The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘Lens’

(mc, f/f, sf, nc)

DISCLAIMER: This material is for adults only; it contains explicit sexual imagery and non-consensual relationships. If you are offended by this type of material or you are under legal age in your area, do NOT continue.

SYNOPSIS:

A patrol of barbarian hunters encounters a slave caravan which has blundered into an ancient threat.

WARNING:

Story contains squicky things! If poking through someone’s skull into their brain disturbs you, this story may not be for you.

* * *

‘Lens’

Part Six

* * *

“Isleif,” Brynwyrren said quietly, “I’m going to go.”

They sat at the edge of the fishpond; it was still overlaid an inch deep with ice, but the day’s sun had laid a sheen of water on top. Treacherous to cross, now, slick and prone to crack.

They had brought a traveler’s chest out with them, empty save for the fur greatlet which now lay around their shoulders. The sky was the color of a robin’s egg, scattered with delicate white clouds that sailed swiftly in the high breezes. The woods were bare, the ground beneath the trees a frozen white, but one could sense spring coiled and ready.

Isleif knew that Brynwyrren was not talking about returning to the warmth of the hall.

“You won’t get away,” she replied quietly.

“If I do not go now,” Brynwyrren said. “I never shall. And I must. I must...”

“Not now,” Isleif said. “Wait.”

Brynwyrren looked at her. “My love, I cannot. The Dominne, they... they’re changing me. Each time I service them, I awaken a different woman. If I do not go soon, I won’t remember that I ever wanted to.”

Isleif turned her head to look into Brynwyrren’s green eyes. “I know. I understand. My love, my Fire, you must wait. If you go now... it is still too hard to travel. Too slow. They will have you, and then Mistress will... domesticate you. And that will be the end. You cannot go now. You will never make it far enough.”

Brynwyrren’s gaze dropped, then she looked into the woods.

“Ice, my love,” she said quietly. “Were it not for you, I... I would be dead already. At my own hand. I am not afraid of the knife. For you, I live. But I must go, or I must die. I will not become... them.”

Isleif reached across to take her shoulders, turned her back. “We will go,” she promised. “We will. But not now. Wait, wait for the spring. Wait for a riding time, for hard ground which will be followed by rain and storm to cover our trace. It will come, and we will go. Together. I will take you. Or... we shall die. Together.”

Brynwyrren stared into her eyes, into her promise. Slowly, she nodded. “But Mistress will call us back, even at a day’s ride. How will we not answer?

Isleif slipped a fraction of a smile. “Trust in me, my Fire,” Isleif said. “I have found a guard.”

* * *

Isleif woke to the patter of rain and the smell of Brynwyrren’s hair.

She lay on the bedroll and looked up at the blackness, listening. It was the first rain; it would melt the thin snow that remained on the ground and turn the yard to muck. It would wake the buds of the trees.

Lavender eyes opened in her mind.

come

Isleif’s body stiffened. Carefully, she disentangled herself from Brynwyrren, and slipped out from under the sleeping fur. Seized by a sudden impulse, she kissed Brynwyrren on her shoulder, then rose to her feet. There was a robe hanging on the back of the door, which she slipped into; then she stepped out into the still-dark corridor and closed the door gently behind herself.

Drudges flanked Mistress’ door, as they always did. Isleif didn’t know if there was something about having one’s personality erased that did it, or if Mistress was simply shaping their flesh to her own aesthetic, but both of the drudges were muscular and smooth, their faces unlined, their bodies hairless. They looked like statues. Their eyes were colorless white orbs with darkness-wide black pupils at the center.

One of them opened the door.

Isleif entered.

Mistress was on her bed, seated. None of the Dominne were in the room, but Soo was sleeping across the foot of the bed.

come

Isleif approached and, at the side of the bed, dropped to her knees next to Mistress’ feet.

“Our huntress,” Mistress said. She stretched out a hand and ran her fingers through Isleif’s pale hair.

Mistress stroked Isleif’s hair for a while, humming some tune that Isleif did not recognize.

“Thou art unlike thy owning-kin, huntress,” Mistress said. “Slavery is their state. So it be for most all thy kind. Yet thee...”

Her hands found Isleif’s cheeks and she raised Isleif’s head to look up at her. “We see thy spark, pet. Damped though it be, it burns yet. A fire on it, we might make...”

Mistress stood up from the bed and took a few steps away, into the room. “Dost thou like us, slave?” she asked.

“Mistress?”

Mistress’ mouth crooked. “Dost like our body? Desirest thou to lie with us?” She raised her hands above her head and slowly turned. “Look on us and tell.”

She was... very beautiful. And yet alien—so tall, her skin so unnaturally pale, her body hairless, save for the long plait that emerged from beneath the glossy black shell which hid her lovely lavender eyes. And that shell... smooth, and black, and alien.

Isleif felt a rush of lust and realized it was not at all imposed; the deep parts of her mind had slithered to ‘exotic’ rather than ‘strange’. She wanted to touch Mistress, to taste her.

“Yes, Mistress, you are very beautiful. Your body... I... I want it. Very much.”

“Good,” Mistress replied, reaching down to slip her fingers beneath Isleif’s chin, raising her to her feet. “For a moment, then, bury that we art thy Mistress and thou our slave. Kiss us because we are beautiful.”

Mistress’ mouth angled down and Isleif met it with her own, and Mistress’ unnatural tongue remained human-sized as they kissed, and kissed again, and again. Mistress’ hands slipped Isleif’s robe off and it fell to the floor, and Isleif held the cool flesh of Mistress’ back and then slid her hands down to the tight curves of her buttocks.

Mistress made a pleased noise, pressing her belly against Isleif’s breasts and leaning her head back, and Isleif took one of Mistress’ waxy pale nipples into her mouth and suckled. It stiffened and Isleif moved to the other, sucking gently as Mistress’ hands stroked the back of her head.

Mistress turned and bore them down onto the bed, bodies entwined, flesh sliding over flesh. With surprising strength for her slender limbs she pushed Isleif further up toward the head of the bed and slid her own body downward, her tongue out now, sliding along Isleif’s body, lapping at her breasts, slithering down her belly, until Mistress’ mouth found Isleif’s sex and she began to lick at it, slow strokes, arching Isleif’s back and curling her toes.

Mistress licked at Isleif’s pussy and then engulfed it with her mouth, sucking gently as her tongue-tip swirled and danced, and Isleif clutched at the sheets and rode the bed until she came, crying out sharply, shivering as the orgasm faded, surprised at her own eagerness to taste Mistress’ mouth, which Mistress slithered rapidly back up Isleif’s body to clamp down over Isleif’s own, and their tongues entwined, Isleif almost nursing on the black and pink tongue that slipped into her mouth.

Mistress rolled onto her back, bringing Isleif over atop of her, and Isleif eagerly kissed her own way down Mistress’ long, lean frame, down to her pale, hairless sex, which was already damp from Mistress’ desire. Isleif took it in her lips, kissing, then began to lick, slowly, then faster, flicking, then slowing her tempo and using long, strong strokes which slowly increased their speed and urgency.

Gingerly she slid a hand up beneath herself and slid a finger into Mistress’ pussy and was rewarded with a pleased groan. With tongue and finger she teased and crooked until Mistress came, quietly, her whole body shuddering, hands reaching down to pull Isleif back up the bed.

They kissed some more—Mistress was still using just the tip of her tongue, not the whole half-meter length, as she had for all of their lovemaking. Isleif stared at the black gloss that overlaid Mistress’ face and in her mind she saw lavender eyes looking back at her.

Isleif felt a second pair of hands sliding up her backside and she looked down to see Soo, awake now, smiling as she dragged her body slowly up Isleif’s. Her nipples slid along Isleif’s back as she slithered up the bed.

Mistress rose up on the bed and reversed herself, her head towards Isleif’s feet; as she lay back down she spread Isleif’s legs, pushing the ankle of Isleif’s upper leg up towards her body and raising that knee into the air, giving herself headspace between Isleif’s legs.

Mistress’ own upper leg rose as well, offering a space for Isleif’s head, which Isleif took, her mouth alighting gently on Mistress’ pussy as Mistress’ mouth closed around hers. Isleif shivered as Mistress’s tongue slipped along her folds once more.

Soo’s hands slid around Isleif’s body from behind to take hold of her breasts and squeezed gently; Soo’s mouth nibbled at the nape of Isleif’s neck, sending shivers firing around her body.

Isleif felt molten, her mouth on Mistress’ sex, Soo kneading her breasts and kissing along her neck and shoulders, and Mistress’ tongue slithering up and down between her legs. Her mind seemed to open of its own accord, her will softening and sliding halfway back, like panties slipping down around her knees.

Mistress’ tongue was finally revealing its true nature, sliding around both sides of Isleif’s labia at the same time, like a snake slipping around a door. The tip pushed into Isleif’s vagina and wriggled, then pushed further in, thickening, and Isleif’s mouth came off of Mistress’ sex to groan.

Soo was biting her neck, plucking at her nipples, and Mistress’ tongue was filling her up; Isleif’s mind was soft and open and unresisting. Her vision had gone blurry and the scent from Mistress’ sex fogged her mind.

Something pricked her, inside, and there was a rush of heat through her crotch. Isleif felt Mistress’ tongue slithering into her again and whimpered in lust as it slid deeper in, deeper, up inside and into places no intruder should penetrate.

Mistress’ tongue bulged at Isleif’s entrance, and then the bulge pushed into her vagina and then inward, pushing against the numbness she felt inside and then there was a sense of release as the bulge slipped still further in, and then slid out of Mistress’ tube-like tongue entirely and nestled inside Isleif’s womb.

Some dim part of Isleif’s overloaded mind began to question what had just transpired and what it meant-

sleep

* * *

The grinding wheels were whirring in the smithy.

Isleif entered to find Gwynn-Dominne directing Eottir and two of the Kyurren—Thura and Bleidis—at the forge. Thura was working the bellows with both hands, her torso expanding and crunching as she forced the air through the forge. Bleidis, with a mask of leather over her face, was reaching into the forge with a long pair of tongs. Both gleamed with sweat, drops of it flicking off their bodies as they moved.

Bleidis removed an ingot, glowing white, and placed it on the anvil, where Eottir began to hammer it.

Isleif watched Eottir’s muscles flex and glisten as she hammered at the radiant metal. She wore only a smock to protect her from flying sparks, and a cloth to hold her breasts tight to her chest. Her nude skin was speckled with soot and shone with sweat. Rivulets of dark dust trickled down her back.

Gwynn-Dominne wore even less.

She was nude entirely, her body glistening with perspiration as well, the hard muscles of her shoulders and stomach outlined with red reflections from the forge. The glossy white creature atop her head seemed almost to glow red with the light.

She was speaking but Isleif could not hear her over the roar of the bellows and the ringing of the hammer.

Then her head turned towards Isleif and she smiled. A gesture and some shouted instructions to the slaves, and Gwynn-Dominne turned from them and approached.

slave

Isleif shivered, nipples hardening, and stared at Gwynn-Dominne’s glossy white face.

come

Gwynn-Dominne walked into an adjunct to the smithy, a recent addition that smelled like new wood. She shut the door behind Isleif and the rush of the bellows and the clang of the metal died down to a rhythmic ringing sound.

“What brings you to the forge, Isleif-slave?” she asked.

“Just... idle curiosity, Domina.” Isleif replied. “I have little to do in the day. I help Lissira with the glass making but she is abed with an ague; and I help Brynwyrren with the alcohols but today she is closeted with Mistress.”

Brynwyrren had been summoned that morning, just as Isleif had been the morning before. Isleif felt her obediently rise and leave the bed, and had to reassure herself that Mistress desired only a bedpet, that her belly was not yet ripe with another shell, that Brynwyrren would return unchanged.

Isleif battered the thoughts down, squashed them, focused on Gwynn-Dominne’s sweating breasts and the desire that she felt to suckle at them. Something true, something distracting, that would make a curious mind-reader smile and probe no further.

“Idle you say, but I see such deep thoughts written on your face,” Gwynn-Dominne said, and ran a hand down Isleif’s neck. “Let us have a look at them.”

It felt like pressure against the middle of her forehead and then Gwynn-Dominne was in Isleif’s mind. Isleif felt herself respond by opening, spreading, lying back. Her mind instinctively abased itself and her consciousness was once again at the edges, watching passively as Gwynn-Dominne slithered around and read her mind.

“You like us,” Gwynn-Dominne said with a smile. “Ah, but that would never cause that crease between your eyes. So what is beneath that...?”

The worry. The worry was fine. The worry that Brynwyrren should remain unchanged...

“Ahh, your lover. You do love her, don’t you, pet? Mmm, but your attitude is all wrong. To be joined is nothing to fear, but rather the greatest of gifts.”

Gwynn-Dominne ran a hand in small circles over her hard abdomen. “Already one of Mistress’ get ripens within us. Perhaps our egg shall be for you, when it is ready. How wonderful that would be. I would love to push it down into your brain, Isleif, to turn you into one of us. Would you not love that as well?”

Her mind splayed, her will stilled, Isleif’s mouth opened and closed slowly but no true response was possible.

“No matter. All will be as Mistress directs.” Gwynn-Dominne’s presence slid once more across Isleif’s prostrate mind. “But we hate to have you worry so. Let us help you, love.”

A wrench, a pinch. Isleif winced. Gwynn-Dominne was twisting things inside her head, tying, bending... Isleif gasped as there was a searing pain, then it was gone.

Gwynn-Dominne slid out of her mind, and Isleif felt herself slowly close back up.

“There,” Gwynn-Dominne said, her head slightly cocked. “Now then, why did you come to see us?”

She was so beautiful, her hard body naked and sweating and the master bound so tightly to her brain. Isleif had wanted her since they met and wanted her only more now that she was a Domina. The shell on her head, her master—it controlled her, it owned her, and to be its slave was so so erotic...

“To eat your pussy, Domina,” Isleif rasped. “I want you so much, please let me eat your pussy.”

Gwynn-Dominne smiled and nodded and Isleif gave a soft whine of thanks and dropped to her knees; Gwynn-Dominne had been Domina only a short while but already her sex was bare of hair and smooth and wondrous to Isleif’s eyes; but her eyes rested on it only a moment before her mouth opened and she came in closer, a long lick up Domina’s labia, then lips pressing up to it to nurse gently on the pussy that was so wonderful so addictive...

Legs spread, Gwynn-Dominne shuffled slowly backwards until her ass rested against a workbench. Isleif’s mouth stayed glued to her wonderful pussy, scraping forward on her knees, sliding her tongue up and down its folds. When Gwynn-Dominne came to rest against the bench Isleif slid a down a fraction and worked her tongue up into Gwynn-Dominne’s vagina, probing and tasting, then returned to her wonderful labia, gently sucking, teasing the clit that peeked out of Gwynn-Dominne’s hood.

Hands tangled themselves in Isleif’s hair and then Gwynn-Dominne came, grunting in a high-pitched tone, shaking, shuddering, and then guiding Isleif’s head backward off of her sex with a firm hand.

“Yesss,” Gwynn-Dominne said, “This is what human slaves are for.”

strip came the command and Isleif raced to obey, tearing out of her clothes. When she was nude Gwynn-Dominne lifted her bodily—oh, those so-strong so-hard muscles—and placed her on the workbench. Tools clattered to the floor, then Gwynn-Dominne slid her body down the bench so that her ass hung just over the edge and ran her tongue up Isleif’s already damp folds.

“Such a pretty snatch you have, Isleif-slave,” Gwynn-Dominne said. “You Norren and your pale hair, furred yet hiding nothing.” She spread Isleif’s legs wider and set to work, her tongue not unearthly long like Mistress’—or like Shaliri-Dominne, or like Gwynn-Dominne’s would doubtless become—but nimble and eager, and with Isleif’s already burning need she was soon whimpering helplessly with lust.

Hands reached up to Isleif’s hands, lifted them, and drew them downward, to place them gently atop Gwynn-Dominne’s head. Atop the master that lived there.

It was smooth and cool, cooler than flesh but warmer by far than the tabletop beneath Isleif’s nude back. Isleif felt her fingers stroke it, savoring its smoothness, and the thought that the thing she was touching had stabbed to the core of Gwynn’s brain, had penetrated and grown and bound and was now the dominant part of Gwynn-Dominne’s mind, the thought itself spiked through her and, still stroking it, she came and came again.

* * *

Isleif lay naked on the workbench.

Her body glistened with sweat. Gwynn-Dominne had crawled atop her and suckled at her breasts, then slid upward to kiss her deeply. They had lain like that for some time, kissing, Isleif stroking the master atop Gwynn-Dominne’s head.

Then Gwynn-Dominne had risen, told Isleif that she needed to go have a chat with Mistress about something, and swaggered, nude, from the shed.

Isleif’s head was fuzzy. She had come to the smithy... why had she come to the smithy? It was layered, like an onion. She had come for... ah yes.

Body still tingling, Isleif sat up, and swung her legs off the workbench.

She had come to take away her project. Gwynn-Dominne had asked why Isleif had come, but Isleif had not wanted her to find that thought, so she had thought about something else instead, something intense... emotional... but what was it? Somehow Isleif couldn’t remember...

Isleif gathered up her clothes and began to dress.

It wasn’t there, the thing she had shifted to thinking about—no, wait. There it was. Her need. Her need for Gwynn-Dominne, to fuck her, to suckle on her pussy. Yes, that was it. Her lust for that hard body—and the alien creature that now controlled it.

Even now, Isleif realized, the thought was arousing her.

It was so hot. Gwynn with her hard, strong body—enslaved to the master atop her head, bound together into Gwynn-Dominne. Isleif felt a tingle between her legs as she pulled up her pants and cinched her belt.

Later. She could beg for more sex later. There was that other thing, now. The project.

Isleif slipped back into the smithy and found Eottir and the two Kyurrans engaged in some other activity, bent over bronze scales, weighing and measuring metal shavings along with what looked like ashes and some other powder. Gwynn-Dominne was not present—she had gone up at the hall to speak with Mistress.

Ignoring the three women, Isleif passed through the smithy and out into a second addition, slightly older, smelling less of pitch and more of metal and leather.

There was a stack of crates along one wall. With some effort, Isleif lifted two of them, put them aside, and then opened the third, bottom crate. It was filled with straw, but Isleif reached in and pulled out a white canvas bag.

Her project.

Checking to see that none of the women had followed her into the room, Isleif opened the bag.

They were not much like the elegant eagle helmets that the Kyurren guards had worn. Almost nothing like, in fact. They looked like what they were, buckets with holes cut in them for mouth and eyes.

Holes for eyes, and leather padding on the interior, and straps to keep them on. And a little extra metal wrapped around the outside with glue, to approximate the thickness of those ornate Kyurren guard helmets.

They were probably as finished as they were going to get; perhaps she should add more metal on top? In case... no. There was no longer any time. These two needed to leave the smithy.

Isleif closed up the crate and placed the other two crates back atop it. Then, carrying the white canvas bag, she walked back out of the room.

* * *

It rained all week. And the week after.

Spring in the north was often called the starving time; the stores laid away from the previous harvest had been consumed but the earliest of the new year’s crops would not be ripe until early summer; game was sparse and lean after months of snow. Isleif could remember more than one lean springtime among the clan.

At Promise Hold there was no such problem. Thanks to Gorran, and to Mistress, they had food enough for six winters.

Brynwyrren and Isleif sat with the other Norreni and took their evening meal. Pork stew on bread, thick with cuts of meat, carrots, potatoes. The ale that washed it down was watered but good.

“I see that Mistress is growing round in the belly again,” Seif observed.

Isleif managed to keep her food in her mouth. Even as a slave, Seif’s words remained a blunt instrument.

“Who do you think she will choose to have joined next?” Seif looked around the table.

For a long moment no one replied, then Eoryn said: “Not you, Trip-stick. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t made a drudge out of you from sheer irritation.”

Seif gave Eoryn a single-finger handsign understood by cultures from north to south. “I’m serious, though. Isleif, maybe you?”

Isleif shrugged. “As Mistress wills.”

Seif turned to Eottir, sitting next to her. “How about you? Mistress always speaks highly of you.”

“It won’t be me,” Eottir replied. “Mistress has promised me. I am never to be Dominne—I am perfect as a slave.” Her voice had a proud ring in it. “My devotion to her is total, my will in obedience is iron. Joining me to a master would be a waste of a perfect slave, Mistress told me.”

Eottir was almost quivering. “I will obey her as her strong tool until I die.”

She took another spoonful of broth.

Eottir’s declaration succeeded in killing Seif’s misguided attempt at conversation. They all went back to eating.

It was an interesting revelation, though, Isleif thought. Not all of them were expected to become Dominne. Some of them were to remain slaves—so Mistress wasn’t about the task of spreading the shells to every human, or every woman, that she could. Or so she had told Eottir, at any rate.

What sort of society did Mistress plan? What was her vision for the coming years?

Brynwyrren stiffened.

Isleif turned as Brynwyrren stood up and stepped away from the table. “Mistress desires me,” she said woodenly. “I must go to her.”

“You must obey,” Eottir replied.

Brynwyrren walked away and up the stairs.

Isleif watched until the Thyryn disappeared across the balcony which led to Mistress’ room. She looked back down at her plate, then felt Seif watching her.

“You look like your last arrow just rattled into the bushes,” Seif said. “You love her... a lot.”

“Seif, lay off,” Eoryn told her. “Mistress wants her, she goes. The same for all of us. I’m sure it will be Isleif’s turn up there soon.”

Seif hadn’t looked away from Isleif. “I think it will be you,” she said in a lower voice. “You and Brynwyrren both, maybe. Lyrr-Dominne is ripe, too. You’ve both been spending a lot of time with her. And you’re... well, you’re so good, Isleif. Smart, resourceful... I’d turn you into a Dominne, if I were Mistress.”

Isleif couldn’t bring herself to say ‘thank you’.

* * *

Lavender eyes.

Isleif woke up.

Brynwyrren shifted, muttered something inaudible.

The room was dark, moonlight filtering in through the window. Isleif looked over at the dark shapes of the other slaves, asleep together up in the bed. She and Brynwyrren had never moved from their bedroll on the floor, though once the families with children had been relocated to the farms there were a number of beds available. Somehow this first spot they had slept now seemed like their place, a spot that was dedicated to their being together.

Isleif ran a hand idly over her belly. “Their” place. How foolish. All places belonged to Mistress. She and Brynwyrren both belonged to Mistress. If Mistress chose to move them, they would eagerly move. If she wished them to forget about this spot, they would instantly forget. If she chose to separate them...

Isleif pushed it aside. She snuggled her face into Brynwyrren’s hair.

But... there was something else.

For a moment, she didn’t act. Did nothing.

She had been doing nothing for months.

But the question was too sharp.

Brynwyrren had been spending a lot of time with Mistress. And Mistress’ belly was almost ripe.

Gingerly, Isleif ran her hands up Brynwyrren’s back.

Brynwyrren didn’t stir.

Slowly, gently, Isleif slid her fingertips through Brynwyrren’s glorious hair, gently touched the crown of her head.

Very slowly, Isleif pressed her fingertips downward on Brynwyrren’s scalp.

There was a soft spot in the center.

Isleif’s fingers gently slid around the top of Brynwyrren’s head. She could feel it. A ring, a ring of bone, a hole in the middle of Brynwyrren’s skull, hidden beneath her scalp.

Brynwyrren had been prepared. The times with Mistress—Mistress had been fleshcrafting, readying Brynwyrren’s skull for the creature that was to penetrate it.

Brynwyrren would be next.

“You have one too,” Brynwyrren whispered softly.

She rolled over and looked into Isleif’s eyes. “They have shaped us,” Brynwyrren whispered. “Opened our skulls so that the creatures can slide in.”

“Mistress is ready to birth again,” Isleif replied. “Within days.”

“It will be us,” Brynwyrren said. “You or I. Or both. Shaliri-Dominne and Lyrr-Dominne are both round in the belly as well.”

Isleif looked into Brynwyrren’s eyes. In the faint moonlight, they had no color at all.

“It is what Mistress wants,” Isleif said. “Is it now what you want?”

Brynwyrren stared back at her. “It is what Mistress wants,” she replied finally.

The relief ran cool through Isleif’s veins. Something awoke, then, something feral, and Isleif smiled. “I have the last patrol this night,” she told her lover. “When it is time for my patrol, Fire, I will come for you, and you can help me... get started.”

Brynwyrren said nothing, only looked into her eyes, and then kissed her.

Their fingers interlaced as they kissed, and Isleif rolled over atop Brynwyrren, feeling her body beneath her own, sliding a leg between Brynwyrren’s legs. They clung to each other, bound, bonded.

Then Isleif pushed herself up, and cool air flowed between them. “I must prepare,” she said, “for this night’s patrol.” Brynwyrren watched wordlessly as Isleif rose to her feet and slipped quickly into her clothes.

* * *

She passed silently down the corridor; outside the windows the spring wind blew chill across the yard, still dark with puddles from the last rain. The moon was full, Isleif noted with approval. Useful—and somehow appropriate.

Two drudges stood in front of Mistress’ chambers; the door between them was closed. Male and female, nude, their skin gray like Isleif’s own in the monochrome of the moonlight. As she stole past, Isleif almost expected the doors to open and for Mistress’ pale hands to steal out and touch her.

With a shiver that was as much pleasure as fear, Isleif passed by. The doors did not open.

She slipped quietly down the staircase; the great hall was empty, the banked fires’ red glow too faint to illuminate anything beyond the stones of the hearth.

The front doors? No. Through the kitchen, then, to the smithy. Isleif thought of Gwynn-Dominne, and the human Gwynn had been before she was transformed. They would all become like her, all of the owning, save only for Eottir and perhaps a few others like her. Ishinen probably, stronger as a leashed wolf, more valuable as a slave than as a Dominne.

The kitchen was dark and warm, the great stoves still faintly smelling of bread. The door to the outside storeroom, and thence to outside, would open quietly. Isleif crossed quickly to take hold of the handle.

Then she heard, close behind her, a sigh.

Isleif considered not turning, just leaving as she had planned, but no. She had been seen and must know by whom. She turned around in the darkness.

The woman who stood by the basin wore a robe of dark velvet, close enough to the window and the moonlight for Isleif to see the texture. It hung open in the center, revealing her pale, nude flesh, with no darker triangle at her cleft. Her head appeared almost to vanish at the nose, the darkness above blending with the darkness of the kitchen wall.

“Goode’en, Isleif-slave,” Mistress said.

“Mistress,” Isleif acknowledged, and slammed down on the whirl of emotion that rose within her. She released the door handle and turned to face her owner.

Mistress turned to face the window. She held an apple in one hand, half eaten.

She sighed.

“Thou kenst not,” she said, “how... hard, this all be. Prer we slept, we dwelt a’world where we flew through air, spake cross seas, a world where night wert vanquished alongside pestilence and hunger. We strode upon the moon, Isleif-slave. The moon. An ’twere... yesternday, for us. Now we are here, alone, and... alone. Thou kenst not,” Mistress sighed, and hung her head.

Isleif was not sure how to react. Mistress seemed almost in need of... comforting.

She stood leaning over the basin, head down, hands flexing on the counter.

“Deus, we miss chocolate,” Mistress muttered.

Unsure, Isleif waited.

Mistress pursed her lips and stood erect, turned towards Isleif. “Come,” she said, holding out her arms, her robe open. Isleif buried her thoughts, buried her emotions. So close now, she would not be caught. She loved Mistress, and walked forward without hesitation.

As Isleif approached she could see the roundness of Mistress’ lower belly, far too small to be ripe with human child but full-grown with the thing that had grown there instead.

Isleif stepped into Mistress’ arms and Mistress enfolded her gently, drawing Isleif’s head to her pale breasts. “Ah, Isleif-slave,” she said. “Strongest of our owning thou art. An we enter thee, yet aware thou bide. It is not so for the others, their wills sleep and free we roam; but thou seest and thou kenst what we do. Thy own counsel, thou keep. So strong, and thou kenst it not.”

She took hold of Isleif’s shoulders and held her at arms length. Now, Isleif knew, she would spread Isleif’s mind, and find what Isleif was about, and erase it. And, smiling, Isleif would return to Brynwyrren, and to bed, and in the morning she would feel the sting as the egg pushed its spike into her head.

Mistress looked down at her, and Isleif looked back. Mistress smiled, then looked out the window. She released Isleif’s shoulders.

“Ah, Carol, mayhap thou art in truth but dreaming,” Mistress said. “And shall wake to find all this mought away, torn to scraps and vapors of memory.” She shook her head. “But no. Here we art. Ad-venture. No coffee, no colleagues, no comfort. Wouldst thou have hared it, had thou kenst? I misdoubt dearly.”

Isleif blinked and realized that Mistress was speaking to herself.

Mistress looked back at Isleif. “Our gloaming art no matter for thee, Isleif-slave. About thy tasks, then,” she said. “Almost yet the hour of thy patrol, is it not?”

Isleif stared at her for a moment.

“Uh, yes, Mistress.”

Mistress turned her head back to the window and smiled.

“Then go,” she said.

Isleif waited a few beats for further instruction, but Mistress just looked out the window. So she walked to the kitchen door, and went out.

* * *

The time had come.

Norreni, crotch-bent, daughter, sister, comrade... slave. All these spoke of Isleif. Identified her. Defined her.

But what Isleif really was, in a word, at her core:

Hunter.

Predator.

Isleif was a Norren huntress, wolf-kin, she could awaken naked in the forest and arm and feed and clothe herself before the set of sun. She knew the seasons, the land, the game. She felt these things in her bones. She knew what predators knew.

And what predators knew best was how to wait; and how to strike.

She had waited all winter.

What had thrown her, what had confused her wolf, was that she found herself suddenly not the apex predator. She had become prey, her mind the food and the toy of a larger, more dangerous animal. So as she waited, huddled, hidden, her wolf had became uncertain whether she was stalking, or whether she was hiding.

It turned out she was hiding.

There was a lion nearby, and it had her scent. It roamed, and took its prey, and sniffed idly for more. So the she-wolf lay in the bush and waited for her chance. And she watched, and she learned; and an escape revealed itself.

Now, when it was almost too late, it had finally become time to strike.

The horses were saddled but still in the barn; it would not do for Eottir to see them as she returned from her patrol. The skeins were full of water, the saddlebags packed with food. Food—and buckets with holes in them.

The key to the plan.

Isleif stood on the porch, her breath misting around her face. The moon—full. The sky, clear. The ground was still wet, which was unfortunate; it would hold track well enough that even the Kyurren could follow. But Isleif had planned for that, would out pace them. At any rate, Mistress would not rely on pursuit. She did not have to.

Isleif blew warmth onto her fingers, cold even within the gloves.

It would not rain tonight; nor probably tomorrow. After that, the sooner it did, the better.

“Ho, Isleif.”

She had heard them coming and now turned to nod. Eottir, and with her Bleidis, the Kyurren who worked with her in the forge.

Oddly, Isleif realized only at that moment that the two of them were lovers.

“Good evening, sister. Bleidis. Anything out there?”

Eottir shook her head. “Never. We’re to bed. Have a good patrol.”

Isleif nodded. “Thanks.”

The two slaves entered the hall. Isleif waited a few moments, then followed behind them.

It was dark inside the hall. Had she encountered anyone as she crept up the stairs, across the balcony, past the drudges standing mindlessly athwart Mistress’ bedroom door, she would have told them that she had forgotten something. A scarf, perhaps. For the cold.

Had she met a Dominne, the lie might have been a problem.

But she met no one.

She slipped into the bedroom and was not surprised to find Brynwyrren fully dressed for cold weather. A cloak, thick pants and boots, three shirts. A scarf.

Not inexplicable. Brynwyrren might have aught to do for Mistress, in the early dark. Some task which sent her outside. Although for any errand at the hold such depth of garb was clearly unnecessary.

They left the room together. The drudges flanking Mistress’ door stared blankly at the wall and made no move. Mistress’ door remained closed.

Isleif remembered Mistress in the kitchen that evening. How strange it was to hear her... depressed. Alone. Railing, if quietly, against the fate that brought her here. In need of comfort. Had she been other than Mistress, and had Isleif not been so afraid of the lion snatching up the wolf just as she darted from the bush, Isleif would have wanted to hug her.

Hopefully, Mistress had returned to bed. It had been some while since her soliloquy in the kitchen.

Meeting her now, together, dressed like this... no excuse would suffice.

They encountered no one as they descended the stairs, no one as they left the hall. Isleif was to patrol with Jatini that evening; but the Fashedian was no Northerner and had been easy to convince to simply spend her time in the tower, well-wrapped, watching for a flash of Isleif’s light. A flash of the light would mean trouble, they had agreed; no flash would mean all was well. Only Isleif would need to walk around in the muck and cold. Jatini would be her backup.

Isleif smiled a little to herself. Based on past performance, Jatini would be asleep already. And would wake, later, and creep off to her own bed, mildly aggrieved that Isleif had gone to bed without waking her so she could leave the tower.

They crossed the yard and quietly opened the barn.

The horses were ready; the two best saddled and hung with gear, the rest roped in a single long string behind them.

They mounted.

This was the riskiest part. If they were seen now, it would be over. Leading all of the hold’s horses away—there was no excuse, no possible reason. If anyone saw them at all...

Isleif rode out of the barn.

The moon was full and the yard was bright almost like day.

Brynwyrren emerged behind her.

They rode east out of the yard, down the hill, past the smaller residences and the silos, Isleif’s heart hammering in her chest. If Eottir was still awake, if anyone looked out of a window...

They rode out of the buildings, along the path, single file, down into the fields. Away from the hold. The muddy fields stretched to either side of the path, the forests beyond just beginning to open their leaves. In a few weeks it would be planting time.

They rode on, and no one came after.

* * *

No one was awake at Ostoren farm as they stopped outside. Yurrick, Isleif had been told, had recovered, and in Ostoren now the Lady was beloved as no one had been before.

They stopped in the field before the farm to cut loose the horses. In a normal world, Isleif would have kept them, or lamed them, or run them off, but they were important to Mistress and Isleif would never harm Mistress, whom she loved. So the horses were quickly hobbled that they would not run off, and left in the fields at Ostoren for the farmers to discover.

It would be a three hours’ walk from Promise Hold to recover the beasts. A good enough lead.

Isleif and Brynwyrren rode east. Without the other horses they could ride faster, though not so fast as to tire the horses; they would need them for days yet.

Conversation was unnecessary; they each had their thoughts.

* * *

As the sun cut open the horizon, Isleif reined her horse in. “Ho, Fire,” she said.

Brynwyrren turned her horse, rode back to Isleif’s side.

They were in the woods well east of the hold now. No farms, no stumps, no sign that men ever came here. Ahead of them, the forest stretched away undisturbed for weeks.

If Isleif were right, if she had prepared properly, they would see that forest, and those weeks.

She pulled the helmet—the bucket—from her saddlebag.

“There is one for you,” she said. “In your saddlebag. It will protect you from Mistress’ mind. When the guard cut me,” she explained, “the Dominne were helpless to stop her. Then Mistress spoke to them—‘the helmet’, she said. ‘Take off the helmet’. Shaliri-Dominne did, pulled it off of the woman with her mind. And then the guardswoman was theirs.”

Isleif raised the bucket and wiggled it down about her head. The world narrowed to two oval openings, and the breathing of the horse sounded distant in her ears.

Brynwyrren had opened her saddlebag and removed the other helmet. She turned it over in her hands.

“Not a thing of beauty,” she observed.

“Perhaps we should go back and work on it some more? Until it suits?”

Brynwyrren smiled. She looked at Isleif.

“I don’t—” Isleif started. “I don’t know that it will work. But—”

“Hush. It will work, or it will not. But I believe in you, my Ice.” Brynwyrren raised the helmet and put it on. “You believe it will work, and thus so do I.”

They looked at each other.

“I’m going to have to sleep in this, aren’t I?” Brynwyrren asked.

“Yes,” Isleif said. “Mistress said something when Gwynn ran. That she could bring one of her slaves back from a week’s distance. We have horses, and Gwynn didn’t, but...”

“But we don’t want to find out that way that we had not gone far enough. My love, I can wear this thing for a year if I must.”

“I hope it will not be near so long.”

“Well, yes, so do I.”

Isleif grinned, then nodded. The helmet gave her head extra bob. “Then all that is necessary now is distance.”

Brynwyrren turned her horse. The sunlight rose above the trees and splashed onto her face.

“Very well. Let’s ride.”

* * *

They rode all that day and into the night, stopping only briefly to rest the horses, then moving on again. Never too quickly, but steadily, always moving.

During the early part of the day Isleif made some effort to cover their traces—riding a bowshot down a stream to hide their hoofprints, riding over a rocky escarpment slowly rather than taking the quicker path across a field which would hold prints. If pursuers did come after them, they would not find the trail too easy.

But by noon, she had given up on that and just concentrated on making distance. Mistress would not send Eottir after her. Mistress would simply reach out with her mind...

The helmet was... well, it could have been more uncomfortable. The leather pad chafed her forehead, the holes for her eyes were too small and left her feeling like she was in a tunnel, and the wind made the metal shell vibrate audibly with an irritating thrum.

But as they rode through the afternoon and into the evening, Isleif did not hear even the faintest echo of Mistress’ voice.

The moon only one day waxed from full, they kept riding as night fell. Perhaps more slowly; a leg in a badger hole would be disastrous. But they kept moving nonetheless. Distance, distance. They rode through the night.

Then, with the moon sinking behind them, they came upon a river.

It was wide, easily a bowshot across if not further, and even in the colorless light of the moon Isleif could see how strong the current was. Coming from the northern mountains, there was no need to check how cold it flowed—if ice were thrown in, it would doubtless reach the sea.

Isleif was groggy with fatigue and her legs burned like fire.

“Let’s find a place to rest,” she said. “We cannot cross this now.”

Brynwyrren’s bucket wobbled. “Yes,” she replied. “I have lost all feeling below my waist.”

Gingerly, they dismounted. The river bank was not steep, so they led the horses along it until they found an arbor; two thick fir trees which leaned into each other and sheltered a patch of moss beneath.

Isleif tied the horses to a trunk at the edge of the river; the animals immediately set to drinking. Hobbling like an old woman, she wobbled her way under the fir trees and sat down.

Getting up again would be a challenge.

With a grunt, Brynwyrren sat next to her.

They looked out at the moonlit river.

“How will we get across?” Brynwyrren asked, her voice tinny sounding in the helmet.

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to look for a ford. You can swim?”

“I can, and well, but I don’t like the strength of that current.”

“No. And with buckets on our heads...”

Brynwyrren reached over to touch Isleif’s hand. “I think our helmets are very fetching. I think I’ll sleep in mine.”

At the word, Isleif realized how tired she was. Sleep—it sounded wonderful. But...

It took almost three minutes for Isleif to stand up. Fortunately, she did not have to go far to gather fallen branches. As Brynwyrren—who took five minutes to stand—gathered their sleeping mats and furs from the horses, and took off the saddles, Isleif put together a stick fence around the arbor. It would not keep anything out, but any animal—or person—who tried to come through it would hopefully make enough noise to rouse them.

Sleeping in a tree would be safer, but Isleif doubted she could climb a ladder at the moment.

Brynwyrren was already lying down, fur atop her, as Isleif pulled the last large branches closed behind her. She crawled down into the bedding and relaxed gratefully.

“Good night, Ice, my love,” Brynwyrren said.

“Good night, Fire.” Isleif clinked her bucket against Brynwyrren’s.

A moment later they were both asleep.

* * *

Lavender eyes.

awaken, slave. Come to me.

Yessss....

Isleif woke up. Quietly, she slid into a sitting position.

It was day; almost noon. Brynwyrren still slept. Isleif’s mind still shivered with Mistress’ call.

Isleif looked around.

She heard nothing more.

It had only been a dream.

Surprised, Isleif realized that her heart was pounding. She rolled her head around—the helmet was even less comfortable after sleeping in it, and her neck ached. But she had no intention of taking it off.

Reluctantly, she pushed at Brynwyrren’s shoulder until the other woman groaned and batted her arm away.

Getting to her feet took twice as long as the day before.

“Skyfather, and I thought my legs hurt yesterday,” Brynwyrren groaned. “I think I’ve turned to wood.”

“It’ll get better,” Isleif said, not sure if it would. The High-Water-Sky-Trees clan had some horses, and all of the clan learned to ride, but Isleif had only practiced enough to develop competence, no more. And it had been two years since she had last sat a horse at all.

The horses seemed to be in good shape, though, having cleared the area around their tree of the new spring grass. Isleif helped Brynwyrren pack up the sleeping gear, and after eating some rations they painfully saddled and mounted the horses.

“So,” Brynwyrren said, looking down at their stick-encrusted bower, “upstream? Or down?”

Upstream meant north, closer to the Norren lands on the other side of the mountains. Downstream meant more water entering the river, and possible Kyurren settlements, though a wider river might be fordable and settlements might mean ferries.

“They’ll expect us to go north,” Isleif said. “Towards home.”

“Then downstream it is,” Brynwyrren replied.

“We might reach the sea without finding a way across. It’s not so far from here.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean. Let’s go.”

Isleif marveled for a moment at her lover. The plan had been hers, the actions she drove—but it was Brynwyrren who had the spirit. Truly she was Fire, to warm Isleif’s heart and let her go on.

“What are we waiting for?” Brynwyrren asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“A dangerous habit,” she replied. “You had best leave it to me.”

Isleif laughed.

Gingerly, legs aching, they followed the river downstream.

* * *

Two weeks later, Isleif and Brynwyrren stood on a rocky outcropping and looked out over endless leagues of plains.

There had been a town, and a ferry, on the river. The ferryman gave them an odd look on account of their helmets, but he took their Kyurren gilder and brought them across the river.

They kept riding east. The forest went on, and on; Isleif brought down a deer to augment their supplies. Other than the town at the river, they encountered no people; east of Oversea Kyur the land was almost empty.

The trees began to put on their leaves in earnest, and frequent rain kept the forest floor muddy. Finding dry places to sleep was sometimes a challenge.

If Mistress sought them, they felt nothing other than the dreams, which came to them both. Isleif dreamt often of lavender eyes; some nights Brynwyrren would wake panting and shivering, and then Isleif would hold her.

The forest began to thin and change to steppe, the rocky hills losing their trees and flattening out. One day they approached a hill that was much taller than the others and as the sun began to slide down the sky, they rode to the summit and found themselves looking eastward across a vast sea of grass.

Brynwyrren slid down off her horse, which immediately bent its head to graze. Isleif dropped off next to her.

“Is it time?” Isleif asked.

“I think so,” Brynwyrren replied. “My hair is filthy enough that I think it may come to life.”

With a look at each other, they raised their hands and lifted off the buckets.

Brynwyrren’s hair was indeed filthy. It didn’t spill down her back so much as remain in a bucket-shaped clump around her head. Isleif knew her own hair, though straighter than the redhead’s, was easily as foul.

Then they were kissing.

Isleif pressed herself into Brynwyrren as though to touch as much of her body with her own body as possible. Brynwyrren’s hands were everywhere on her back, squeezing, pulling, clutching; their mouths pressed together so hard it almost hurt.

“I,” Isleif panted when she could get her mouth free, “think. We. should. bathe. before.”

“Yes,” Brynwyrren replied, before plunging her tongue back into Isleif’s mouth. “We. should.”

Finally, eventually, their frantic kissing slowed. Fingers laced into fingers, kisses became frequent rather than continuous. They sat down next to each other.

They sat together for a long time, as their shadows lengthened and spilled down the hill to the east.

“Free,” Brynwyrren finally said.

Isleif nodded. “So it seems. What now?”

Brynwyrren shrugged. “I guess that depends.”

“On?”

“On where we want to be when the eggs in our bellies hatch.”

* * *

End

Part Six