Disclaimer: The following is fiction. The story’s content does not represent the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote unlawful activity as described within the story. By continuing to read this work, you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose of fantasy alone. All the characters in this story are adults. They may portray different ages for the fictional characters they are depicting, but they remain adults at all times.
Feature Writer: Shona
Feature Title: DARK LADY 1 — ORIGINS
Published: 03.12.2024
Story Codes: Erotic Horror, Abuse, Young Ones, Snuff
Dark Lady I — Origins
The cold woke her. A blanket of cold on her naked body. Naked, filthy, bloody. And after the cold – the pain. Where they had slapped her, hit her, thrown her around. And the pain between her legs where they had torn away her virginity and used her. Again and again. Until they thought she was dead. When they threw her into the ditch by the edge of the village.
It was hardly a war band – just nine soldiers – on horses, dressed in leather and mail, bright swords slashing. And one priest to the Nailed God. They came at dawn and the fires began. Torches were thrown onto thatch. Smoke. Fear. Men grabbing spears or whatever came to hand. Cut down as they left their huts. All the men were soon dead. There were not many anyway. It was not much of a village.
Then the boys and the older women. All put to the sword. The small children next. And then the rapes began. The women and the girls. Five of them for ten of them. But they had all day — plenty of time. The women and girls were all dead now. All except her. And the wolves had started their work.
She struggled to her feet and a wolf looked at her. Straight into her eyes. Predator and prey. Then it returned to tearing out her mother’s stomach. She stumbled through the burnt-out village, grabbing at rags to give her some warmth, and a knife for protection, the wolves ignoring her as they gorged themselves on the flesh of the newly dead. She stumbled into the forest.
It had been a year since the Emperor of the Franks had decided that he would tolerate the pagan Saxon tribes no longer. Their refusal to bow the knee to him would have been enough, but their refusal to bow the knee to the Nailed God was worse. So they came with steel and flame, and the villages and the sacred groves had burned. Wotan, Thorun, Seaxt and Frey worshippers were ruthlessly cut down. Many boys, girls, and women went to the West to the slave markets. Others were treated as she had been and left for dead – or, usually, just dead.
Her childhood was over.
Until that day she had been just a happy Saxon girl like all the other Saxon girls, happy enough with work and play. It was a hard life but no harder than anyone else’s and it was broken by the Great Festivals to the Gods. Her mother was a priestess to Frey and, unusually, had eyes of grey flecked with gold rather than the blue usual among the Saxons. Gold-flecked grey eyes that the girl had inherited.
Her father was a hunter and farmer and occasionally would be called away to fight against the Franks. Typical of most Saxon men he knew how to fight with spear and axe when necessary.
The talk earlier that year had been of the new invasion by the Franks deep into Saxon territory, an invasion of extermination of all things pagan in the name of the Nailed God of the Christians – a religion dedicated to peace that seemed to always want blood.
In her family, the talk had also been of Frey, as the girl was called after the Goddess, as they waited for the blood to flow between her legs and the marriage that would inevitably follow, although who she might marry had not yet been determined. None of which mattered now that her parents were dead and the two boys talked of as her husband were also scavenger food.
The blood that had flowed between her legs on the day the village ended had been the blood of tearing not the blood of readying for the cycle of birth.
In the years to come, she could never really piece together those weeks in the forest after the attack, how she survived. There were berries and roots of course and other burned villages where there was still some food to take away, often scorched from the flames of that village’s ending. Sometimes she may have eaten bits of the dead but those memories slid away. And all the time, if she but knew it, she was following in the tracks of the nine soldiers and the priest.
Eventually, she left the forest when she came to the banks of a river by a Saxon village. Here, she could get help. But a few steps out of the forest, she was grabbed from behind. She had emerged a few steps from a Frankish sentry who scooped her up and threw her on the floor outside one of the huts calling out to someone within. How was there a Saxon village not burned when there were Franks here?
A man came out of the hut. Easily recognised. The priest who had torn away her childhood.
“What is this stinking thing? Clean her up.”
Easily done. Her rags were torn away, her precious knife taken, and she thrown into the shallows of the river, where women, at the command of the priest, roughly scrubbed her and made her clean until she could stand again before the priest, naked and vulnerable.
The priest frowned. Did he recognise the girl he had hit and slapped and fucked? He asked her questions in her own tongue, questions about the Nailed God, questions she could not answer. He spoke to the soldier in the language of the Franks and she was taken away, a rope tied around her wrists and attached to a post in the centre of the village.
And there she stayed all day. Naked under the eyes of the gods. As the sun went down a soldier came and took her to the priest. The soldier waited outside listening as the priest fucked her again, rubbing his groin wishing he could have been cock deep in the pagan girl from the forest. When the fucking was over the soldier was called and he took the girl and the piece of bread she had been given back to the post.
He tied her and watched as she tore at the bread with her teeth. Watched as she finished. Then he loosened his clothing. The priest hadn’t said the soldiers couldn’t have her. She was just a pagan. And she was almost of an age to marry. If you were in a remote village where they married early. Why not have a piece of the girl? True, she was thin, true her tits were just bumps and she had hardly any hair on her cunt. She had the holes that mattered to a soldier who hadn’t fucked in over a week.
So he pulled her legs apart and got lined up. He looked into her eyes and started back. He recognised those eyes, the eyes of a pagan bitch girl he had fucked weeks ago, eyes of grey flecked with gold. A dead girl. He saw the girl looking over his shoulder. Not looking away like a lot of these pagan whores did when they were taken, looking away from the man raping her, she was looking at someone. Fuck, the priest, he thought and staggered to his feet and turned.
On the edge of the clearing sat a wolf. Watching. The soldier was suddenly aware he had only a knife and that was small protection against this wolf and the other that had joined it. He backed away as the wolf trotted up to the post and sat beside the girl.
That was the last night that any of the soldiers thought of taking her. They knew something was wrong with the girl. And they left well enough alone and said their prayers to the Nailed God. The priest still fucked her every day even though he knew the villagers muttered. What did he care? They were Saxons. True, they had turned to the loving Christ rather than be put to the sword, but they were still just Saxon farmers and peasants, little better than slaves. Anyway he too had recognised her.
He didn’t know how she had survived but he didn’t care. She was a good tight fuck. And after he fucked her he gave her a small morsel of bread as payment. Not enough to keep her alive. But keeping her alive wasn’t the plan. Anyway, he had her for now and one night the village echoed with her screams as he tried something new, pushing his cock deep into her arse.
He didn’t know that every night the wolves came to keep her company. But the Saxons knew.
One night one of the Saxons had left his hut realising he had left his knife by the river where he had been gutting fish. He saw the girl lying asleep resting on the body of a wolf. Two other wolves sat like sentries, one on either side of her. The villager left the knife until the morning, went back into the hut and told his wife what he had seen. By noon the next day, all of the village knew the girl was guarded by the gods they had renounced. The villagers knew, the soldiers knew, only the priest slept in ignorance.
And when the girl slept she dreamt of a woman. Beautiful and frightening with long thick black hair and eyes the colour of night. A long robe clung to her body revealing the curves of a lush body, ripe for sensual pleasure. In her hand, she carried a seax, the sword of the Saxons, the sword named for a god that gave the Saxons their name. And she smiled.
Now the villagers started to pass her food when the soldiers weren’t looking. Bread and meat. If the priest wondered why she wasn’t starving he didn’t wonder hard enough as his lust for her overpowered his education and reason and he fucked her again and again. And now she seemed to respond to him, moaning with pleasure as he thrust his cock in and out of her tight cunt, wrapping her legs around him to draw him in deeper.
He could almost have taken her home after the wars if she hadn’t been a pagan Saxon bitch with strange eyes. But no matter. They would be leaving soon and the last thing he would do before they left would be to fuck every hole in her body, give her to the soldiers to play with for a day and night and then have her head stuck on top of the stake in the village.
The Saxons knew that the Franks were about to leave for they hard started to clean the harnesses of their horses and their chain mail. They also started to take food from the villagers, leaving just enough that the villagers would not starve – not immediately anyway. The soldiers would be glad to leave. They had become frightened of the young girl tied to the stake who was protected by wolves.
The day of leaving arrived and the priest came out to get the girl so that his cock could take leave of her. He found the soldiers standing fully armed, nervous, staring at the villagers, many of whom also seemed to be armed. And, he noted, none of the villagers were wearing the cross of the Beloved Saviour which they had before worn so ostentatiously.
The girl looked at the priest as he took in the change in the villagers and smiled at the fear she saw growing in him. She threw back her head and howled.
It was like time stopped. Sound stopped. The clouds stopped. Heartbeats stopped.
Time started again. A spear was thrown and the first Frank was down. The girl howled again.
And the wolves came. Not one pack. Many.
The Saxons stood back as the soldiers were attacked and overwhelmed from all sides in a melee of teeth and claws. Many wolves to each soldier. Only the priest was left alone rooted to the spot, piss running down his legs as he watched his soldiers ripped apart. It took a matter of a few moments.
The battle, such as it was, done and the wolves standing in an arc around the open side of the village, the only thing left was to finish it.
The girl’s ropes were cut away and she walked over to the priest who was now held by two Saxon warriors. As she approached they pushed him to his knees so that she could look down at him. She asked for a knife and it was in her hand in an instant.
“Strip him and tie him to the post.”
“Yes, Lady.”
It was done.
The power was hers. She could feel it.
When he had taken her the priest had seemed powerful and she had seemed powerless. As he had thrust into her, spat on her, pressed his hands around her throat he had seemed so strong and she so weak.
He screamed a strange shrill keening sound as she now thrust the knife down on the base of his cock cutting deep and slashing until cock and balls were in her hand and the blood gushed from the savage wound. She took five steps back, then ten and raised her arms and the wolves began, gnawing, tearing lacerating the flesh of his legs until he was a bloody body, legless and cockless hanging by the ropes from the stake, still alive and dressed only in the cross of the Nailed God.
There was much to do. The villagers knew they couldn’t stay. They would take everything they could carry with them into the forest and move east or north out of the Saxon lands to seek refuge with the pagan peoples beyond. If they made it. If they weren’t caught and slaughtered before they could escape. But, pagans again, they would sell themselves dearly – even the women and children.
They thought the Girl Lady would go with them. But she had her own path to travel. Guarded by the wolves she set out north and west to the place where the river flowed to a great water. The Lady in her Dreams had spoken and had shown her and she travelled to do her work.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE