Warrior of The Chevaan

Conine

"The Tree at the End of the World"

The moon crested the sky in a silver haze. It painted its white glow on the tops of the mountains lying in the middle distance. It fired the tops of the clouds drifting across the horizon. The soldiers standing duty outside the border keep on the frontiers of the empire looked up at its heatless light and drew their cloaks against the night chill.

For the prisoner hanging on the cross, the moon signalled the beginning of another night of pain.

A day on the wooden frame had taken its toll on the tall warrior woman. After the humiliation of the soldiers rape of her they had dragged to the A frame, hoisting her up while the men had used their hammers to drive more nails through the tops of her booted feet, laughing as she tried to choke back her screams as the metal spikes punched through bones and flesh and pinned her to the hard wood crossbar. The men had cheered at the spectacle of that athletic body heaving as the nails ripped her flesh. But that had only been the beginning of the warrior woman's ordeal.

'You might be wondering why we nailed your arms spread, instead of straight up like your little friend's,' the Centurion had said when his men had stepped down to leave the prisoner hanging with grotesque beauty on the awful device, nodding down to the wagons where Anitha had been carried. 'We've heard stories from those favoured by General Gracus of your great strength, and wish to give you the chance to prove it.'

'This bar,' the Centurion had noted, reaching to his full stretch, just short of seven feet, to pat the crossbar to which Conine's wrists had been nailed, 'has been attached to some rather clever rope-work behind you, a system of balances and counterbalances which I don't expect your simple barbarian mind to understand. Usually, a victim on the cross has to pull themselves up with their arms in order to prevent themselves suffocating as their lungs are stretched, but in your case, we've sued the ropes to – well, I'll let you see for yourself.'

The Centurion had then signalled to some of his troops positioned behind the A frame, who responded by releasing the braces they had set on some of the ropes.

Straight away, the twin cables attached to the corners of the crossbar were pulled taught as weights on their further ends were drawn down by the force of mass and gravity. The effect was transmitted along the ropes cleverly strung under and over various pieces of wood so that, on the frame, the tormented Amazon beauty felt her arms suddenly being drawn upwards as the bar was pulled towards the apex some three feet above her head.

Conine had struggled against the pull, the awful memory of the rack flooding through her mind, the remembered sensation of her body being slowly and brutally torn apart by the pitiless mechanism. The drag of the bar was not so relentless, but to fight it she had to use the only leverage available to her, that of her wrist were the Roman's had nailed them to the wood. Lances of red-hot pain shot through those tortured limbs as she screwed her face into a tightly lined mask of concentration. She had attempted holding her breath, but found that the pressure on her lungs was actually forcing her to exhale slowly. Her vision beginning to swim as the oxygen in her lungs was depleted, her body demanded she inhale. She had tried to do so, but her stretched position prevented her from taking more than a shallow shuddering gasp.

Below the Roman had watched the barbarian women realise the full horror of her predicament, trying to inhale but unable to do so sufficiently to alleviate her growing asphyxia. Her large breasts trembled sumptuously as she struggled against the inevitable, her eyes opening and closing as she fought for precious air. Finally she had had no choice; she braced her arms and tugged on the crossbar, drawing it downwards, fighting to relieve the pressure on her diaphragm.

For Conine the pain in her wrists was terrible, the feel of mutilated bone and sinew grinding horribly inside her filling her with nausea. She shook her head and tried to block the pain, sucking in air, filling her lungs with life-giving oxygen. On either side of her head her arms bulged as her impressive biceps maintained their pull on the rope. Conine instinctively realised the terrible agony she would experience if she let the bar snap back to its raised position. Instead, she used her strength to let the bar rise slowly, until it again drew her arms back up above her at 45 degrees to the level of her shoulders and rounded deltoids.

The Centurion shook his had in approval, admiring the woman's spirit and her intelligence, primitive and unsophisticated as it might be. 'Good work, my proud girl. There are many a sesterce riding on how long you can endure on that wood – let's see you prove your Chevaan fortitude.'

Conine had glared hatefully at the Roman as his men laughed, but found no time to respond more fittingly. Already her lungs had started to ache once more and she grit her teeth as she herself to the painful task of again hauling down on the crossbar so that she could take just one more breath.

The ordeal had continued through the day, as the sun had risen up into the sky and the cool of the morning had given way to the steadily mounting heat of the middle day. For Conine the passing of time was measured only by the repeated need to pull down on the bar, draw breath, let the bar rise. Over and over, and endless, terrible cycle. Sweat had formed on her body as she fought the terrible lingering execution of the cross.

The men watching saw the strain of her torment begin to have its toll on the prisoner. After an hour her whole magnificent form had been covered in a sheen of sweat that highlighted every smooth surfaces and rounded curve. Every few minutes the Roman's were treated to the spectacle of watching the barbarian female flexing her well moulded limbs, her face showing the signs of ever mounting agony as she hauled down on the bar. As her biceps swelled and the muscles of her shoulders stood out like cables beneath her bronzed skin her magnificent chest would swell, the majestic peaks of flesh expanding outwards as she sucked air into her lungs, wobbling gently as she gasped for air.

Then, after a moment, the bar would start to rise again, her chest falling back as the air was squeezed from air, along with little sounds of pain, small groans from full red lips as her eyes were screwed tight in concentration. At last the bar would have reached its full extension, her body held taught and her tits sitting high and proud, outthrust by her extension. The need for oxygen would again start to burn within her lungs.

The hours passed.

By midday Conine's pain had grown to the point where every move on the hideous wooden frame was accompanied by tiny whimpers. It was hot, and thirst had assailed her mercilessly, while the glare of the sun overhead caused her eyes to ache. Cramps wracked her arms and shoulders, and the effort of drawing down the bar had become a source of pain in itself. She could feel the strain on the muscles of her sides and back. The warrior woman was forced to compensate by using another aspect of her gorgeous body, that of her well toned abdominals. By shifting her position slightly, Conine found she could use the strength of her abs to help draw down the bar, almost as if she were attempting a stomach crunch such as she might do during her training regimen, but there was a cost. The pressure on her stomach began to increase quickly augmented by her lack of food over the last two days, and the pressure on the small of her back soon became a sharp stabbing torture, as if someone were driving a steel spike into the base of her spine. Worse, she was compelled to take some of the strain on her feet where they were nailed to the wooden base, and the pain of that on the terrible wounds on her impaled feet was enough to cause silver tears to run freely down over her cheeks, falling freely onto the swell of her breasts sitting firm and round below. She could feel the puncture wounds bleeding as her feet swelled inside her boots, and her flesh and bone grinding against the metal spikes. Nausea washed over her, but she choked down the bile rising in her throat and struggle on.

Abruptly, the pull of the bar had stopped. Blinking Conine became aware that the men guarding her had set a wooden brace against the top of the bar, holding it at the halfway point. She could breathe in short gasps, and did so in rapid inhalations, grateful for the momentary respite and not at first caring why it had come. As here head cleared a little she could see the Centurion standing in front of her again with the rest of the detail, each man staring up at her lustfully.

'Time for some fun again lads,' the leader had said, and his troops had nodded in agreement.

Over the next hour, each of the soldiers had taken a turn at raping Conine on the cross.

Shedding his tunic and breeches a Roman would step up onto the crossbar to which the Chevaan's feet had been nailed, positioning himself between her legs with his invariably erect member jutting up towards her naked pubis. Then they would use their position to thrust up between her legs, entering her inner folds and pushing hard with their feet and hips, ravaging her brutally while the others looked on. Their thrusts had sent jarring messages of agony through the athletic woman's feet, adding to their pleasure as she squirmed on the ends of their phallus, and her gasps and whispered curses had added to the pleasure of their violation of her. These, however, had perforce been muffles halfway through the first man's use of her when her attempt to bite of his ear had resulted in a stunning slap to the side of her head, and her being gagged with a dirty bit of rag.

One of the men had discovered her sensual writhing could be enhanced by the application of a leather belt to her exposed rump while she was being ravaged, and soon the Chevaan's muscular ass had been aflame with the blows of the strap. Her world had degenerated into a vile rhythm of forced sex, pain, and shame.

By the time the men had finished with her Conine's pubic region was a swollen sticky mess, the semen of half a dozen soldiers oozing from her battered labia. Bruises and the marks of teeth were peppered across her lush breasts and shoulders, and her backside was a mass of red welts, some of which bled slightly where the men' enthusiasm had led to the leather breaking the flesh. The pain in her wrists and feet was muffled by that between her legs, the throbbing evidence of torn ligaments and wrenched muscles and sinews as a result of the Roman's repeated and brutal pounding at her vagina. Her head hung down with her eyes closed as she tried to conserve her strength, fatigue and despair assaulting her with every laboured breath.

'All right then, back to it my girl. Rest times over,' she had heard the Centurion say, and then had felt the braces holding the crossbar in place removed. Straightaway the bar had begun to drag her arms upward again, and with her gag removed Conine had groaned loudly and again begun the awful struggle for oxygen.

The latter half of the day had passed as a lingering nightmare for the warrior woman. Pain was her constant companion, mixed with humiliation and festering, impotent rage. Her body hurt more than any time in her life, more even than on the rack, and her thirst had become maddening. Flies had buzzed around her head, landing on her to feed off the salt in her sweat and sometimes the blood of the wounds on her arms. Her brain pounded unceasingly inside her skull.

By the time the sun had begun to set in a red and orange crescendo behind the western horizon the female on the cross was half dead, her body performing the actions that allowed her to continue breathing as mechanical repetition, barely enough to keep her alive. Any other woman in her position would have become exhausted and suffocated hours ago, but Conine was cursed now with the stamina and wilfulness of her warrior heritage. She would not surrender to her inevitable fate before her body had failed her.

As she hung battered and exhausted on the torture frame, she had heard the sounds of horses. Turning her head a little she had seen a small company of riders, led by Gracus in full military regalia, and accompanied by a body of legionnaires and a heavy wooden wagon. One of the riders had galloped up the hill and stopped to address the Centurion.

'The General congratulates you on your fine work.' Then he had turned to Conine. 'Out of respect for your courage and excellent…performance skills…General Gracus bids me tell you that if you are still alive by sunrise tomorrow, your arms and legs will be broken to hasten your departure. Also,' the man smiled, 'to say you need not be concerned about the fate of your horned companion. He is transporting her to Rome, where he is sure the Emperor himself will see to her future care.'

Conine has said nothing, had not even had the spittle in her sand dry mouth for an act of defiance. But as the man had turned and ridden off, her raven tressed head had fallen to her chest, and the mighty warrior woman had wept softly.

Now it was night. Pummelling heat had been replaced by a slight chill. The wind blew across the hilltop and ruffled Conine's now matted hair.

Not far away, the day detail had also been replaced by just two Roman soldiers, common legionaries. Apparently Gracus' retinue had so depleted the manpower of the fort that two men were all that could be spared to guard the prisoner from wild beasts or rescue. The men had built a fire and now knelt in front of it, their southern climate leaving them vulnerable to the north's colder climate.

Conine tried to wet her now cracking lips, but her tongue was dray and felt swollen. She trembled with the effort of pulling down the bar. She felt light-headed, and the firelight danced at the corner of her vision.

Suddenly the orange light seemed to expand, filling her gaze. The crucified woman lifted her head a little, half-closed eyes seeing a shape forming in the air before her. As she watched, wonder driving the constant pain momentarily from her mind, the shape took on the aspect of a woman. Soon, the priestess Satyra floated in front of Conine. She was nude, her splendid body swathed in soft orange glow, her hair falling in gorgeous foaming curls over her shoulders and back, the two curling rams horns either side of her head glinting like polished ivory. Her all green eyes shone with tears.

'Oh my love,' she said, her voice anguished, 'my poor, poor love.'

Conine smiled a little, blinking back her own tears. 'I hoped you would come for me, when it was time.'

'Yes my darling, I've come,' answered the vision, reaching out a hand and stroking the warriors strong, beautiful face, 'but not for the long journey, not yet. I've come to help you escape.'

As Satyra's ghostly hand touched her, Conine felt new strength and awareness flowing through, like the warmth of strong drink. The constant pain and struggle for breath seemed to have vanished. She opened her mouth to speak, but Satyr set two long finders against her lips.

'Listen, my love, I have little time. I cannot use my magic to free you, but I can give you a chance, your only chance. It will be hard, but you must take it. Listen.'

The spectral priestess drifted closer, setting her pouting lips near Conine's ear. Urgently she whispered words that made the warrior woman's blue eyes grow slowly wider.

Satyra pulled her head back, looking at her lover's stunned expression with compassion. 'It will be terrible for you, I know, but it is your only chance. For my sake, you must take it; you must endure it, as a warrior endures.'

Conine blinked, looking at the glowing image of her lover. Slowly, she nodded. Satyra smiled slightly. 'I will come for you,' Conine said.

Satyra shook her head. 'You cannot. Do not ask why; only know I shall be safe from the Romans. If I can, if there is any way, I will find you . But you must promise you will not come after me. Promise me.'

Something in her lover's voice told Conine that there was much Satyra was keeping secret, but she trusted the other young woman fully. Again, she nodded.

Satyra smiled again, laughing brokenly. Her long fingers ran through Conine's black hair. 'My love,' the half satyr whispered, drifting closer, her full, long body nestling against Conine's. The pinioned warrior squirmed to make contact with that body, feeling the sweet wonderful pressing of their flesh – their legs, their hips. The gentle, flat firmness of their bellies; the full, round, yielding softness of their breasts coming together, moulding each other, nipples pushing against tender skin; the tender intimacy of their womanhoods nuzzling against each other's thigh, pressing, rubbing.

Conine leaned forward, straining against her captivity to reach Satyra's full lips, aching to feel them again. The satyr woman responded, their mouths coming together, covering each other, their tongues darting and flickering in the warm wet cavity as the kiss became passionate. Conine moaned as she felt new warmth and strength radiating through her, the supernatural vigour of the priestess flowing across the connection. The pain and fatigue did not vanish, but they faded as new energy coursed through the warrior woman's body.

At last, all too soon, Satyra pulled back, severing their joining. There were fresh tears in her emerald eyes as she brushed Conine's cheek with her own. 'I am with you always, my love,' she whispered. Conine said nothing, drinking in the feel of Satyra's body against her, her smell, her taste.

'What was she saying?'

Conine's eyes fluttered open. The vision of Satyra was gone, replaced once more by the mundane night time view. One of the soldiers had moved over to stand in front of her, looking curious.

Conine said nothing at first. She almost told herself that the entire vision was a product of her delirium, but the lingering warmth and strength in her told her otherwise. Satyra had given her this one chance. She would not waste it.

Letting her head fall to one side, she fluttered her eyelids, moaning again as she hauled down on the wood, the need to fight for breath returning. The new energy she had would not last forever. She groaned as her arms extended, and the man smiled. 'Is there something you want, Celtic whore?' he asked.

'P…please…' Conine muttered, struggling for breath, squirming against the frame. Her bruised body shone like an ivory statue in the moonlight, still seductive despite her wounds. 'Please,' she said again, voice trembling.

'What, bitch?'

Conine raised her head a little, meeting his eyes, her own broken; pleading.

'Kill me…' she whispered.