Slavemaster's Woman, The (27 page)

“Father!” She scrambled to where her father
lay, to where the royal guards stood by him, recklessly putting
herself in danger.

Tarken was forced to stay. Vialin’s
weapon—or rather
his
weapon, which he now regretted giving
her control of, was still pressing hard against his head. Tarken
gritted his teeth with frustration.

Panicked, Cushla hugged at her father’s
unmoving body.

Tarken’s fists clenched when one of the
guards roughly hauled her to her feet and she slapped at him,
struggling to free herself.

Another of the guards dragged Ayia toward
the brush just as whirring cycles rushed the field. Ayia opened her
mouth to scream, but it was stifled with a hand to her mouth and
she was hauled unheard and unseen into the forest.

Tarken shifted, intending on stalking over
to the guard who dared to touch Cushla, to snap him in two, but
when the Shalcar pressed the end of the stunner—
his
stunner
more firmly into his temple, he went still. He should’ve never
trusted the woman.

“This isn’t going to work, Vialin,” Rube
muttered under his breath. “Bazil’s out cold. Get your ass out of
here.”

Vialin released a string of curses and
shoved Rube into Tarken. Pivoting, she dashed the short distance to
the forest and disappeared.

“Fuck,” Tarken groused. He’d never felt so
helpless, so deficient in command of a situation. He pushed Rube
away from him, and turned, every muscle in his body tensing, his
fists clenching more tightly as he waited silently.

Security, ten at least, then slid from their
cycles and crouched behind them for cover, their weapons raised.
“Drop the stunners!” One of them yelled.

At least the royals and their cronies had
the sense to obey. All dropped their weapons.

“Hands behind your heads!” The same security
official demanded.

Again all obeyed, including Tarken, who was
in no mood to be riddled with laser holes at the moment.

“You! Hands up.” The port official directed
his order toward Cushla.

Now free of the guard’s grip, Cushla once
again, dropped to the ground at her father’s side. In Cushla
fashion, she looked up and snarled.

Tarken failed to tamp the smirk at the
behavior that was typical of his spirited, little freebird. Still,
he feared they would stun her if she failed to comply. “Cushla,”
Tarken addressed her. “Do as they say.”

“Doing as they say as you tell me to do
would be the same as doing as you say, which I have no intention of
doing, slavemaster!” Cushla snarled at him.

Before Tarken could make sense of what she’d
just said, she reached for her father’s stunner which lay on the
ground nearby. Tarken lunged fearful security would shoot her, and
as he did, one of the port official’s stunners discharged. Fire
shot through Tarken’s right shoulder, an inferno across his flesh
as he slammed chest first to the ground, the impact causing him to
expel a breath that left his lungs momentarily paralyzed.

Cushla shrieked and scrambled back.

“Nobody move!” A Port security bellowed
while several others rushed forward weapons raised.

Tarken gritted his teeth against the pain as
he pushed to his knees, relieved at the air he was finally able to
inhale, only to find his head the target of yet another stun gun
belonging to one of the patrol.

“On your feet, hands behind your head,” he
ordered Tarken. “Slowly.”

Tarken complied, clenching his teeth at his
blistering skin, but thanking the stars it was merely a flesh
wound.

While still aiming his weapon at Tarken, the
patrolman carefully crouched and picked up Bazil’s stunner. He then
handed it off to a colleague who’d been gathering the other dropped
firearms.

“This man needs a medic,” another port
official stated as he examined Bazil. He looked at one of his
peers. “Call a medic!” He then shifted his attention toward the
royal guards who’d been stunned earlier. Recovering, they were
rising slowly, albeit clumsily to their feet.

Another official, likely their chief stalked
into the middle of the throng. He was as tall as Tarken, though
with a slighter physique, his tan-colored jumper pressed neatly and
clean. The badge on his shoulder clearly indicated he was indeed,
the one in charge. He eyed Tarken with slitted lids, sizing him up
and down and then turned toward Rube, lifting a brow as he noted
the royal’s attire. “Ulow lete pahpin edomos ahre?” He addressed
Rube, his foreign words falling on deaf ears.

The silence that followed, if the expression
on the official’s face was any indication…irritated him. With no
response forthcoming, he bellowed. “Seules etlo efureis pendes
afeaw abri!”

“I believe I can explain,” Scoac finally
answered.

The official pivoted and sneered, his hand
reaching toward a transmitter in his ear, interpreting the
language. “Are you in charge of this heap?” he demanded speaking in
a recognizable tongue.

“I am.” Scoac began to lower his arms but
raised them quickly when he was nudged by a port authority’s
stunner.

“Then I suggest you explain quickly!” The
chief glared at him.

“Ah well, you see…” Scoac paused overlong, a
ploy Tarken surmised, to procure extra time to contrive a plausible
response. The convenient arrival of the medics furthered that
opportunity.

The chief official watched momentarily as
the medics examined Bazil before turning back to Scoac, seeking an
explanation. “Well?” He glared at the royal.

“Yes,” Scoac began. “It was ah…” Scoac
glanced around as if searching for an answer. His eyes fell to
Cushla.

Her pursed lips and strained expression
revealed her intense worry as she watched the medics attend to her
father.

“…the slave.” Scoac began to lower his hands
again, only to be nudged more forcefully by the barrel of a port
official’s stunner. “She was attempting to escape and—”

“We need to get this man to a health
facility,” a medic interrupted.

“No!” Scoac started forward, but with a
quick glance to the patrolman who held the stunner on him, he
halted. “He—uh is part of my crew. We can care for him.”

The chief grunted. “Is he now?”

“He is.” Scoac lowered his voice forcing
himself to calm.

“What’s the man’s name?”

“Bazil,” Scoac replied. “Bazil Zaviot.”

Cushla’s head snapped toward Scoac,
apparently surprised that Scoac knew her father’s name. “He is my
father.”

The chief merely raised a brow. Ignoring
Cushla, he again questioned Scoac. “And what of the woman we saw
running off?”

“Ah yes…” Scoac hesitated again. “She would
be the one who was helping the slave escape.”

“I see.” The chief turned to one of his
patrolmen. “Find out who the woman is.”

“Yes sir.” The patrolman who was addressed
nodded and then returned to his cycle. He revved the engine
slightly and sped off.

“And who might this be?” The chief referred
to Tarken.

“He is the slavemaster.”

“I need to see your ship’s manifesto,” the
chief requested of Scoac.

“Of course.” Scoac began to lower one of his
hands and stopped, glancing at the chief. “May I?”

“Slowly,” the chief replied. At the same
time he nodded to the patrolman, a signal to be cautious in case
Scoac decided to pull a hidden weapon.

Scoac tucked his hand to the inside of his
vest and removed a clear, flat sheet about the size of his palm. He
handed it to the chief.

After a few clicks and beeps on the
compu-pad the chief handed it back to Scoac. He inhaled deeply, his
nostrils flaring and tucked his arms behind his back. For a moment
he said nothing as if considering the situation. He then spoke,
“You are aware that I can haul the lot of you to the penitentiary
for several violations, namely and most significantly, firing
weapons in open and inhabited territory?”

“That would be preferable to the king’s
wrath should I have lost that slave,” Scoac returned.

It was true, Tarken thought. The king would
have them skinned and quartered alive for losing Cushla. At this
point, he had no regard for his own hide however. He was still
considering how he might free her.

“Very well,” the chief answered. “Gather
your crew and vacate Aracome immediately before I reconsider.”

“And of him?” Scoac glanced at Bazil, who
was now being lifted to a gurney. “He was to travel with us.”

“I think not,” the chief told him. “He isn’t
listed on your manifesto. The man stays with us.”

Tarken observed the beads of sweat beginning
to appear on Scoac’s forehead.

The royal was nervous, and he should be. He
had fucked up his mission. Scoac protested. “We can attend to his
well-being.”

“Hmm…” The chief shook his head in the
negative. “Gather your crew and remove yourself. Zaviot stays.”

“No!” Cushla yelped. “He’s my father!”

The chief lifted a brow as he ogled Tarken.
“Outspoken for a slave. She’s not very well trained is she?”

“If I may, chief?” Tarken intervened on
Cushla’s behalf. “The slave was originally a royal of the King
Mecor’s court. Her life as a slave is a mishap. Her father has
searched for solars attempting to locate her…” Or at least Tarken
hoped he had. “Perhaps we should allow him to accompany us.”

“I do not know if this is true. Nor do I
know if this is indeed Zaviot’s wish,” the chief returned. “He will
stay here.”

“No, no—please?” Cushla attempted to rush
forward but was restrained by two of the royal guards.

Desperate, Tarken suggested another
solution. “Then perhaps she should stay here.”

“Are you mad?” Scoac objected.

“I will stay with her, and return her to the
king once her father is recovered.” Tarken of course lied. “Perhaps
return to Buranis with both the slave and her father.”

“I might stay with them,” Rube spoke up.

This suggestion surprised Tarken. Something
was amiss with the royal. Did he have an ally?

“You’re both mad!” Scoac groused. “The slave
will go with us!”

“I tend to agree,” the chief nodded. “The
slave is royal property and I therefore have no authority to allow
her to stay if it’s not your request.”

“No, no— my father!” Cushla shrieked as the
medics lifted the gurney and carried Bazil away. She struggled
against the restraint of two royal guards who grabbed her arms.

“Cushla…” Tarken reached for her, resisting
the anger escalating inside. Not at Cushla, but at the guards who
touched her, the inclination to break their arms, teeming inside of
him.

She recoiled from Tarken as if she’d been
burned, and pulled herself free. Her body stiffened and she shot
Tarken an angry look. “Do not touch me.”

“Cushla,” Tarken began again, this time
taking her hand, giving little regard as to who might be watching.
“I will make sure you and your father are safe.”

“No!” She jerked free of his grasp. “Keep
your hands off of me slavemaster. I do not wish to ever lay eyes on
you again. You protect me as well as you protected your own
wife.”

Her words sliced him deeply, freezing Tarken
in his steps.

Cushla moved closer to the royal guards,
seeming to prefer their company instead. She placed a firm hand on
the shoulder of one and glanced Tarken’s way, her eyes narrowing as
if she loathed him. She then turned her attention to the guard she
touched and smiled seductively at him.

He returned a lecherous smile as his eyes
grazed up and down her body.

Tarken wanted to kill him, and he would’ve
but common sense kicked in, telling him to keep his demeanor cool
or else he might reveal feelings for Cushla, which might result in
the king denying him access to her—a risk he refused to take.

He then followed the royal entourage as they
returned to the ship, his eyes steady on Cushla’s back, disgust and
dismay bottoming out in his stomach as he thought of the numerous
times he could’ve escaped with her, and how he’d missed every
opportunity.

Chapter Twenty

The planet, Buranis, Mecor’s Kingdom

Hiding behind a curtain, careful that she
wouldn’t be seen, Cushla peeked through the window that overlooked
the orchards, mines and meadows. She stared forlornly at the
multitude of minions who worked the land, her heart going out to
them.

Anzer Mecor’s tyrannical reign had brought
enormous destitution to those who used to be villagers, now turned
slave.

Her gaze shifted to the figure sitting at
the top of a small hill and the sight pulled at her spite, even as
her emotions pulled at her heartstrings. Tarken did try to
intervene on her behalf when they were on the planet Aracome. She
thought about that for a moment and then scowled. “He had another
agenda for that,” she mumbled, convincing herself,
perhaps to
ransom me to make credits for himself!

Battling the opposing emotions, she force
fed the anger she needed to feel toward Tarken, needing to remind
herself that he’d betrayed her. Lifting her hand, Cushla touched
her fingertips to the slave band. He’d not only activated it,
proving his obvious domination over her, but she knew by the
intensity of the agonizing shards scraping over her nerves that the
remote controlling her slave band was set to maximum.

Tarken intentionally wanted to hurt her.

Moving away from the curtain, Cushla caught
her breath at the intense pang in her chest as she mentally
attempted to separate herself emotionally from the slavemaster. She
glanced around her room. It was her old room from many dawnings
ago, the memories of living on Buranis beginning to surface as she
reacquainted herself with the castle’s surroundings.

Leaving the window behind her, Cushla walked
toward the bed and ran her fingers along the comforter draped over
it. The covering was made of the finest, thickest and softest
argamor materials that credits could buy, the once vivid lavender
color now faded. Aside from the curtains and the furniture, it was
the only thing of her personal possessions that remained. All else
was gone.