather pack. "That's right, liebling, it's just a game. We have to keep very quiet," Inga cooed.

"Where's Papa?" Anso whimpered while his mother swept him up in her arms.

"We'll see him soon," Inga replied, her voice breaking.

"Inga, wait!" Avila pulled the bronze torque from her neck and thrust it into her sister's hand. "Take this. You might need it to buy your safety."

Inga shook her head. "Mother gave it to you, and you'll wear it. Now come on."

"I'm not coming with you." Avila blinked back tears.

"What are you talking about?" Inga covered her son's ear with a mitten and held his head to her bosom. "You'll be killed, or worse!"

"I'll be fine. I can buy you time. You have—" A thunderous boom shook the timbers of the earthen hut and stopped Avila short. The raiders had reached their house. "Go now!"

Inga pressed one last kiss against her sister's cheek. "I'll see you again," she said, and then she fled out the back door and into the night.

Another impact rocked the house, and Avila knew the old oak door wouldn't hold much longer. She grabbed a long knife from the table and waited silently beside the doorway, trying desperately to slow her ragged breathing.

On the third crash, the door swung violently open and a tall Danish warrior burst through. Avila shouted and swung the knife towards his broad chest, but the Dane was too quick. He leapt aside and grunted in pain as her blade caught him high on the left arm. Before she could strike again, he was on her, knocking the weapon from her hand and pushing her against the wattle-and-daub wall so hard she thought she felt the paint crack behind her shoulders. She beat her fists against his chest, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head in one punishing hand.

"Brave, but foolish," the man chuckled. "And so lovely," he said, pulling off her sprang cap to release her dark brown locks. His fingers brushed down her neck and tenderly stroked her collarbone. "What is your name, little wildcat?"

Between his helmet and the light from behind his imposing form, she could barely see his face, but she spat in it anyway. The warrior was still for a moment, and then he slapped her hard across the cheek. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but she could not help the tears that sparked in her eyes.

"I am going to ask you again," he growled, "and if you continue to try my patience, I will hit you. And this time, I won't be so gentle." He raised the back of his hand, showing her the iron studs set into his leather glove along the knuckles. "What is your name?"

"Avila," she whispered.

"Avila." He murmured the name back to her, his breath hot on her neck. "Have you known men?" he asked sadly.

The warrior's tone enraged her even more than the indelicacy of his question. She may not have the strength or skill to fight him, but Avila would not be pitied by this brute. "Thousands," she hissed.

The Dane laughed again. "We'll see about that," he snarled, any note of condolence gone from his voice. He yanked the glove off his right hand with his teeth and forced two fingers savagely into her mouth. She tried to squirm away, but he pinned her hips to the wall with one powerful knee and pulled up her green woolen skirt. Avila screamed for help, but it was too late: he was already thrusting his wet fingers into her tight virginal passage.

The warrior studied her face intently. The way her pert breasts heaved with fear and defiance excited him, and sweet grip of her pussy around his fingers stoked his passion even more. He began to move his hand inside her, but stopped when he saw her cringe in pain. When he withdrew and put his glove back on, the fierce maiden before him sobbed in relief.

Avila trembled, waiting for the blows to fall. She was sure he knew she had lied, but she would rather endure a few bruises than an assault on her dignity. Her father had struck her many times, so she knew she could bear men's wrath, if not their lust. Perhaps, if she was lucky, the invaders' commander would call her attacker away before he finished beating her and raped her, and she could escape with her virtue intact.

Instead, the assailant brought his hand to his wounded left arm. He was bleeding steadily from her attack, and it almost made Avila smile until he tore her skirt asunder and reached between her legs again. She braced herself for another violation, but he only smeared his blood on her upper thighs. Then he grabbed her chin roughly, and she felt the warm wetness of his blood against her still stinging cheek.

"Listen closely," the raider growled. "If you value your maidenhead or your life, you will do as I say and keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, I will rape you with the very knife you used against me. Do you understand?"

Avila nodded. The warrior leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a savage kiss. He ground his body against her, crushing her beneath his firm, muscled torso, and plunged his tongue into her mouth. His beard scratched against her chin, and for a moment she could not breathe for his smothering assault. Then, abruptly, he pulled away. He tore a strip of fabric from her ruined skirt and deftly tied her hands in front of her. Before she knew it, he had tossed her over his shoulder and forged out into the flaming village, away from the only home she had ever known.

Avila could not bear to watch the destruction of her beloved town, so she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that Inga and Anso had escaped to the relative safety of the forest. Amidst the crackling flames and raucous shouts of the raiders, she heard a sharp whistle. Moments later, the warrior lifted her onto a horse as easily as if she were merely a child. The stirrups dangled far below her feet, so she clutched the steed's silken mane as her attacker swung himself up behind her and spurred his mount into a brisk canter.

The warrior leaned forward. Avila could feel his hardness pressed between her buttocks as her womanhood ground against the saddle's jostling pommel.

Soon, the cacophony of the plundered village faded into obscurity and she began to shiver in the icy wind. The Dane behind her wrapped a fur-clad arm about her waist and pulled her even closer to his warm chest. He felt her tense in his rough embrace, but did not release her. Whatever discomfort she was feeling was surely a better fate than frostbite, and after all, she would have to get used to his touch soon enough.

A few minutes later, the horse trotted to a stop. Avila was deposited brusquely onto the ground, and she looked around to find herself in a camp atop a grassy knoll. She knew this hill well: as a girl, she had often brought her family's sheep here to graze. The scene she saw now, however, was starkly different from the slopes she had rolled down on hot summer days.

Around the dying campfire, a dozen Danish warriors took stock of their loot. Five of her neighbors' strongest horses were hobbled outside the circle of tents, next to a herd she did not recognize and a wagon guarded by two particularly burly men.

"Thorlaf!" a gravelly voice rang out. It came from an older raider, lounged on a pile of furs draped over a log in front of the fire. A woman knelt before him with her hands bound behind her back. When Avila's capturer dragged her closer, she saw the man's hand fisted in the girl's blond curls, holding her head against his lap. By her hair and dress, Avila guessed it was Brynja, another girl from her village, and her heart lurched. "What have you brought me?" the reaver grunted.

Her attacker slapped the heavy bags tied across his horse's haunches. "A fair haul of grain, and a ring I took from the healer." Thorlaf drew a gold ring set with polished amber from his cloak and passed it to the older warrior. Avila watched it sparkle cheerfully in the firelight, wishing she could be so unfazed by being torn from her home and manhandled by heartless strangers.

"And the maid?" the seated Dane queried.

"I'm afraid she is that no longer, Magni." Thorlaf jerked Avila forward and held open her ruined skirt to expose the blood on her thighs. "The bitch took a blade to me, so I had no choice but to show her her place."

Avila held her head high, hoping that these savage men could not see her burning cheeks in the firelight.

Magni threw back his head and cackled. "So I can see!" He stared lecherously at Avila's bared womanhood. "Very well, do with her as you will. I already have a fine specimen of my own, and this one is unsoiled." He pressed the blond head roughly against his groin, eliciting a soft choking sound. "Hrafn," he called to a young man with jet black hair, "come, hobble Thorlaf's horse and stow the grain. He has more pressing matters to attend to."

Avila had no time to ponder what he meant by the last remark before she was dragged across the camp to a small tent and shoved inside. Thorlaf followed her in immediately, his massive shape dominating the cramped space. Promptly he began to disrobe. He untied his fur-lined cloak and laid it over the bedroll, tossed his helmet in the corner, then released the straps of his boiled leather breastplate and pulled off his boots.

The anxious spectre of fear leaned over her shoulders closer and closer until Avila could wait no longer. "Are you going to take me now?" she asked.

"Is that a request?" he chuckled.

"No," Avila said quickly, instantly regretting her loose tongue.

"Then not yet," he purred.

Thorlaf unbuckled his belt and drew a short dagger from it. He grazed the knife's tip against Avila's breast and along her collarbone, just softly enough not to scratch the skin. "There are guards posted around this camp at every hour of the night," he murmured. Abruptly, he pressed the flat of the icy cold blade against her neck. Avila held her breath, afraid that the slightest movement would let the dagger cut into her throat. "Are you stupid enough to try to flee?" Thorlaf rumbled.

"No," she whispered. She fully intended to make an escape, but it would have to be very carefully timed. She would wait at least a few days to learn the band's tactics and convince them she was not a threat. Perhaps during their next raid she could slip away...

Thorlaf cut through her bonds, breaking her reverie. She rubbed her wrists apprehensively while he finished taking off his battle gear. When he stopped at his woolen tunic and leather breeches, Avila breathed a sigh of relief and curled up at the edge of the tent, as far as she could from the warrior and his cozy pile of furs. But Thorlaf had other ideas.

"Get in the bedroll. I'll not have you freeze."

Avila didn't move. "I'm fine."

"Well, I have no particular fondness for frostbite," Thorlaf grumbled.

He reached out, grabbed her by the elbow, and yanked her towards him. He draped the blankets over her and wrapped one thickly muscled arm about her waist, pulling her rigid body against his hard chest. Avila felt his ribcage expand behind her as he sighed with contentment. Presently, his breaths slowed and he slipped into an easy slumber, just as relaxed as she was utterly stiff beside him.