Witness

You squirm against the cold and rough stone at your back, arms stretched above your head by metal cuffs that chafe your wrists. It's a yearly tradition for your people going back generations that a girl, usually a slave but not always, is left at the edge of the beach an hour from the village, a sacrifice to appease the raiders who prey on the coast. Bitter tears fall as you consider how low your people are, that the only thing worth taking are comely daughters. The sudden sound of frequent splashing has you peering desperately into the gloom beyond the light of the torch at your feet and you glimpse small boats racing for the shore, sails being furled even as oars are being furiously paddled. You try to calm your fluttering heart as the boats crunch onto the strip of sand, slipping in among the village's fishing vessels, and then there's more crunches as people jump out.

The raiders swagger across the strip of sand, gently swaying as though still at sea. The group's scout, at the front, seems to pause as she sees your stretched and nude olive form, eyes briefly widening. She whirls round, dagger almost magically in hand, and slits the throat of the raider behind. The dying woman gags as she falls, tripping the next one in line, and then with a horrid wet crunch that one's skull is split by an axe-head. The remaining raiders start spreading out as you watch, glancing at each other as they try to work out why one of their own has turned on them, and the scout takes advantage.

In a flurry of blows three raiders go down with fatal wounds to brain, breast and belly, the scout lithely dodging around attacks that seem clumsy in comparison. There's a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach when the scout glances at you, her gaze full of lust, and then the moment passes as she resumes her dance of death, lunging to plant her dagger into the navel of her sixth victim.

Caution slows her limbs as a tall raider muscles her way out from the rest, a vivid crimson line appearing on the scout's upper left arm, and she spins to slice a second throat, hurriedly refocusing on the tall raider. You recognize her as the warband's chief, your heart beating madly as you remember seeing her torture a villager for simply resisting her advances. The scout puts a cocky grin on her face, shifting the grip she has on her axe, and nimbly jumps forward, a barbaric warcry on her lips. The chief is startled, recoiling slightly, and the scout's axe barely misses a solid hit, instead scoring a line in the chief's iron breastplate. The response is lightning-fast, you almost miss it, and the scout barely dodges, jumping back as the chief's heavy blade cuts the air.

They have the measure of each other, or think they do, and launch probing swipes. It is the chief who makes the first, and only, mistake, overextending and watching helplessly the axe thud deep into her midriff. The other raiders are stunned as their leader falls before scrambling for their boats, the scout slaying as many in that retreat as the battle before. As silence falls the scout glances at you, both sets of breasts heaving with exertion, and swaggers to stand in front of you.

The key to the cuffs has been placed on a string around your neck, dangling between your breasts, but she just grins and brandishes the axe after a moment. You cringe as the scout swipes the weapon through the air, hearing the whistle most hear at their end, and duck your head in fright as she swings at your chains. Metal splinters and your arms quickly drop as the axe cuts you free. You stagger forward and she catches you, folding you into an embrace you should struggle out of. You're not though, exhausted by long hours of bondage and from watching the combat, and she balls your long dark hair in a fist, tilting your head to snatch a kiss.