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 Three

* * *

Isleif woke to find her face draped in tangled red hair.

It smelled good, and Isleif pulled herself closer, burying her face in Brynwyrren’s red mane. Her naked body pressed against Brynwyrren’s own, and the touch of the Thyryn’s warm skin sent an erotic thrill passing through Isleif all over again.

They were lying together under Isleif’s fur blanket, outside, on the ground beneath a tree.

Brynwyrren murmured in her sleep and pushed her body back against Isleif’s.

For a short, sweet while, Isleif breathed in Brynwyrren’s scent and kept her eyes closed.

But the day was breaking, and things—Isleif didn’t know exactly what—would need tending to. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, rose up on an elbow, and looked around.

The camp was still mostly asleep. Most of the other slaves were in their tents—only the Norren preferred to sleep out of doors—and Brynwyrren preferred to sleep with Isleif. Scanning, Isleif could see Eoryn standing, dressed, at the edge of camp, watching the woods. Her bow had its butt resting on the ground but was strung and ready.

No one else was stirring. Brynwyrren shifted in her sleep, and Isleif considered lying back down.

Then the tent flap from Mistress’ tent rose. Isleif looked over.

Qin’shaliri stepped out.

The creature from the pod had hardened upon her head. Now she looked much like Mistress, except that where Mistress’ hood was black, Qin’shaliri’s remained the translucent white of an insect larvae. It covered her head just as Mistress’ did, eyes completely hidden, the curves of the creature lying along Qin’shaliri’s cheekbones. Her nose was an even more dominant feature of her face, and beneath it, her full dark lips.

With the glossy whiteness enclosing her head she might have looked even more like the ancient statues than did Mistress did, save that she was human-sized and voluptuous, rather than shockingly tall and athletic.

As with Mistress, Qin’shaliri was completely nude, save for her black Viqquabi boots.

Qin’shaliri licked her lips, and looked around—at least, her head rotated. Were she unable to see, she certainly put on a good show of having sight. Perhaps she could see through the shell; perhaps she had been given new senses to compensate for the lack of vision.

Her head turned to face Isleif and Brynwyrren, and she smiled.

Isleif watched her approach with mixed fascination and unease.

“Good morning, Isleif,” she said as she drew near.

“Good morning, Qin’shaliri.”

Qin’shaliri spread her hands. “We are going to enter your mind now, Isleif. Spread your mind open for us.”

Qin’shaliri was not Mistress, but she was Mistress’ hand—Isleif ought to obey her.

Hesitantly, she relaxed the mental guard that only days ago she didn’t know she had.

She felt Qin’shaliri enter her mind. Her presence was... brusque and unsubtle, but careful. The work of an apprentice, wise enough not to break what she could not fix.

Isleif hoped.

Isleif felt more aware, less... utterly prone, than when Mistress reached into her. She felt Qin’shaliri reading her thoughts, ghostly fingertips probing around in the folds of her brain. What she saw there Isleif could not tell, but whenever it was interesting, or amusing, the emotion felt like a soft echo across her mind.

It lasted a while—no way of telling how long—while Qin’shaliri’s mind slithered around inside Isleif’s brain.

And then a pinch, a tweak, a moment of pain. Then another, and Isleif winced, tears springing to the corners of her eyes.

Domina withdrew. “Our apologies, slave. We are... still learning.”

Isleif shook her head. “It is nothing, Domina. I am your slave, my mind is yours to mold as you see fit.”

“Yes,” Domina nodded. “It is. You are a good slave, Mistress values you highly. And so do we.”

The praise felt good, though Isleif found she now had a lingering ache in her head.

Domina raised a hand. “Wake Brynwyrren. We will adjust her mind next.”

Gingerly, Isleif rocked her lover’s shoulder back and forth. Brynwyrren muttered, then rolled over. Her eyes widened when she saw Domina’s glossy head.

“Wake,” Domina said. Brynwyrren sat up, the fur falling away to reveal her breasts.

“Spread your mind open, slave.”

Isleif saw the touch of worry in Brynwyrren’s face, but then her mouth parted slightly and her eyes went glassy as she complied.

Isleif sat quietly as Domina read Brynwyrren. Then Brynwyrren gave a sharp gasp, followed by a little mewl. She went quiet, and slowly awareness came back into her eyes.

“Slaves,” Domina said. “We will be leaving today for the south. Rise now and prepare food as we awaken the rest of the owning.”

“Yes, Domina,” they chorused.

* * *

Mistress emerged from her tent later, as all of the slaves were busy packing the gear, folding and rolling tents, organizing bedrolls, getting the camp ready to move.

She stood at the entrance of her tent and looked around—the only word for it, despite the glossy blackness on her head—then crossed the camp to where Domina was directing Seif and Isleif as they bundled together various tools.

“An well art thou this morn?” she asked Domina.

Domina turned her glossy clear-white head and smiled widely. “We feel wonderful, Mistress. The host obeys and the gift is ripening into fullness.”

Mistress stepped close and her tongue flicked out. Domina’s mouth opened and her own, human tongue emerged, and they drew together for an open-mouthed kiss. Mistress slid a hand down to squeeze Domina’s smooth ass.

They kissed for a long moment, and as they pulled apart Isleif could see Mistress’ long tongue, coiled around Domina’s, slither off and away, snake-like.

“We love you,” Domina breathed.

“An thou should; though we art nay thy dam. First joined thou art, an a world ourn to make. Grow into thy host, little sister, join and become. Blissful it be.”

“Blissful it is,” the thing that had been Qin’shaliri agreed.

* * *

They went south that day.

The four Norreni were the scouts, naturally. They went ahead in teams of two, silent, forest-wise, to warn Mistress if anything might be awry with the path the rest of her owning would then follow.

The route from the Orren high road south towards Kyur was known and generally agreed safe, if infrequently traveled. The Tyrwood was home to beasts and the occasional hermit or Norren patrol; south the forest ran for leagues until it ended in the scattered freeholdings of Oversea Kyur. For southerners Oversea Kyur was the frozen, nearly empty land across the sea; to Isleif’s people it was the nearest that the southern powers came to their homeland.

Isleif had no idea where they were headed, nor why; Mistress kept her own counsel. They were headed south. In perhaps three weeks, they would begin to encounter a farm here or there; from there it would be perhaps a day to the coast, and possibly one of the small fishing and trading towns that clung to the rocky shore.

Domina kept close to Mistress—they were constantly touching each other, kissing, stroking each other’s bodies. They reminded Isleif of herself and Brynwyrren, only shameless.

Isleif was walking with Seif; she wanted to be with Brynwyrren, but the scouts were in front and the Thyryn slaves were bearers. Brynwyrren was back with her countrywomen, heavy packs seated upon them.

Eottir and Eoryn appeared in the forest ahead of the group. Seif held position for a few beats, dropping back to where Mistress and Domina strode side by side. “Domina, we go,” she said.

“Go then, pet,” Domina replied, running a hand down Mistress’ arm. Seif jogged forward to Isleif’s side. Together they went forward to where Eoryn and Eottir waited.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Eottir observed. “The land rises east, it should be sparser and drier.”

“Good,” Isleif replied. “Mistress should be pleased. We will scout now.”

She and Seif slipped into a fast walk, fast to outpace the marching slaves, but not so fast as to discard caution. Beasts would hear them approaching, but not men, unless they were Norren or equally skilled.

They scouted along the path which Eottir and Eoryn had scouted already and would take the owning along, south and to the east, where the trees were tall and the underbrush thin. Isleif stopped for a handful of berries; Seif stopped to relieve herself. Otherwise they kept moving, crossing a watershed change at the top of a rise.

There was a tree taller than the others; with handsign, Isleif indicated that she would climb it. Seif nodded and paused.

Hand over hand, Isleif scaled the tall oak. It was old, with many dead branches—but also taller than its fellows. At the top, she emerged into bright sunlight, a cloud of orange butterflies dancing around the uppermost branches.

The tree canopy stretched unbroken in all directions. Far to the west she could see the white slopes of the Khorr mountains; to the north, and closer, the jagged ridges of the Pens. To the northeast... they were distant, but she could make out the rises of the High-Ice-Banners, the mountains that shadowed her home.

Home...

Isleif shook her head. What was she doing, traveling south with... alien creatures? She should, she should... she needed to obey Mistress. And Domina. Of course, that was why she was with them. She couldn’t obey them if she went home, could she? It wouldn’t make Mistress happy. Isleif lived to make her happy.

The slight headache had returned. Isleif scrabbled back down the tree, noting idly that she was making enough noise and enough spoor to disgust Keirik. He was in the ground now, at rest, but it was he who had first taught her woodcraft.

“You’re distracted,” Seif observed as Isleif leapt down to the ground.

Isleif nodded, a bit surprised to find Seif in a talkative mood. Since they had been... changed, turned into Mistress’ creatures, none of the other three Norreni had seemed interested in banter.

“I... I’m not sure how to say this, without sounding insulting. Or strange.” Seif looked around. “But... I can understand, now. How you felt. About women.”

Isleif raised her eyebrow.

“Mistress has opened my eyes,” Seif blathered on. “To so much. But also, you know, to how... desirable women are. How wonderful they look, and smell, and taste. And it’s something... something that you knew all along. And I just... well, I just... I wanted to let you know. That I agree now. With you.”

“Seif,” Isleif sighed, “you’re babbling.” She raised a hand. “I know what you are saying. And... thanks, I guess. But drop it, eh?”

Seif nodded, her cheeks red.

“It was trees to the horizon,” Isleif said, “but given the distribution, I’d say that the soil is stony like so—” she drew some lines on the ground with a stick- “and that there are watercourses here, and here. Possibly here, it was too far to tell. So if we travel this way—” more lines- “we should make the best time.”

Seif pointed at a spot in the scratchings. “Scout to here, then return?”

“Yes, that should be another hour or so. Make a waymarking, then we go.”

* * *

They camped on a slope, above a meadow; the meadow was flat but too marshy for comfort.

Ishinen and Jatini, one of the Fashedians, gathered wood and made the fire, while Soo and Thylja prepared the food. The others unpacked the tents, spread bedrolls, then set up Mistress’ tent with the stove and the hanging lanterns. Lissira, Brynwyrren, and Ithrad set to washing clothes—and the covers of Mistress’ pillows, which had begun to smell of sex.

Isleif finished tapping in the final peg for the final tent, and leaned back on her haunches. Domina was standing nearby.

“Good,” the Viqquabi—former Viqquabi?—observed. She stepped forward, nude as always, and, standing behind Isleif, placed her hands on Isleif’s head. “You are a fine slave. Qin’shaliri-slave was correct to value Norren so highly. Of course, it was always a challenge, domesticating them.” Domina’s fingers massaged Isleif’s scalp. “This is not a problem for us, of course.”

Domina’s fingers were warm—warmer by far than Isleif’s, which had been working in the cool air. No wonder Domina and Mistress were nude—they were not susceptible to the cold. Isleif looked up, at the heavy undersides of Domina’s breasts—the aerolae were smooth peaks, uncrinkled in the early evening cool. Another manifestation of their ability to shape the world with their minds.

“Spread your mind, slave,” Domina said, and Isleif obediently felt herself relax and open for Domina to enter.

Domina did. Isleif felt her mental touch, pushing here, stroking there, exposing thoughts and memories and intentions, likes and dislikes. All open to her reading and, if she desired, alteration.

“You were a woman-lover already,” Domina observed.

“Y-yesss,” Isleif felt her mouth hiss.

“That would have increased your price. Some men love to break such as you... Hmm, no lover, no lover... Brynwyrren? Our slave? How... interesting. We must ask Mistress if this is her desire.”

Then there was a tweak, and suddenly Isleif could not remember what Domina had been saying.

She felt Domina slide out of her mind. “Very good, slave. We will not require you in our tent this evening. You have done good work today—enjoy the evening. We shall move on at first light.”

“Yes, Domina,” Isleif acknowledged. She raised a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you.”

* * *

Isleif woke.

It was dark, just before dawn. There was an arm lying across her own, beneath the sleeping fur.

Brynwyrren.

Isleif smiled. That much was good in the world.

She looked out into the forest. A small bird darted from forest floor to low branch.

Above her, the stars had spread their tapestry, a thousand thousand specks of white on the deep ink blue of the sky. White—but also blue, and yellow, and red. The High-Water-Sky-Tree clan possessed four sighting glasses, and Isleif had marveled to look at the night sky through one when she was younger. The moon revealed itself a place of deep complexity, the stars sprang to glittering life, revealing still more stars beyond.

The thought of those glass lenses in their leather cylinders brought to mind the glass coffins that Mistress had found. Mistress herself must have been in one—but hers had somehow kept her alive, while all the rest had died. And died long ago.

And then Akkaden and his slave caravan had stumbled across her.

“You’re awake,” Brynwyrren said quietly.

Isleif rolled over. The stars were being chased from the sky by the rosy fingers of dawn, and she could see Brynwyrren’s lovely, somehow very Thyryn face. Warmth grew in her heart.

“I am.”

“Where do you think we are going?”

“I don’t know. South. But... not to a town, I would not think. Mistress and Domina... they would stand out, do you think? Nude, with their strange helmets? And you said that Mistress had... gotten rid of the men. Too many minds for her. So even with Domina’s help, a town would not be suited.”

“Then where?”

“A small hold, perhaps? A clan steading? Somewhere Mistress can mold to her liking, somewhere more permanent than a tent camp in the woods.”

“Oversea Kyur, then. Close by here.”

Isleif shrugged. “I would think so. But we will see. And Kyur is weeks yet.”

Brynwyrren nodded. Then she lowered her head and snuggled close to Isleif’s chest. Isleif buried her face in Brynwyrren’s hair and savored her scent.

She dozed for a while, as the forest slowly brightened around them.

Someone approached.

Isleif looked up—it was Lyrr, the lithe Thyryn with the light brown hair. “Domina bids you rise,” she said. “Brynwyrren, prepare the traveling packs. Isleif, you and Eottir are to scout the first route.”

“I understand,” Isleif said, sitting up. Something caught her attention. “Lyrr—wait a moment.”

Lyrr, who had begun to walk away, turned around. “Yes?”

“I... smile at me, please.”

Lyrr blinked, then smiled. Her teeth were perfect, individually on the small side—which only heightened her elfin appearance—but perfectly straight and even.

Yesterday they had been crooked.

Lyrr’s mouth closed, but her smile widened. “Mistress improved me last night. I am now more beautiful for her.”

“That’s... wonderful,” Isleif said.

“Yes, it is,” Lyrr agreed. She smiled once more, then turned and walked away.

“They shape flesh,” Brynwyrren said quietly.

“They shape everything,” Isleif replied. “They spurn clothes because the air does not chill them.”

Brynwyrren stood for a moment, reaching to the sapling on which she had hung her clothes. Isleif admired her nude form as she stretched to gather her garments, then dressed quickly.

Across the camp, Eottir emerged already dressed from Mistress’ tent. Isleif sighed, then rolled the fur from her body and went to dress.

* * *

They looked down into the gorge.

It was not exceedingly deep—perhaps six heights of a man—but it was steep and the walls were almost entirely jagged rock. A rushing brook splashed ice-blue and white at the bottom.

Crossing it would be no problem for the Norreni, but for the owning? It would take a quarter-day and innumerable abrasions, if not outright broken bones.

Upstream and down both looked similarly, but the forest limited visibility to a bowshot or so.

“Well,” Isleif said. “Upstream? Down? Bridge it with a tree?”

Eottir dropped to her haunches. “I wouldn’t trust the southerners to walk across a shadow without falling, much less a trunk.”

“Then?”

“What do you think?”

Isleif considered. “Upstream. This cut is fairly fresh, it should cap at a waterfall not too far.”

Eottir stood. “I think down. The hillspread widens, it will leave the stream with more room and no power to cut.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Isleif nodded. “Down, then.”

Barely four bowshots away, the gorge vanished into a wide, grassy meadow, the formerly surging stream a placid ribbon snaking across.

Eottir would never have shown her satisfaction. Still.

“Nice call, Mudroll.”

Eottir whipped her head around to stare at Isleif. Her golden eyes glittered but her face was cold.

Then her expression softened. “Yes... they called me that, didn’t they? Mudroll. I killed that murderous beast... I wish I could kill it again, and again...”

Her mouth set into a frown. “Isleif.”

“Yes?”

Eottir shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving Isleif’s face. “I am not her any more, Isleif. Mistress has fixed me. Given me peace. Given me purpose. I love her and I will die, or kill, for her, without hesitation or thought. She is my life now, and... and I want it this way. I want this, Isleif. Serving her is my life. The best life of all.”

She looked away, across the meadow. “This seems like a good place to let Eoryn and Seif begin. Let’s head back.”

Isleif found nothing to say as they began to lope back up the slope.

“And Isleif?” Eottir added.

“Yes?”

“Never call me that again.”

* * *

They marched another week, then two. Lissira’s slightly pronounced brow shrank, and her eyebrows thinned to pleasing lines. The scar on Soo’s cheek disappeared. Melidi, the third of the Fashedians, once had a slightly unsymmetrical face.

No longer.

They were all more beautiful—but to Isleif it was slightly unnerving. If Mistress wished, they might all become identical drones. Only Mistress’ whim prevented it.

Mistress’ whim determined a lot of things.

They were now steadily descending from the highlands. The forest was more oak, beech, less pine and fir. The streams were larger, no longer so easily fordable, even when slow. Game was still plentiful enough that taking it was almost accidental.

Seif and Eottir were the first to find a farm.

Eoryn and Isleif, heading out, met them as they were returning from their patrol.

“There is a settlement ahead,” Eottir said. “a homestead. We will inform Mistress—you two proceed to the edge of the clearing and ensure that none see us approach.”

Isleif nodded. She and Eoryn slipped off into the woods.

Eoryn was the youngest of the Norreni only by two seasons, but it often seemed like more. She had a cherubic face and a constant smile, traits that belied her skill at woodcraft. Since meeting Mistress she smiled less, but seemed more deeply happy, as though she had found that which she had always sought.

Given Eottir’s conversion, it was likely that she had.

Eoryn and Isleif made their way forward through the forest. They crossed a dry run and paused—there were stumps in the wood now, the first they had seen hewn by man’s tools. Carefully, they stalked through the thinned trees, open sky revealing itself ahead.

The clearing lay in a long bottomland, doubtless to use the best soil, low hills running along either side, a creek meandering through the middle. In long strips on either side, wheat was bent in golden curves, heads heavy and ripe.

They took up positions within the forest’s edge. No one was in sight but the house was clearly visible, a cabin made of logs. There was the glint of glass in one of the small windows; the farmers of Oversea Kyur had an arduous life but were not poor.

A woman emerged from the house; a farmwife, in dress and apron. She carried a basket filled with clothing, and proceeded to the side of the house where she placed the basket down. Then she walked down to the creek with a pair of buckets, and back with the water. A washing board went into a bucket, the clothes went into the water, and she began to scrub.

Isleif heard the others approaching. She turned to see Seif some distance away through the trees.

Handsign. Isleif was to come back.

She crept back through the woods, around the stumps. The owning was gathered together, Mistress and Domina and twelve slaves bearing packs.

here

Isleif went to Mistress.

“Spread thy mind.”

Isleif relaxed and opened her mind for Mistress.

Mistress slid across her brain, reading, probing. She absorbed all that Isleif had seen of the farm, and all the conclusions and guesses that she had made.

Vaguely, her eyes saw Mistress beckon, and then a second presence pushed into Isleif’s mind. Domina.

She could feel them... conversing. Not speaking, but pushing information back and forth, mind to mind, both of them focused on information stored in the wrinkled folds of Isleif’s brain. Isleif could not make out what they were saying, it was like the humming of bees as she walked by a flowering meadow.

Domina and Mistress slid smoothly from her brain.

“Not that we seek, yet we shall glean them and mayhap uncover merit. Slaves, come.”

Packs were hoisted onto backs. Isleif looked for Brynwyrren, saw her bent under a pack almost as large as she was. She felt moved to help, to share the burden, but then Brynwyrren looked up and gave a small smile.

Mistress had begun to walk, Domina four paces behind. Isleif jolted herself into motion and turned to keep up.

Fifteen minutes later, they were approaching the cleared area. As the farmhouse came into view through the trees, Mistress stopped.

“Garb us,” she said.

Lissira dropped her pack and quickly rifled through it, coming up with a well-made black cloak. She quickly brought it to Mistress and wrapped it around her shoulders. With her large, pale hands, Mistress closed it and covered her nudity. The glossy black shell atop her head remained undisguised; with her height, the cloak stretched only to her knees, leaving pale flesh still visible above her tall boots.

Soo had shed her pack as well, and was sliding one of Qin’shaliri’s ornate Viqquabi dresses over Domina’s head. Shortly, Domina looked much like she had as a Viqquabi trader, save for the insect-white hood she wore.

Mistress waved a hand. “Slaves shall bide a’place. Isleif-slave, Eottir-slave shall accome and guard; Lissira-slave, Melidi-slave, shall go fore and garrul as needs wot.”

“Mistress,” Lissira asked, her voice pained, “I don’t... what do you mean by ‘garrul’?”

Mistress turned her head as though looking at Domina. A moment later, Domina turned her eyeless face to Lissira.

“You shall speak to the Kyurren for Mistress, until Mistress has seized their minds.”

“Oh!” Lissira exclaimed. “Yes, of course Mistress.”

“A’fore, then,” Mistress said.

They walked out into the wheat; six of them. Lissira and Melidi in front, then Isleif and Eottir, lastly Mistress and Domina. Domina might have gone unnoticed at first, but Mistress was easily a head taller than the rest and would catch the steaders’ eyes regardless of who stood in front of her.

The farmwife was hanging clothes to dry on a line. She saw them when they were crossing the stream—there was a well-made footbridge, sawn planks on stone pilings, wide enough for a horse. The farmwife started to raise her hand in greeting, then stopped. She called for her husband.

A moment later, a young man came out of the door, an axe in his hand. He eyed the approaching women warily, his wife moving to stand just behind him. Isleif saw that she had picked up a long knife.

“Greetings,” Lissira said to them as they drew near.

“Like to you,” the young man replied. “What brings you here?”

kneel

Isleif remained standing—the command wasn’t for her—but the farmer and his wife dropped to their knees.

Mistress walked forward. The couples’ eyes widened as they looked up at her glossy black head. For a moment there was fear, but then it slid into bliss.

spread open thy mind

Domina turned from where the farmers were being reprogrammed to face Isleif. “Isleif, Eottir—check the farm. Discover if there is anyone else here, or likely to be soon.”

“Yes, Domina,” they chorused.

It did not take long; inside the home there were places only for two, although the woman had been knitting baby garments. There was a chicken coop behind, and a barn—inside the barn were a half-dozen cows and a pair of horses. A quick check of the hayloft revealed no guests.

Outside, there were only the tracks of the farmer and his wife. In a few places, other prints were present, but weeks old.

Isleif and Eottir returned to the front of the farm. The young man was still kneeling, face blissful; his wife was nude, standing before Mistress. As Isleif watched, she slowly pirouetted for Mistress’ approval.

“Beauteous,” Mistress observed. “Right and fitting to our owning. And with pup; care and kind must we take an thee. Thou art ourn now, Leigrif, slave and thrall art thou.”

“Yes, my Mistress,” the young Kyurren woman acknowledged. “I am your slave. I am your thrall.”

“Thy mate take we also, useful enow. Lead us shalt thou an the steading of this ‘Laird’. Ready thyself to journey now.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Leigrif said. She turned to her husband. “We must take Mistress to Thaer Gorran.”

“Yes,” the young man agreed. “We will be ready very quickly, Mistress.”

The two of them, the woman still nude, hurried into their dwelling.

Mistress turned to Domina. “A steading clutch we must, ere winter season—this ‘Thaer Gorran’ abet their minds ought well serve. Thy strength hold to thee, our Domina, for the making of yon place ours.”

“Yes, my Mistress,” Domina said. “All shall be as you desire. We are eager to take this hold and make it a nest for you.”

Mistress let the black cloak fall off, revealing her pale nakedness. She smiled and reached a hand to stroke Domina’s shoulder, then gently felt a breast. Her head turned to look down the length of the low valley.

“So strange,” she said. “Withen we slept, a world as now we dreamed never. So much lacking—challenge and porentu both, difficult yet what seed we plant might unbounded grow. Yearn we that we ken so much more...”

Her black-dipped face turned to Isleif. “Slave—fetch hither our owning. An the newclaimed art ready, hie we all to Thaer Gorran.”

* * *

Half an hour later, the owning passed another farm. Leigrif and her husband Borram said that it belonged to another small family.

The owning did not stop.

Another farm fell upon their line of march, then another. The Norren continued to scout ahead, cycling out for an hour, then back, leaving trailsign where appropriate. The forest between these scattered farms was still largely wild, aside from the occasional woodcutting and doubtless more active game taking.

The fifth farm they encountered they crossed directly. Three men came from the house—there were actually several structures, a large barn as well as two dwellings.

Mistress and Domina were both traveling garbed now, Domina in Qin’shaliri’s well-fitting clothes, Mistress in the long black cloak. By the time the men were close enough to see that Mistress was not wearing some odd sort of hood, their minds were already her prey.

The three from the farm she read, scanning their knowledge of the local area and of Thaer Gorran. Then she dismissed them, sending them back to their dwellings.

“An we art well-established, they shall enter service more permanent,” she observed.

Isleif and Seif loped away from the farm, finding the tree cut that told them where Eottir and Eoryn had entered the woods. Then twenty minutes of forest travel, this time through a wood well-cut and spare, with little cover but no delay.

The land rose ever so slightly. The top of the rise was just visible through the trees when a red thrush that was not a red thrush spoke. Isleif and Seif dropped into a crouch and slowed their loping pace. Silently, they stole up the hill to where Eottir and Eoryn were waiting.

From the ridge, the land dropped away gently, the forest turning to fields of wheat and barley. A wooden bridge spanned a creek in the fold of the earth; on the other side, a path lead up a rounded hill, to the buildings of Thaer Gorran.

It was a hold rather than any sort of town; at the center was a crumbling tower built of stone, from the days several lifetimes ago when this land was less settled and raiders passed through from the Nissir lands to the west, taking what they pleased and destroying the rest. Their raiding bands had reached even the lands of the Norren, and Isleif had heard from her grand-dam how her grand-sire had fought them, with bow and blade, in battles that came every year as the harvest time neared.

Then Kyur had stretched their hand across the Cold Sea and crushed the Nissir, razing their dwelling places to the ground, enslaving those they did not slay, and from one year to the next the Nissir raids ceased. In a book of history that Keirik had possessed, the chronicler said that fifty thousand were taken south of the sea, and the price of slaves fell so low that even poor homes could have two.

The northern coast became Oversea Kyur, and the formerly fortified dwelling-places forgot their need for walls and towers.

As at Thaer Gorran. The tower still stood, and the serpent banner of Kyur fluttered from the battlements, but around it the cluster of neat buildings stood undefended and unafraid. The Laird’s house was two stories, built of sawn wood, with glazed windows and brick chimneys. A porch ran around the exterior. Besides the main house there were two others, also sawn boards and white-painted; two large barns, a smithy, a grain tower, a water tower, windmills...

Thaer Gorran was a prosperous place.

Now, a new invader had come. Isleif had brought her.

Seif ran back to inform Mistress of what they had seen. Isleif, Eottir, and Eoryn crouched in cover and watched the farmhold. Men and women came and went, some children ran around at play.

They heard the approach of the owning and turned to watch Mistress walk forward. Her slaves all paused to watch as she approached the vista, tall boots crunching the leaf litter. At the top of the hill, Mistress paused and looked.

Pleasure. She liked what she saw.

Isleif smiled.

It pleased her—it would serve her needs. It was what she wanted. Now, it must be given to her.

“How numbered?” she asked Eottir.

“Perhaps thirty,” Eottir replied. “and a dozen children.”

“Fecund. Good. Domina, hie here.”

Domina walked forward quickly.

“We shalt reveal what will be done. Spread open thy mind.”

Domina faced Mistress and Isleif could see her body relax, her hands going slack and resting aside her thighs. For several minutes, the two helmeted women faced each other with covered eyes.

Eventually, Domina shivered, and spoke. “Yes, my Mistress. We shall obey as you have instructed us.”

Mistress’ cloak had fallen open, revealing her pale nudity, the curve of her belly, her hairless sex. She drew it closed again and faced Thaer Gorran.

“Come, owning ourn. Let us invest our new home.”

* * *

They walked out of the woods, and through the fields. Over the bridge, and up the hill.

They walked two abreast, Leigrif and Borram first, followed by the Fashedian slaves Lissira and Melidi. Then the Thyryn, Thylja and Lyrr with her perfect smile, Ithrad and Brynwyrren. Then the Tsulengi, Soo and Ishinen, the first of the owning to be armed.

Behind them came Mistress and Domina, one in colorful Viqquabi fabric and the other in pure black. And behind them, the Norren, Isleif walking with Eottir, Seif with Eoryn.

They had left their packs, and Jatini, in the woods, so they walked without burdens, the slaves looking around, Mistress and Domina focused straight ahead. Up the dirt path from the bridge they came.

There was a shout.

A clearing, fenced and mown by animals, separated the fields from the buildings. Leigrif and Borram had reached it and opened wide the double gate, as at the hold people scurried, men running with purpose, a handful of children watching with wide eyes before being gathered up or scolded back indoors.

The entire owning had passed through the fence and was crossing the sward when the Laird came out to meet them.

He came with five men and three women, all of them armed, albeit with axes and bill-hooks rather than swords—although three did have swords, one being the Laird. Isleif felt a tension in her back, a readiness in her hands—but she left her axes in their straps against her thighs.

“Who are you?” Laird Gorran demanded, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. His men spread out to either side.

stop

The owning stopped, and spread out to match the holdsmen.

“Women?” one of the men said quizzically.

The Laird took a step forward. He was a well-built man, in his fifth decade of life, with a strong body that made him seem younger than the white hair on his head and face might otherwise indicate. His beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes well-made but of common cloth. The very image of a Kyurren north-Laird.

Mistress stepped through the line of her slaves, and the men gasped.

“Who... what?” came whispered exclamations.

“I ask again, who are you?” said the Laird.

“I am your Mistress,” Mistress replied, and stretched out her hands.

The armed men and women behind him gasped. Their knees shook, and they began to drop to the ground. Grunts and sounds of complaint rose as they sank down. Axes and swords fell to the earth.

At the end of the line, one of the men, clad in a red-checked shirt, gasped out “No!”—and hurled his pitchfork at Mistress.

Isleif found herself starting forward—as did all of Mistress’ owning. But it was unnecessary. The fork flew through the air, wobbly and poorly thrown—and was then batted to earth.

Domina stepped through the line, her hand raised.

The holdsmen were all on their knees now, red-shirt included. Mistress raised her other hand in a sign to Domina, who walked forward to stand beside her. Domina raised both hands and the men and women opposite them groaned in unison.

Mistress walked forward to the Laird.

“Laird Gorran,” she said.

He looked up at her with wide eyes. “Who...” he rasped.

“Spread open thy mind, man.”

His mouth fell open and his face went slack.

* * *

Isleif could feel Mistress’ fatigue weighing on her shoulders like a bucket-stave.

In the Laird’s home—now Mistress’—the center of the house was the hall; it was meeting-place, reception area, the center of festivities and feast hall. The ceiling had thick beams from which hung lanterns; the second story was open and a source of light from great windows fore and aft. At present, it was furnished for reception—the long tables were stowed away and deep carpets ran to the high seat at the far end of the hall.

In which sat Mistress, Domina standing just behind and on her left. On her right, Lyrr was making notes on a clipboard. Behind Lyrr stood Isleif, Eottir, Ishinen, and Ithrad; the other slaves were out familiarizing themselves with the hold.

The door opened. “Go in,” came Lissira’s voice, and a woman in her early middle years entered the hall with a fearful expression.

She looked at Mistress seated upon the high seat and her eyes widened. Then she blinked, and walked quickly forward. Isleif had not heard the word that had just tolled within the woman’s brain, but she knew what it had been.

The woman stopped at the base of the dais and looked up. “Three gods,” she whispered, seeing for the first time the black gloss that enveloped Mistress’ head. Mistress smiled at her.

“She is Deira, Mistress,” Lyrr said, reading from her clipboard. “Wife of Hogar, mother of four children. Resident at Thaer Gorran for the past seven winters.”

“Lady?” the Kyurren woman stammered. “Please, my children. Don’t hurt them.”

“We shalt not, no never,” Mistress replied. “We are of thee and thy kinling are ourn. Precious they art, comforted and protected shalt they be. Be thou soothen in mind therehap. Now: spread thy mind to us.”

Deira’s eyes widened, and her face went slack.

Isleif watched patiently as the woman’s mind was rewritten, as her own had been less than a month ago. She was the twenty-eighth person whom Mistress had seen on this afternoon, starting with Gorran and his wife, then on through the fighters of the hold, and then one by one all of the non-combatant adults.

All were now Mistress’ eager slaves.

Isleif felt a little dizzy and realized she had not been paying attention. She looked up to see Deira staring rapturously forward.

“Mistress...” Deira whispered, eyes lit with reverence.

Mistress smiled wanly and waved with her hand—Ithrad came forward from near where Isleif stood and escorted the converted Kyurren from the chamber.

Another wave of fatigue pressed down on Isleif. Mistress let her head hang forward, then leaned back in her chair.

“Tell us,” she said to Lyrr.

“Not including Leigrif and Borram, or any of the twenty seven outlying farms, there are six pledged couples, including Gorran and his wife, as well as ten unpledged men and six unpledged women here at the hold. There are also a dozen children amongst the pledged couples, though two of the couples have none as yet.”

Mistress was quiet for a moment.

“Too many,” she finally said. “Too many over we twain. Drudges it shall be. Alack. The fourteen of our first owning shalt we hold. An, aught Domina’s aid, those trothed with kinling. They kinling requite their eldern. Fourteen add eight... two and twenty. Two and twenty, an our Domina so newly joined... drudges it must be. Thereat it shall.”

Mistress licked her luscious lips. “An morrow. This eve we requite rest and that right strong. Isleif, Eottir, thou shalt o’er watch us an we slumber. Come. An thou, Domina, we shall instruct thee ere we rest.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the three women chorused.

* * *

Mistress slept through the night and past noon of the following day. Isleif stood guard in her room with Eottir until Ishinen and Seif came in to take their place.

Tired as she was, Isleif hunted through the bedchambers of the Laird’s house—Mistress’ house—until she found Brynwyrren. The Thyryn had gone to sleep in a bedroom with her countrywomen. But where Lyrr, Thylja and Ithrad were sharing the large bed, Brynwyrren had rolled out a sleeping mat on the floor.

On top of it, she had spread Isleif’s sleeping fur.

Isleif smiled. She removed her outer clothes and folded them, then slipped under the fur and pressed herself against Brynwyrren’s warm body. Brynwyrren made a soft noise but did not wake.

In a moment, Isleif was asleep.

* * *

“Awaken, slave.”

Isleif woke, and sat up. Sunlight was entering through a window, and Brynwyrren was gone.

Domina stood over her. She was clothed in another bright Viqquabi dress, which for a moment seemed odd, as though the slave Qin’shaliri were standing there wearing a smooth opalescent hood.

The flash of confusion passed. “Yes, Domina?” Isleif asked.

“You are to come downstairs and confer with the other Norren slaves, in order to set up a patrol of the outskirts of the hold. Mistress desires that you begin this immediately; you may also command other slaves to assist, including the new slaves.”

“Yes, Domina,” Isleif replied. Domina turned and left the room as Isleif quickly slipped into her clothes.

Downstairs she found Eoryn, Eottir, and Seif awaiting her. They had procured a meal of cut meats placed between two pieces of bread, which looked exotic but tasted delicious.

While Isleif ate, they planned an ongoing schedule of watches.

Isleif had a sudden sense of discomfort. The four of them were standing around a table in a wood-floored room with light from glazed windows. Around them, and outside of the building, the strangers who lived here went about their tasks. Isleif hadn’t really gotten to know any of the fifteen slaves—well, fourteen now—she had been traveling with for a week, and now there were twice that many new people in addition... she felt surrounded by strangers.

“Isleif?”

Eottir was looking at her. They all were.

“Yes?”

“You seemed to drift away for a moment.”

“Sorry, just feeling... strange. To be here. With all these... people.”

Eottir nodded. “Focus on serving Mistress. Let her worry about these people.”

Isleif looked at Eottir, then the others. Yes, that was the way through. Serve Mistress. Focus on accomplishing her task.

Was it strange for her to have lost sight of that?

“Yes,” Isleif said. “Right. Okay, where were we?”

“Four hour patrols, two people, circling the hold. We will each take one of the night circuits. Mistress has instructed me to choose the other eight slaves who will patrol—it makes sense for some of them to be holdsmen, so I will review them and choose some who seem suitable.”

“What are we patrolling for?”

Eottir shrugged. “Anything of interest to Mistress. Approaching strangers, things of that nature. She will read our minds and determine if something is important. During the day, one of the pair will be closer to the hold and will run to Mistress if her attention is desired.”

Isleif nodded.

They drew out a map of the hold. Circling it would be simple.

* * *

She was on second watch that evening so Isleif wandered outside to familiarize herself with her new home. She was struck by how well-kept Thaer Gorran was, whitewashed and swept, the buildings in good repair, the windmills turning.

Isleif had read about windmills—in some of the Norren tribes people were without the skill at letters, but the High-Water-Sky-Trees clan kept a precious three score books and taught their children to read. Kothin, a great chief from many lifetimes ago, had impressed upon the tribe the power of the written word, and in his memory they kept their library, augmenting it when possible. As the tribe moved ten times a year, objects as heavy as books were of not inconsiderable cost, but it was a point of pride that over the years the collection had only grown.

One of the windmills stood atop a stone-and-mortar building which revealed itself to be the smithy. A woman was inside, hammering iron, her sleeves soot-stained and straining over her bulging arms. Her hair was tied tightly into a knot against the back of her head.

The woman shoved the metal rod she had been pounding into a barrel of water with a hiss of steam. She saw Isleif, frowned, then put down her hammer.

Isleif watched as the woman approached her.

“You’re one of the... one of hers,” she said.

“Yes,” Isleif replied. “I am part of her owning.”

“What is she?”

Isleif shrugged. “I don’t know. She... took me, and my companions, when we came across her owning in the Tyrwood. Apparently a Viqquabi slave caravan discovered her in a cave.”

The woman shook her head. “In a cave. Huh. I don’t... I want to please her. I know that I am her slave, and I will obey her in all things. But... I also know that I didn’t feel like that yesterday. That yesterday, it would have... frightened me.”

Isleif put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. It was hot to the touch. “Don’t think that,” she said quietly. “She will erase it, if she sees. Focus on her truths. Believe them. If you wish to keep yesterday... keep it quiet.”

The woman looked at her with piercing dark eyes. She nodded solemnly.

“Isleif.”

Isleif turned. Ithrad, with red hair and green eyes like Brynwyrren, was walking towards her.

“Mistress desires your presence.”

“At once,” Isleif replied. As she stepped away, the blacksmith gripped her arm.

“Isleif,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

Isleif nodded, then walked away.

* * *

Mistress was in the main house, but not in the great hall. Instead, she was upstairs in the Laird’s—in her—bedroom, a well-lit open room of white walls and several paintings; two walls looked out with generous windows. A large bed with four carved wooden posts stood against the rear wall.

Mistress was again nude, her pale body almost shining in the room’s light, capped at both ends by shining black. She was standing, hand raised above the head of a man who was kneeling on the floor.

The man’s head was tilted over at an odd angle, and he stared up at Mistress with empty eyes and open, drooling mouth.

Domina stood just behind Mistress, watching—if the word could be used—intently. She was also nude, her warm brown Viqquabi body a contrast to the bluish white of Mistress’.

Although... was her skin lighter than it had been? Perhaps it was the brightness of the room, but Domina seemed paler, almost as light skinned as Lissira or one of the other Fashedians, not as dusky as the Viqquabi she had been.

Lyrr was standing just next to the door to the room, clothed. Isleif looked at her as she walked in, then stood next to her and waited for Mistress’ attention.

Mistress’ hand moved slightly, then again. Slowly, it lowered to her side.

“Even so,” she said, apparently to Domina. Although she was speaking to Domina, her face remained turned towards Lyrr and Isleif. “Drudge. Pon thou smooth their mind entire, must thou scribe therein the creature thou desirest; else will they topple and wane without e’er rising again.”

Mistress looked down at the man. “Rise, drudge,” she said.

“Yes Mistress,” he replied in a flat voice.

“Go an thy dwelling and wait.”

“Yes Mistress,” he said in precisely the same tones. He turned around and Isleif was startled to see no color—not a speck—in his eyes. Around the black of his pupils was only white.

He walked out of the room.

“Lyrr-slave,” Mistress said.

“Yes, Mistress,” Lyrr replied, and stepped forward.

“There art...” Mistress paused. She pursed her lips. “Bring paper, and aught with to scribe. Thou shalt record.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Lyrr replied. She turned and left the room.

Mistress raised a hand to her chin, and pushed the flesh in tiny circles. Then she seemed to notice Isleif.

“Isleif-slave.”

“Yes, Mistress?”

“How stands thy eye on this hold?”

“Mistress?”

Mistress walked to a window; the light streaming in giving her skin an almost translucent sheen.

“We require an anchorage, Isleif-slave. A place secure that we might make and craft and bide and grow. A nesting. Be this such place? Be it safe against the arms and wiles of men? Concievest thou, that here we may bide?”

Isleif frowned. “I think this place is... good, Mistress. It is remote, self-sufficient, and largely ignored by the world. Men have not lived in fear here for many dozens of years, though to live without arms would be foolish. It is not perfect—we are within Kyur and Kyur is a strong nation. The Laird owes fealty to the Margrave of Kyur Oversea; there will be visitors from the Margrave and taxes to pay. But other than that...” she shrugged. “I am Norren, I am not from here. The Laird would know better.”

“The Laird mayhap ken more deep, yet thy insight is that we seek. Fortunate were we, when thou camest upon.” Mistress left the window and drifted across the room to Isleif. “Deep, thou art, greater than thou kenst.” She trailed a finger around Isleif’s shoulder. “And beauteous.”

Mistress leaned over, parting her lips, and Isleif stiffened as she kissed her. Then a warm push entered her mind and the sudden fear and doubt were gone, leaving Isleif knowing only that Mistress was kissing her, Mistress whom she loved, whose body was far finer than the dream of her many lonely nights, and Isleif kissed her back, leaning into her tall, nude frame, her arms rising to hold Mistress’ back.

That long, long tongue was restrained, satisfied only to twine once only around Isleif’s own, and those luscious full lips were soft and limber, and then Mistress was pulling away, and Isleif stared into the black gloss of her face feeling horny and bereft.

“Yes,” Mistress whispered, “prize indeed.” She cocked her head. “Go then, our huntress. Labor we must. Anon shalt we taste thee deeper.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Isleif exhaled, and reluctantly left the room.

* * *

END Part Three