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Description
The orcs were kept marching, at a quick pace, without respite as the first rays of dawn appeared over the horizon. Jurda lowered her head, groaning through the bit as the sun rose into the sky. Far more than anything else, the sun’s rays sapped the normally immense strength and stamina of the orcs, until they were as weak as a dainty elf maiden. With the sun now fully overhead, Jurda began to feel the weight of chains pressing down on her, her limbs ached from the miles and miles she had traveled during the night. She drooped, her feet dragging in the dirt road. She felt the sting of the lash keenly now. It, and the painful chain between her legs were the only thing keeping Jurda and the other orcs moving forward. Even so, the coffle slowed to a crawl.

“I don’t think we can keep them moving much longer.” One of the slavers said.

“Where there’s a whip, there’s a way.” Another replied, putting action to word. Jurda grunted sharply in pain as she felt the lash on her side. She groaned, mustering up the strength to move faster…until the slaver had moved further down the line to whip another poor captive. Then she slowed her pace once more.

A few hours short of noon, the slavers conceded they had traveled as far as they would in the day-light hours. Reluctantly, they steered the line off the road, into a clearing in the woods. With relief, Jurda sank to her knees in the soft grass, the trees overhead blocking out some of the sun’s scorching rays. The men and dwarves went down the line. Iron stakes were driven through the coffle chains spaced every two or three captives, pinning the orcs to the ground. The slavers scattered around the clearing, some dozing, others getting a campfire going to cook a meal for themselves. As a cookpot began to bubble over the small fire, low moans rose from the line of captives. Jurda whimpered, her stomach growling. An orc could go a long time between meals, but none of them had been fed since they departed the slave hunter’s camp, days before. From where they knelt, the slaves watched miserably as the slavers ate.

To their relief, the slaves were fed next; with chunks of dried jerky from a bag, and given some water from a skin. The few bites of dry, hard meat, horse or perhaps donkey, quieted the grumbling of Jurda’s stomach, but little more. The couple swallows of warm, brackish water were not quite enough to satisfy her thirst either, but the slave had learned in the camp that asking for more was futile. At best it would get a few strokes of the whip for her impudence. At worst, she would lose her rations the next time the slaves were fed. Glumly, the orc opened her mouth to accept the bit between her teeth once more and tried to ignore her parched throat and the empty pit in her belly.

The slave coffle spent the afternoon and early evening idle. Jurda and the other orcs dozed, as best they could in their chains. They’d learned to snatch whatever chances for sleep they could, when put to toiling. Slaves were not given many opportunities for rest. Just before sunset, the slavers gave them another set of rations, then the stakes were pulled up. The whips cracked, urging the orcs back to their feet and the coffle set out once more.

The rest of the journey followed the pattern set on that first day. The coffle marched through the twilight hours, the slavers setting a pace that would have been brutal for any captives other than orcs, to cover as much distance as they could in the short, summer nights, before the coming dawn forced them to halt and wait out the daytime where the orcs could make little progress. During those hours of idleness, the slaves would be fed and watered and allowed some brief rest. The days and nights soon blurred together for the captives, becoming one seamless whole, a brutal journey, without beginning or end. Then, they finally came to the slave fair…

Jurda knew something was different when the coffle kept moving, even after the sun had risen high into the sky. The slavers wanted to push on, to reach their destination before nightfall. They employed the whips with greater ferocity then they had before, keeping the orcs moving. By now, the slaves had grown used to the rigors of the road, the endless struggle to move one shackled foot in front of the other hour after hour as the countless miles disappeared underneath one’s bare feet. The coffle slowed, but not as much as in the past, even as the sun beat down on them.

When the palisade walls of the slave fair became visible over the rim of the hills before them, weary groans of relief rose from the coffle. Jurda knew this was only the beginning; soon they would be sold and put to work far harsher then they’d known before, but some part of the female orc couldn’t help but be relieved that this stage of the journey was nearly over. Grumbles of relief came from the slavers as well. Though they were not burdened by chains or plagued by stinging whips, the long journey had sapped the strength of the slavers as well as their captives. There also further incentives for them up at the slave fair…

As they neared the fair, the coffle passed other groups of slavers heading to the fair with their wears. Human girls, dwarven wenches, fair elf maids, females of species Jurda had never seen or heard of before, were led up the road in chains, or carried in the backs of carts. Some of the captives trudged along with dull resignation, some wept brokenly as they thought of being sold, others seemed strangely ambivalent or even hopeful as they headed off to be sold. Others fought the tug of the slaver’s chains with a ferocity that put Jurda to shame. All of them, however, were destined for the auction block.

The men leading Jurda and the other orcs, leered openly at the naked slave girls they passed, pleased to behold pretty human or elf maids after months with only the rough orc women to slake their lust with. The men boasted of the girls they would buy, even for a night, with their pay after they had sold Jurda and the other she-orcs at the fair.

They also passed buyers, some heading toward the fair others returning, some with a leashed girl or two in tow, others returning unhappily empty handed. All sorts were going to the slave fair; noblemen looking for a new house servant or a plaything for the bedroom, mine and plantation agents looking for new workers, brothel madams bringing back fresh flesh for their houses. What the newly sold slaves thought of their new owners was plain on their glum faces, but no one thought to get their opinion on the matter.

None of them paid much attention to the coffle of she-orcs, save a look of distaste as they passed and a careful minding of where they placed their feet after the line had moved on. A hundred yards short of the fair, the wide dirt road leading up towards the gates branched. The main path headed straight, following a sign marked “Entrance Gate.” The coffle was directed down a side path who’s sign read: “Gate for Livestock.”

The path was empty of other travelers, until they came to the gate itself. There, a crowd of wranglers in leather coats and chaps, aided by guards in the same livery as the crest emblazoned on the gates, were struggling to lead a crowd off odd creatures through the gates and into a large, open paddock.

Jurda watched, intrigued. She’d never seen creatures like these before. At the bottom, they looked like horses. She knew what horses looked like; plenty of adventurers and travelers had brought them to the badlands. She’d usually ate them, if their riders hadn’t been forced to first. But where the head should have been, the horse part ended. Instead, the body of a young human woman began. They were bare chested, with tufted ears like a horse and narrow manes of hair in whites and blacks and dappled browns.

The centaurettes were obviously slaves like the others. Their hands were strapped behind their backs with leather bands. Their horse hooves were hobbled with rope, limiting them to short steps. Leather harnesses encircled their heads, holding bits between their teeth. The wranglers tugged sharply on the reins from these harnesses and encouraged the stubborn slaves through the gate and into the pens with leather riding crops. As they did, the coffle of orcs stood idle further up the trail, the she-orcs grateful for the rest in the hot, scorching sun, while their captors waited impatiently, shouting angrily to the wranglers to move their wares faster. The wranglers shouted back, just as angrily, suggesting they pass the time by sampling their own.

Eventually, the centaurs were all stabled, the first buyers gathering at the fences to watch them mill, uncertainly, around the paddock. With more curses and whip-strokes, the slavers got the coffle moving up to the gate. They were met there by a group of officials of the fair.

“How many slaves?” The lead official asked the lead slaver.

“158 prime she-orc bitches.” He replied. “Badlands orcs. 127 full-grown, 31 pups.” Behind the lead official, a scribe recorded it into a weighty tome.

“Do you want to reserve a booth or one of the auction stages?”

“Auction.” The slaver replied. “One of the after-dark slots. Orcs’re a bit livelier in the night, sell better.”

The scribe held the ledger up to the other manling. After a moment scanning the page, he pointed to a spot on the page. “Very well. You will have the eastern auction stage, second hour past the midnight. Until then, you can keep them in pens 34-36…after you’ve paid up and they’ve been tagged.” The scribe scratched out a calculation and named a price per head for the orcs to be sold at the fair.

The slaver drew out a leather bag and began counting out silver coins. Meanwhile, one of the other officials started going down the line of chained orcs. In his hand was an odd contraption. He held it up to the left ear of the first orc and squeezed the handle. There was a mechanical click and the orc grunted in pain. When he lowered the device, a small metal tag hung from the orc’s pointed ear. Loading another tag into the device, he moved on to the next orc in line. After a minute, the man reached Jurda. She glowered as he slid the tagger around her ear. As he squeezed, Jurda felt the stab of a needle through her ear. She winced, biting on her bit. When he was finished, she could feel a weight hanging from her ear, much like the similar weights hanging from her nose, and breasts and between her legs. She gave a low, angry groan as the man moved on to tag the she-orc behind her. Once more, the slavers had shown they could do whatever they liked with her body, to mark her as their property and there was nothing she could do.

When the orcs had been tagged, and the fair’s fee for their sale had been paid, the coffle was allowed through the gate and into the fair itself. To an orc, used to the badlands, it was like nothing Jurda had ever seen. Colorful pavilions with silk pennants, blowing in the breeze and gaudily painted signs fighting for the attention of the passing fairgoers.

Between the tents where glum, chained slaves were being examined by potential buyers, musicians, acrobats and other entertainers, naked and collared, performed filling the air with gay music and songs, so as to attract a crowd to their owner’s stall and the slaves for sale there. Vendor slaves shuffled around strapped with trays of odd smelling food the orc had never smelled or tasted before. It was a riot of colors, smells and sounds that delight even the most jaded visitor.

The orc slave only saw it from a distance, however. A short way into the fairgrounds, the coffle was turned down a avenue towards the far side of the grounds. Here were the pens where the hundreds of slaves brought to be sold could be stored, awaiting their turn on the auction block. Here, there were no gaily colored tents, or performers. Only roughly erected cages and pens, much like the ones back at the slaving camp. Through the bars stared the dejected faces of the captive females packed inside. All the races of the known world seemed to be represented among the unfortunate assembly. Shuffling past the nearer cells, Jurda humans and elves, halfings and dwarves aplenty. Kept further back from the main fair grounds were the more monstrous races. In one cell were packed two score of diminutive goblin-women, from beneath the southern mountains. In the cell beside them, a quartet of ogresses struggled in vain against the heavy chains binding them. And in a cell to herself, a giantess lay on the ground, a web of stout ship’s cables lashed to heavy stakes keeping her pinned down.

And there were orcs to. Most of the orc slaves the coffle passed were half-breeds, their grey-green skin, broad, flat noses, fangs and claws marked them as having orc blood, but their shorter, slimmer bodies bore the trace of other races’ blood; slender half-humans and -elves, stout half-dwarves and short half-goblins. Though their restraints were lighter then the heavy chains Jurda and the rest of the coffle wore, the half-orc slaves bore them with dull resignation, their orcish nature tempered by the civilized blood in them.

There were other, full-blooded orcs as well. They were as heavily restrained as Jurda and her fellow captives and struggled fiercely against their chains. They were fresh captures, not yet broken down by weeks or months of slavery like Jurda’s group, nor were they wild orcs taken from the badlands. Though ringed like the orcs in the coffle, these ones were unshaven, many still wearing war paint, some bearing wounds already half-healed. Orc mercenaries, formerly in the service of some would-be dark lord. Their master was beaten in a recent battle and now the survivors of his army had been brought here, to be sold and spend the rest of their lives in chains for their defeat.

The three pens beside the orc warrioresses was empty. The coffle was broken up and the she-orcs herded into the cages. Like they had in the slaving camp, Jurda and her fellow captives passively shuffled into the cage, sinking to their knees as the iron doors were slammed closed and locked. Dully, they waited until their captors chose to let them out again. The floor of the pen had been strewn with musty straw, in lieu of a bucket for the slaves to use. From the smell, Jurda and her fellow captives hadn’t been the first group of orcs imprisoned here. It wasn’t long before they added their own notes to the aroma of the pen.

The day dragged on for the bored orc captives in their cell. The sun rose high overhead, sweltering the helpless orcs in the open pen with its harsh rays. Those who could crowded into the shaded corners of the cage, until it came directly overhead and there was no escape from the burning light. Even the orc warrioresses in the pen beside them stilled their futile struggling as the hot summer sun sapped their strength.

Finally, though, the sun began to sink, bringing some relief to the slaves. Far away, muffled by the wooden walls of the pens, the noises of the slave fair nearby began to still as the endless auctions ceased, the crowds of buyers left for the day, taking their newly purchased slaves with them. Nearby, those girls who hadn’t been sold today were crowded into the empty pens to spend the night, waiting to face the crowds tomorrow. At the same time, Jurda and the other orcs were taken out of their pens. As the main fair closed for the day, the Night Market was beginning to set up.

The line of chained orcs were led down a broad avenue between the closed up tents. Eventually, they came to an intersection where their path crossed another perpendicular. Here, the people running the fair had left a large, open clearing, with room for buyers to congregate around the raised wooded platform that had been assembled at the far end of the field.

Already, a crowd was forming; mainly humans and dwarves. Most had the rough look of miners or overseers, hard, dirty work where the raw strength of an orc slave was a benefit. They crowded around, watching with interest as the coffle of slaves was led past to the stage, sizing up the merchandise that would be on offer soon, planning their strategies for the bidding.

Around the back, screened from the crowd by the bulk of the auction platform, Jurda and the other orcs were ordered to halt. A slaver went down the line, a piece of chalk in hand. Stopping at each orc, he methodically chalked a lot number onto breast, then went back, adding the same number on one buttock. When he finished, the orcs were ordered to kneel. They waited, dully, listening to the murmurs out front as the crowd grew in size.

Then, the slavers began. The she-orc at the front of the coffle was unchained from the rest of them. Two slavers took hold of her lead. She grunted angrily into her gag, but a few sharp yanks convinced her to follow her handlers, up the wooden stairs onto the platform.

From her position, hunched over on the ground, Jurda couldn’t see any of the action up on the stage. Chains rattled, their bearer grunting through her bit. The auctioneer rattled off something in one of the manling tongues, too quick for the orc to follow. A chatter rose from the crowd, words were shouted, echoed by the manling on the stage. After an interminable time, he gave three loud cries, which had some meaning to the crowd. Chains rattled again and, with an angry groan, the newly sold orc was dragged off the platform, descending a second set of stairs around the front. Meanwhile, behind the platform, the other slavers went to work, unchaining the next she-orc in line from the rest. Glumly, she was led up onto the platform to be sold next.

Jurda was about twenty orcs down in the line. Slowly, methodically, the slavers worked their way down the line. Each captive was unchained from the rest and led to the stairs. Some tried to fight the pull of the leash, others trudged with grim resignation. All went up, onto the platform and stood for auction. Kneeling in place, Jurda slipped into the same, familiar lethargy of slavery as she waited her turn. She paid little attention to what was going on around her. She didn’t notice as the orc to her left was taken away and then, suddenly, it was her turn.

Jurda looked up as one of the slavers unlocked her collar from the coffle chain. Several leather leads were attached, two to the ring of the collar and one to the ring between her legs. At the tugging of the leads, the orc rose to her feet with a groan. They turned, heading towards the stairs. Jurda began to follow, but as she reached the bottom stair, she suddenly froze, struck with the same, strange emotion of fear she’d felt during their journey on the river barge. This was it, Jurda realized. The awful moment had come. When she stepped up onto that platform, she would be sold as a slave.

The orc took a step back, shaking her head. No. She thought, she didn’t want to be a slave! She shook her head, grunting as she chewed on the bit of her muzzle. The slavers turned, glaring angrily at their defiant captive. The two holding the collar leashes pulled sharply on it, but Jurda held her ground. While the rational part of her mind knew it was futile, the orc found herself unwilling to surrender herself to slavery without putting up some sort of struggle.

As with the other captives, her struggle was brief. As they’d demonstrated many times before, the slavers had given themselves the ability to deliver sharp pain to their captives with little more then a hard yank on a leash. The slaver holding the lead clipped to her piercing did just that. Jurda growled sharply at the sudden pain. Briefly, the pain strengthened her resolve to fight the slavers. She twisted her arms, straining against the thick chains binding her in a futile attempt to break free.

A few more yanks finally convinced her this was a fight she couldn’t win. With a groan of resignation, the orc finally allowed herself to be led up the stairs. She stepped onto the platform, looking down at the crowd of men and dwarves gathered below, all of them looking up at her. Like fear, embarrassment was not an emotion an orc normally felt. Jurda had never felt any shame over her nakedness, never understood the civilized races obsessions with covering up their pale, scrawny bodies with cloth all the time. Now, though, looking down at the men eyeing her with leering grins, Jurda felt something that might have been very close to shame as she was dragged to the front of the platform, displayed for the entire crowd to see.

At the front, several iron rings had been fixed into the stout wooden boards of the platform, spaced a couple feet apart. The slavers led Jurda between them and quickly secured her feet to the rings with chains running to the iron cuffs around her ankles. She couldn’t step away from her position, now, until they chose to release her.

As they finished this, another manling, dressed in the nicer robes of a slave merchant, stepped up beside Jurda. He held a riding crop in one hand, which he used freely across Jurda’s naked body as they addressed the crowd in a loud voice.

“Lot #23! Here we have another fine orc bitch for sale. Estimated age 21 seasons, no offspring we could tell. Note her healthy fangs,” He gestured to the sharp teeth grinding against the stout wooden bit jammed between them, “her muscular arms,” he slapped the crop against one arm, “her thick legs,” the crop smacked again, “her well-developed udders,” and again. “and nicely formed mound. She will make an excellent worker or breeder as needed. As with all the other items for sale this night, she had been ringed for control and been partially broken. Let’s start the bidding at 150. Do I hear 150?”

Down in the crowd, a manling raised his hand. “150! How about 175?” A dwarf near the front gestured up at the stage. “175! 200! Do I hear 200!?!” There was a brisk bidding for Jurda, her price jumping up to over 500 before it slowed. Eventually, a dwarf in a dusty red tunic and a miner’s steel cap won the bidding. The slavers on stage stepped forward to unchain the newly sold orc from the auction block. Glumly, she stumbled towards the stairs at the front, where the dwarf that had purchased her was counting out her price in gold dust to one of the slavers. Behind, three more slavers were already dragging the next captive orc up onto the platform so the auction could continue.

At the bottom of the stairs, the dwarf took charge of his newly purchased slave, taking both leads from the slavers. “Well now, let’s see what I’ve just bought.” He said, more to himself then the captive she-orc. Keeping a tight grip on the leashes with one hand, his other hand reached out to feel up the slave’s body, checking her muscled arms and thighs, grabbing at her breasts and reaching between her legs to check her sex.

With a grunt, Jurda tried to step back from his probing fingers. “uh uh!” The Dwarf tutted her, “Stand still, slave!” Lightning fast, he tugged sharp on the lower lead. Jurda grunted in pain, quickly shuffling forward to take the pressure off the piercing. Her owner nodded. “Good, you’ve had some experience obeying instructions.” He turned and started back, looping around the edge of the auction crowd. Jurda followed after him, not eager to feel the stinging pain so soon again.

At the back of the auction grounds, some groups of bidders were waiting with their recently purchased slaves, one or two men keeping an eye on their slaves while their companions kept bidding on the latest she-orc to mount the stage. The group Jurda was led to consisted of three more dwarven miners, keeping watch over half a dozen kneeling slaves. They still wore the shackles on their hands and feet from the slavers, but their new owners had swapped out the big gags for more substantial bondage hoods.

Jurda froze when she saw the hoods, until the dwarf leading her tugged once more on her lead. The orc had thought her bondage couldn’t get any worse, her position any more helpless, but the sight of the hoods told her that the slavers and their customers had plenty more ways to keep their chattel in line. The bondage hoods were made of thick, roughly tanned leather and were cut to closely fit the head of a she-orc. At the back, the hoods laced up, ensuring a tight fit. At the front, the only part of the head that was visible was the captive’s nose, the nose-ring still hanging, accessible, should the slavers need to use it. Above, a separate padded blindfold covered the wearer’s eyes, fitted so they could be raised or lowered as the master wished, keeping the slaves blinded at his whim.

Below, a thicker leather pad stretched over the mouth, the outside of some sort of gag or muzzle, Jurda assumed, from the muffled grunts coming from the kneeling captives. Her suspicions proved correct, as a hood was brought out for her to wear. The dwarf miner turned it inside out, revealing the inside of the panel gag had a large prong, of southlands rubber molded over a stiff rod for support, pressing into the inside of the hood.

A sharp tug on the lead brought the orc to her knees. The bit was removed from between her teeth as the hood was brought up. She growled angrily, shaking her head, but she couldn’t stop it from coming. Inevitably, the tip of the gag was forced between her teeth and deeper into her mouth, until it pressed against the back of her throat. Keeping it pressed in place, the rest of the hood was pulled around Jurda’s head. She gave a muffled whimper as she was plunged into total darkness. She felt hands scrabbling around the back, yanking the lacing tight, drawing the leather material tighter and tighter across her face, until it pressed against her skull from all sides.

Rendered helpless by the hood, Jurda was guided by her captors over to join the rest of the slaves, forced to kneel at the back of the line. She was chained in place, at her collar, and between her legs, with strong, iron chains. After that, there was nothing she could do, except wait until her owners decided to do something else with her. She found the hood also muffled all the sound around her. Faintly, she could make out the murmuring of the crowd from time to time as they cheered, but mostly, all the could hear was her own, ragged breathing as she tried to adjust to the limits of the bondage hood. Helpless, she shook her head, but there was no way to dislodge the covering.

Slowly, the auction wore on. From time to time, Jurda’s new owners were successful in bidding on another one of her fellow slaves. Jurda’s only knowledge of this came from the tugging on the chains on her body as the newcomers were added to the line. Eventually, the auction ended, or perhaps the dwarves simply decided they had purchased enough new slaves and decided to move them out. The tugging of the chains brought Jurda and the other captives to their feet. Another tug set them shuffling forward, guided only by the gentle pressure of the chains at their throats…and the not so gentle tugging of the chains further down whenever they feel behind or stumbled.

For the orc, lost in the darkness of the hood, the trip was bewildering. The line would be brought to an abrupt half, and just as suddenly set moving again. They turned this way, then that, then this way again. A couple of times, they stopped and waited, for hours it seemed, standing stock still, waiting for the slightest signal on the chains that they should move again. Blinded by the hood, Jurda had no idea why any of this was happening. She only knew she had to follow her owners as best she could, to try and avoid the pain that would happen if she strayed out of line.

The hood also muffled the sounds of the fair around her, the crowds of buyers and sellers at the Night Fair were invisible, as far as the orc was concerned, save whenever an unseen hand happened to reach out of the gloom and grab at her naked, helpless form. Whenever this happened, she could do nothing but keep marching until the offended hand withdrew from its groping, just as suddenly as it had come. Lost in the darkness of the hood, Jurda was oblivious as the coffle left the fairgrounds by one of the side gates and kept moving into the foothills beyond…

Description
The orcs were kept marching, at a quick pace, without respite as the first rays of dawn appeared over the horizon. Jurda lowered her head, groaning through the bit as the sun rose into the sky. Far more than anything else, the sun’s rays sapped the normally immense strength and stamina of the orcs, until they were as weak as a dainty elf maiden. With the sun now fully overhead, Jurda began to feel the weight of chains pressing down on her, her limbs ached from the miles and miles she had traveled during the night. She drooped, her feet dragging in the dirt road. She felt the sting of the lash keenly now. It, and the painful chain between her legs were the only thing keeping Jurda and the other orcs moving forward. Even so, the coffle slowed to a crawl.

“I don’t think we can keep them moving much longer.” One of the slavers said.

“Where there’s a whip, there’s a way.” Another replied, putting action to word. Jurda grunted sharply in pain as she felt the lash on her side. She groaned, mustering up the strength to move faster…until the slaver had moved further down the line to whip another poor captive. Then she slowed her pace once more.

A few hours short of noon, the slavers conceded they had traveled as far as they would in the day-light hours. Reluctantly, they steered the line off the road, into a clearing in the woods. With relief, Jurda sank to her knees in the soft grass, the trees overhead blocking out some of the sun’s scorching rays. The men and dwarves went down the line. Iron stakes were driven through the coffle chains spaced every two or three captives, pinning the orcs to the ground. The slavers scattered around the clearing, some dozing, others getting a campfire going to cook a meal for themselves. As a cookpot began to bubble over the small fire, low moans rose from the line of captives. Jurda whimpered, her stomach growling. An orc could go a long time between meals, but none of them had been fed since they departed the slave hunter’s camp, days before. From where they knelt, the slaves watched miserably as the slavers ate.

To their relief, the slaves were fed next; with chunks of dried jerky from a bag, and given some water from a skin. The few bites of dry, hard meat, horse or perhaps donkey, quieted the grumbling of Jurda’s stomach, but little more. The couple swallows of warm, brackish water were not quite enough to satisfy her thirst either, but the slave had learned in the camp that asking for more was futile. At best it would get a few strokes of the whip for her impudence. At worst, she would lose her rations the next time the slaves were fed. Glumly, the orc opened her mouth to accept the bit between her teeth once more and tried to ignore her parched throat and the empty pit in her belly.

The slave coffle spent the afternoon and early evening idle. Jurda and the other orcs dozed, as best they could in their chains. They’d learned to snatch whatever chances for sleep they could, when put to toiling. Slaves were not given many opportunities for rest. Just before sunset, the slavers gave them another set of rations, then the stakes were pulled up. The whips cracked, urging the orcs back to their feet and the coffle set out once more.

The rest of the journey followed the pattern set on that first day. The coffle marched through the twilight hours, the slavers setting a pace that would have been brutal for any captives other than orcs, to cover as much distance as they could in the short, summer nights, before the coming dawn forced them to halt and wait out the daytime where the orcs could make little progress. During those hours of idleness, the slaves would be fed and watered and allowed some brief rest. The days and nights soon blurred together for the captives, becoming one seamless whole, a brutal journey, without beginning or end. Then, they finally came to the slave fair…

Jurda knew something was different when the coffle kept moving, even after the sun had risen high into the sky. The slavers wanted to push on, to reach their destination before nightfall. They employed the whips with greater ferocity then they had before, keeping the orcs moving. By now, the slaves had grown used to the rigors of the road, the endless struggle to move one shackled foot in front of the other hour after hour as the countless miles disappeared underneath one’s bare feet. The coffle slowed, but not as much as in the past, even as the sun beat down on them.

When the palisade walls of the slave fair became visible over the rim of the hills before them, weary groans of relief rose from the coffle. Jurda knew this was only the beginning; soon they would be sold and put to work far harsher then they’d known before, but some part of the female orc couldn’t help but be relieved that this stage of the journey was nearly over. Grumbles of relief came from the slavers as well. Though they were not burdened by chains or plagued by stinging whips, the long journey had sapped the strength of the slavers as well as their captives. There also further incentives for them up at the slave fair…

As they neared the fair, the coffle passed other groups of slavers heading to the fair with their wears. Human girls, dwarven wenches, fair elf maids, females of species Jurda had never seen or heard of before, were led up the road in chains, or carried in the backs of carts. Some of the captives trudged along with dull resignation, some wept brokenly as they thought of being sold, others seemed strangely ambivalent or even hopeful as they headed off to be sold. Others fought the tug of the slaver’s chains with a ferocity that put Jurda to shame. All of them, however, were destined for the auction block.

The men leading Jurda and the other orcs, leered openly at the naked slave girls they passed, pleased to behold pretty human or elf maids after months with only the rough orc women to slake their lust with. The men boasted of the girls they would buy, even for a night, with their pay after they had sold Jurda and the other she-orcs at the fair.

They also passed buyers, some heading toward the fair others returning, some with a leashed girl or two in tow, others returning unhappily empty handed. All sorts were going to the slave fair; noblemen looking for a new house servant or a plaything for the bedroom, mine and plantation agents looking for new workers, brothel madams bringing back fresh flesh for their houses. What the newly sold slaves thought of their new owners was plain on their glum faces, but no one thought to get their opinion on the matter.

None of them paid much attention to the coffle of she-orcs, save a look of distaste as they passed and a careful minding of where they placed their feet after the line had moved on. A hundred yards short of the fair, the wide dirt road leading up towards the gates branched. The main path headed straight, following a sign marked “Entrance Gate.” The coffle was directed down a side path who’s sign read: “Gate for Livestock.”

The path was empty of other travelers, until they came to the gate itself. There, a crowd of wranglers in leather coats and chaps, aided by guards in the same livery as the crest emblazoned on the gates, were struggling to lead a crowd off odd creatures through the gates and into a large, open paddock.

Jurda watched, intrigued. She’d never seen creatures like these before. At the bottom, they looked like horses. She knew what horses looked like; plenty of adventurers and travelers had brought them to the badlands. She’d usually ate them, if their riders hadn’t been forced to first. But where the head should have been, the horse part ended. Instead, the body of a young human woman began. They were bare chested, with tufted ears like a horse and narrow manes of hair in whites and blacks and dappled browns.

The centaurettes were obviously slaves like the others. Their hands were strapped behind their backs with leather bands. Their horse hooves were hobbled with rope, limiting them to short steps. Leather harnesses encircled their heads, holding bits between their teeth. The wranglers tugged sharply on the reins from these harnesses and encouraged the stubborn slaves through the gate and into the pens with leather riding crops. As they did, the coffle of orcs stood idle further up the trail, the she-orcs grateful for the rest in the hot, scorching sun, while their captors waited impatiently, shouting angrily to the wranglers to move their wares faster. The wranglers shouted back, just as angrily, suggesting they pass the time by sampling their own.

Eventually, the centaurs were all stabled, the first buyers gathering at the fences to watch them mill, uncertainly, around the paddock. With more curses and whip-strokes, the slavers got the coffle moving up to the gate. They were met there by a group of officials of the fair.

“How many slaves?” The lead official asked the lead slaver.

“158 prime she-orc bitches.” He replied. “Badlands orcs. 127 full-grown, 31 pups.” Behind the lead official, a scribe recorded it into a weighty tome.

“Do you want to reserve a booth or one of the auction stages?”

“Auction.” The slaver replied. “One of the after-dark slots. Orcs’re a bit livelier in the night, sell better.”

The scribe held the ledger up to the other manling. After a moment scanning the page, he pointed to a spot on the page. “Very well. You will have the eastern auction stage, second hour past the midnight. Until then, you can keep them in pens 34-36…after you’ve paid up and they’ve been tagged.” The scribe scratched out a calculation and named a price per head for the orcs to be sold at the fair.

The slaver drew out a leather bag and began counting out silver coins. Meanwhile, one of the other officials started going down the line of chained orcs. In his hand was an odd contraption. He held it up to the left ear of the first orc and squeezed the handle. There was a mechanical click and the orc grunted in pain. When he lowered the device, a small metal tag hung from the orc’s pointed ear. Loading another tag into the device, he moved on to the next orc in line. After a minute, the man reached Jurda. She glowered as he slid the tagger around her ear. As he squeezed, Jurda felt the stab of a needle through her ear. She winced, biting on her bit. When he was finished, she could feel a weight hanging from her ear, much like the similar weights hanging from her nose, and breasts and between her legs. She gave a low, angry groan as the man moved on to tag the she-orc behind her. Once more, the slavers had shown they could do whatever they liked with her body, to mark her as their property and there was nothing she could do.

When the orcs had been tagged, and the fair’s fee for their sale had been paid, the coffle was allowed through the gate and into the fair itself. To an orc, used to the badlands, it was like nothing Jurda had ever seen. Colorful pavilions with silk pennants, blowing in the breeze and gaudily painted signs fighting for the attention of the passing fairgoers.

Between the tents where glum, chained slaves were being examined by potential buyers, musicians, acrobats and other entertainers, naked and collared, performed filling the air with gay music and songs, so as to attract a crowd to their owner’s stall and the slaves for sale there. Vendor slaves shuffled around strapped with trays of odd smelling food the orc had never smelled or tasted before. It was a riot of colors, smells and sounds that delight even the most jaded visitor.

The orc slave only saw it from a distance, however. A short way into the fairgrounds, the coffle was turned down a avenue towards the far side of the grounds. Here were the pens where the hundreds of slaves brought to be sold could be stored, awaiting their turn on the auction block. Here, there were no gaily colored tents, or performers. Only roughly erected cages and pens, much like the ones back at the slaving camp. Through the bars stared the dejected faces of the captive females packed inside. All the races of the known world seemed to be represented among the unfortunate assembly. Shuffling past the nearer cells, Jurda humans and elves, halfings and dwarves aplenty. Kept further back from the main fair grounds were the more monstrous races. In one cell were packed two score of diminutive goblin-women, from beneath the southern mountains. In the cell beside them, a quartet of ogresses struggled in vain against the heavy chains binding them. And in a cell to herself, a giantess lay on the ground, a web of stout ship’s cables lashed to heavy stakes keeping her pinned down.

And there were orcs to. Most of the orc slaves the coffle passed were half-breeds, their grey-green skin, broad, flat noses, fangs and claws marked them as having orc blood, but their shorter, slimmer bodies bore the trace of other races’ blood; slender half-humans and -elves, stout half-dwarves and short half-goblins. Though their restraints were lighter then the heavy chains Jurda and the rest of the coffle wore, the half-orc slaves bore them with dull resignation, their orcish nature tempered by the civilized blood in them.

There were other, full-blooded orcs as well. They were as heavily restrained as Jurda and her fellow captives and struggled fiercely against their chains. They were fresh captures, not yet broken down by weeks or months of slavery like Jurda’s group, nor were they wild orcs taken from the badlands. Though ringed like the orcs in the coffle, these ones were unshaven, many still wearing war paint, some bearing wounds already half-healed. Orc mercenaries, formerly in the service of some would-be dark lord. Their master was beaten in a recent battle and now the survivors of his army had been brought here, to be sold and spend the rest of their lives in chains for their defeat.

The three pens beside the orc warrioresses was empty. The coffle was broken up and the she-orcs herded into the cages. Like they had in the slaving camp, Jurda and her fellow captives passively shuffled into the cage, sinking to their knees as the iron doors were slammed closed and locked. Dully, they waited until their captors chose to let them out again. The floor of the pen had been strewn with musty straw, in lieu of a bucket for the slaves to use. From the smell, Jurda and her fellow captives hadn’t been the first group of orcs imprisoned here. It wasn’t long before they added their own notes to the aroma of the pen.

The day dragged on for the bored orc captives in their cell. The sun rose high overhead, sweltering the helpless orcs in the open pen with its harsh rays. Those who could crowded into the shaded corners of the cage, until it came directly overhead and there was no escape from the burning light. Even the orc warrioresses in the pen beside them stilled their futile struggling as the hot summer sun sapped their strength.

Finally, though, the sun began to sink, bringing some relief to the slaves. Far away, muffled by the wooden walls of the pens, the noises of the slave fair nearby began to still as the endless auctions ceased, the crowds of buyers left for the day, taking their newly purchased slaves with them. Nearby, those girls who hadn’t been sold today were crowded into the empty pens to spend the night, waiting to face the crowds tomorrow. At the same time, Jurda and the other orcs were taken out of their pens. As the main fair closed for the day, the Night Market was beginning to set up.

The line of chained orcs were led down a broad avenue between the closed up tents. Eventually, they came to an intersection where their path crossed another perpendicular. Here, the people running the fair had left a large, open clearing, with room for buyers to congregate around the raised wooded platform that had been assembled at the far end of the field.

Already, a crowd was forming; mainly humans and dwarves. Most had the rough look of miners or overseers, hard, dirty work where the raw strength of an orc slave was a benefit. They crowded around, watching with interest as the coffle of slaves was led past to the stage, sizing up the merchandise that would be on offer soon, planning their strategies for the bidding.

Around the back, screened from the crowd by the bulk of the auction platform, Jurda and the other orcs were ordered to halt. A slaver went down the line, a piece of chalk in hand. Stopping at each orc, he methodically chalked a lot number onto breast, then went back, adding the same number on one buttock. When he finished, the orcs were ordered to kneel. They waited, dully, listening to the murmurs out front as the crowd grew in size.

Then, the slavers began. The she-orc at the front of the coffle was unchained from the rest of them. Two slavers took hold of her lead. She grunted angrily into her gag, but a few sharp yanks convinced her to follow her handlers, up the wooden stairs onto the platform.

From her position, hunched over on the ground, Jurda couldn’t see any of the action up on the stage. Chains rattled, their bearer grunting through her bit. The auctioneer rattled off something in one of the manling tongues, too quick for the orc to follow. A chatter rose from the crowd, words were shouted, echoed by the manling on the stage. After an interminable time, he gave three loud cries, which had some meaning to the crowd. Chains rattled again and, with an angry groan, the newly sold orc was dragged off the platform, descending a second set of stairs around the front. Meanwhile, behind the platform, the other slavers went to work, unchaining the next she-orc in line from the rest. Glumly, she was led up onto the platform to be sold next.

Jurda was about twenty orcs down in the line. Slowly, methodically, the slavers worked their way down the line. Each captive was unchained from the rest and led to the stairs. Some tried to fight the pull of the leash, others trudged with grim resignation. All went up, onto the platform and stood for auction. Kneeling in place, Jurda slipped into the same, familiar lethargy of slavery as she waited her turn. She paid little attention to what was going on around her. She didn’t notice as the orc to her left was taken away and then, suddenly, it was her turn.

Jurda looked up as one of the slavers unlocked her collar from the coffle chain. Several leather leads were attached, two to the ring of the collar and one to the ring between her legs. At the tugging of the leads, the orc rose to her feet with a groan. They turned, heading towards the stairs. Jurda began to follow, but as she reached the bottom stair, she suddenly froze, struck with the same, strange emotion of fear she’d felt during their journey on the river barge. This was it, Jurda realized. The awful moment had come. When she stepped up onto that platform, she would be sold as a slave.

The orc took a step back, shaking her head. No. She thought, she didn’t want to be a slave! She shook her head, grunting as she chewed on the bit of her muzzle. The slavers turned, glaring angrily at their defiant captive. The two holding the collar leashes pulled sharply on it, but Jurda held her ground. While the rational part of her mind knew it was futile, the orc found herself unwilling to surrender herself to slavery without putting up some sort of struggle.

As with the other captives, her struggle was brief. As they’d demonstrated many times before, the slavers had given themselves the ability to deliver sharp pain to their captives with little more then a hard yank on a leash. The slaver holding the lead clipped to her piercing did just that. Jurda growled sharply at the sudden pain. Briefly, the pain strengthened her resolve to fight the slavers. She twisted her arms, straining against the thick chains binding her in a futile attempt to break free.

A few more yanks finally convinced her this was a fight she couldn’t win. With a groan of resignation, the orc finally allowed herself to be led up the stairs. She stepped onto the platform, looking down at the crowd of men and dwarves gathered below, all of them looking up at her. Like fear, embarrassment was not an emotion an orc normally felt. Jurda had never felt any shame over her nakedness, never understood the civilized races obsessions with covering up their pale, scrawny bodies with cloth all the time. Now, though, looking down at the men eyeing her with leering grins, Jurda felt something that might have been very close to shame as she was dragged to the front of the platform, displayed for the entire crowd to see.

At the front, several iron rings had been fixed into the stout wooden boards of the platform, spaced a couple feet apart. The slavers led Jurda between them and quickly secured her feet to the rings with chains running to the iron cuffs around her ankles. She couldn’t step away from her position, now, until they chose to release her.

As they finished this, another manling, dressed in the nicer robes of a slave merchant, stepped up beside Jurda. He held a riding crop in one hand, which he used freely across Jurda’s naked body as they addressed the crowd in a loud voice.

“Lot #23! Here we have another fine orc bitch for sale. Estimated age 21 seasons, no offspring we could tell. Note her healthy fangs,” He gestured to the sharp teeth grinding against the stout wooden bit jammed between them, “her muscular arms,” he slapped the crop against one arm, “her thick legs,” the crop smacked again, “her well-developed udders,” and again. “and nicely formed mound. She will make an excellent worker or breeder as needed. As with all the other items for sale this night, she had been ringed for control and been partially broken. Let’s start the bidding at 150. Do I hear 150?”

Down in the crowd, a manling raised his hand. “150! How about 175?” A dwarf near the front gestured up at the stage. “175! 200! Do I hear 200!?!” There was a brisk bidding for Jurda, her price jumping up to over 500 before it slowed. Eventually, a dwarf in a dusty red tunic and a miner’s steel cap won the bidding. The slavers on stage stepped forward to unchain the newly sold orc from the auction block. Glumly, she stumbled towards the stairs at the front, where the dwarf that had purchased her was counting out her price in gold dust to one of the slavers. Behind, three more slavers were already dragging the next captive orc up onto the platform so the auction could continue.

At the bottom of the stairs, the dwarf took charge of his newly purchased slave, taking both leads from the slavers. “Well now, let’s see what I’ve just bought.” He said, more to himself then the captive she-orc. Keeping a tight grip on the leashes with one hand, his other hand reached out to feel up the slave’s body, checking her muscled arms and thighs, grabbing at her breasts and reaching between her legs to check her sex.

With a grunt, Jurda tried to step back from his probing fingers. “uh uh!” The Dwarf tutted her, “Stand still, slave!” Lightning fast, he tugged sharp on the lower lead. Jurda grunted in pain, quickly shuffling forward to take the pressure off the piercing. Her owner nodded. “Good, you’ve had some experience obeying instructions.” He turned and started back, looping around the edge of the auction crowd. Jurda followed after him, not eager to feel the stinging pain so soon again.

At the back of the auction grounds, some groups of bidders were waiting with their recently purchased slaves, one or two men keeping an eye on their slaves while their companions kept bidding on the latest she-orc to mount the stage. The group Jurda was led to consisted of three more dwarven miners, keeping watch over half a dozen kneeling slaves. They still wore the shackles on their hands and feet from the slavers, but their new owners had swapped out the big gags for more substantial bondage hoods.

Jurda froze when she saw the hoods, until the dwarf leading her tugged once more on her lead. The orc had thought her bondage couldn’t get any worse, her position any more helpless, but the sight of the hoods told her that the slavers and their customers had plenty more ways to keep their chattel in line. The bondage hoods were made of thick, roughly tanned leather and were cut to closely fit the head of a she-orc. At the back, the hoods laced up, ensuring a tight fit. At the front, the only part of the head that was visible was the captive’s nose, the nose-ring still hanging, accessible, should the slavers need to use it. Above, a separate padded blindfold covered the wearer’s eyes, fitted so they could be raised or lowered as the master wished, keeping the slaves blinded at his whim.

Below, a thicker leather pad stretched over the mouth, the outside of some sort of gag or muzzle, Jurda assumed, from the muffled grunts coming from the kneeling captives. Her suspicions proved correct, as a hood was brought out for her to wear. The dwarf miner turned it inside out, revealing the inside of the panel gag had a large prong, of southlands rubber molded over a stiff rod for support, pressing into the inside of the hood.

A sharp tug on the lead brought the orc to her knees. The bit was removed from between her teeth as the hood was brought up. She growled angrily, shaking her head, but she couldn’t stop it from coming. Inevitably, the tip of the gag was forced between her teeth and deeper into her mouth, until it pressed against the back of her throat. Keeping it pressed in place, the rest of the hood was pulled around Jurda’s head. She gave a muffled whimper as she was plunged into total darkness. She felt hands scrabbling around the back, yanking the lacing tight, drawing the leather material tighter and tighter across her face, until it pressed against her skull from all sides.

Rendered helpless by the hood, Jurda was guided by her captors over to join the rest of the slaves, forced to kneel at the back of the line. She was chained in place, at her collar, and between her legs, with strong, iron chains. After that, there was nothing she could do, except wait until her owners decided to do something else with her. She found the hood also muffled all the sound around her. Faintly, she could make out the murmuring of the crowd from time to time as they cheered, but mostly, all the could hear was her own, ragged breathing as she tried to adjust to the limits of the bondage hood. Helpless, she shook her head, but there was no way to dislodge the covering.

Slowly, the auction wore on. From time to time, Jurda’s new owners were successful in bidding on another one of her fellow slaves. Jurda’s only knowledge of this came from the tugging on the chains on her body as the newcomers were added to the line. Eventually, the auction ended, or perhaps the dwarves simply decided they had purchased enough new slaves and decided to move them out. The tugging of the chains brought Jurda and the other captives to their feet. Another tug set them shuffling forward, guided only by the gentle pressure of the chains at their throats…and the not so gentle tugging of the chains further down whenever they feel behind or stumbled.

For the orc, lost in the darkness of the hood, the trip was bewildering. The line would be brought to an abrupt half, and just as suddenly set moving again. They turned this way, then that, then this way again. A couple of times, they stopped and waited, for hours it seemed, standing stock still, waiting for the slightest signal on the chains that they should move again. Blinded by the hood, Jurda had no idea why any of this was happening. She only knew she had to follow her owners as best she could, to try and avoid the pain that would happen if she strayed out of line.

The hood also muffled the sounds of the fair around her, the crowds of buyers and sellers at the Night Fair were invisible, as far as the orc was concerned, save whenever an unseen hand happened to reach out of the gloom and grab at her naked, helpless form. Whenever this happened, she could do nothing but keep marching until the offended hand withdrew from its groping, just as suddenly as it had come. Lost in the darkness of the hood, Jurda was oblivious as the coffle left the fairgrounds by one of the side gates and kept moving into the foothills beyond…