Slave Unbound Ch. 01

Chapter 1

The Parade Outside

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Disclaimer: This story is not meant as 'erotica', but dark adventure-fantasy. It may contain material that sensitive readers might find uncomfortable. Please be advised.

Beyond the open window, the late summer air was thick with the sounds of the parade out in the city streets, voices cheering, minstrels playing, and a wild myriad of other noises as was usual for the sort of controlled bedlam that such a spectacle brings. In most cities, such a parade was reserved for very special occasions, the returning of knights or triumphant armies, royal processions, or a celebration of holiday. In this case, it was, in its way, something like all three, yet none of these things at all.

Down on all fours, scrubbing away at the large marble floor of the upper dining room, Leita listened to the sounds drifting in through the window with a mix of melancholy and excitement. It was hard not to catch the spirit of thrill carried by the music, the rush of the shouting voices, but such a thing was meant to be watched, not merely heard. She longed to rise and, at least, go to the window to look down upon it all, linger there and see what wonders might pass, but getting caught doing so could cost her more than it was worth.

The Baroness could be a very harsh woman, a woman who did not suffer well disobedience. Leita had been told to thoroughly scrub all the marble floors. So, here she was, knelt down with brush in hand, dress and stockings damp from wash-water and her own perspiration, diligently washing every inch of the floors. If the Baroness caught her not at work, she would most certainly be punished. So, she contented herself to just listen and imagine the parade, its sounds mixed with the sounds of her work and the jingling of the steel rings set into her collar and wrists as her arms worked the brush back and forth.

Born a slave, Leita had never known a time when she'd not worn bands of one form or another around her neck, wrists, and ankles. Perhaps, as a baby, she'd not, but her earliest memories were being taught her place as a slave, trained in the proper protocols and behavior, conditioned to obey. She had almost no memory of her parents, none at all of her father. She had the barest recollection of her mother, a slave herself, tending to her at her earliest ages. She'd been still just a child when she'd been purchased and taken away to some other place. Now, over a decade later, she could not picture any piece of her mother's face in her mind anymore. Only the most primal of memories remained, the feeling of security in her mother's arms, a certainty that her mother was gentle and loving, and the vague memory that she had her mother's dirty-blonde hair and misty grey eyes.

At that young age, she'd been purchased by Baron Graham Wilholme, a gift for his wife, the Baroness Farah Wilholme. Leita had been pretty even as a little girl, her eyes enigmatic and her face well formed. She was to be a house slave for the Baroness's estates here in Solace, the capital of the Karackan Empire. She'd served in the beginning mostly as just a 'fetch', running errands about the manor and tending to simple duties. She'd learned very quickly not to cross the Baroness or be rebellious. Whatever fire might have been in her in that youth was whipped out of her before the end of her first year of being owned by the Baron's wife.

The Baron himself spent little time at the estates, often abroad and traveling. He served the Duke as a sort of ambassador, always away on political business. In the last four years, Leita had only seen him a handful of times at all, most of those times at a distance. Some of the other slaves believed that his constant absence was a large part of why the Baroness was always so tyrannical, others said it was because the Baron was quite unfaithful during his travels. Leita believed that, while those things may have some foot in explaining the noblewoman's personality, the real reason why the Baroness was always so cross was because she was just a very mean and spiteful woman.

She seemed without much sense of compassion or humanity, more interested in her appearance and standing in society than being a decent person. She'd had slaves who had embarrassed her, in front of guests or in public, beaten horribly at best, slowly killed through torture at worst. Leita had received her share of beatings and punishments over the years, but had learned to be always careful, always be dutiful and diligent in her work and obedience. Because of that dedication, she'd earned a level of security, rarely put in positions where she might have an accident that could leave her horribly mutilated or dead as punishment.

It would be a fallacy to suggest she was somehow a 'favorite' of the Baroness, but she had earned a reputation as a good and hard worker. When something needed to be cleaned very well, Leita was the one given the task. When something required hours and hours of tireless work, Leita was the first who sprung to mind to do it. When other slaves were too timid to try, Leita was fearless to get it done. Among the other house slaves, she was respected, even if the Baroness occasionally forgot her actual name.

Her scrub-brush made a hearty 'kaplunk' as she dropped it into the wash bucket, pausing a moment to straighten her back and stretch the muscles in it. There was still much left to do of the floor in this room, but she'd been bent over a floor since the morning. Again, she considered the sounds of the parade outside, longed to rise and go look while she was taking a moment to rest anyways. However, there was a striking difference between being caught on her knees stretching her back a moment and being caught standing at a window, obviously not at the task of her work. Had she been near to finishing the floor in the room, she might could have taken a moment to watch as she emptied the filthy water out the window, but it would be some time yet before the large span of floor would be finished, the parade likely long past by then.

A fresh 'hurrah' of cheers caught her, making her turn to regard the window a moment. A swell of new music followed it in and her heart ached to go look. A small part of her, that last little spark of fire that had escaped being extinguished by the whipping thong, whispered in her mind. The Baroness was likely watching the parade herself somewhere. Maybe even down in the crowds seeing it up close. She'd not seen the woman in hours, hadn't even heard evidence of anyone in any of the nearby rooms since long before the parade had begun.

Surely, she would be safe for just a minute or two, just to take a peek. She was needing a second to rest anyway. No one would know. Even if she was caught, she didn't think the punishment would be overly severe, especially not if she quickly went back to work. Maybe a couple of swats or a few angry threats. Those things might be worth a couple minutes of getting to see the wonderful spectacle.

A terrible fit of indecision tore at her breast, fearful of being caught, but desperately needing a little something to have, a few moments of something beautiful to see and remember. Her whole world was the house and what views she had from its windows. In truth, she'd only stepped foot off the manor ground two times in all the years she'd been a slave of the house. Neither time had taken her very far, a couple blocks down at most. Such moments as this were all she had to keep her soul alive.

She took the bucket with her, removing the brush first. If caught at the window, she could maybe feign needing to empty it out due to something particularly foul getting in the water and needing to refresh it. It would be potentially feeble, especially if the Baroness didn't announce her presence immediately, patiently letting Leita sink into the trap of her own lie, but something at least.

She padded across the floor, the metal rings about her jingling in their metal hasps like little bells. She winced a little at the sound of it, fearful that they might give away her irresponsibility. When she reached the window, though, setting the bucket upon the sill, it was instantly worth it.

From this floor, she had a great view of the parade winding down the length of street that ran before the house. It stretched all the way up and down the avenue as far as she was able to see. Every inch of it was a feast of color and beautiful decoration. Performers and musicians in motley were all about, some doing acrobatic dances, others blowing plumes of fire or juggling, yet others playing varied and exotic instruments. Armies of costumed attendants swarmed about low wagons rolling slowly along, pulled by horses decorated with feathers or billowing banners or their own motley.

Each wagon carried a single occupant, tethered to the vehicle by chains that connected to polished metal collars and restraint bands. All of the occupants were incredible and awe-inspiring to behold, dressed in gleaming armor pieces and decorated with painted designs and fetish-like pieces, some openly mugging for the crowds, enjoying the adoration. They ranged in size and shape, but all looked fit and powerful, some terrifying in countenance, some beautiful of appearance. Most were men, but there were some women, just as strong and capable-looking.

They were gladiators of the Grand Arena, warriors who fought for the city's entertainment. Leita herself had never seen any of the games, but there was no one in Solace who did not know of them or of their ferocious glory. Noble and peasant alike flocked to the arena to watch the games, to marvel in the phantasmagoria of outrageous combat. Some of these men and women were as famous as royalty, some deemed as great heroes or near-mythic warriors. Though much of the games involved them being pitted against fearsome creatures collected from the wilds or brutal savage races captured in the Heltran to the north, the battles most talked about where the ones between these legends of the arena.

Even someone like Leita, who had never had the fortune to attend the arena, knew a handful of names and could recount some of the more famous battles of recent years. The Baroness regularly went to the Arena to watch the combats, seated high above the carnage with the other nobility, always taking attendants with her. Those attendants, slaves like Leita, would relate for the rest of the house slaves the amazing battles they witnessed, describing the incredible feats of prowess and power with gushing detail.

Leita long wished to one day be allowed to serve as one of the Baroness's attendants for such trips and get to witness the arena first hand. However, those were the positions that opened the possibility of accidently embarrassing the Baroness, the sort of situations that Leita had managed to avoid. Still, just once she wished she could see the gladiators in battle.

From what she saw of them as they rolled by, she could imagine them in bloody conflict, their powerful limbs wielding wicked weapons. Some looked almost like monsters themselves, all muscle and fire. Many were Human, but many others were half-breeds, most predominately of Oruhk blood, the brutal savage race that populated the Heltran Badlands and other remote places of the world. Bestial in appearance, even being only half-breeds, they seemed like feral animals more than men, snarling and flexing for the crowds.

Commonly known as 'Orlings' in colloquial terms, Half-Oruhk men and women born in civilization were always slave stock. Born to be slaves like Leita herself, they were breed specifically for certain duties. They were often treated worse than other slaves, often much the same as one might treat work animals. They were naturally stronger and more rugged than a full-blooded Human, making them ideal for heavy labor. Most were conditioned to be docile, but some were allowed to retain their aggressive natures to serve in much the same capacity as a guard dog. The most aggressive were usually sold to the arena as stock combatants, others sold to gladiatorial owners who trained them in all forms of combat. Many of the most well-known and successful gladiators of the Grand Arena were Orlings.

Leita knew that there were gladiators of races other than Human and Orling, strange and exotic races and creeds that one rarely saw. They were like special jewels, some just as famous for being of strange race as being a champion of the arena. From her current view, she could see none of these gladiators, only the more common races, though they seemed to come in all shape and size themselves.

Up the lane she could see a gilded carriage approaching, most likely bearing an owner of some of the gladiators passing by. They made their fortunes on the battles their warriors fought in the Grand Arena, and great fortunes they had. Some were considered to be as wealthy as kings, often with considerable influence and political power. She'd heard tell that one of the owners was even a woman, something of a significant scandal. She doubted that it was her that was within this particular carriage though.

As it came closer, she chould see the prime occupant was a finely dressed man, slick-looking and arrogant-seeming. Around him was a trio of beautiful women, each with a golden collar about their neck and dressed in flowing silk dress and accoutrements that indicated them as obvious pleasure slaves. To Leita, with their beautiful jewelry and clothes, quaffed and painted as they were, they seemed like pampered noblewomen of decadent demeanor, not the property of someone. They seemed just as haughty and arrogant-looking as the man they surrounded.

Leita laughed a little to herself at the sight, wondering what sort of life they must live. Slaves, but enjoying a brand of life where their only expectation was to be beautiful and alluring. Living in the sort of luxury that the Baroness herself enjoyed, if not even greater. She had been told that they slept on large silk pillows and ate foods so fine that they were more art than meal.

Once, Leita had been told that she was naturally pretty enough to have been a pleasure slave. Looking upon these seemingly flawless, sensual, goddesses, she did not think she could possibly hold a candle. Due to her years of rigorous work, Leita's body was very fit and shapely, not especially strong-looking, but very toned and healthy. She'd been blessed with good teeth and a pretty face. Her back and legs carried the scars of the strap, her hands were webbed with calluses, but she was still not unattractive at all.

However, she was very small, petite and short, and her hair was lank and unruly, a mostly unattractive shade of blonde. She might be viable as a pleasurable toy for a Lord who could afford to keep a slave just for such purpose, but she doubted she would lead the same sort of pampered lifestyle as the women in the carriage.

It was all well anyway. There was a price for all things, she knew. Their lives might have sounded easy and luxurious, but the delicate gold bands about their slim throats were as much a slave collar as the rough leather one about Leita's. Their lot was to be sexual toys, expected to always be a fantasy and ready to be taken, no matter what their real desires or emotions were. Leita preferred the safety of knowing that hard work was all she was expected of, something she didn't have to maintain some illusion to perform. If she was to be a slave, she'd prefer the simple role of housekeeper over the complicated dance of seductress.

The carriage rattled past, replaced by yet more performers and low-slung wagons bearing powerful champions of the arena. Enchanted by the sight of it all, Leita had lost all track of how long she'd been lingering there at the window, watching the pageant of color and entertainment roll past. She was entranced by it and any thought of what she'd been doing before was long lost in her mind. Even the bucket had been forgotten, now sitting on a sill of a window other than the one she now stood at. In her enjoyment of watching, she'd migrated among the line of windows to follow certain sights.

When the sound of a light rapping of brass on wood resonated about the room behind her, she felt every muscle go rigid and her blood run cold. She whirled about, heart beginning to hammer in her chest. She'd been caught. She'd stupidly allowed herself to get lost in the parade and had not even registered anyone entering the room. How long had they been there watching her?

She started to sputter out words, trying to make them into some kind of rushed excuse or apology, certain that it would be the Baroness standing there glaring at her, ready to have her hauled away to be punished. To her surprise though, it was not Baroness Wilholme who stood there.

It was the Baron.