Warrior of The Chevaan

They took Conine back to a cell and left her. Exhausted from her ordeal, she could offer no resistance when they tossed her through the door. Landing hard on the dirty straw that covered the flagstones, she was unable even to muster the strength to glare at the soldiers taunting her. Conine looked down instead, at the bruises and marks on her body, the vile stains on her thighs from Gracus' seed. She ached in every joint and sinew, so she lowered herself gently to the floor, breathing deeply to block some of the pain and horrible memories.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

In her dreams she again heard the click of the rack mechanism, the stain (strain) of the ropes as they pulled her apart. She saw Gracus' face leering down at her like a giant as he used the awful machine to wrench her limbs until blood leaked from her armpits and thighs. As she screamed, his breeches clothes disappeared and a penis the size of a horse's rose up between his legs. As he positioned it to thrust into her helpless body it suddenly burst into flames, so that he shoved the whole fiery length into her womanhood and she howled as she felt her most tender meat being roasted between her legs.

Her own awful scream woke her up.

High up in one wall a window showed the night sky, but there was no noise. Alone in the dark, the Celtic beauty pulled some of the filthy straw over her to try and screen out the night chill, and lapsed again into fitful slumber.

When she woke again some hours must have passed. The sky in the window had turned from blue-black to a dark steely grey. Conine heard men outside her cell and stirred as the door opened. She winced as the aches in her shoulders and back returned, but already the stamina of her warrior physique was helping her recover form her ordeal. It would be days before she could move with any kind of grace, but she managed to pull herself to a kneeling position as four soldiers came through he door.

'On yer knees, eh?' said one of the men, older than the other, probably a centurion. 'Good to see.' The others laughed. Conine glared and pulled herself to her feet, facing the men with a tired but determined stare. They openly admired her beautiful body, 6 feet of exquisitely honed female flesh adorned with raven dark shoulder length hair, bountiful firm breasts and bronze lightly-tanned skin over a well-defined muscular frame, still bearing the imprints of the whip's caress. The soldiers alternated their leering examination between her lovely features with their burning blue eyes, the sweet swell of breast meat tipped with their rosy buds and, and the subtle mound between her tapering thighs, crowned with its cum-stained crest of fine black hair. There was nothing about this naked savage that did not ooze of sexuality.

Conine met their stares evenly, saying nothing. She knew she was no match for these men in her current state but refused to show them any form of submission. Nor did she move to try and conceal her nakedness. She felt no shame at their examination ; why should she? She was proud of her body, trained to peak condition through years of toil. All she felt was disgust that these so-called soldiers should parade their lust before her, reducing themselves to more beast than human.

The centurion interrupted his men's appraisal with a crack of his knuckles. 'Alright, my young beauty,' he snarled. 'I was afraid you'd not be up to today's entertainment, but I see the General hasn't over estimated your endurance. My boys and I are going to get you ready. You can be a good girl, or the fun can start right now.' He smiled. 'Believe me, you don't want what we've got in store for you to begin sooner than it has to.'

Conine watched as the soldiers moved further into the room, encircling her. One of the men came forward and grabbed her arm, and Conine stiffened. One of his companions on the other side did likewise. Conine struggled a little as they drew her arms away form her body, flexing her muscles, but the torture had left her drained. With some effort the men hauled her arms wide, then tied leather cords around her wrists and used them to keep her arms spread as they backed away.

Conine stood between he soldiers breathing a little heavier from the struggle. Her hands balled into fists as she tested the strength of the cords, but they were cured rawhide and had behind them the full weight of the men holding them. She could twitch and flex between them, but not escape.

Nodding the centurion signalled the third man, who moved strode of the room and retuned with two buckets of water. With a smile he stepped up and flung the contents over the prisoner, soaking her from head to foot. Conine snorted and shook the wet hair from her face. The water was freezing and she felt herself instantly more awake.

'Water's cold all right, lads,' said the centurion, noting the instant stiffening of the nubbins on Conine's breasts, and all the men laughed.

Carrying the second bucket, the soldier moved behind the gorgeous Amazon and tipped it slowly over her head, letting the water run down in a shower over the contours of her body. Conine snorted the water out of her nose as the shower continued, the icy flow sluicing over her skin and washing away much of the filth form the straw and the sticky remnants of the boiling oil and Gracus' violation of her. She felt invigorated, but knew it was a false mercy. These animals meant only for her to be alert and well-presented when they paraded her for their amusement.

'Let's go,' said the centurion, and the men holding the thongs moved quickly, stepping in and seizing the Celt's arms and dragging them behind her back. Grasping her elbows and armpits they hoisted her off her feet, and she tried to kick. A backhand slap from the officer stilled her efforts, and she felt her head ringing as they dragged her from the cell.

Outside there was a short stone corridor, which opened onto a doorway leading to a large courtyard, the training ground for the soldiers in the fort. The men carried Conine out into the grey morning light, and she felt the chill air on her skin. Blinking at the brighter outside light, she could see a patchwork of clouds in the pre-dawn sky with just a sliver of blue peeping through in places. She shook her head to clear it, and was grateful for the sky above her. Whatever torment the Roman's had devised, she would prefer to endure it with the open heaven above her, rather than die down in the pits.

Soldiers were gathered to watch her being led out, the men just relieved from guard duty. Their replacements on the walls and towers also looked on, laughing and talking. Few of these Celtic Harpies were ever taken alive, and the humiliation of such a wondrous specimen brought a festival atmosphere to their harsh military existence.

Still hauling Conine by her arms the men brought her to the centre of the courtyard, where two more were waiting, standing either side of a heavy wooden beam about five feet long and the thickness of a man's thigh. As Conine was forced by the leverage of her arms to kneel on the cobblestones, they lifted the wood between them and laid it across her broad shoulders, taking care not to drop it on the back of her neck and possibly maim or kill her prematurely. With more struggling for the amusement of the spectators, the men loading her arms levered them out and positioned them across the wood, hands on top so that her shoulders took the weight. Then thick ropes wound about the beam where her wrist rested atop it, lashing it to her forearms. Another rope was tied into a noose and passed over her head, despite her efforts to prevent it, and then tightened about her slender throat.

'Get her up!' barked the centurion, and a soldier holding the makeshift leash used it to drag Conine to her feet. The onlookers cheered. Conine snarled like a trapped panther, struggling for balance under the weight of the beam across her shoulders and feeling the coarse wood digging into her skin at the bottom of her neck. 'Lets go,' the centurion snapped. Connie was forced to march across the courtyard towards the gate, one man leading her by the rope halter, one walking on either side bearing a spear and shield. Two more followed, one carrying a heavy mallet and the other a bucket full of large rusty spikes.

The warrior woman was marched out of the gates and along the beaten road leading form the fort. A short distance from the walls the group turned and headed up a low hill. Conine kept her head down to bear the weight of the beam, tremors running down her arms as muscles fatigued from the brutal stretching of the rack fought to support the thick wood. By the time she was halfway to the top perspiration beaded her face and her breathing was laboured, but she plodded on stoically, refusing to sink to her knees in a display of weakness. The men following behind nudged each other as they enjoyed the view of the gluteus muscles in her tight young ass flex and relax as she walked.

Finally Conine reached the level ground at the top of the hill, and paused. The men stood around her. She blinked sweat out of her blue eyes and raised her head a little to take in her surrounding… and her eyes widened in horror.

Ranged about the hill were a half-dozen wooden frames of various typed. Some were simple crosses in a T shape, others had been arranged to form an X. Two of them were A-frames, two wooden struts angled to come together as the apex of a triangle while another was bound between them at the base, just off the ground.

Bound – no, nailed to each of the terrible wooden constructions was a naked young woman, each bearing the signs of terrible torture. The marks of whips and heated irons crisscrossed their pale skin; bruises sullied their once-beautiful bodies. Dried blood from the wounds they had suffered covered their flesh. In the slight morning breeze their hair, some blonde, some black as Conine's own, and some various shades of brown, blew freely. On their fair young faces the grimaces of pain and anguish revealed the level of their ultimate agony. None moved, and Conine could see that they were dead, helpless victims of the men ranged around her. Anger burned bright in her soul, and she raised her head. 'Roman pigs,' she spat. 'You are nothing but butcherers. By the Goddess, I will see every one of you burn alive before my time is done!'

'You recognize some of your sisters, I see,' the centurion said, stepping around the vile display. 'They were given the choice of becoming willing slaves of Rome, or an example to their companions. Needless to say, they chose unwisely.' He smiled at the prisoner who stood, glaring at him with murderous rage. 'Personally, I am grateful to them. After their demonstration of obstinacy, many of your tribeswomen became much more compliant.

'Bastard!' Conine snarled from beneath her square cut mane. The solders laughed.

'They were brave, that should please you, at least at first.' He came to stand beside one brown haired victim who had been nailed by her wrists and thought (through) the tops of her feet to one of the T frames. About five foot nine and with a willowy figure with long legs breasts just big enough to fit in a man's spread palm, those legs bore the signs of branding and work of some kind of crushing tool, perhaps steel tongs, while her young tits were scorched and blistered, and one had had the pale pink nipples of her breasts cut off and cauterised. Her face beneath thick brown curls was still lovely, despite the bruises on one cheek and the stains of tears. 'This one lasted almost a half hour before she began begging for mercy. 'She was the youngest looking, and we started on her first, while the others watched with gags in their mouths and the rest were a little way down the hill. You should have seen them struggling and cursing through their gags. Real hellcats.'

The centurion moved around to the next cross on his right, an X frame holding a woman with curling black hair and bearing a diamond pattern wode tattoo across her forehead. 'This one actually volunteered to go next,' he said with a shake of his head. Conine was not surprised – the tattoo was the mark of a healer, and those of her sisters who practiced such arts would do anything to alleviate the suffering of others, however temporarily. The woman looked to be about twenty, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, currently slumped above two full breasts, as big as Conine's own but not quite so firm and with large pink nipples. Her body was trim but her legs shorter, spread now and nailed though the tops of her feet to the lower arms of the X. 'We whipped her with a thonged flail,' said the Roman, using his fingers to traces the scores of red welts across her white skin, particularly across her breasts and between her legs. 'We flogged her pussy last, after we were done raping her. You should have seen her buck like a Phoenician whore when we rubbed salt into her tits with our dicks inside her. Her cunt went crazy. By the time we got around to salting her bloodied quim she was gibbering like a crazy woman.'

'Now this one,' said the Roman, moving around again, 'she was easy to break.' The woman he referred to had long straight blonde hair and exotically beautiful features. She had been nailed to a T frame, but with her feet on either side of the upright and pierced through the ankles. The mound between her legs was bald, and her pink slit pouted openly, the lips inner lips pushing out past the labia. Her legs were long, longer even than Conine's, and she had a piercing in her navel, the mark of a spirit dancer. Her breasts were full but not large, crested at their domed apex with bright pink nips. The meat of those orbs had been pierced with steel rods, three to each mammary passing though to form a six pointed star emerging from the flesh at the base of each luscious tit. 'She was pleading for death by the time the last skewer went in, but we wanted your bitch sisters to appreciate the seriousness of defying Rome.' Reaching up he fiddled with one of the skewers, jiggling the tit playfully. 'We heated these up with torches until she agreed to fuck us on the cross. She was good too, I can tell you. We told her we'd strangle her and not let her suffer if she could do six of us.' He smiled at Conine. 'We lied.'

Conine stared back at the centurion with fury that made her tremble, her hands working spasmodically. If she could have burst free of the beam across her back by shattering her own spine, she would have. Her kinswomen deserved better than this, to die by pain for the sick degenerate pleasure of these scum. Red rage misted her eyes, but she said nothing.

The centurion moved on, and as the prisoner's eyes followed they grew wide again, but this time in terrible recognition. She knew the young woman nailed to the A frame. Wavy brown hair foamed down beside her face and spilled over her shoulders, and her face was round and beautiful. Her full red lips and eyes with long lashes, brown doe-eyes that Conine remembered so well and had now been forever shut. Looking at the ruin of her cousin, Conine fought down a sob. She had known she would eventually see the face of a friend or loved one, but nothing could steel her for the ordeal.

Anitha's body, like the others, was a patchwork of brutality. Her skin, tanned like Conine's own bore the marks of knives and skewers. A fisherwoman and diver, Anitha's physique was trim and athletic, her legs long and well developed. Her breasts were ripe and slightly pointed at the peaks, with bright pink nipples that contrasted with the brown skin around them. A tattoo passed around her upper left arm and her right ankle.

Anitha had been nailed with her arms hauled high above her head, dragging her torso up to accentuate her chest. Her feet were nailed though the tops to the bar across the base of the frame, spread wide so that her intimate regions were luridly displayed. Like the blonde dancer Anitha bore no pubic hair, and with despair Conine could remember the times when she herself had helped shave those curling tufts, when as teenagers she and Anitha had spent time near the ocean. She had thrilled to the feel of that body nestled up to her on the warm sand. The two young girls exploring each other in one of the first such encounters for Conine; two youths developing into women with the help of each others hands and lips and tongues.

"This one was a real fighter,' said the centurion with a smile, patting Anitha's still form so that Conine felt her guts churning with hatred. 'Even when we were nailing her up she was shouting to the others to be brave. We gagged her when we were fucking her so she'd stop shouting in our ears. That little bald slit was some of the sweetest pussy meat I've had my dick in. The A-frame is a perfect little tool for raping a woman like this. You can get your feet up on the bar while you're between her legs, and really jam it into her. Of course, that moves the bar nailed to her feet and hurts like hell, which is good, because then she moves around more.'

'After we'd all had a turn in her pussy, we ungagged her. Do you know the little bitch was still cursing us? Hell, I'd have thought she was one of your warrior sluts if we hadn't taken her unarmed when we raided the village. Spat on us, she did. Well, we knew right then this one would be up for something special.'

Conine choked quietly. She could imagine Anitha facing down her torturers, extolling her sisters to have courage even form the horror of the cross. Conine herself had tried to persuade her cousin to follow the warrior path, but Anitha had laughed and said why did she need to be a warrior when she had such a strong sister like Conine to protect.

Only Conine hadn't protected her. She had been saving Satyra when her cousin/lover was taken by the Romans. The thought that she might have been making love to the priestess at the same moment her cousin was being tortured to death burned like a brand in Conine's mind. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away.

Noticing her reation the centurion paused and looked at the victim on the frame. 'Well, lads, I think our young spitfire here knew this one.' He smiled and came closer, and Conine met his eyes with cold fury. 'Heh, yes you did, didn't you? Then you'll be especially interested in hearing what we did to her.'

He signalled to his men and they dragged Conine closer, until she was within three feet of Anitha's limp form. Up close the Celt could see the bruises from her cousin's rough handling clearly, the marks on her kinswoman's arms, hips, and breasts where the Roman's had squeezed her firm flesh as they pumped into her. The space between her legs was swollen and red, evidence of the angry members that had battered the prisoner while she hung nailed to the wooden frame. Her splendid body was lined with cuts of knives and longer blades, some shallow, some deeper, not unlike the ones inflicted on Satyra before Conine had rescued her. But where Satyra had had a saviour to deliver form the pain of the blades, Anitha had been forced to endure without release.

Worse, Conine could see the blades' terrible work had been made worse by the use of heated knives – some of the wounds were partly cauterised, the sign of the heated metal simultaneously cutting and burning it's victim. 'She was a good screamer this one,' said the centurion, drinking in his prisoners horror at the tale. 'We tortured her for an hour while the others watched. I left her ungagged, so they could hear the moment we broke her. It took a while, I can tell you. She was cursing us like a pirate when we started cutting her. By the time we were using the heated knives she was crying like a baby, but she still wouldn't break. We used the knives on her ass and belly and tits and she shrieked like a dying mare, but she wouldn't ask for mercy.'

'Eventually we had to use the knives on her slit – a shame, because she was so beautiful, and we wanted to fuck her again once she was beggin' for it.' The Roman indicated the space between Anitha's legs, where Conine could see the marks of red hot metal on the thighs and the lips near the pouting woman-flesh. 'We sizzled her cunt mound four or five times, but she just screamed and cursed. Passed out one time, and se had to wake her with a dousing. One stubborn bitch.'

'So do you know what we did,' the centurion whispered, leaning in to stare into Conine's eyes. 'We took one of the knives and let the heat go out of it a bit, just short of red. Then, I took my finger,' he help up a digit and moved it over to Anitha's scorched privates, 'and I made a space just here.' With his finger her parted the outer lips. Beyond Conine could see the dried blood crusting the inside of her cousin's quim. 'And I stated to slide it into her. Oh she howled then, I can tell you. Took three men to hold her steady so she didn't gut herself on the blade. I just worked it around inside her little sweet pussy. She lasted almost a minute before she begged me to stop. I kept going a while, just to let the others hear her pleading like a whore.'

'Well, needless to say none of us felt like shoving out dicks into that sliced up hole after that.' He grinned, and patted Anitha's firm ass. 'Fortunately she had another we could make use of. She made a fine site straining against the wood while we raped her tight little butt hole.'

'Not so tight now,' one of the soldiers murmured, and the others laughed softly.

The centurion smiled. 'All right, lads. Cut these sluts down and ready them for transport.'

Conine started, and the Roman smiled at her reaction. 'Oh yes, little warrior bitch, they're alive. Waste not want not, as we say. As soon as we'd done with them we gave the a drug to knock them out – takes an hour or so to work, so they were still suffering and moaning when we led your bitch sisters back inside, then they pass right out. For all to see they're as dead as these wooden planks, but they wake up a day or so later.' He smiled up at the crucified women. 'Of course, with all these marks they'll never fetch top price, so we have to sell them cheap, but there are men in Rome who still take such merchandise – some even prefer such decorations. They'll serve as do your sisters who watched, as proper servants for the manhoods' of the Empire.'

As the centurion spoke the women were being taken down, heavy tongs used to pull out the long metal spikes as the men laid them in a heap. At the base of the hill a wagon pulled into view and began approaching.

Conine breathed heavily. Anitha was alive, along with the rest. She watched her cousin being laid on the ground, her beautiful body ravaged by the tortures, but still alive. I will find you cousin , she thought to herself, as the wagon drew near and men jumped down to begin loading their human cargo for transport. I will find all of you.

As the men in the wagon began loading the unconscious Celt women, the soldiers returned to stand about Conine. She stood proud and tall before them, facing them squarely. Her hair had dried in the breeze and ruffled a little in the morning air. In the east the sun was almost up, and the sky had turned form grey to red, and now a dull gold.

The centurion rubbed his chin and looked at the woman before him, tall and strong and proud. He knew that she would never fold as easily as even the most spirited of her predecessors, and he was made warm by the knowledge. This was a duty that could last hours, if he was lucky.

'Alright, warrior bitch,' he smiled. He scanned the frames, then settled on the one recently occupied by Anitha. 'Since you seemed to know the slut who hung here, we'll let you take her spot.' But I should warn you,' he added, stepping close so that his chest was mere inches from the curve of Conine's magnificent breasts, ' that my orders for you are different form that whore. No easy out for you, my proud fuck toy. You're going to hang on that wood til you breath your last, and me and my men are going to make sure you only die when we tire of hearing you beg us for it.'

The men dragged Conine to the ground and laid her on her back, still lashed to the wood. She felt stronger now, despite the load of the crossbeam, and she didn't make it easy for them. It took three of them to hold her down, every muscle of her athletic young body straining as she sought to fight free, but eventually they pinned her. The centurion looked down at his captive lustfully, her sexual charms even more alluring lying bound in the dirt than they had been when she stood upright before him. Her breasts rose and fell evenly, and her abdomen tensed as she tried unsuccessfully to drag herself upright.

'A real fighter, this one,' the leader commented, and his men smiled in agreement. 'Out of respect for your endurance and courage, my beauty, the general has accorded you a special honor.' Conine simply stared up at him. 'Normally prisoners executed on the cross suffer naked, but for you we are going to make an exception.

A man moved forward into Conine's field of view, and she raised her head a little to look at him. In his hands he carried her calfskin boots and her leather arm greaves. 'Dress her,' said the centurion.

The man knelt down next to the prone woman, and another came to help the soldier who clasped her legs. With much tugging and pulling they managed to work her powerful legs apart, the muscled (muscles) in the men's arms standing out as they struggled against those of the Celtic warrior's thighs. Conine herself grunted a little with the exertions, but eventually relaxed and let her head fall back. Her thighs were still sore form the stretching in the dungeons and she knew she would have to conserve her strength for what was to come.

Keeping her left leg pinned by kneeling on it the Roman hauled her calfskin boot up over her foot and up her leg, until it sat fully on with the top about two thirds of the way between her ankle and knee. The man then used the laces to bind it securely. When he was done, he kicked the other boot to the man holding down her right leg, who repeated the procedure.

With her feet clad the fifth soldier came and used a sword to cut free the ropes that had bound Conine to the wooden crossbeam. The men hauled the wood from beneath her, leaving splinters in her flesh along her back and shoulders, and she winced a little.

One of the men holding her arm leaned over and grabbed one of the arm greaves, stopping momentarily when he let one hand go and the female prisoner tried to use the moment to wrestle free. The man cursed and emulated his companions holding the woman's legs, using his knee to lean on her elbow and keep her pinned while he pulled the arm greave on. A curved piece of cured leather that curved around and formed a tube-like shape open a few inches on one side, it soon was over her clenched fist and up over her forearm. Conine tried to fight with the arm., her bicep bulging and she struggled under the man's weight on her elbow, but could not prevent him from eventually lashing the greave to her arm. When it was done the man holding her other arm did likewise.

Staring down at the prisoner now, the centurion felt his cock stiffening against his tunic, a sensation he was sure he shared with his troops. If the Celtic woman's body had been magnificent in its nudity, the boots and greaves only added to her raw animal beauty. Clad on a body whose every inch was toned to muscular perfection they served to remind the men of the fierce strength that was now subjugated to their will. She was a warrior, but now she was also their plaything. The excitement of using such a woman was like a heady wine in their veins as they ogled the fiery black-haired wench held helpless beneath them.

To be continued…